The Jackal Man (2 page)

Once he’d left the main A30 from Exeter, the castle hadn’t been particularly easy to find, tucked away down a single-track
lane as if its builder had designed it as his own secret kingdom. He’d driven between a pair of massive granite gateposts
that wouldn’t have looked out of place in a prehistoric stone circle, then up a meandering driveway flanked by fields and
mature woodland. Finally the castle came into view.
The moment of revelation had probably been planned carefully by the owner and architect to impress the approach ing visitor
and this theatrical sleight of hand – like a magician whipping off a velvet cloth to reveal some wonder beneath – had worked
to perfection. Neil brought the car to a halt and sat there for a few moments, taking it all in.

To the casual observer it looked as though Varley Castle had been hewn from some great granite cliff. Only the tall windows
betrayed the fact that it had been created by man rather than nature. It looked like something from another, more warlike
age with its crenellations and its great square towers as it stood, dark grey against the soft green landscape. It was a statement
of power but its creator had been no medieval warlord. This great building, Neil knew, was an expression of financial rather
than military might.

As the watery winter sun emerged from behind the clouds, he put the car into gear and carried on. He had an appointment with
Caroline Varley at ten o’clock and he didn’t particularly want to be late – even though he feared that he was bound to be
a great disappointment to her.

Leaving his old yellow Mini on the gravel circle in front of the castle’s great oak door didn’t seem appropriate somehow,
like leaving a piece of chewing gum stuck to some great Rodin sculpture. But, lacking an obvious alternative, he drove carefully
to the edge of the gravel, as far as possible from the door, and stopped the engine.

He’d brought the battered briefcase he used when he had meetings to attend. But when he took it off the back seat he realised
how shabby and scuffed it was. This wasn’t something that usually concerned him – he was a man who’d face wealthy developers
wearing an ancient combat jacket and mud-caked jeans – but somehow this meeting felt different.
Caroline Varley wanted an archaeologist to advise her and he was sure that she’d be expecting some gentleman antiquary wearing
tweed and a bow tie. Not a working field archaeologist like Neil Watson.

That wasn’t to say that he hadn’t made a stab at sartorial respectability. He was wearing his only pair of half-decent trousers
and he’d managed to fish out a proper shirt from the back of his small wardrobe. He’d even found a tie lurking in the detritus
at the rear of his sock drawer. On discovering the crumpled state of his rarely worn clothes, he’d been tempted to ring his
friend Wesley who always seemed to dress smartly when he was out interrogating criminals and was sure to have something he
could lend him. But a session with the steam iron had done the trick and now he felt uncomfortably smart. Even his best shoes
had seen a bit of polish and his long hair had been washed the night before and attacked with a brush.

He straightened his tie as he climbed out of the car. The summons to Varley Castle had come via a letter handwritten on expensive
deckle-edged notepaper. The missive had stood out from the rest of the Unit’s routine correspondence – the bills and the reports
– and Neil had stared at it for a while before opening it. It was rare nowadays to receive a handwritten letter, rarer still
to receive such an upmarket one.

He locked the car door – he doubted whether such a security measure would be necessary in that particular location but it
was hard to break the long-ingrained habit of suspicion – then he approached one of the most imposing front doors he had ever
seen: studded oak and tall enough to admit a giant. But before he could raise the great lion-head knocker – not much smaller
than the real thing – the door swung open silently.

Standing there in a pink cashmere sweater and jeans was a tall, slim woman, not much older than himself. She had a long face
– horsy some would say – and wavy brown hair, newly washed and a little wild. Her nose was too large and her mouth too wide
but, in spite of this, there was something attractive about her – but Neil didn’t know quite what it was.

‘Dr Watson, I presume.’ Her voice was deep, her accent well bred but not cut glass.

Neil held out his hand. ‘Ms Varley?’

‘Caroline please.’ She gave him a businesslike smile but he knew from her eyes that she was assessing him, weighing up his
suitability.

‘I’m a bit early.’

The corners of Caroline’s mouth twitched upwards in a crooked smile as she stood aside to let him in. ‘Eagerness. I like that
in a man. Come through.’

He found himself in the entrance hall, granite-walled like the exterior. But here the stone was relieved by a set of large
tapestries which, in spite of the faded colours, gave the illusion of warmth. He was struck by the abundance of artefacts
from ancient Egypt displayed about the place: a large stone figure of a hawk-headed god; various smaller statues of gods and
mortals; chairs, chests and a model boat, complete with rowing slaves. A cluster of stone jars with animal-headed lids stood
near the doorway: Neil recognised them as Canopic jars, designed to hold the organs of a mummified body, and the realisation
of their purpose made him give an involuntary shudder.

