An Unhallowed Grave (20 page)

"Valuable?"

"The vicar doesn't know. He'd never really noticed it. The churchwarden thinks it was a drawing of some sort of tree ... very old."

"The Jesse tree," said Wesley, thinking aloud.

Merryweather looked at him blankly. The black graduate whizz kid from London wasn't what he had expected. "It was quite small ... about eight inches square with a tatty old frame. Hardly worth pinching."

"A lot of small valuables have gone missing from churches round here," said Wesley, conversationally. "They always turn up again after a few weeks."

"Let's hope it does, then." Merry weather's radio crackled into life. An affray at the travellers' caravan site outside Neston. Could he attend? "Best be off, gentlemen," he said, unhurried. "Vicar's through there if you want a word."

The constable nodded towards the vestry, and Wesley saw his boss's face light up with something verging on glee. He followed him past the frame of the Jesse tree. The hewn stone looked sturdy, expectant; ready to bear its exotic fruit once more ... if the powers that be gave their permission.

The Rev. Brian Twotrees was at his desk in the cluttered vestry, reading through some paperwork. He looked up, mildly surprised at receiving another visit from the constabulary, and greeted the two policemen with a polite smile, just as he greeted his congregation at the church door.

"I've just told Constable Merryweather all I could about our missing picture. I really don't know much about it, I'm afraid ... certainly not its value." He smiled. It was clear that he wasn't prepared for Wesley's first question.

"Why didn't you tell us that you'd known Pauline Brent back in Bromsgrove?"

For a moment he sat silent, his mouth open. Then he gathered his thoughts. "You never asked me, Sergeant. I would have told you if you'd asked me. It was a long time ago and I didn't know her well... hardly at all."

"Tell us about her," said Heffernan, perching his large frame on the edge of the vicar's desk, which gave a complaining creak.

"There's nothing much to tell." Wesley looked at the clergyman's eyes. He wasn't telling the whole truth ... and he was a pretty useless liar. "I was curate at St. Jude's near Bromsgrove and my vicar, George Weeks, had a lady working for him just temporarily while the parish secretary was away. When it was time for her to leave he found her another job with a vicar in a neighbouring parish. I hardly spoke to her ..."

"But you recognised her?"

"Not at first. It was a long time ago and she'd changed the colour of her hair. When she began to help out with some church functions I heard her name and I recognised it. That's really all I can tell you."

"Did she recognise you?"

The vicar looked embarrassed. "Yes. I think she did. But she never said anything."

"Why was that, do you think?"

The vicar shook his head.

"Did George Weeks tell you anything about her ... about her background?"

Wesley knew he'd hit the jackpot. The vicar looked alarmed. There was something he didn't want to reveal.

"George always said it wasn't up to us to judge. If someone had paid for their sins and repented then it was our duty to help that person all we could to begin a new and useful life." He hesitated. "He told me that Pauline had just come out of the open prison nearby."

Wesley and Heffernan looked at each other. "Do you happen to know what she was in prison for?"

"It was George's policy never to mention a person's past. He wanted them to start with a clean slate. George Weeks was one of the most truly Christian men I've ever met. He taught me a lot."

"I'm sure he did, Vicar," said Heffernan, growing impatient. "And I think he had a point. But in this particular case we need to find out everything we can about Pauline Brent's past. Discretion won't help her now, but if you know anything anything at all -it might help us catch whoever killed her."

Wesley looked at the inspector, admiring his uncharacteristic eloquence. He couldn't have put it better himself.

The vicar thought for a moment. "There was something I remember. I'm not proud of this but I was looking for something on George's desk one day and I came across a letter from a charity something to do with the resettlement of offenders. It was about Pauline and ... I shouldn't have read it but..."

"Go on," Wesley encouraged before Brian Twotrees's attack of conscience made him clam up altogether.

"It mentioned that her offence carried a stigma that made it difficult to integrate her into society again ..."

"And what offence was that?" Heffernan said softly.

"Murder." The vicar looked up at the inspector. "Pauline Brent was a murderer."

