The Blood Pit (24 page)

Diane had arrived at the dig before him and he found her in the outbuilding that served as their site office. She greeted
him with a shy smile and the news that the results had come back from the lab in Exeter. The soil taken from the pit contained
traces of blood. However, further analysis was needed to tell whether that blood was human or animal. And the slim, corroded
object had been x-rayed and found to be some sort of lancet. Another piece in the jigsaw of evidence that was now starting
to form a clear picture.

He was about to make for the trenches when Diane touched his arm. ‘Lenny wants a word.’

‘That’s all I need.’

‘He’s paid to come on this dig, Neil,’ she said. ‘He has as much right to your attention as anyone else. Mind you …’

Diane didn’t have a chance to finish her sentence. There was a knock on the outbuilding door and a well-bred female
voice called out a cheerful hello. Diane hurried back to her trench, passing Annabel on her way out.

Annabel bustled in, a folder under her arm and a smile on her face. She was usually closeted in the archives at Exeter during
her working day and she was always glad of a trip out.

‘News,’ she announced. ‘I’ve gone through all the old documents we’ve got concerning the Abbey of Veland and I’ve found a
few new references to this site.’ She placed the folder on Neil’s makeshift desk and began to take out a sheaf of papers.
‘There are two mentions of a grange at Stow Barton, latterly used as a seyney house – “an honest and convenient place for
the letting of blood.”’

Neil grinned, resisting the urge to punch the air in triumph. This confirmed it once and for all. But how had the author of
his anonymous letters found out about the function of Stow Barton before he did. Someone must have been researching the site
… doing their homework.

‘Just one thing, Annabel. These documents you found … has anyone else been looking at them recently?’

Annabel shook her head. ‘Not that I know of. But I can ask if you want. Why?’

‘No, that’s okay,’ he answered lightly. ‘Thanks a lot for your efforts. Fancy a guided tour round the site?’

Annabel looked keen. Anything to put off the drive back to Exeter.

‘By the way, you haven’t come across any reference to a Brother William in any of your documents, have you?’

‘Not yet,’ Annabel answered. ‘But there’s plenty of stuff I haven’t had a chance to examine yet. And I want to dig out the
Comperta – the reports made by Henry VIII’s commissioners when they visited Veland Abbey prior to closing it down.’

‘Any particular reason?’

‘They were under orders to dig out any dirt there was about the monks’ private lives.’ She grinned. ‘And the
Comperta often makes for interesting reading. You get all the stuff about pregnant nuns, monks indulging in sodomy and what
they euphemistically called “solitary sin”. And then there were the abbesses who were allegedly having it off with the abbot
of a nearby house. All the scandal. Not that the commissioners were unbiased, of course. They were paid to find dirt so Henry
could feel all self-righteous about destroying the corrupt monastic houses. Who can blame the commissioners if they made half
of it up and laid it on with a trowel? It was what their political masters wanted to hear.’

They were outside now and Neil was leading the way to the pit. Or, in the light of the lab’s findings, perhaps he should start
thinking of it as the blood pit. He walked by Annabel’s side, making for the trench that confirmed all her findings – something
which, as an archaeologist, he found rather thrilling, physical and written evidence coming together in perfect harmony. Suddenly
Annabel touched his arm. ‘Who’s that?’ she whispered.

‘One of the trainees. Name of Lenny. Why?’

‘I’m sure I’ve seen him somewhere before.’

Neil ushered her onwards, out of Lenny’s sight line. If Annabel had seen him before, it was possible he’d been at the archives.
Finding out about monastic blood-letting. Just as his anonymous letter writer had done.

Annette Marrick didn’t look at all pleased to see Wesley Peterson and Gerry Heffernan on her doorstep. She’d told the police
everything she knew and it was about time she and Petronella were left alone.

Wesley was surprised that Petronella hadn’t returned to Bath. She had a job there and, presumably, friends. And he’d sensed
little empathy between Petronella and the biological mother who’d abandoned her at birth. But perhaps the fact that Charles
Marrick had abused them both had created some kind of bond between them.

Annette led them past the closed living room door into the huge dining kitchen where Petronella was watching a property programme
on the giant TV screen that almost dominated one wall of the room. The young woman looked up as they entered and gave Wesley
a shy half smile. He thought she looked needy, vulnerable and thinner than she’d done when he’d first seen her.

