The Bone Garden (26 page)

The long half-hour’s wait was punctuated with stabs of guilt. She was seeing another man while Dave dutifully watched television
with her family. But at the end of the half-hour, pulse racing and palms tingling, Rachel Tracey locked the incident room
door behind her and walked slowly out of the stable block.

Charles was waiting for her outside as promised. The Earlsacre birds were in good voice, but the only other sound she could
hear as she walked towards him was the distant sound of a car engine revving farther up the drive. Charles held out a hand
to her. She took it.

‘Where are we going?’ she asked.

‘It’s a surprise. Wait and see.’

‘I don’t like surprises,’ she said matter-of-factly.

‘I can guarantee you’ll like this one.’ He held on to her hand and began to lead her away from the house and gardens, down
the driveway towards the road. After a while they drew level with the cricket field and he stopped. Rachel shuddered. She
had no desire to be romping round a murder scene in her leisure hours, no matter how attractive her new-found companion was.

‘Shut your eyes,’ he whispered. She hesitated then obeyed.

She was led off to the left, over the smooth grass of the cricket field. ‘We’re not going to the woods, are we?’ she asked,
feeling a small twinge of anxiety.

‘Of course not. Just close your eyes.’

She allowed herself to be led onwards. ‘There are three steps here. Be careful,’ said Charles, his voice gentle but containing
a hint of excitement.

She negotiated her way up three wooden steps. The cricket pavilion. Rachel wondered what the hell she was doing alone near
a murder scene with a perfect stranger leading her towards goodness knows what with her eyes closed. But at the same time
she felt exhilarated at the thought of things being delightfully beyond her control.

‘You can open them now,’ Charles said triumphantly.

Rachel opened her eyes and all doubts faded. The cricket pavilion was aglow with candles, their golden light making that most
functional of buildings seem like a romantic hideaway. The door was wide open, and in the centre of the bare, utilitarian
room was a trestle table laid with white plates, a pair of champagne glasses and an orderly line of foil dishes. A bottle
of champagne stood in the centre of the table.

‘Like it?’

‘I like it. But I thought you were doing something tonight … meeting an old friend?’

‘What makes you think that?’ He smiled as understanding dawned. ‘Were you listening at the door?’

She nodded. ‘I’m afraid so.’

‘Well, I only told Jacintha that to put her off. As you can imagine, she doesn’t take no for an answer. And she’s hardly my
type. Unlike present company.’

Rachel smiled. ‘I can’t believe you did all this for me.’

‘And why shouldn’t I do something special for the best-looking policewoman in Devon? And before you start interrogating me,
I haven’t interfered with a crime scene. I asked one of the uniformed PCs if it was okay to use the pavilion again after the
break-in and he said all the fingerprint people had finished.’ He shrugged. ‘So here we are.’

He began to pour the champagne. Rachel took a sip. The bubbles, and the company, went straight to her head.

‘I asked the landlady of the King’s Head to make us a takeaway. Is that all right? It’s not very exotic, I’m afraid. We’ve
got roast beef, vegetables, new potatoes. You’re not a vegetarian, are you?’ he asked nervously.

‘I was brought up on a farm. Being a vegetarian was never an option.’

‘Do you still live on the farm, or do you have a place of your own?’

‘I still live on the farm at the moment, but I wouldn’t mind a place of my own soon,’ she said, toying with the idea of domestic
freedom. She picked up her glass and began to wander around the pavilion. ‘You’ve made this place look quite homely,’ she
said with genuine admiration. ‘I don’t know how you’ve done it, but you’ve even managed to get rid of that awful smell; you
know, the one you always get in sports changing rooms. Sweat and testosterone.’ She turned to him and smiled. ‘You’re quite
a miracle worker. Tell me about yourself,’ she said, before taking another long sip of champagne.

‘Where shall I start?’

‘At the beginning.’

‘My name’s Charles Edward Pitaway. I was born in Tradmouth hospital in 1976. I lived here at Earlsacre Hall till I was five,
then my parents decided they’d be more comfortable in a smaller place, so we moved to a bungalow on the outskirts of Dukesbridge.
My mother died when I was eight and I was sent away to boarding school, so I can’t claim to have had an idyllic childhood.
I left school at seventeen and did various things, then when my father died I came home, sold the family bungalow and sold
Earlsacre to Martin’s trust. With the proceeds I set myself up in business as a garden design consultant and bought myself
a rather nice flat overlooking Dukesbridge harbour. That’s enough about me. What about you?’

