The Bone Garden (7 page)

‘What’s going on, Barry? What are all these police doing here?’

‘Er … this is my wife, Dilys. These are policemen, love. There’s been a body found in one of the statics in the top field.’

Dilys Fielding looked worried. ‘What was it? A heart attack? It wasn’t an accident, was it?’ she added anxiously, mentally
going through the liability clauses on the site’s insurance policies. ‘We make sure everything’s checked thoroughly, you know.
The electrics and the gas flues. We always do everything by the book. You can’t take any risks these days.’

‘I’m afraid it looks like murder, Mrs Fielding,’ said Wesley gently.

Dilys Fielding’s hand fluttered up to her mouth. ‘Oh, Lord. That’s awful. What happened?’ she asked with what seemed like
genuine shock.

‘A young man’s been found dead in caravan sixty-three, love,’ said Heffernan bluntly. ‘What can you tell us about him?’

Dilys glanced at her husband. ‘I’ll need to look it up on the computer.’

Gerry Heffernan nodded to Wesley, who followed Dilys into the room next door, which was furnished as an office.

‘This must be a shock to you, Mrs Fielding,’ he said. ‘But anything you can tell us about the dead man will be very useful.’

She gave Wesley a weak smile, grateful that at least one of the local police force was behaving sympathetically. She booted
up the computer and summoned up the details of caravan sixty-three from the files.

‘He just turned up on Monday and paid for a week in one of the statics we let out. He hadn’t booked in advance or anything.
We normally do Saturday to Saturday, but out of season we can’t be that fussy. He didn’t have a car either, so I’ve no record
of any registration number.’

‘How did he get here, then?’

‘I asked him that when he arrived. He said he’d taken a bus to Bloxham and walked.’

‘Did he tell you anything about himself? Where he came from?’

‘No. He mentioned that he’d taken the bus from Plymouth. He didn’t have a lot of luggage, only a rucksack. That’s all, really.’
She thought for a moment. ‘He seemed a pleasant sort of bloke. Very well spoken … quite posh, really. He was young – in his
twenties, I’d say. We don’t usually let our caravans to young single men but he was on his own and he didn’t look the type
who’d get legless on a few pints of strong lager and come back here to cause trouble … not like some. As I said, he seemed
nice. He wasn’t smart, just dressed in jeans and a T-shirt. And he wasn’t really the chatty type. He didn’t say much.’

‘Did he give his name and address?’

‘He said he was in the middle of moving flats so there wasn’t much point in giving an address. And his name was Jones … John
Jones.’

‘And he didn’t say where he lived?’

‘No. He never said where he came from and I never asked.’

Wesley nodded and was rewarded with another weak smile. The next question was one that he hardly liked to ask, but it was
necessary.

‘Would you or your husband be willing to have a look at the body; just to confirm it’s the same man who rented the caravan?’

Dilys Fielding wrinkled her nose in distaste. ‘I’ll let Barry do that. I’d probably throw up.’

‘That’s all right, Mrs Fielding. We’ll ask your husband. Are you sure this John Jones didn’t say where he lived?’

‘No. Definitely not. Mind you, come to think of it, he was a bit cagey. But nice … he seemed nice. Very polite.’

‘What about payment? Cheque? Credit card?’ said Wesley hopefully.

‘Sorry, no. He paid in cash.’ She swung round on her swivel chair and gave Wesley a shy smile. ‘You’re not from round these
parts, then?’

‘I transferred here from London about a year ago. My wife’s from round here and …’

Dilys Fielding looked slightly disappointed at the mention of a wife. ‘Do you like it here?’

‘Yes.’

She sat forward as though she were about to share a confidence. ‘I’d love to get out of this place and move to somewhere with
a bit more life.’

‘Why don’t you?’

‘Because my husband loves it here. He used to live in Manchester and couldn’t wait to get out into the country. You always
want what you don’t have, I suppose,’ she added philosophically.

‘You could be right,’ said Wesley. He sensed that the woman wanted to talk so he stood still, waiting, hoping that he could
steer the conversation back to the dead man.

‘You must be mad leaving London,’ she said with a flirtatious smile. ‘I’d love to be in the middle of everything.’

Wesley shook his head. ‘It’s not all it’s cracked up to be, you know. Dr Johnson said that when a man is tired of London he
is tired of life, but I can’t say I agree with him.’

