An Unhallowed Grave (30 page)

Let it be known also that I did cause this Tree of Jesse to be raised in the church of St. Peter as penance for my sin and confession thereof.

Translated from the Latin text found on the carving in the bedchamber at Stokeworthy Manor

"That's all Neil said. The nursemaid didn't do it." Pam stirred the bolognaise sauce in the pan while rocking Michael's bouncing cradle gently with her foot. Not for the first time Wesley stood in admiration of the female sex's ability to do several jobs at once.

"What time did he ring?"

"About an hour ago. He asked if you were going for a drink tonight." Pam made no comment but Wesley could sense her disapproval.

"Would you mind?"

"Suit yourself." She turned away from him, frosty. He wanted to meet Neil in the Tradmouth Arms but he thought he'd better not push his luck. A bottle of wine and a video a cosy evening in and an early night might restore domestic harmony.

"Is anything the matter?" He thought he'd better ask, for appearance's sake.

Pam looked at him, her eyes glistening, close to tears. "It's Michael."

"What's wrong?" the anxious father asked, cursing himself for being so unobservant... so insensitive.

"There's nothing wrong with him. It's just that ..." She hesitated. "I'm back at work in September and I thought that finding a child minder would be easy ... it all sounds so simple before they're born. But then it's there, your baby, needing you, and you feel ... Oh, Wcs, I can't leave him with just anyone. I keep hearing all these stories and then I look at him and I think ..." The tears came. She picked the baby up and held him to her, rocking him to and fro while Michael gurgled happily at all the attention.

Wesley touched his son's soft baby hair. He understood. "If you could find someone you had confidence in ... would that make a difference?"

"Of course. But the ones I've seen so far I wouldn't even consider. I don't know what I'm going to "do. We need the money ... I know I've got to go back. And I miss the kids and the school even though I don't miss the paperwork." She smiled weakly. "And I've got the school holidays but ..." She didn't finish her sentence. She just looked down at the baby in her arms. Michael took priority now. If he wasn't happy, neither was she.

"Something'll turn up," said Wesley with a confidence he didn't feel. "We've got till September. Don't let's worry about it, eh?" A drink with Neil would have to wait for another night. He took a bottle of Beaujolais from the wine rack and opened it, his mind on one question. If the nursemaid hadn't done it... who had?

Wesley left Pam in bed asleep the next morning. Michael had been up three times during the night and she was exhausted.

He drove down the narrow streets to Tradmouth police station, where he found Gerry Heffernan in his office, head in hands.

"We've had to release him, Wcs. His son got some fancy solicitor down from London last night who reckoned we had no grounds to hold him." He looked up with a sudden mischievous grin. "We got a search warrant and a couple of our lads went through his things last night. His shoes and jacket are in the tender hands of forensic as we speak. We'll get him, Wcs."

Little more was said as they drove up the steep hill out of

Tradmouth, past the imposing bulk of the Royal Naval College and the less imposing council estate exiled on the edge of the town. Soon they had turned off the main road onto the winding country lanes walled with high hedges and concealing slow-moving farm vehicles round every corner. As he negotiated the lanes, on automatic pilot, Wesley's mind was on Nell's message. The nursemaid didn't do it. He dropped Gerry Heffernan by the steps of Stokeworthy village hall, saying that he'd had an urgent message from Neil at the dig and he wouldn't be long. It was always best to tell the truth ... or an approximation of it.

He found Neil in the hut, sorting through finds from the newly dug village trench. Neil rushed over to him, took him by the arm and thrust a piece of expensive-looking notepaper into his hand. "I found it... the last sculpture. Read that."

Wesley began to read and found his rusty Latin wanting. He screwed up his face in concentration, translating slowly. "I, Simon de Stoke, do ... confess ... my great... wrong

"The English is on the back."

Peeved that Neil hadn't pointed this out earlier, he turned the paper over and read. "I, Simon de Stoke, do confess my great wrong in that I did cause an innocent woman to be hanged for a crime that she did not commit." Wesley looked up. "That's a turn-up for the books."