Rachel shrugged. ‘Not a lot to tell. Brought up on a farm near Tradmouth. Three brothers.’

‘Do you like your job?’

‘At times.’

‘I was talking to your colleague at the cricket match … Wesley. He’s a very nice chap.’

‘Yes.’ Rachel looked down into her champagne glass and stared at the escaping bubbles. ‘Yes, he’s very nice.’

She smiled sadly at Charles, then strolled over to the double row of lockers. ‘What do you men keep in these things? I’ve
always wondered.’

Idly she began to open the unlocked metal doors one by one. Most were empty or contained isolated items of grubby equipment.
But one locker, at the far end of the row, housed something more interesting. As the door creaked open Rachel saw an unusual
object lying in the bottom.

‘What’s this?’ she asked, taking a sip of her champagne.

Charles walked over to join her and stood staring down at the object, a cricket ball stuck on to a sturdy handle. ‘It’s a
knocking-in mallet. When you get a new bat it needs to be knocked in before you play. You bash it for a while with the mallet
and that strengthens the bat. If it wasn’t prepared properly there’s a danger it would split during a match. That answer your
question?’ She didn’t reply. ‘Why the sudden interest in cricket equipment? Are you a cricket fan? I didn’t see you at the
match last Saturday. I would have noticed.’ He bent and kissed her neck. She felt a shiver of pleasure but tried hard not
to let it distract her.

‘This wasn’t here when the police searched these lockers,’ she stated simply.

‘Well, if someone’s bought a new bat they probably borrowed it. There’s nothing unusual in that.’

Rachel remembered Brian Willerby’s injuries and the preposterous theory that a speeding ball was bowled at his head several
times. But this object, like a hammer with a cricket ball for a head, would fit the bill perfectly. She was as certain as
she could be that she had found what had killed Brian Willerby.

‘Here, there’s an old bat over there. I’ll show you how it works if you’re that interested,’ said Charles, reaching inside
the locker. It was an unusual line in seduction, he thought, but then life was full of surprises.

‘No,’ she snapped quickly. ‘Don’t touch it whatever you do. I’ll have to contact the station.’

‘Surely it can wait.’

‘Sorry.’ She shook her head apologetically, torn between duty and pleasure.

‘Want to borrow my mobile?’ asked Charles, taking his phone from his pocket.

‘Thanks, but I’ve got my own,’ she said, taking it from her bag and punching in the familiar numbers.

‘If you don’t mind me asking, why exactly are you ringing the station?’

‘That mallet thing … I think it’s what Brian Willerby was killed with.’

Charles looked shocked. ‘Oh dear. I see. I suppose it rather spoils our plans if we’re soon going to be joined by a horde
of policemen in size-twelve boots, doesn’t it?’

‘Oh, they won’t be here for a while. What about giving this
representative of the police force a square meal and some more champagne before they arrive?’ she said, feeling strangely
unprofessional.

Charles smiled. ‘Then after we’ve eaten and sorted out this business of the mallet, why don’t you come back to my flat in
Dukesbridge for a drink? I feel I have to make up somehow for bringing you to a place where someone’s dumped a murder weapon,’
he added disarmingly.

A guilty image of Dave waiting patiently at the farm flashed through her mind. But then Rachel Tracey ran her finger around
the top of her champagne glass and smiled.

August 1685

Dearest good Father

The passage is rough and the conditions on the
Merry Venture
are wanting of comfort. Yet your acquaintance with Captain Parry is a blessing. He is a likeable Welshman with a ready wit
and much respected by his crew. The good captain is unaccustomed to a human cargo yet he treats the prisoners with as much
fairness as conditions allow. He has promised to deliver any letters I write to you into your hands and may the Lord bless
him for that. I know not where we are bound except that it be the Indies where we shall be sold to plantation owners. Joseph
Marling is with me and begs you to bear his greetings to his father.

Sir, it grieves me to think that the last time I saw your beloved face was in Dorchester at my trial, the injustice of which
together with the evil of Lord Chief Justice Jeffreys shall remain in my thoughts always. I pray that somehow I may endure
this enslavement and live to return, but I fear the years to come. I know that our family’s fortunes are low at present and
that my liberty cannot be bought as others have bought theirs (the corruption of the Lord Chief Justice is known to all).
Yet be of good cheer, dear father, and remember me to my good brother, John. Pray for me.