‘I’m having the decorators in to deal with the lounge,’ Annette said unexpectedly. ‘I just want to get everything straight.
To get rid of …’

‘Of course … I understand,’ Wesley said quickly. He thought of the room next door as he’d last seen it, wondering whether the
blood would begin to seep through the paint at any stage and keep returning like the famous bloodstain at Holyrood House in
Edinburgh which marked the spot where David Rizzio died in the arms of Mary Queen of Scots. The thought made him shudder. But,
he told himself, the decorators would be able to seal the stains in so that couldn’t happen. Marrick’s blood wouldn’t return
to haunt the living.

He caught Petronella’s eye and she looked away. It was hard to judge what she was thinking.

Heffernan looked at Annette and came straight to the point. ‘Look, love, sorry to bother you and all that, but we need to
have a look through your husband’s things. Okay?’

Annette could hardly say no. Instead she gave a vague wave of her right arm and told him to help himself.

‘Where do we start?’ asked Wesley as they made their way upstairs.

Gerry Heffernan didn’t answer. He made straight for the smallest of Foxglove House’s five bedrooms – the one that Charles
Marrick had used as a study cum office. It had been searched already of course. But then the search had been for clues to
a motive for Charles’s murder. Now they were looking for his past. Something – anything – that would link him to Simon Tench
and Christopher Grisham.

But if Charles Marrick had kept anything relating to his distant past, he hadn’t kept it here. There was, however, a lot of
material relating to his business that might be of some interest to the fraud squad. They left everything as they found it
and shut the door behind them.

Annette was waiting for them in the hall when they came down the stairs. ‘Find anything?’ she said. She sounded casual but
Wesley could detect a note of nervousness in her voice.

‘Where would Charles have been likely to keep any mementoes of his school or university days?’ Wesley asked.

‘He wouldn’t,’ Annette said quickly. ‘Charlie hadn’t a sentimental bone in his body. He never talked about the past.’

‘Did he go to school round here?’

‘I think so but I couldn’t tell you where. Like I said, he never talked about it.’

‘University?’

‘Do me a favour. Charlie was a businessman. Wheeler dealer. He wouldn’t have wasted his time at university.’

Wesley – who had enjoyed three years studying archaeology at Exeter University and had emerged from the shades of academe
with a first class honours degree – looked suitably chastened.

‘Thanks, love. We’ll be in touch,’ said Gerry Heffernan, making it sound more of a threat than a promise.

‘Where to now?’ Heffernan asked as he climbed into the passenger seat of Wesley’s car.

‘I think we might have more luck at Simon Tench’s place,’ Wesley replied as he started the engine.

Rachel hadn’t heard of Barty Carter through the farming community’s normally efficient grapevine. He probably kept himself
to himself, rather than co-operating with his farming neighbours as her parents did. He was a city boy, an outsider, which
meant he’d have been treated with suspicion anyway.

She decided to do the driving. She’d never really trusted
Steve Carstairs behind the wheel – or anywhere else come to that. He drove like he lived – too fast and without much thought
to the consequences of his actions.

‘So where are we off to?’ he asked as he sprawled in the passenger seat, taking up every available inch of space.

‘Smallholding. Bloke called Barty Carter who’s got form for affray. He had a row with our second victim, Simon Tench. About
the only enemy Simon had in the world, that anyone knows of.’

Steve was silent for a few moments. Then he said ‘Sometimes it’s your friends you have to worry about more.’

Rachel glanced at him, surprised. ‘That’s very philosophical of you, Steve. What do you mean by that?’

Steve’s face reddened. He wasn’t sure what he’d meant. It had just sounded good.

‘I hear there’s a new woman in your life.’

There was a long silence. Then Steve cleared his throat. ‘She’s called Joanne – works with my dad. But it’s early days.’

‘How are you getting on with your dad?’ she asked, taking advantage of this new openness.

‘Okay.’

Rachel suspected that that was all the information she was going to get out of him for the moment so she concentrated on her
driving. But when her mobile rang, she brought the car to a halt in a lay-by. She said hello then fell silent for a while
before saying ‘Who is that?’ before the caller hung up.

