An Unhallowed Grave (33 page)

It had been Earth's idea to come down to the creek and hang a banner from Thewlis's boat, the Pride of de Stoke, before starting their vigil at the Manor. The noise of the protesters grew nearer ... and there was another sound, like police car sirens. The drumming, rhythmic and primitive the drumming of hunters after their prey made Philip grab Gemma and renew his efforts.

Squirrel was in high spirits, running along the path. He didn't see Gemma at first, just a man leaning over the water. He grabbed the man's shoulders and pulled him back, thinking he was drowning. Then he saw Gemma, unconscious, her head in the water. It was while he was trying to save her that Philip Thewlis escaped.

"Someone get him. He's trying to swim for it." Gerry Heffernan, puffing behind his fitter sergeant, shouted as police officers mingled with eco-warriors, all in pursuit of a common goal.

Wesley got to Gemma first. "She'll be okay, pig," said Squirrel casually. "I've given her the kiss of life."

Wesley looked down at Gemma. Her eyes were opening and she was coughing healthily. He ensured she was in the recovery position, and as he radioed for an ambulance, he felt a hand on his shoulder, pushing him away from the girl's prone body. It was Leanne.

"Gemma ... what's happened?" She looked Wesley in the eye. "Do something."

Steve and Rachel appeared, running out of the trees, and Leanne, determined, spotted Steve. She called out to him, but he pointedly ignored her and darted off to where a group of uniformed colleagues were gathering by the shore. Rachel hurried over to Leanne and placed her jacket round the girl's bare shoulders.

Gerry Heffernan took charge. "Your sister'll be all right, love," he assured Leanne. "Anyone seen Thewlis?"

There were too many answers to that question. The waterfront was crowded eco-warriors, Neil and his colleagues from the dig, policemen, and Leanne and Jo, who had been hanging round the village as usual waiting for something to happen when they had heard the drumming and followed the sound. Thewlis, it seemed, had last been seen swimming fully clothed towards his boat. Knowing the currents in Knot Creek at high tide, Gerry Heffernan didn't fancy his chances.

Neil, now face to face with Wesley in the lounge bar of the Tradmouth Arms, repeated his story.

"So Alice didn't kill the baby. Simon could have told the truth but he kept quiet. He was probably terrified of this Fleecer character but, from the carving he had made, it was clear he blamed himself. It haunted him all his life."

"Poor man," said Wesley. There were some secrets that shouldn't be kept. The truth would have saved Pauline Quillon from fifteen years in prison ... and would have saved her life.

"It was good of your baby-sitter to have Michael too," said Pam to Anne as she sat down beside Neil. She raised her glass of white wine. "Here's to Mrs. Miller."

"Who's Mrs. Miller?" asked Neil.

Anne grinned. "I brought Pam some good news today. Mrs. Miller's my child minder One of the women she minds for is moving out of the area in August so she'll have a vacancy for Michael when term starts in September. Pam's been round to see her today and it's all settled."

Neil gave a weak smile and looked away: people's domestic arrangements didn't really interest him.

"Since my husband died," Anne continued, 'she's been such a help. More like a member of the family than a child minder

This captured Neil's attention. "You're a widow, then? You're on your own?"

Anne nodded and Neil edged closer to her, a secret smile playing on his lips which only Wesley, as a detective, noticed. Neil asked her if she'd like another drink.

"Mrs. Miller was so lovely with Michael, Wcs," said Pam with enthusiasm as Neil rose to go to the bar. "You should have seen her... just like a granny." She took her husband's arm and gave it a squeeze.

"I'll drink to that," said Wesley with some relief. "Here's to Mrs. Miller."

"Who's Mrs. Miller?" A familiar voice, reminiscent of the River Mersey, boomed behind Wesley. Gerry Heffernan stood at the bar of the Tradmouth Arms looking smarter than usual. Behind him, to Wesley's amazement, stood Susan Green.

Wesley moved up to make a space. "Won't you join us?"

"Nota Wcs. We're off out for a meal. Something exotic."

"Where are you going ... Chinese? Indian? Thai?"

Heffernan looked at Wesley and winked. "Susan here recommended it. There's a place near Neston that runs these banquets. We're just off for a medieval."

Wesley, who had had enough of medieval intrigue and deception for one day, put his arm round his wife and took a sip from his twentieth-century glass of best bitter.

The body of Philip Thewlis was found in the River Trad by fishermen four days after he was last seen alive. The national newspapers carried glowing obituaries of the man who had risen to great heights from humble beginnings, whose incandescent life had been so cruelly cut short by a boating accident. Even the more inquisitive tabloids didn't guess the truth. His was a quiet funeral. The Rev. Brian Twotrees, rather overwhelmed by the importance of the man he was seeing to his last resting place, said very little about the lord of the manor of Stokeworthy, who had rarely, if ever, set foot in his parish church.

The police case was closed. A sparse press statement issued at the time said that a man had been found dead and the police weren't looking for anyone else in connection with the deaths of Pauline Brent and Lee Telford. Gemma Matherley had returned to the bosom of her family on the Stokeworthy council estate, acknowledging that her brief encounter with the political world was over as Timothy Wills, now Bloxham's Member of Parliament, resolutely spent more time with his family. Robert Wills was often seen walking arm in arm with his wife down by the creek. The shadows of suspicion lifted, they seemed to have found a quiet, sad contentment. The village had returned to some sort of peace.

On a warm day in July, Neil invited Wesley to witness the return of the Jesse tree figures to the church. Wesley had expected to find a select band of experts and bigwigs from the County Museum there. But to his surprise, the sunlit church was packed with villagers and the students who had helped to unearth the treasures.

Squirrel stood awkwardly near the door with a couple of his colleagues. Now that Thewlis was dead and his widow had announced that she was selling the Manor and moving up to Gloucestershire to be near her parents, the plans for the holiday development had been shelved. Squirrel was moving on. There was a proposed airport expansion up north that required his attention.

The Jesse tree, now bearing its richly carved fruit, dominated the south wall of the church. The figure of Christ at the top sat in splendour with a hand raised to bless the congregation. Brian Twotrees, having overcome his puritanical sentiments, looked at the thing in wonder and proudly posed for photographers from the local papers.

Twotrees cleared his throat. As vicar, he felt obliged to say something on such an occasion. "I'd just like to thank you all for coming today to witness the return to our church of this magnificent Jesse tree. I'd like to thank Neil Watson of the County Archaeological Unit and his team for their efforts in bringing the tree back to life, and I'd also like to thank Detective Sergeant Wesley Peterson of Tradmouth CID for explaining one or two things to me about its history."

Wesley looked round, slightly embarrassed, only to see that Gerry Heffernan had crept quietly into the church and was standing behind him grinning. The inspector poked him in the ribs good-naturedly as the vicar proceeded to recite the story of Alice de Neston's trial and death.

"A woman," continued the vicar, "Alice de Neston, was hanged for a crime she did not commit and, as some of you will know, there were echoes of this sad case in the events that occurred in our village a few short weeks ago. I would, therefore, like to dedicate this plaque." He produced a brass rectangle from behind a pew like a conjurer revealing a rabbit. To the memory of two women who lived five centuries apart but who were hanged unjustly, innocent of any crime." He read from the plaque. This Jesse tree was restored in memory of Alice de Neston and Pauline Quillon. The Lord knows all truth."

Gerry Heffernan began the applause which spread throughout the congregation and rippled out on the summer breeze into the churchyard, where the freshly dug graves of two women lay side by side, covered with offerings of summer flowers, beneath the hanging tree.