The Bone Garden (8 page)

‘But why, Wes? And why keep this tatty bit of newspaper under his mattress like something valuable?’

‘Perhaps when we find out who he was we’ll know the answer.’

Neil Watson rested on his spade. There was a chill in the air but digging was hot work. But he knew that it wouldn’t be long
now before they reached something interesting; the foundations of the structure that had stood against the east wall of Earlsacre’s
walled garden. But first the topsoil had to be removed from the marked-off trench and, as he suspected the remains lay close
to the surface, Neil had rejected the idea of using a mechanical digger, which might damage any delicate finds. The geophysics
results had been promising: the print-outs from the machines that measured the electrical resistance of the soil, giving a
computer picture of what lay beneath, had shown the outline of a small square building, possibly a summerhouse or grotto built
by some Lantrist of old to impress his neighbours. Hopefully they would soon find out.

He looked across at his colleague, Jane, a classy blonde in tattered jeans and a white shirt tied at the waist, and smiled.
He had worked with Jane for over a year now. They knew each other’s ways. But he
harboured no romantic hopes: Jane’s boyfriend, Matt, was working away over by the gatehouse.

‘There’s stone here. I think it could be the base of the wall,’ said Jane, matter-of-factly. ‘And look at all these seashells
– loads of them.’ She put down her spade, took a trowel from her tray, knelt down and began to scrape away at the earth.

Neil began to dig again, taking off the topsoil, expanding the trench to the limits he had marked out, until he too felt the
hard resistance of stone against the spade. ‘It’s nearer the surface than we thought,’ he said. ‘Jake says there’s a mention
in the old records of a shell grotto. This could be it.’

Jane smiled and carried on, scraping away with her trowel until a small section of stone wall was clearly discernible, surrounded
by a carpet of tumbled shells. Neil too scraped away to reveal his portion of wall. Things were going well. He was just contemplating
asking Jake if he could spare any of the volunteers to help with the digging when he heard a scuffling at the side of the
trench.

‘Hi. Are you Neil Watson?’

Neil looked up to see where the female voice with the slight Irish accent was coming from. Then, feeling at a disadvantage,
he scrambled to his feet, not taking his eyes off the pretty young woman with long black hair and sapphire-blue eyes who stood
at the edge of his trench, smiling.

‘Sorry if I startled you. I’m Claire O’Farrell, the project historian. I thought we might be able to help each other out.’
Her smile widened, revealing a set of perfect white teeth.

Neil, uncharacteristically flustered, wiped his soil-stained hand on his T-shirt and held it out to Claire. ‘Er … this is
Jane. She’s with the County Archaeological Unit too, and there’s Matt; he’s working on the gatehouse trench.’ Jane raised
a hand and smiled at the newcomer.

‘You lot have arrived just in time,’ said Claire. ‘The deadlines the trust set were a bit ambitious for Jake to cope with,
if you ask me.’ She paused, still smiling. ‘I hear that one of the policemen who came about our skeletons is a friend of yours.’

‘Yeah … Wes Peterson. We were at uni together.’

‘So how come he joined the police? Did he drop out or something?’

Neil shook his head. ‘On the contrary. Our Wes got a first. I thought he’d go on to do postgraduate work but he surprised
us all
and joined the forces of oppression. Don’t ask me why. Mind you, he was always addicted to those Sherlock Holmes books. And
they do say that inside every archaeologist there’s a detective struggling to get out, don’t they? And his granddad was some
sort of high-up detective in Trinidad, so that might have had something to do with it. He’s okay is Wes … useful man to have
around.’

Claire smiled coyly. ‘So you’re a bit of a detective yourself, then?’

‘I’ve had my moments,’ Neil said modestly, studying his feet.

There was an awkward pause, then Claire broke the silence. ‘Have you seen where I work yet?’

‘Can’t say I have.’

‘I’ve some maps and prints that you might be interested in. They show the gardens at different stages in their history. You’ll
probably find them useful. And there are documents too. I haven’t had time to go through them all yet but some of them date
back to the late sixteenth century.’

‘Where did you find them?’