Robert the Minstrel is a common drunkard. Fined 6d.

Christina Tandy, maidservant to my lady, is a liar and a listener under windows and did accuse Alice de Neston of fornication with Thomas de Monte while she was in my lord's service. Thomas de Monte stated that he visited Alice but once when he was working on my lord's arms above the great door. Christina Tandy stated that Alice de Neston did leave my lady's baby alone to meet Thomas de Monte. Alice did deny it. Master Fleecer, the blacksmith, did state that his son, John, is to leave the village for London and that his fines will be paid in full.

From the Court Rolls of Stokeworthy Manor

Gerry Heffernan disappeared behind his partition as soon as they arrived back at the incident room. He emerged again after a few minutes. "I've rung the Home Office but they've all gone home. All right for some. I got some cleaner who said to ring again in the morning. Have we looked Pauline up on the PNC?"

"Of course. There's nothing."

"Odd."

"She might have changed her name, sir."

"Hidden her identity, you mean?"

"It's possible."

"Fancy a visit to the Ring o' Bells, Wcs?"

"I keep getting these strange messages from Neil. I wanted to see if he's still at the dig."

"We can kill two birds with one stone, then. Come on." Gerry Heffernan led the way, revitalised by Brian Twotrees's revelation.

He felt, as did Wesley, that they were getting somewhere at last. The knowledge of Pauline's alleged crime opened up all kinds of new possibilities.

They walked swiftly past the church. The great yew tree that dominated the churchyard swayed in the warm breeze, a thing of nature and beauty rather than an instrument of death.

Opposite the Ring o' Bells the dig continued. Figures, deep in concentration, stood or kneeled in trenches, oblivious to the world on the other side of the road. Wesley screwed up his eyes against the sunlight and studied the scene. Neil wasn't there.

His first mission aborted, he followed the inspector into the pub. There, in a corner, sat Neil, talking to a small woman in late middle age. Her hair was grey and worn in a fluffy, flyaway bun, and when she had dressed that morning her mind had been on academic matters rather than her appearance. She looked up and spotted her former student.

"Wesley. How nice to see you. Neil told me you were in Stokeworthy. Another of your murders, is it?" Dr. Daphne Parsons, Wesley's old tutor, spoke loudly. Drinkers at the bar looked round at the mention of murder.

"That's right, Daphne. Two murders, to be exact. Are you here to see Nell's Old Testament worthies?"

"The Jesse tree figures. Yes. It's so exciting." She hugged herself like a child contemplating a particularly desirable Christmas present. "It's quite the most exciting find I've been involved in for years. And to think they'd been buried all that time. I think the villagers must have taken them out of the church when all the local churches were being stripped of their treasures, dug a pit, buried them safely and waited for better times ... which never came. The unhallowed ground at the crossroads was a strange choice ... usually reserved for the burial of society's outcasts, as it were. I wonder if it has any significance." She looked up at Wesley and smiled. "To find the figures intact like that, and the inscriptions of their names are so sharp ... as if they were carved yesterday. Have you seen them all yet?"

Wesley shook his head. "Only a couple. Neil whisks them off for conservation before I get a chance to have a look. What's the score, then, Neil?"

"Seven so far... a few to go. We're making sure there's someone on the site day and night. We don't want any of Jesse's descendants to disappear, do we?"

"Who gets the graveyard shift?"

"Squirrel and his mates. He doesn't mind acting as unpaid caretaker. Did you get my message?"

"I got it but I didn't understand it," said Wesley reproachfully.

Neil leaned forward, winking at Dr. Parsons, who gave an excited giggle. "I've got into the Manor ... set myself up in the muniment room to go through all the old manor records. Thewlis didn't even know the stuff was there. There are account books going back to 1415, what looks like all the records of the manor court, letters ... In fact there's so much I think I'll need some help. Fancy having a quick look now, Wcs? In your job you'll be used to sifting through evidence."

Wesley looked at his watch, then at Gerry Heffernan, who was looming towards them, laden with drinks from the bar. "I don't think I've got time."

"Time for what?" Heffernan had overheard.

"Going up to the Manor."