Your loving son, Richard Lantrist

Wesley arrived at Earlsacre at nine the next morning. He had left Pam asleep, reluctant to disturb her on her last morning
of freedom before term began.

Rachel was already at her desk, bright and alert. She walked over to him as he was about to sit down. ‘Want to hear the latest?
The weapon that probably killed Brian Willerby’s been found: one of those knocking-in mallets – a sort of cricket ball on
a stick. It’s used to prepare cricket bats before you use them in a match.’

Wesley raised his eyebrows in surprise. It was quite unlike Rachel to know the ins and outs of cricket equipment, given her
hostility to the game. ‘I know what it is. It’s so obvious now. I don’t know why I didn’t think of it before. Where was it
found?’

‘In a locker in the pavilion.’

‘The lockers were searched.’

‘It must have been put back since.’

‘By whoever took the garden statues?’

‘It’s possible.’

‘Who found it?’

Rachel blushed and changed the subject. ‘And have you heard the latest about Steve?’

‘No. Go on, amaze me,’ said Wesley, contemplating his mound of waiting paperwork. But gossip about Steve was far more interesting.

‘Last week he found this old bloke who’d had his wallet pinched and he lent him some money.’

‘Wonders will never cease. There’s hope for him yet.’

‘But doesn’t that story sound familiar to you?’

The truth suddenly dawned on Wesley. ‘The reports of that suspected con man?’ Rachel nodded. ‘And Steve didn’t realise anything
was wrong?’

‘Reading between the lines I’d say he had a woman with him whom he was trying to impress, so what passes for his brain wasn’t
firing on all cylinders. He’s still saying this man he met was genuine. He said he could tell. He’s expecting the cheque in
the post, he says. Only it’s just not arrived yet. How’s that for optimism?’

Wesley looked at Rachel with interest. ‘It’s easy to be cynical but what would you have done?’

Rachel paused. ‘Do you know, I’ve no idea,’ she said thoughtfully. ‘What about you?’

Wesley shrugged his shoulders. It was a difficult one. He had always been taught by parents and Church that helping those
in need was the thing to do. But as a police officer he was only too aware of the depths of human deceit. ‘Did the man’s description
match the other reports?’

‘Afraid so. It looks as though Steve’s lost himself eighty quid.’

‘Eighty quid!’ exclaimed Wesley, astounded at Steve’s benevolence.

‘For a train ticket to Manchester. If this con man’s getting greedy we’re bound to catch him sooner or later. We can tell
Steve to keep a special lookout.’ She grinned wickedly.

Wesley’s telephone began to ring and Rachel returned to her own desk with a secret smile. There was something different about
her, Wesley thought, a sparkle in her eyes. Perhaps she had had a good night out with Dave.

He picked up the receiver and was surprised to hear a soft female voice on the other end of the line. When he finished the
call he wandered out of the office in search of Gerry Heffernan. He needed some advice.

He found Heffernan at the cricket pavilion, contemplating the flaking wooden door. He could see that the pavilion’s interior
had changed since he had last been there. A trestle table bore the remains of a meal, along with the stumps of burned-down
candles. A champagne bottle stood in its centre, indicating that someone had had a good evening.

‘Wes. Just the man I wanted to see,’ Heffernan shouted as he approached. ‘Have you heard about this mallet thing – cricket
ball on a stick? Just the job for giving someone a good whack on the head and making it look like they’ve been hit by a demon
bowler. It went off to Forensic last night.’

‘So who found it?’

‘Charles Pitaway was using the pavilion to entertain a lady friend, hence the burned-down candles and the empty champagne
bottle.’

‘What lady would this be? Our resident poet?’

‘Er, not exactly, Wes. It seems the lady’s name was Rachel Tracey.’

‘Oh,’ said Wesley. ‘I see.’

‘Now what did you want to see me about?’

Wesley took a deep breath, trying not to think of Rachel alone with Charles Pitaway in the pavilion. ‘I just wanted to tell
you that I’ve had a phone call from Lilly. You remember Lilly? At that place in Tradmouth near the church.’