Cursed Inheritance (11 page)

‘I thought I’d just tell you that my boss is coming to interview everyone at the Hall today. 1 won’t b~ there but … ‘ He hesitated as though he, was unsure what to say next. ‘Just wondered if you fancied coming out one night next week. I’ve looked at my shifts and I’m’ free on Monday night or … ‘

‘I’ll be washing my hair,’ she snapped.

‘I need to talk to you. It’s important.’

Serena hesitated. Her curiosity had been aroused. And Steve might provide some useful inside information.

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‘OK then. Come to my flat at seven on Monday.’ Before he could say anything she pressed the button that ended the call. Steve Carstairs would dance to her tune. Or there would be no dance at all.

Rachel Tracey was back in the office. As soon as she sat down, Wesley shot out of Gerry Heffernan’s office, anxious for news.

‘How is she?’

Rachel looked puzzled for a second. Then she realised Wesley was talking about Kirsty Evans. ‘She checked into the Marina Hotel last night when we got back. ‘

‘How did the identification go?’

‘As you’d expect. 1 said I’d go to see her later.’ She picked up a piece of paper on her desk. ‘There’s a message here from the Tradmouth Castle. The manager’s asking when he can clear out Evans’s room and relet it.’

‘1 take it SOCO have finished with it?’

Rachel nodded.

‘Tell him it’s OK to go ahead then. If they pack up his possessions then we’ll make sure they’re returned to his wife.’

Rachel smiled. ‘Sure.’

‘How’s the flat-hunting?’

‘Stilllooking;-‘ She hesitated. I’ve seen a few places but it’s difficult to decide. 1 could do with taking someone along. Getting a second opinion.’

Wesley said nothing as Rachel blushed and pushed her hair back oft her face. He returned to his desk and tried to focus his mind on the reports lying in a neat pile in front of him. But when he failed, he stood up and strolled over to the chief inspector’s office.

He found Heffernan by his coat stand reaching for the disreputable anorak he always wore. It hung there in the cooler months like a royal standard, a sign that he was in residence. Wesley wished he would buy himself a new one; something more in keeping with his position as a senior

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investigating officer who was likely to encounter press, public and the likes of Chief Superintendent Nutter. But such sartorial considerations meant nothing to Gerry Heffernan. When his wife, Kathy, had been alive, there had been someone to curb his natural sloppiness. But now there was nobody: he was on his own.

‘Let’s get down to Potwoolstan Hall, Wes. Get it over with.’

‘That place bothers you, doesn’t it?’

Heffernan didn’t reply. Wesley had never seen him silenced by anything before. Whatever he had seen at Potwoolstan Hall had made a lasting impression.

As they walked to the car park, Wesley remembered that Patrick Evans’s papers were still in his car boot. He wavered for
a few seconds, wondering whether to take them upstairs to the office and delay their journey for a few minutes. But he glanced across at Heffernan who was waiting to be let in to the passenger seat and decided against it. The things would be safe enough where they were. And besides, he might get a chance to go through them at his leisure at home that evening.

They drove up the steep hill leading out of the town and then houses gave way to open, hilly countryside, to rolling green fields dotted with sheep and cattle. Wesley kept his eyes open for the road to Derenham which forked off beside a large pub with wooden tables and children’s climbing equipment in its wide front garden. The sun was attempting to shine on the patchwork landscape but once they turned on to the narrow lane the view was blocked by high budding hedgerows. These lanes had been created when the fastest mode of transport around was a decent horse and they were mostly single track. Wesley found himself following a tractor at a snail’s pace. But he consoled himself with the thought that it was preferable to being trapped in the snarled-up traffic of London. At least the air was fresh and the scenery was good.

For some reason, Wesley had imagined Potwoolstan Hall

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to be some brooding gothic pile straight out of the cornier variety of horror film. But the reality was a pretty, mellow stone house, probably dating from the sixteenth or early seventeenth century. The frontage boasted a series of ornate gables that reminded Wesley of the ones he’d seen on a trip to Amsterdam, no doubt added to impress the neighbours all those years ago. It was an attractive house. And if Wesley hadn’t known its history, he would have said it was probably a friendly house. But he knew from long experience how appearances can deceive.

