Cursed Inheritance (42 page)

ing his Beings to change their wills in his favour then killing them and burying them in the woods. Or perhaps not.

When he heard a voice calling from upstairs, echoing and faint in the steamy bathroom, he bounded out into the hall and climbed the stairs, two at a time.

Arbel Harford sat in the living room of Gwen Madeley’s cottage surrounded by boxes. She had been relieved when Anthony decided to return to London and leave her to it: there were some things she had to do alone.

She looked at her watch. It was almost nine o’clock and quite dark outside. At least she had managed to get most of Gwen’s personal possessions sorted out. She wondered whether the police knew that, under the terms of Gwen’s will, Dylan inherited everything. The person who benefited most by someone’s death was always the prime suspect, so she’d heard. Perhaps she should draw DIPeterson’s attention to this fact.

She went to the window and drew back the curtains. She could see the lane clearly in the moonlight.

Then, as she closed the curtains again, she heard a knock on the door. A loud, hollow sound, like a summons from the bringer of death.

Emma Oldchester switched on the television, trying to kill time before Mrs Potts called to fetch her daughter’s house. It was a pretty house with frilly curtains and painted roses around the door and Emma felt rather proud of her handiwork.

When the doorbell eventually rang, she took a deep breath to calm her racing heart. She recalled Barry’s instructions to check the caller’s identity before answering the door. She turned off the light and flicked the curtain to one side, just as her mum, Linda, used to do when she wantedˇ to see what the neighbours were up to. But she couldn’t see the visitor clearly in the dark. At first glance

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it almost looked like Barry in his duffel coat.

She hesitated. Then the caller knocked again and some instinct told her to be careful. She switched on the light again, which somehow made her feel safer, and hurried into the hall.

She stood behind the front door and called out. ‘Who is it?’

‘Mrs Potts. I’ve come for the house,’ was the reply. Mrs Potts had rather a deep voice.

Emma shot back the bolts she had so carefully fastened when Barry had left. The thought of the money she’d receive for the finished house spurred her on and she fumbled with the catch.

The door opened and the hooded figure pushed forward. As Emma backed towards the stairs, the front door was closed and the key turned in the deadlock with a final click.

‘Please go. Please,’ Emma whispered as she flattened herself against the wall.

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Penelope is with child and although I should be joyful I am uneasy in my mind. I have discovered certain charms and powders amongst her possessions that I cannot but think she has used in spells and witchcraft. I think now upon the manner in which she bewitched me and blinded me with lust and I weep at what I have done. She has persuaded men of influence to elect me to the Council yet still she urges me to return to England and when I refuse she becomes angry and will not speak. She refuses to do aught in th.e house and I fear what will become of us when we have the winter to face and most likely great hardship.

I fear there may be murder in my heart. How I fight the temptation to put my hands around her pretty neck and force the life out of her. She desires to be a fine lady, to have riches and respect and so fierce is thisˇ desire I fear what she will do.

She speaks of Potwoolstan saying that it is only my brother who stands between me and the estates. I know what is in her mind but I am no Isaac Morton. I have great love for Richard, bound together as we were in tragedy and shame.

pray for guidance and forgiveness but I fear the Lord will not listen for I am so sunk in sin.p>

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Set down by Master Edmund Selbiwood, Gentleman,

on the twenty-eighth day of December 1605 at

Annetown, Virginia.

Emma raised her arms in defence, hiding her face and sliding down until she crouched on the floor, a bundle of terror and sobbing.

‘I can’t tell them anything,’ she sobbed. ‘I don’t remember.’

‘Liar.’

Emma uncovered her eyes for a moment and looked up at her tormentor towering over her. ‘Please. Leave me alone.’

A hand grabbed at Emma’s hair and yanked her upwards. But Emma lashed out, scratching, kicking. Fighting for her life.

Something flashed in the dull light of the hallway’s sixty-watt bulb. Something bright. A .blade. It was there above her, hovering like an angel of death.

As the blow was struck, there was a thump on the front door. ‘Emma. Are you there, love? Open the door, will you? Come on.’