Either side of a massive stone fireplace stood a pair of life-sized Egyptian figures in black and gold, the sort left in tombs
to keep the dead company. The figures watched his progress with painted eyes as Caroline led him into a book-lined
room, the shelves packed with ancient volumes. The room was cosier than one would expect from the outside appearance
of the castle with polished oak furniture and rich Turkish rugs on the dark wood floor. Caroline invited him to sit on a worn
velvet sofa.

‘Would you like coffee? I usually have one myself at this time of day.’

Neil nodded. He felt nervous, although he wasn’t quite sure why, and coffee would give him something to do with his hands.

He had expected Caroline to tug the tasselled bell pull that hung by the great stone fireplace but, to his surprise, she excused
herself and left the room. It seemed that she was going to make the coffee herself. He had assumed there’d be some kind of
housekeeper at least.

He took advantage of her absence to look around. In the corner stood a grand piano supporting the traditional assortment of
family photographs – he’d seen a similar arrangement in almost every stately home he’d ever visited. But instead of smiling
grandchildren and the owner of the house shaking hands with a member of the Royal Family, these photographs were mostly black
and white. And most of them featured one particular man.

This man was middle-aged, well built with the kind of weather-beaten good looks normally associated with heroic explorers
of Queen Victoria’s reign. He sported a fine moustache and in each photograph he posed triumphantly next to some notable Egyptian
site: at the great pyramid of Cheops; in front of the mortuary temple of Rameses II; dwarfed by a colossal statue of a long-dead
pharaoh. There were photographs of him with other men wearing light suits and pith helmets flanked by native Egyptians in
their
flowing robes, some smiling, some sullen. These were images of a more romantic age of flamboyant gentleman amateurs and great
discoveries – a world away from the type of archaeology Neil knew.

He had heard of Sir Frederick Varley, of course. His name had cropped up occasionally at University but, as the topic of Egyptology
hadn’t featured heavily in the syllabus he’d chosen to follow, he knew only the bare facts about the great man’s achievements.
Varley had financed various expeditions to the Valley of the Kings and he had been a keen participant in the excavations,
although he always employed professional archaeologists to do the scholarly work and locals to do the physical digging.

However, for all his efforts, Varley had never experienced the glory of a really big find: he had been no Lord Carnarvon discovering
Tutankhamen’s virtually intact tomb. But he had a respectable record none the less, including the discovery of the tombs of
a twentieth-dynasty queen, complete with intact sarcophagus, and the richly decorated tomb of a chief musician in the court
of Amenhotep II when the culture of the New Kingdom was at its peak. For a gentleman amateur, Frederick Varley hadn’t done
too badly.

Neil walked slowly around the room. Most of the books around the walls were connected in some way with ancient Egypt and there
were several small glass display cases containing jewels and amulets. All, no doubt, taken from tomb; objects intended to
adorn the dead. Neil had always felt that the Egyptians had been obsessed by death and the preservation of the body for the
afterlife: perhaps that’s why he’d preferred other branches of his chosen profession.

‘I see you’re admiring my great-grandfather’s collection.’

Caroline’s voice made Neil jump. He turned round with what he feared was an inane grin on his face and saw her standing in
the doorway holding a large wooden tray. He hurried over to her, almost tripping over a well worn rug, and took the tray,
hoping to impress her by good manners. He wasn’t sure why he felt so eager to make a good impression: after all, it wasn’t
really something that would benefit the Unit. But there was something about this woman that made him feel he had to be on
his best behaviour.

‘In fact that’s why I contacted your Unit. I thought it would be the best place to start,’ she said as Neil placed the tray
carefully onto a side table. ‘My uncle died three months ago and I inherited the house and estate.’

‘Wow.’ Neil temporarily forgot to play the cool professional.

‘It’s more a burden than a blessing, I’m afraid. I’m negotiating for the National Trust to take the place over. There’s no
way I can afford the upkeep.’

‘I’m sorry,’ said Neil.

‘Don’t be. It’s an old mausoleum of a place.’

‘Did you move in as soon as your uncle died?’

‘More or less. I didn’t like to think of leaving the place empty.’

‘Do you live here alone?’

She didn’t answer for a few seconds. ‘I have a flat in London – bought it as soon as my divorce came through – so I’m used
to fending for myself.’

Her answer seemed a little evasive and Neil wondered if she was hiding something … or someone.

‘What did you do in London?’

‘I was PA to a company director.’ She paused. ‘And the director in question was a shit. When I inherited this place I
told him where he could stick his job.’ She smiled at the memory.

‘Did you come here much as a child?’