She looked Wesley in the eye. ‘You should try clearing up after a load of holidaymakers in this place. Anywhere looks good
if the only excitement you get is cleaning communal loos all day and taking a trip to the wholesalers in Plymouth to stock
up the site shop.’ There was bitterness in her voice. Dilys Fielding was a woman who was not content with her lot.

‘Well, you’ve got some excitement now, I’m afraid.’

Dilys looked at him with half-closed eyes. ‘Does this mean you’re going to be around here a lot?’ she asked hopefully.

‘It’s possible.’

‘You’ll have to tell me all about London, then.’ Her voice was mildly suggestive. ‘Perhaps when you’re not doing whatever
it is you do, I could take you to the Trawlerman’s Arms down in Bloxham. They serve good crab sandwiches. Locally caught …
the crab, I mean, not the sandwiches.’ She smiled at him coquettishly.

Wesley, sensing he was being selected to provide a little excitement in this particular bored lady’s life, decided that rapid
retreat was the best course of action.

‘Wes,’ a voice called loudly from the neighbouring room. ‘Have you finished in there or what?’ Gerry Heffernan sounded impatient.

‘Thank you, Mrs Fielding.’

‘Oh, Dilys, please.’

‘I really must get on.’

‘Sergeant,’ she called as Wesley was about to leave the room. ‘I’ve just remembered something.’

Wesley took a deep breath and turned round. ‘What is it?’

‘John Jones. He came into the site shop a couple of days ago when I was serving. I remember because he bought a bottle of
wine … only the cheap stuff, mind. He asked me about a place. Had I heard of
it; was it open to the public yet? It was a place that’s been in all the local papers and even some of the nationals. Those
lost gardens … oh, what are they called?’

‘Earlsacre?’ suggested Wesley tentatively.

‘That’s right. Earlsacre. He asked about Earlsacre.’

In 1685 the eighteen-year-old Richard Lantrist, younger son of Sir John Lantrist of Earlsacre Hall, joined Charles II’s illegitimate
son, the Duke of Monmouth, in his attempt to seize the throne of England from King James II. Lantrist, like many men of the
West Country, was a fervent supporter of the Protestant faith and feared than the King’s Catholic inclinations might lead
the country back to Rome. Lantrist fought bravely at the Battle of Sedgemoor in which many Devonshire men were killed. He
was captured and, although he escaped the gruesome death sentence for treason so frequently and enthusiastically handed down
by the dreaded Judge Jeffreys, he was one of almost a hundred and fifty men from Devon who were sent as slaves to the West
Indies. Fourteen years later Richard Lantrist managed to return to Earlsacre, where he found that his father and elder brother
had died and that the estate was now his. He married the daughter of a neighbouring landowner and lived an uneventful life
thereafter.

From The Manor Houses of South Devon and Their Families

SOCO had finished. The body of John Jones had been examined by Colin Bowman, identified by Barry Fielding, and then whisked
away in a discreet black mortuary van.

‘Right then, Wes,’ said Gerry Heffernan as he stepped into the caravan, scratching his tousled hair. ‘Let’s have a shufti
at his things, shall we? See what we can find out about Mr Jones … if that was really his name.’

Wesley looked around. There was nothing he could see in the caravan’s living area that he would have described as personal.
Most
things looked as if they belonged to the caravan: a portable TV, a radio, glasses, oatmeal-coloured crockery. Apart from a
tin of beans and a loaf of bread, there was nothing that John Jones could have called his own.

They walked through to the bedroom, just large enough to squeeze in a double bed between the flimsy walls. Wesley glanced
into the tiny bathroom on the way. There was nothing there apart from a toothbrush, toothpaste and a bar of pale green soap.
Jones travelled light.

The bedroom told the same tale. A pair of denim jeans, a plain black T-shirt and a checked shirt – all common makes – were
the only clothes hanging in the tiny wardrobe. Three pairs of socks and two pairs of grey underpants were stuffed in the bottom
of an ageing rucksack. An electric razor lying on the bed and another pair of washed-out underpants beneath the duvet were
the only other relics of the dead man.

‘Is this all his stuff? Didn’t have much, did he? Have all the cupboards been searched?’

‘Yes, sir. There’s nothing else here that seems to belong to him.’