As Barry Oldchester hammered at the front door the intruder dashed out through the French windows and flitted across the back garden, leaving Emrna crouched in the hall, her life blood draining away, soaking into the new cream-coloured carpet.

When the telephone rang Amelia awoke and started to howl. Wesley and Pam’s snatched escape into pre-baby freedom had been all too fleeting. The bottle of wine shared in a steamy bath followed by leisurely lovemaking now seemed like a distant memory. Pam struggled out of bed to attend to Amelia while Wesley answered the phone with a sleepy grunt.

But he was soon wide awake. Aˇ patrol car and ambu-lance had been called to the Oldchesters’ house by Barry,

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who had found his wife collapsed in the hall, semi-conscious and bleeding from a stab wound. She had been taken to Tradmouth hospital where she was undergoing surgery.

Half asleep, Wesley pulled on his clothes, muttered his apologies to Pam and left the house. A patrol car was . coming to pick him up and he was to meet Gerry Heffernan at the Oldchesters’.

When he arrived at his destination he found the DCI there, annoyingly awake. The entrance hall had been taped
off as a crime scene and a group of scene of crime officers in white protective suits were giving the place a once over.

‘No sign of a break in,’ Heffernan said. ‘Looks like Emma opened the door to her attacker.’

‘I thought her husband was going to stay with her.’

‘He had a call from someone who said they had a burst water tank and. their house was flooding but he found the address didn’t exist. It was a hoax to get him out of the way.’

‘Who made the call? Man or woman?’

‘Barry thought it was a woman but he said the voice was quite deep. It could have been a man. And Emma was expecting a woman to pick up a doll’s house she’d ordered for her daughter. A Mrs Potts.’

‘And did she turn up?’

Gerry shook his head. ‘That’s the thing, she didn’t. And I according to Barry the house was ordered over the Internet. Emma never met this woman.’

‘You think the attacker was a woman?’

‘Or a man pretending to be a woman to put us off the scent. I think this was a setup. Someone wanted to get at Emma and planned it all.’

‘Nigel Armley?’

‘Or Nigel Armley and his wife. Jeremy and Pandora Elsham?’

‘We’ve no proof it was them, Gerry.’

‘We’ll get it.’

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“And if Elsham wanted to get rid of Emma why didn’t he do it while she was at Potwoolstan Hall?’

“Because he would have been a prime suspect.’

“Even if she didn’t remember everything when he regressed her, he knew you were trying to persuade her to see someone professional. It was only a matter of time before the truth came out.’

Heffeman put his head in his hands. “Me and my big mouth.’

“I had a call from Steve earlier. Some garbled story about Elsham digging up some bones. 1 was going to send someone round first thing in the morning.’

“Well, there’s no time like the present, Wes. Dragging people out of bed in the middle of the night always puts them at a disadvantage in my experience.’

“Don’t 1 know it,’ Wesley muttered under his breath. But the chief inspector was right. If they called on Elsham now before he had the chance to destroy any evidence and think: up a convincing story they might just get somewhere.

Rachel Tracey appeared in the doorway. She managed a weak smile. Trish has just rung from the hospital. Emma Oldchester’s still in the operating theatre. Touch and go.’

For the first time Wesley noticed that Rachel was dressed in a short denim skirt and chiffon top with full make-up. “Hope this hasn’t ruined your evening,’ he said, subconsciously aware that he was fishing for information.

“Not really. 1 didn’t have much on.’ She blushed and Wesley felt a sudden rush of envy that he quickly suppressed. Rachel was a free woman. And he was a married man.

Gerry Heffeman never ceased to be fascinated by people’s choice of night attire. The most hard-bitten matriarch of some criminal clan would, in his experience, be discovered in Mickey Mouse pyjamas when the police battered her front door down in an early morning raid. Jeremy Elsham’s pyjamas, however, were plain and expensive, probably silk

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- although silk pyjamas were uncharted territory to Gerry Heffeman - and he covered them with a pristine white towelling bathrobe before leading them into his office.

a Pandora followed in a matching bathrobe, only hers had smudge of make-up on the collar and the nightdress underneath was cream satin.

‘What’s this all about?’ Pandora asked. She sounded annoyed. Her husband said nothing.