‘Well?’ said Steve, sensing excitement.

Rachel turned to him. ‘That was a woman – wouldn’t give her name. She said if I wanted to know who Charlie Marrick was with
on the day he died, I should ask Celia Dawn.’

‘You want to do it now?’

‘Better get this visit to Carter out of the way first.’

They found Barty Carter’s smallholding down a narrow
lane off the main road to Neston. The metal gate was coming away from its hinges and a flaking sign gave the name of the property
as Windy Edge and warned trespassers to keep out.

Even though Rachel had lived on a farm for most of her life, she had never smelled anything like the stench that greeted them
as they got out of the car.

Rachel wrinkled her nose. ‘There’s no excuse for a smell like that – not if the stock’s looked after properly.’

‘I’ll take your word for it,’ Steve answered. He could hear the grunting coming from a rickety wooden shed to their left. Ahead
of them stood the house. Filthy windows, flaking paintwork. No mod cons. The place was a dump.

‘Wonder where he is.’ Rachel began to walk towards the pig shed, her hand to her nose. The grunting of the animals sounded
half-hearted and miserable, as though the effort was too much for them. She felt angry. And her anger increased as she pushed
the shed door open.

The place was covered in slurry, as though it hadn’t been mucked out for a few days. The creatures looked dispirited on their
sparse, filthy straw. One thin animal, alone in a corner pen, lay on the ground, a hopeless look in its little eyes. It looked
ill. Or perhaps it had just lost interest in life.

‘We should call the RSPCA,’ Rachel announced, her eyes alight with righteous fury. ‘This isn’t on.’

Steve said nothing. He had covered his face with his sleeve against the stench.

‘Let’s get out of here,’ Rachel said.

Steve followed her out into what passed for fresh air. But as soon as they stepped outside, they saw a tall, slim figure standing
in front of them, dressed in an ancient waxed jacket and tweed cap, legs slightly bent like a cowboy preparing for a shootout
in front of the saloon. He was carrying a shotgun. And it was pointed straight at Steve Carstairs’s head.

Rachel’s heart missed a beat. But she took a deep breath
and held up her warrant card like a magic shield. ‘Police. DS Tracey and DC Carstairs, Tradmouth CID. If I were you, I’d put
that thing down.’

The man hesitated for a few moments, his eyes nervous, flicking from one to the other, assessing the opposition.

‘You heard what I said,’ Rachel said, trying to keep the terror she felt out of her voice. She lowered her left hand slowly
and felt in her jacket pocket for her mobile phone. If she called out the Armed Response Unit they’d be there within fifteen
minutes. But that would probably be too late.

It seemed like a long time before the shotgun was lowered slowly. ‘What do you want?’ the man called out. He was surprisingly
well spoken, posh even. Somehow Rachel had expected a voice more fitting to his thuggish behaviour. But then thuggishness
often didn’t confine itself to the lower social classes.

‘Are you Barty Carter?’

The answer was a curt nod.

‘We’d like a word with you about Simon Tench. He was a vet. He treated your stock.’

‘What about him?’

Rachel glanced at Steve who seemed to have frozen with fear. But then most people would if they found themselves on the wrong
end of a shotgun barrel. ‘Can we talk inside?’

Barty Carter hesitated again then he broke the shotgun barrel over his forearm, much to Rachel’s relief. But she could see
the pair of cartridges inside. The threat hadn’t been an empty one. He began to walk towards the house and they followed him,
Steve lagging behind, still shaken.

The house had seen better days. It was shabby and dirty and lacked a woman’s touch. Old newspapers littered the floor and
the scent of pig slurry hung in the air like a fog, probably brought indoors on the green wellingtons Carter was still wearing
as he propped the shotgun up in the corner
of the room before sitting down at a table, its surface invisible beneath layers of papers and empty lager tins.

Rachel picked up the shotgun, unloaded it expertly and put the cartridges in her pocket before looking around for somewhere
to sit. But every available surface was covered in the detritus of Carter’s existence so she decided to stand.

‘Tell me about the row you had with Simon Tench.’

Carter stared at his hands. ‘Nothing much to tell. It was a bad time for me. Wife had just left. She couldn’t stand the country
… wanted to get back to London. Me, stubborn bugger that I am, was determined to stick it out.’