"On the contrary, Wcs. I think we should take every opportunity to get our feet under the table at that Manor."

"Any particular reason?"

"It's just that it happens to be the last place Pauline Brent was seen alive. Let's not forget that." Heffernan turned to Neil. "Is Squirrel around?"

"He won't be far away."

"Right. After we've drunk these we can pay him a visit. Then you, Wcs, can go and see what Mr. Thewlis has got to hide in that Manor of his."

Wesley looked at his watch again. Quarter to six. Pam would not be pleased.

Squirrel sat on a low branch. Behind him was a thin, grubby girl, similarly dressed, her hair arranged in mousey dreadlocks. He introduced her as Earth. She stared at the two policemen with some hostility until it was explained to her that Wesley was a mate of Neil's and that they had no interest whatsoever in evicting them from their leafy perches.

"I've been wanting to talk to you," said Squirrel, the good citizen. "You know that lad ... the one that disappeared. Well,

Earth here saw him on Saturday night."

"What time was this?" asked Wesley gently, not wishing to alarm the timid creature.

Earth shrugged. "It was dark by then but there was a good moon." Her accent was unexpectedly Yorkshire. "He had long hair tied back in a ponytail and he was wearing a T-shirt. I saw him walking past the site with someone else ... a man, or at least I think it was a man."

"Can you describe the man he was with?"

"No. It was just a figure, wearing one of those weatherproof coats people wear for sailing ... dark-coloured ... had the hood up."

"Was he tall ... short... fat... thin?"

"I couldn't tell. But the boy was trying to keep up with him ... he was walking fast."

"Thanks, Earth. You've been very helpful."

The girl nodded earnestly and disappeared into the foliage.

"I'm off back to the incident room," Heffernan announced. "You go and see the lie of the land at the Manor, Wcs, then if I were you I'd get off home ... remind your Pam what you look like."

The inspector lumbered off across the treacherous terrain of the dig, narrowly avoiding falling into a particularly deep trench. Groups of fresh-faced archaeology students watched him with undisguised curiosity. Wesley stood there beneath the trees, torn between a desire to explore the mysteries of the muniment room and his need to get home to Pam. Curiosity won. He turned to Neil. "Are you going to show me this room, then?"

"No worries." Neil chuckled. "I reckon Thewlis thinks archaeologists are one step below dung beetles on the evolutionary ladder. I can see him gritting his teeth every time he passes me. At least you get to the muniment room from outside so we don't tread dirt into his precious antique rugs."

"I think you're enjoying this," Wesley observed. He knew Neil of old.

"Too right I am."

The Manor came into view and Wesley admired it afresh. He hoped Philip Thewlis appreciated it: it was a house to be loved rather than treated as a financial investment. Neil led him round to the back, produced a large key and opened an ancient door set into a wall in what must have been the humbler domestic section of the house. He stepped inside, beckoning Wesley to follow. The muniment room was small and stone-lined, the only natural light coming from a small barred window. This had been a storeroom for the manor documents, not a room for everyday use. Large wooden cupboards punctuated the walls, some open to reveal books, papers and ledgers inside.

"This place is amazing," said Neil earnestly. "There are records here going back to when the house was built ... 1415 or thereabouts. There are all the accounts for any later building works, and the household accounts of the de Stoke family. There's stuff going back to the time of the Wars of the Roses. Look at all these. They're so well preserved." He opened one of the cupboards; the door creaked dangerously. Inside were rolls of parchment, neatly laid in rows. "I haven't had a good look at them yet. Know what they are?"

"Manorial court rolls. We had a look at some in the county archives when we were students, remember."

Neil looked embarrassed. He sometimes forgot their shared studies now that Wesley was firmly established in the police force. "I could really do with some help to go through them. There's so much here."

"Don't look at me," said Wesley, slightly alarmed. "I've got two murders already, without a load of medieval misdemeanours to deal with."

"But if we could find out about the woman who's buried at the crossroads ... Well, don't you want to know?" Neil asked challengingly.

Wesley sighed and nodded. He couldn't argue with that.