There was no sign of bloodstained clothing in their room and, according to Forensic, Emma’s attacker would probably be splashed with her blood. However, a couple of uniformed officers had been called to make a search of the Hall.

Heffeman sat himself down in Elsham’s leather swivel chair, making himself at home. Wesley took the smaller visitor’s chair and moved it beside his boss’s, leaving Elsham and Pandora a couple of low seats, designed to make their occupants look up to the man behind the desk, putting them at a disadvantage.

Heffeman leaned forward and looked Elsham in the eye. ‘Where were you at nine forty-five last night?’

‘Here of course. Where else would I be? What’s this about? What are those policemen looking for?’ There was no mistaking it, he looked terrified. So did his wife.

‘Emma Oldchester was attacked last night,’ said Wesley. ‘We think she was targeted because of what she knew about the murders here in 1985. You claim she didn’t remember much about it.’

‘You’ve heard the tape for yourself.’

‘Have you ever heard the name Nigel Armley, Mr Elsham?’

Elsham and Pandora glanced at each other. ‘Wasn’t that the name of one of the people who died here?’ He looked Wesley in the eye, the picture of innocence.

Heffeman leaned forward. ‘You see, Mr Elsham, we’ve tried to check out your background and we’ve come up with a blank.’

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Elsham swallowed hard. ‘Really?’ The word came out as a squeak. He was on the ropes.

‘What did you do with the bones you dug up yesterday?’

Elsham opened and closed his mouth like a goldfish. ‘Who told you … ?’

‘Where are they now?’

There was a long period of silence before Elsham spoke. ‘A tree fell in the high winds the other night. I noticed the bones tangled up in the roots when I was down in the clearing meditating and I thought that if they were found it would only lead to more trouble. We’ve had a murder in the grounds already, police crawling all over the place. It’s been a disaster for the business. We’ve had cancellations, haven’t we, darling?’ He looked to Pandora for confirma-tion and she nodded dutifully.

‘Jeremy’s right. It has hit us badly. Nobody wants to come to a place crawling with police and reporters when they’re searching for tranquillity and spiritual renewal. Jeremy moved those bones to save our business.’

Wesley found himself believing every word they said. Almost. ‘Show us the bones and where they were found.’

After dressing, Elsham led the two policemen to an outhouse, maybe the one where Gwen Madeley had had her amorous encounter with Nigel Armley. The skeleton had been packed into a plastic crate, once used to store plant pots. When Wesley examined it, he found that it was almost complete, give or take a few fingers and toes. Elsham then took them to a clearing in the woods where a tree hung at a dangerous angle, supported only by its fellows. The roots had been torn out of the earth and Elsham pointed to the cavity they had made.

‘It was in there.’

‘I’d like to get this hole examined properly. There might be some clue to his identity in there.’

‘He? It’s a man?’ Elsham sounded surprised. ‘I thought it was something to do with that old story. Wasn’t the man who built the Hall supposed to have murdered a girl and

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buried her body in the grounds? I thought … ‘

Wesley said nothing. Jeremy and Pandora Elsham were bound for the police station for more questioning while the Hall was searched.

Before they left, Wesley retrieved a paperweight from Elsham’s desk, a glass sphere, undoubtedly covered in Elsham’s fingerprints. It was about time they found out who Jeremy Elsham really was.

The postman reached Owen Madeley’s cottage at around eight o’clock, just as he did every morning. He had heard that the woman who lived there had been found dead in the river and curiosity made him pay particular attention to her post. The fact that a friend of the dead woman’s from London had been staying there off and on had stuck in his mind, along with all the other snippets of local information he gleaned during his round.

Examining the label on the parcel, he discovered that it had been sent by a firm that sold artists’ materials; hardly unexpected as Ms O. Madeley had been an artist. He knocked twice, three times, but there was nO answer. There were no neighbours to leave it with in this isolated spot. But there was a porch at the back of the cottage where he’d left parcels before.

As the postman walked round the side of the building his heart beat slightly faster in anticipation. A murdered woman had lived here and he felt a thrill of excitement at this small and vicarious contact with the drama.