She looked him in the eye as though she was about to share a confidence. ‘My mother said that when I was very young I used
to start screaming as soon as the car drove through the gates. The place really used to scare me.’ She paused. ‘Bad things
happened here and I’ll be glad to get rid of it.’

‘What bad things?’ Her words had aroused his curiosity.

She waved a hand dismissively and picked up her coffee cup, a chunky mug with a colourful design: Neil had expected bone china.
‘It’s not important.’

Caroline straightened her back, suddenly businesslike. Neil had caught a brief glimpse behind the confident mask but now the
defences were up again. Something in that house made her uncomfortable and he suspected that her decision to give away her
inheritance hadn’t been influenced solely by financial considerations.

‘The thing is,’ she began, ‘my great-grandfather amassed this huge collection of Egyptian artefacts. The castle’s crammed
with the things and they’re not comfortable to live with, to put it mildly.’

‘I can understand that,’ said Neil with sympathy. It seemed that the hall and the library only contained a fraction of the
collection. Elsewhere there would be more. And as the ancient Egyptians had put a lot of energy into creating and furnishing
magnificent tombs, most of what was discovered by later generations was connected with death and funerary rites. The walls
of this forbidding house were filled with the memento mori of an ancient civilisation. And this thought made him feel uncomfortable.

‘The main collection’s upstairs but it’s probably best if we start down here and tackle that later. I’d like you to go through
everything, Dr Watson. I need to know what’s here … and if it has any value. There’s always a chance the National Trust
will want to keep the collection here intact of course, or it might go to a museum, but I’d like to know what I’m dealing
with. Just an initial assessment. Nothing too detailed.’

He saw her looking at him expectantly. He was the first port of call. And he felt reluctant to admit his ignorance and tell
her she was wasting her time. But he knew it was best to be straight with her. ‘I admit I’m not an expert on this sort of
thing but I’ll have a quick look round and, if necessary, I’ll get in touch with someone who can help.’

The truth was, he was anxious to see more of the place. He did his best to look knowledgeable, even though what he knew about
Egyptology could be written on a couple of sheets of paper, and followed Caroline out of the room.

He was led down a corridor with towering granite walls. It was only the family portraits punctuating the expanse of stone
that made the place look like a home rather than the interior of some ancient temple.

‘What did you mean earlier when you said bad things had happened here?’ he asked when Caroline stopped to open a tall oak
door.

Caroline hesitated for a moment before turning to face him. She took a deep breath. ‘Frederick Varley’s son – my great uncle
– was a murderer,’ she stated with simple honesty. ‘He killed four women.’

I arrived at the castle in the middle of September 1901 – I forget the exact date, which is strange for it should have been
imprinted forever on my memory. The trap was sent to meet me at the station and a taciturn man called Walter Hungate helped
me with my trunk then drove me to my destination. I asked questions about the house and the family of course, but I received
scant reply. Hungate sat up on the driver’s seat, apparently without curiosity, addressing himself only to the horse he was
driving. He was a large, ugly man whose face reminded me of a hideous gargoyle I saw once scowling down from a church roof
and one of his eyes was half closed which gave him a sinister look. I decided to ignore his rudeness. I had been appointed
as governess after all and had no need to ingratiate myself with the lower servants.

The journey took a full half hour and I felt ill at ease as I sat on the hard wooden seat, my bones jolted with every pothole
on the narrow, winding lanes. I had come from the softer landscape of Oxfordshire and thought this part of Devon full of drama
and beauty. The leaves were changing from green to russet and the sun was shining in an almost
cloudless sky so, at first sight, Varley Castle looked almost inviting as we rounded the corner and saw the great building
spread before us like some fortress hewn centuries ago from the granite of the moor.

When the trap pulled up before the house I felt that the place was towering over me, harbouring terrifying but delicious secrets.
But I had no time to indulge my fertile imagination as the woman I was later to know as Mrs Ball, the housekeeper, was walking
out to greet me, her stout shiny shoes crunching loudly on the thick gravel of the drive. She was a tall, well-built woman
with a severe look and she said that the master wished to see me as soon as I arrived.

I followed her obediently through the tall stone passageways, wishing that I could have had time to rest a little and maybe
change out of my travel-stained clothes. But I soon forgot my discomfort when I saw the painted coffins that lined the corridor
leading to the drawing room. They stood like sentries with terrible painted faces, their staring, black-lined eyes watching
my nervous progress. I knew that they contained the dead because Sir Frederick Varley had told me so during our interview
when he had come to Oxford to visit the fellow of Christchurch, an aficionado of Egyptian history, who had recommended me
for the post. I knew that inside these coffins were mummified corpses wrapped in linen, centuries old but still recognisable
as human beings.

How I longed to see them.