Heffernan went over to the bedside drawer and opened it. ‘No money, no credit cards, no identification of any kind. What do
you make of it, Wes?’

Wesley thought for a moment. ‘It’s just an impression, but it’s almost as if this man was trying to conceal his identity …
or his killer was.’

‘Any clues in his clothes?’

Wesley shook his head. ‘Not that I can see. They’re all common brands, available anywhere.’ In spite of the fact that he was
wearing plastic gloves, Wesley tentatively picked up the discarded underpants between his thumb and forefinger to look for
a telltale label. ‘Marks and Spencer,’ he sighed. ‘Seen better days – probably a few years old. I think our best hope is to
look in all the nooks and crannies … somewhere he might have hidden his valuables, somewhere the killer wouldn’t think to
look, especially if he or she was in a hurry.’

Wesley stared at the bed, trying to think the dead man’s thoughts. Caravans weren’t the most secure of places – perhaps Jones
had hidden his money and credit cards in some inaccessible crevice that hadn’t yet been searched.

He flicked back the duvet, a thin type with a plain pale pink cover, Bloxham View provided bedding for their guests. When
he and Pam
had first holidayed in France they had stayed in a caravan, and they had hidden their passports and money underneath the mattress.
It was a tactic probably well known to an experienced thief, but somehow it had given the young couple a sense of security,
however unfounded. He recalled that holiday now, with its heady mix of red wine and new love, as he knelt down by the bed.
A warm thought in a sad place.

He lifted the edge of the mattress and ran his hand underneath. His searching fingers made contact with paper. At first he
thought he had discovered where the dead man had kept his cash. But as he drew the paper out, he realised it was far too thin
to be money … and too large.

Gerry Heffernan watched impatiently as Wesley pulled the sheet of paper from its hiding place. ‘Well, Wes, what is it? What
have you found?’

Wesley placed it on the bed and unfolded it, smoothing it carefully. It was a page torn from a newspaper; one of the more
middlebrow national tabloids. The page bore the date 15 August, just over two weeks ago. Wesley studied it, noting each story
in turn. It was home news: a brutal murder in the Cotswolds; a keeper mauled to death at a zoo in the Midlands; a big rise
in house prices in the southeast. But in the top right corner of the page was a black-and-white photograph of three men and
a beautiful young woman with long dark hair. They were standing in front of some scaffolding, all smiling dutifully for the
camera. The caption beneath read ‘Members of the restoration team at the lost gardens of Earlsacre in South Devon pictured
in front of the proposed new arts centre’. Wesley recognised two of the men: the trust Director, Martin Samuels, and Jake
Weston the archaeologist. But the other man and the young woman were unfamiliar.

He began to read the short article aloud to Gerry Heffernan. ‘Work on the important lost gardens of Earlsacre in South Devon
continues as the team of experts and archaeologists hurry to beat their deadline ready for the official opening of the gardens
in October. “An autumn opening and the completion of the main archaeological work give us the opportunity to prepare the gardens
for a spectacular display next spring.” Trust Director Martin Samuels (pictured above left) told our reporter that Earlsacre
is a fascinating example of a rare Renaissance garden and many garden features still remain from the seventeenth century …’

‘Like skeletons,’ mumbled Heffernan. ‘Carry on.’

Wesley took a deep breath and continued reading. ‘Including an ornamental walled garden with a sixteenth-century gatehouse.
Project historian Claire O’Farrell (pictured above right) said that there were still many exciting discoveries to be made
about Earlsacre Hall’s past. The work has been generously supported by the Simeon Foundation of the USA as well as by local
people and the Department of Heritage. Martin Samuels and his team have additional reason for celebration as it has recently
been confirmed that money from the National Lottery will go towards the restoration of Earlsacre Hall to create an arts centre.’
Wesley looked up. ‘That’s all, sir. Just a standard article.’

‘Maybe he kept it for something else on the page. What about this murder in the Cotswolds? Could he have been connected with
that? Or maybe he planned to visit the zoo? Or wanted to buy a house in the south-east?’

Wesley pushed the sheet of newspaper towards the inspector. ‘If you look carefully you’ll see he’s marked the article about
Earlsacre … see those pencil crosses? And Mrs Fielding said he asked her about Earlsacre. It seems he was taking quite an
interest in the place.’