The Bone Garden (3 page)

Neil extracted a small mobile phone from the pocket of his tattered jeans. ‘I’ll do it. I’ve got a mate who’s a detective
sergeant at Tradmouth. He did archaeology with me at uni. He knows the score,’ he told Jake reassuringly.

‘It was a couple of constables from Neston who came last time. They trampled all over the bloody site like a herd of elephants.
So if your mate’s available …’

As they strolled towards the walled garden, now filling up with the ghoulish and the curious, Neil dialled Wesley’s number
and waited for him to answer.

Craig Kettering, having lost most of last week’s wages in one of Morbay’s seafront amusement arcades, was financially embarrassed
and in need of some ready cash.

Caravans were the easiest. No decent locks, no burglar alarms, always a window open. People got careless when they were on
holiday. Craig wandered through the Bloxham View Caravan Park at three o’clock in the afternoon, trying to look casual, as
if he had every right to be there. Three o’clock was a good time. Everyone was out at the beach or sampling the attractions
of Morbay.

Craig strolled from caravan to caravan trying the doors. At first he had no success. But half an hour later he struck lucky.
On one of the smaller caravans kept for rent in the top field the handle turned sweetly and the door swung open without a
sound. The floral curtains at the windows were shut. Craig hoped this didn’t mean it was empty and unlet.

He knew he had to be careful. There was always a chance that someone might be inside. There was no need to go into the bedroom
at the end – just grab any money and valuables from the living area, then leg it. He eased himself carefully up on to the
single metal step. The interior was dark: the curtains must have been thicker than they looked.

Something was wrong. Craig could sense it. He could hear the steady, low-pitched buzz of flies. Then the smell hit him and
his hand shot up to his nose.

As his eyes adjusted to the dim light he could just make out a shape lying on the floor next to the upholstered seat opposite
the door. A human shape giving no sign of movement, no sound. There was just the relentless hum of the flies. With his breath
held, Craig squatted down and touched the shape. But he withdrew his hand sharply when the tips of his fingers came into contact
with ice-cold, waxy flesh. The thing was dead – naked from the waist up and dead.

He saw the eyes, vacant and staring, and felt he ought to cover them; to find a towel or something to hide them so that they
couldn’t watch him reproachfully as he intruded into the private world of the dead. But there was nothing to hand so he just
looked away. He could smell blood: the smell of meat just on the turn. And when an angry fly buzzed at his face, he leaped
to his feet again.

Craig backed away. His eyes half registered some cash on top of a cupboard but his heart was pounding and nausea rose in his
chest as his nostrils were filled with the stench of decay. He had to get out of that metal box, that swollen coffin. He opened
the door again and slammed it behind him, inhaling the fresh air and looking around to make sure that nobody was about, that
nobody had seen him leaving the caravan.

After spitting on the ground to expel the taste of death from his mouth, he began to run down the sloping fields towards his
parked van. And as he drove back to his bed-sit in Morbay, exceeding the speed limit by a good fifteen miles per hour, he
couldn’t stop his hands from shaking on the hard, cold steering wheel.

I took me to the inn in the village of Earlsacre (the conversation with Sir Richard being somewhat strained) and found the
ale there to be of most excellent quality. At the inn – which was named the King’s Head – I was afforded the best seat by
the fire and the landlord’s best pie which, like the ale, was fine enough for the most particular palate in London. At the
inn I heard many tales, some doubtless true, some fanciful, as is the way in such establishments. Sir Richard, I discovered,
did in 1685 join the Duke of Monmouth in his fight for the Crown – as did many men of the West Country – and was transported
to the West Indies to be sold as a slave (as were eight hundred of his fellow rebels) for his dissenting ways. He had found
his way home but four years since to claim the estate of his late father. Perhaps Sir Richard’s suffering in his years of
enslavement accounts for his taciturn ways. I heard other tales regarding Earlsacre Hall of a more sinister nature which I
shall set down in due course
.

From Jacob Finsbury’s Account of His Travels around the Houses of England, 1703

‘Nice, this, Wes. A day out in the country. We should have brought a picnic.’ Gerry Heffernan sat back in the passenger seat
with a beatific smile on his chubby face as Wesley steered the car carefully through the narrow, high-hedged lanes. ‘What
did you say it was? A skeleton?’