‘A family called Wilton bought the place in 1946. It had been used as a base for US troops during the war, and when they moved
in there were loads of wooden huts down by what’s now the cricket pitch. In fact I think the pavilion there is the last remaining
one. Anyway, the Wiltons took a great interest in the place and did it up. They also acquired lots of papers connected with
the estate. They sold it in 1965 but somehow they kept the papers. Which is great for me because the family has been very
helpful and allowed me free access to them. There’s loads … all fascinating stuff.’

Their eyes met. ‘Great,’ muttered Neil, lost for words.

‘I’ve just been looking at an old painting of the garden that someone’s brought in to me. It shows a shell grotto quite clearly
… like a stone summerhouse covered in thousands of seashells. As you seem to be digging on that spot, would it help you to
see what it looked like in all its glory?’ She inclined her head to one side, a smile playing around her lips.

‘Yeah. Great,’ said Neil, aware that he was repeating himself.

‘Come on, then. I’ll show you where I work.’

Claire turned and began to walk in the direction of the stable block. Neil followed, gazing at her glossy black hair, which
tumbled down her back.

A few minutes later they were leaning over an eighteenth-century oil painting laid flat on the long trestle table in Claire’s
office, their
shoulders touching. Neil found it difficult to concentrate on the painted scene before him: his senses were distracted by
the faint herbal smell of Claire’s shampoo, by the stray strand of hair that touched his cheek, by her very presence. At that
moment Neil Watson’s mind was straying from the subject of history.

But he forced himself to look down at the picture. Earlsacre Hall stood proudly in the centre of the canvas surrounded by
a patchwork of gardens, one seemingly leading into another. But it was the garden directly in front of the hall, the walled
garden, which drew Neil’s attention. The gatehouse stood out, large and prominent. The original building was quite substantial,
with a room on either side of the central arch; the present gatehouse was a shadow of its former self. Standing against the
east wall adjoining the water garden was something that looked like a square stone-built summerhouse. The shell grotto – at
least he now knew what he was excavating. His eyes travelled upwards to the centre of the walled garden. There, among the
elaborate parterres and paths, stood what looked like a sundial, a skeleton globe set on a stone pillar. Below it was what
looked like a large plinth.

‘What date is this painting?’ asked Neil.

‘It’s there in the corner: 1745.’

Neil could feel his face redden as he mentally kicked himself. Why hadn’t he noticed the date? It was there, clear enough,
by the artist’s signature.

‘So we know our skeletons must have died before then,’ he said, trying to redeem himself. ‘There’s the plinth. Look.’

‘Couldn’t it have been moved?’ Claire thought for a second. ‘No, I don’t suppose it could. It was exactly on that spot and
it took a dozen men to lift it. I think you’re right. If we can find the date that plinth was put there then we’ve probably
found the date of the burial. You’ll have heard that one of them was buried alive, I suppose?’

‘Yeah. Nasty.’

Claire looked at him challengingly. ‘How much do you know about the history of this place, then?’

‘I was hoping you’d tell me,’ said Neil eagerly. This was his chance.

Claire took two tattered paperback books off a makeshift shelf supported by bricks and handed them to him. ‘Here you are.
The Manor Houses of South Devon and Their Families
and
Jacob Finsbury’s Account of His Travels around the Houses of England
.
The first just gives you the plain facts and the second was written at the beginning of the eighteenth century by an old gossip
who travelled from house to house freeloading off the local gentry. There’s quite a large section on Earlsacre. He seemed
to be quite taken with the place … or taken with Lady Lantrist, reading between the lines,’ she added mischievously. ‘He also
mentions strange goings-on, which is rather pertinent in the light of what’s been found in the walled garden. Take them home
and read them. Enjoy.’

Neil clutched the volumes to his chest. ‘Thanks.’

‘I’ve got loads of old documents to go through. If I find anything exciting, I’ll let you know. I’ve a feeling that somewhere
among this lot there must be something that’ll tell us who those skeletons belonged to and how they ended up where they did.’
She gave him a shy smile which he returned.

Neil backed out of the room, still clutching the books, not taking his eyes off Claire. ‘Thanks,’ he muttered. ‘Er … see you
later.’

He walked back to the gatehouse, hardly aware of his surroundings, still holding the books close against his body. He would
read them tonight … and absorb every precious word.