"Looking through the account books, I reckon this Simon must have been about five when his baby brother died ... maybe as old as eight. How could he have blamed himself for her hanging? He was just a kid." Neil thought for a moment. "You don't think he could have killed his baby brother, do you? By accident or ..."

Wesley shrugged. "Children feel things very intensely. I can remember hating my sister at that age really hating her, thinking she was getting all the attention. I can see a child of that age, jealous of the fuss over a new baby, lashing out, not knowing his own strength ... or even picking him up and dropping him, then being too frightened to tell the truth when someone else gets the blame. What was this carving like?"

"There were figures ... one man hitting another, with the names Cain and Abel underneath. Then this inscription."

"Can I see it?"

"It's in my lady's bedchamber... above the fireplace. Probably taken from the church during the Reformation and put there. My guess is that this Simon was so screwed up about this nursemaid being hanged that when the Jesse tree was broken up he had the statues buried with her ... making up for the fact that she was buried in an unhallowed grave by giving her all those saints or whatever to share it with, I suppose. Then he had that bit put in his bedroom so he'd see it every day ... so he'd never forget. Weird."

"So how did you get to see it?"

"Don't ask, Wcs ... just don't ask."

Wesley raised his eyebrows. No doubt, over a pint in the Tradmouth Arms, he'd discover the truth one day.

"I'm off to the church to have a look at the Jesse tree frame. I want to check if it's in good enough condition to support the statues."

"So they're going home ... to the church?"

"That's not my decision. But I must admit I'd like to see them restored in situ. I don't know if Caroline would donate her carving. I never got round to asking." He winked.

"Maybe I'll ask when I pay her husband a visit. Is he in, do you know?"

"I think he is. As far as I know he's not been sighted by our friends up in the trees. I don't know what kind of mood he'll be in. Caroline's just discovered the nanny's been having it off with a friend of theirs that Timothy Wills, the wannabe MP using their house as his personal knocking shop. There was an almighty row when I was there. Are you coming to the church with me or have you got some poor prisoner to beat up?"

Wesley, used to Nell's jibes, ignored the last remark. "I'll come to the church with you. But I'll have to make a phone call first." He took out his mobile and dialled the number of the incident room.

Wesley stood behind Neil, his eyes on the great frame that had supported the Jesse tree figures but his mind elsewhere, racing with possibilities.

Neil interrupted his thoughts. "I think it'll take the figures ... no problem. It'll be quite a sight. Must have been magnificent when it was all new and painted."

"I didn't think you approved of religion," said Wesley, absent-mindedly.

"I approve of art ... and this is bloody good art."

"He certainly knew his stuff, this Thomas de Monte. I'm surprised he wasn't snapped up by some cathedral or ..."

"He was. He worked on Exeter ... I've checked. Another thing I found out from the manorial court records was that he and Alice de Neston were to be married." Neil looked at Wesley, watching his face while the fact sank in.

"So that explains the crucifix that was buried with her. He made it. And it also explains why Simon asked him to carve the Jesse tree it was a real act of penance, asking the girl's fiance to carve the thing and put that confession at the bottom. He must have been a brave man, Simon de Stoke."

"Why brave?"

"To admit to what he'd done like that in front of the whole village when nobody would have asked any questions: he was lord of the manor. It must have taken courage." Wesley had come across many sinners in his time in the police force very few of them repentant.

"Good morning, Sergeant." Wesley swung round to see the Rev. Brian Twotrees bearing down on him, a beatific smile on his face. "Nice to see you again. And you too, Neil. How's the conservation going?"

"Fine ... I think we've solved the riddle of the empty space underneath Jesse."

"Really?" Brian Twotrees had been more intrigued by this mystery than he had cared to admit. "Do tell all."

"It involved entering a lady's bedroom," said Neil, trying to keep his expression serious. "Is Simon de Stoke buried here in the church?"

The vicar was surprised by this sudden change of subject. "No. According to the church guidebook written in the time of my predecessor, he died while on pilgrimage to the Holy Land. But there's a family chapel over there with some impressive tombs," he added pointing to the north aisle. "There's someone in there at the moment actually, tracing his ancestors. We get a lot of that round here," he said to Wesley confidentially. "Americans mostly. They have a lot of links with Devon ... Pilgrim Fathers sailing from Plymouth and all that."