‘There was one found a few days ago. Neston dealt with it. Now another one’s turned up.’

‘Well, if Neston dealt with the first …’

‘It was Neil who rang me. Colin Bowman had a look at the other
skeleton and reckoned it was old. This one that’s just turned up was buried underneath it apparently.’

‘Which makes it even older. So we’re just going along for appearances’ sake, are we? There’s no suggestion of foul play?’

‘Not recent foul play, at any rate. But Neil said the first skeleton they found had been buried alive.’

Heffernan shuddered. ‘Nasty. So more bodies might turn up in this garden place. Looks like we might have our serial killer
after all.’

‘The bodies were buried underneath an early eighteenth-century plinth which probably hadn’t been moved for years, so there’s
not much chance of getting the culprit bang to rights now,’ said Wesley with a grin. ‘But I suppose we can think of it as
an intellectual exercise.’

Heffernan grunted. ‘I tried intellectual exercise once and I pulled a muscle. I leave that sort of thing to you graduates.
Hey, did that Brian Willerby ever ring you back?’

‘No,’ said Wesley, mildly surprised by the sudden change of subject. ‘Whatever was worrying him couldn’t have been that important.’

‘Probably fussing about some client of his. He’s a bit of an old woman is Brian Willerby,’ the inspector said dismissively.
‘How’s your Pam, by the way? I’ve not seen you two in the Tradmouth Arms for a couple of weeks.’

‘She’s been busy getting ready for the beginning of term. Her maternity leave’s come to an end and she starts teaching again
next week. So what with that and her mother …’

‘Having mother-in-law trouble, are you, Wes?’ asked Heffernan with relish. ‘I know a few good jokes about mothers-in-law.’

‘I’m sure you do, sir, but Della isn’t exactly that sort of mother-in-law … quite the opposite in fact. I suppose you could
say it’s a reversal of roles. She’s like a giddy teenager while Pam’s the sensible, disapproving parent. Della’s always been
a bit … but since Pam’s father died …’

‘Stop.’

Wesley slammed on the brakes automatically. ‘What is it?’

‘That gateway. It says Earlsacre Hall. We’re there.’

Wesley backed the car up and swung it round into the driveway. The drive itself had been resurfaced in the not-too-distant
past. Saplings had been planted along its length and mature trees had suffered the attentions of tree surgeons. Beyond the
trees to his right
Wesley could see what looked like a cricket pitch with a neat white wooden pavilion. It looked slightly out of place, untouched
by the work that was going on around it.

As he continued up the narrow drive Wesley sensed an air of expectation, of preparation, about the place. He drove on slowly
until he saw the house in front of him, swathed in scaffolding with workmen crawling like insects over its ancient walls.
Then he parked his car near what seemed to be a stable block. There was an ancient yellow Mini parked at the end of the row
which wore its rust spots with pride. He recognised it as Neil’s. The two men left the car and picked their way over the uneven
cobbled ground.

‘Neil did warn me it was still a building site,’ said Wesley. ‘They’re restoring the garden. And they’re turning the house
into an arts centre.’

‘Very nice,’ commented Heffernan. ‘So what’s your mate Neil doing here? I wouldn’t have had him down as a gardener. I can
see him cultivating illegal weeds but little else.’

‘They usually call in archaeologists when they’re restoring ancient gardens. They can turn up all sorts of lost features and
give a good idea of the layout from hundreds of years ago. Take formal Renaissance gardens, for instance …’

‘I’d rather not. Where’s this skeleton, then?’

Ahead of them was what appeared to be an ancient stone gatehouse, flanked on either side by high walls constructed of a slightly
different stone. It was hard to tell its age; it could have been anything from a sixteenth-century status symbol to a Victorian
folly. Wesley and Heffernan looked at each other and, as if by unspoken agreement, headed for the archway. As they passed
through it, Wesley looked down at the ground.

‘Those cobbles are very well preserved. Probably sixteenth- or seventeenth-century.’

‘Look like a load of old cobbles to me,’ the inspector muttered under his breath. ‘Where’s this body, then?’