‘Is this it? Your house of horrors?’

Gerry Heffernan didn’t answer. He was staring ahead.

Wesley parked on the gravel in front of the house, ignoring the numerous ‘No Parking’ signs that sprouted from the flower beds. He was sure they didn’t apply to police vehi-cles, even unmarked ones. He got out and stretched his legs. He had had enough of driving that day. Heffernan stayed in the passenger seat for a while before unfastening his seat belt. Last time he had been inside this house he had been confronted with the aftermath of a massacre and some things were hard to forget.

The studded oak door stood open and Wesley led the way into the entrance hall. Again he had expected gloom ,and was surprised to fmd the place bright and cheerful. He glanced back at Gerry who had stopped, as though reluctant to go any further. Wesley looked round. The sign on a door to his right said ‘Strictly Private’ and he had-a sudden urge to rush over and push it open to see what was on the other side.

He didn’t have to wait long to have his curiosity satisfied. The door opened and a tall man emerged. Wesley thought that he looked like a distinguished member of the dental profession with his short white coat and greying temples. When the man smiled, Wesley noticed that his teeth were as even and dazzling white as any Hollywood film star’s and he had the pinched and polished look of a man who had undergone a face lift or two.

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‘Jeremy Elsham. I’m the facilitator. Welcome to Potwoolstan Hall.’ He held out his hand and the obsequious smiled remained fixed. Wesley found himself wondering whether he knew who they were. Perhaps he had mistaken them for clients.

Wesley produced his warrant card .and introduced himself while Gerry Heffernan hovered some way behind him, .uncharacteristically silent.

As Elsham opened the door marked ‘Strictly Private’, Wesley glanced at his boss. From the expression on his face he suspected that the entrance to Elsham’s well-appointed office brought back bad memories. But to Wesley it bore no resemblance to a scene of carnage: it was more like the office of the chief executive of a multinational company. The thick beige carpet on the floor concealed any stains that might have remained on the floorboards and the walls were covered with a subtly patterned wallpaper, the colour of parchment and cream.

Te first thing that caught Wesley’s eye was the picture on the wall behind the desk: a dark portrait of two thin, bearded young men in Jacobean costume sitting stiffly in their ruffs and padded doublets. They bore a striking resemblance to each other - brothers perhaps - and there were faint, yellowed words between the two figures, rendered illegible by the dirt and varnish of centuries. Wesley stared hard but at that distance he couldn’t make out what they said.

Although Gerry Heffernan had overcome his misgivings and entered the room, Wesley sensed his discomfort. It would be up to him to do all the talking.

‘You’re aware that teams of officers have been searching the section of river bank belonging to this house?’

Elsham nodded earnestly. ‘Have they found anything?’ The question was casual and Jeremy Elsham sat back in his black leather chair, his hands clasped together in an attitude of prayer.

‘There’s evidence that a serious crime took place there.’

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‘I don’t see what that has to do with me, Inspector. This is hardly a high security establishment. I said that to the officers who came about the theft, anybody can walk in to the house or grounds. It’s a place of healing, not a prison.’ He smiled. It was a smug, superior smile and Wesley found himself disliking Jeremy Elsham.

‘You’ll appreciate that we need to check out every avenue of enquiry in a case of murder … ‘

Elsham’s eyebrows shot up. ‘Murder?’

‘A man was found dead in the river on Monday morning and we’ve found evidence that he was attacked on your land. I’m afraid we’ll have to speak to all your staff and guests. Someone may have seen something suspicious.’

Elsham put his head in his hands for a few seconds, a gesture of weary resignation. Then he looked Wesley in the eye. ‘Is it really necessary? The Beings have come here for rest and healing. Most of them were questioned about that theft. Some have even had their rooms searched. The last thing they need is the stress of more police questioning.’

‘This is a murder enquiry, sir,’ said Wesley stiffly. ‘If we could have a word with your staff. And the … Beings. May we use this office?’

‘Anywhere’ll do,’ Heffernan said quickly. He didn’t like being in that part of the house. And after what he must have witnessed there, Wesley could hardly blame him.