The church door creaked open. They turned and saw Rachel stepping into the church, tentative, respectful. She walked quietly across to Wesley and spoke in hushed tones.

"The boss is looking for you, Wcs. He wants a word with Mr. Thewlis up at the Manor."

"Now?"

"Half an hour, he said."

"You've got time to look at these tombs, then," said Neil with a grin.

"That your idea of fun, is it?" Rachel looked at Neil as though he were mad, but followed the men into the de Stoke chapel.

The man they discovered there, bent over a worn effigy of a knight in armour, was no visiting American. Charles Stoke-Brown looked up nervously when he saw the group approaching.

"Don't let us disturb you, Mr. Stoke-Brown. We've just come to have a look at the tombs. I hear they're very fine." Charles looked at Wesley with disbelief. This was hardly the speech of a policeman.

"Relatives of mine," Charles said. He leaned towards Wesley: his breath smelled of whisky. "My glorious forebears," he added with some bitterness.

Neil felt he had to put the man straight. "Medieval life wasn't very glorious, even for the de Stokes of this world. Most of the time it was smelly, filthy, nasty and downright dangerous."

Charles Stoke-Brown laughed. "Oh, leave me with some illusions, please." He looked at Wesley. "Well? Have you checked my alibi?"

"Yes. As a matter of fact the landlady of the Wheatsheaf remembers you quite well ... and the man you were with."

"Man? She must have made a mistake." Charles looked positively alarmed.

"Sarge." Rachel touched Wesley's arm gently. "Can I have a word?" She drew him aside, but before she could speak the vicar made a loud exclamation.

"It's back ... the picture that was missing. It's back."

Wesley left Rachel's side to see what the fuss was about.

"It's the picture I reported missing the other day. Someone's brought it back."

They all looked at the tiny picture hanging on the stone wall: a tree, its branches bearing strange and intricate fruit. A preliminary sketch for the Jesse tree.

"Well, if it's police work, I'll leave you good people to it."

Charles Stoke-Brown began to walk softly away down the aisle, as if afraid to wake anybody slumbering in the oak pews.

"Just a minute," Rachel called after him. "I saw that pictures in your studio the other day." Stoke-Brown stopped dead and turned to face Rachel, a smile of resignation on his lips.

"Can you prove it?"

Rachel looked at the picture. "I remember it well. It was on your desk when I first visited you." She looked the artist in the eye, challenging.

Stoke-Brown shrugged and put his arms out towards Rachel, as if anticipating handcuffs. "A man's got to eat, Constable, er ... Tracey, isn't it?"

He was mustering all his resources of charm, but Rachel wasn't falling for it. She saw that Wesley was watching with interest. The missing church artifacts had been his case, she remembered, but it seemed that he was letting her get on with it. She recited the caution.

"I only borrowed the things," Charles protested. "I borrowed them, copied them, then passed the copies over to my contact. I put the originals back. I never actually stole anything."

"Who was your contact?" It was time for Wesley to get involved.

"The man I met in the Wheatsheaf. He travels around, looks in churches for anything that looks saleable, I copy them, then he sells the copies as originals to collectors abroad who don't ask too many questions. It was a lucrative little business' he sighed' while it lasted. My contact assured me that as the things were returned to their rightful owner, I wasn't breaking the law. What will you charge me with?" he asked self-righteously.

"I'm sure we'll think of something if we put our minds to it," replied Wesley. "Is that why you lied about your whereabouts on the night Pauline died?"

"Of course. If you'd gone looking for my contact in the Wheatsheaf... I don't know his name, by the way. He just calls himself John."

Wesley nodded at Rachel, who took Charles Stoke-Brown's arm and led him away. Wesley knew she could handle things on her own.

"Neat," said Neil, who had been watching the proceedings with interest. He turned to Brian Twotrees, who appeared to be lost for words. "At least you've got your picture back."

"Sergeant," Charles Stoke-Brown called from the church door, "I had that thing out of its frame to copy it. There's some writing inside but I couldn't understand a word. You're the detective ... you have a look." With that, the last of the de Stokes disappeared from view.