It wasn’t long before his question was answered. They spotted a group of people in the middle of the garden, staring down
at the ground. Neil was among them. And in the centre of the group, holding court, was Dr Colin Bowman, who spotted the two
detectives and waved them over cheerily.

‘Gerry, Wesley. So glad you could come,’ he said, as though he were hosting a party. ‘Interesting one this. A skeleton was
found here
a couple of days ago; a young woman who had obviously been buried alive … nasty case. Now our friends here have turned up
another complete skeleton buried a couple of feet beneath the first. A man this time, as far as I can tell. There seems to
be a bad head wound which is the likely cause of death; probably the proverbial blunt instrument. So it looks as if we could
have two murders on our hands. That’s the bad news. The good news for you two is that, according to our experts here, the
plinth they were buried under dates from the late seventeenth or early eighteenth century, so the burials might well be several
hundred years old.’ Bowman stood back, looking pleased with himself, and peeled off his rubber gloves. ‘Naturally, I’ll have
to get the bones back to the mortuary and conduct a thorough examination. But from the evidence it really does look like an
old burial.’

‘Good,’ said Gerry Heffernan. ‘We can all go home and have a cup of tea, then.’

But Wesley stood his ground. ‘I think we owe it to these two people to find out who they were, at least. What do we know about
the history of this place?’

Gerry Heffernan rolled his eyes to heaven. ‘Why make work for yourself, Wes? If the burial’s that old it’s not our problem.’

‘I can tell you who lived here at the end of the seventeenth century,’ said a deep, authoritative voice. Wesley swung round
to face the speaker, a tall man with steel-grey hair and a military bearing. ‘You’re Neil’s policeman friend, I presume. I’m
Martin Samuels, Director of the Earlsacre Trust.’ He held out his hand and Wesley shook it firmly. ‘Neil tells me that you’re
an archaeology graduate yourself.’

‘That’s right.’

Gerry Heffernan, standing behind him, muttered something incomprehensible.

‘And this is Detective Inspector Heffernan.’ Wesley decided that his boss was angling for an introduction.

‘Delighted to meet you, Inspector. The constabulary are doing us proud this time. We only got a couple of constables on the
last occasion.’

‘Well, if there’s a serial killer on the loose …’ Heffernan was unable to resist a spot of stirring.

‘Dr Bowman’s as certain as he can be that the skeletons are old,’ said Wesley quickly, seeing a look of alarm cross Martin
Samuels’ face.

‘Well, I suppose we’ll have to be grateful for small mercies. I was going to tell you something of the history of the place,
wasn’t I, Sergeant?’

Wesley nodded. Neil and his gaggle of fellow archaeologists had fallen silent and were listening intently.

Samuels took a deep breath, which made Wesley suspect he was about to embark on a long story. ‘The house was built by a Robert
Lantrist at the end of the sixteenth century. Probably a yeoman farmer who’d done well in the reign of Elizabeth: one of the
new middle classes. He was a wealthy man and, in the manner of wealthy men, liked to show off to his neighbours, so he built
a substantial house in the latest fashion and created a series of gardens to match his status. The walled garden here probably
began life as a knot garden but was revamped in the seventeenth century to keep up with the latest trends. Fashion, alas,
is nothing new. The fortunes of the Lantrists fluctuated, however – at one point at the end of the seventeenth century they
were said to be close to bankruptcy – but they eventually recovered and the estate was passed from father to son in the usual
way until the family died out in the eighteenth century and a distant cousin inherited the estate. The line died out again
in the 1940s and the place was inherited by a distant relative in Australia who never came here and let it to tenants. Then
the house was used by the US Army for a while in the war, and in 1946 it was bought by the Wilton family, who lived here until
the sixties. Then a family called Cramer bought it, but they ran out of money and sold it to its last owners, the Pitaways.
They only lived here a few years, then they moved into a modern bungalow in Dukesbridge and let in out to tenants. Eventually
the place deteriorated and was abandoned, and it was Charles Pitaway, their son, who sold it to the trust. Actually he’s moved
back into the area and has been taking quite an interest in the project. Nice chap. He’s set up a garden design consultancy,
so he’s been doing quite a bit of work for us.’

‘So if the plinth has been there since the early eighteenth century, the skeletons probably date from the time of the Lantrists?’
said Wesley. He always like to be sure of his facts.