Elsham offered them the use of the conservatory. It was quiet in there. Good energy, he added earnestly. Wesley wondered how much Elsham really knew about the Hall’s gruesome history. If he was as sensitive to atmosphere as he claimed, surely he would have picked up evil vibrations in a place were six people had been slaughtered.

‘That’s an interesting painting,’ said Wesley, pointing to the dark portrait behind the desk.

Elsham turned round. ‘It was hanging at the top of the stairs when we bought this place. Someone said they’re the two sons of the man who built the Hall. I’ve been meaning to get it valued.’

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‘Yes. I’d do that if! were you,’ Wesley said, glancing at Heffernan who was standing by the door, eager to be gone.

They decided to call for back-up. Many hands make light work, as Wesley’s grandmother back in Trinidad was fond of saying, and the presence of a couple more officers would ensure that they got through the interviews quickly.

There were eleven Beings in residence. A Mrs Beatrice Carmody who was confined to a wheelchair; a Mr Dodgson; a Serena Jones who was, according to Rachel, acquainted with Steve Carstairs; Mrs Jeffries, the victim of theft; then there was a Mr and Mrs Jackson who had only arrived a couple of days before; a pair of gay advertising executives seeking refuge from London stress; a middle-aged actor undergoing a crisis of confidence; and an elderly couple from Manchester who had come to recharge their spiritual batteries.

According to the booking details provided by Elsham’s wife, Pandora, Serena Jones was due to leave on Monday, and would be replaced by a Mrs Oldchester. Gerry Heffernan hadn’t been able to keep his eyes off Pandora’s pneumatic charms but Wesley found her easy to resist. He also suspected that she was probably brighter than she looked. And considerably older.

Charles Dodgson and Serena Jones couldn’t be found and it was hardly worth speaking to Mr and Mrs Jackson, who had arrived after the murder. They looked at the list and decided to start with Mrs Carmody, Mrs Jeffries, Elsham himself and Pandora, together with the cook - a Mrs Webster - and her assistant - a sixteen-year-old school leaver called Donna Louise, who lived in the nearest village. The back-up could deal with the rest of the Beings; together with the reflexologist who worked at the Hall on weekday mornings; the yoga teacher; the acupuncturist from Morbay who came in two days a week; and Gwen Madeley, a local artist, who provided art therapy for the Beings. There were also three cleaners, local women, who came every morning and a gardening firm who visited once a week to keep the grounds in order.

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They began with Jeremy Elsham himself, who claimed that he hadn’t been down to the river since last summer when he had taken the Beings there for a vegetarian barbe-cue. The river bank was available to any Being in search of solitude and meditation by the water, but as far as he knew nobody had been down there recently. It was mainly visited in the summer months. He hadn’t been aware of local youth~ using it. If he had been he would have taken steps to prevent it.

Pandora echoed her husband’s statement. She knew nothing. Neither did Mrs Geraldine Jeffries, who spent most of the interview complaining loudly about police incompetence and demanding that they retrieve her money and ring without delay. Wesley promised to check how the investigation was progressing but it seemed that this wasn’t good enough - she expected instant results. Mrs Jeffries was a difficult woman, rendered even more difficult, he guessed, by her discovery during a regression session that she had been an Egyptian princess in a former life. She’d been a demanding woman before she’d established this tenuous royal connection, but now she was ten times worse.

That just left Mrs Beatrice Carmody, who propelled her wheelchair awkwardly into the conservatory. She answered Wesley’s questions eagerly enough but, as he expected, she told them nothing they didn’t know already.

As there was no sign of Charles Dodgson or Serena Jones, there seemed to be little point in staying. They could leave it to the other officers to interview the rest of the guests and the Hall’s staff. But Wesley felt he wanted to see Dodgson for himself. Of course he had no reason at all to suspect that Dodgson wasn’t his. real name. But, on the other hand, he could be a thief or a con man with a knowledge of literature and a sense of humour. Was Potwoolstan Hall his own personal wonderland where he could steal at will? And if he had robbed Mrs Jeffries, what else was he planning?

Wesley said nothing of his suspicions to Heffeman. They

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were unformed, nebulous. And they were probably just a figment of his over-active imagination.