The investigation into the death of John Jones had begun. Everyone on the caravan site was being interviewed but so far nobody
had admitted to seeing anything suspicious. The computer was consulted as ancient Greeks once consulted their oracle. The
description of the dead man was circulated to other forces in an attempt to discover whether he matched any missing persons
on their books. The postmortem was booked for first thing in the morning.

Wesley watched as his boss paced up and down his office like a caged rhinoceros. In some brave new scientific world some time
in the next century, forensic reports, fingerprint matches and feedback from inquiries might be instantaneous. But things
didn’t move that fast in Tradmouth CID … and Gerry Heffernan might have his share of virtues, but patience wasn’t one of them.

At half past six Heffernan came to the conclusion that there was nothing more to be done that night and they should all go
home and get some rest in preparation for a busy weekend. Steve slunk off to the gents, anticipating a night out on the tiles
of Morbay, and Rachel made a quiet exit. Wesley guessed that she was indulging in more heart-searching about her turbulent
love life. But that, he told himself firmly, was none of his business.

‘I suppose this means my debut on the cricket field is cancelled,’ he said as Gerry Heffernan perched his large backside on
the edge of his desk with an ominous creak.

‘On the contrary, Wes. I think we should take every opportunity to lurk around Earlsacre and indulge in a spot of espionage.
You’re playing the local village team, right?’

Wesley nodded.

‘Well, talk to them; mention the case. See if you get any sort of reaction. Why was this John Jones so interested in Earlsacre?
There must have been a reason.’

‘Perhaps he was just into old gardens. Some people are.’

‘No, Wes. There’s a connection there – I can feel it in my water. And don’t worry about this cricket match: I’ll be there
on the boundary cheering you on.’

‘Great,’ said Wesley. That was all he needed.

‘And don’t forget you’ve got that date with Brian Willerby.’

‘How could I forget?’

‘Now don’t be like that, Wesley. We’ve got to keep in with our legal friends.’ Heffernan grinned wickedly. ‘But rather you
than me, eh? I don’t know what his cricket playing’s like, but the man could bore for England.’

He chuckled as he lumbered back into his office and reached for the shapeless jacket that hung on the coatstand in the corner.
‘I’m off now, Wes,’ he called out cheerfully. ‘Choir practice tonight. Getting ready for harvest festival.’

‘Already?’

‘Unlike our forensic department, our choirmaster doesn’t believe in hanging about. If there’s no word from forensic by lunch-time
tomorrow, chase them up, will you, Wes. And why don’t you knock off and get home for a square meal and a bit of marital bliss
while you’ve still got the chance,’ he concluded ominously.

Wesley opened his mouth to speak, to tell his boss that there wasn’t much chance of marital bliss that evening as Della was
descending on them with lover boy in tow. But Heffernan had already breezed out of the office, singing a snatch from Haydn’s
Creation
in a rich baritone voice.

Detective Constable Steve Carstairs had stayed behind at Tradmouth police station on the pretext of finishing off some reports.
But his true motives were carnal. There was one of the civilian staff, a young
typist in the CID office, he’d been planning to make a move on for several weeks. Her name was Jackie and she had shoulder-length
red hair. She lived in Morbay, not far from his own flat … and he had heard through the station grapevine that her car was
currently in for repair. As his mother had always said, you’ve got to make the most of your opportunities.

He strolled over to her desk and perched on the edge. ‘I hear your car’s out of action. You live near me, don’t you? If you’ve
finished for the day, how about I give you a lift home?’

Jackie looked up with a simpering smile. He was good-looking, she thought. A bit on the macho side, but then he was a copper.
And she didn’t like the way that stuck-up Rachel Tracey treated him, like he was some kind of idiot. Jackie had been annoyed
when her gearbox had given up the ghost. But every cloud has a silver lining, so they said. ‘Thanks,’ she said breathlessly.
‘That’d be great. Saves me waiting around for the bus.’

Jackie’s delight increased when she saw the gleaming red Escort XR3i that awaited her in the station carpark. She climbed
into the passenger seat, pulling down her short skirt with last-minute modesty. Steve took the wheel confidently, drove, too
fast, out of the gates, and pointed the car towards the main road out of town.