The Merchant's House (31 page)

‘How are you fixed for coming down to Little Tradmouth? I think I’ve tracked down William Boscople.’

‘Great. Now?’

Wesley nodded. Now was as good a time as any, and Pam wasn’t expecting him back for another couple of hours.

Wesley’s car was at home. Neil’s yellow Mini was squatting a quarter of a mile away in the municipal carpark near the waterfront. They drove out of Tradmouth up the steep incline of the main road. The Mini struggled valiantly. When it eventually reached its destination the poor thing looked out of breath.

Hutchins Farm Cottages were sited, as their name suggested, near Hutchins Farm. Number 3 looked less well cared for than its neighbours. The curtains hanging limply at the windows were in need of a good wash. Wesley used his knuckles to knock on the door; there was no bell or knocker visible.

Inside the cottage Bill Boscople put down his newspaper on the ancient settee which used to be green but was now an indeterminate shade of brown. He wished they wouldn’t put those pictures on page three – it was no good for his blood pressure and the doctor had told him to take it easy and not to get too excited. Bad enough with all these murders and kids going missing. The place was getting like Chicago – he’d said as much to his mates in the Farmers’ Arms the other night.

There was another knock on the door, louder this time.

‘ ’Ang on ’Ang on …’ Bill Boscople stood up, stiff from shifting bales of hay. He was getting past it, he thought; the old joints weren’t what they were. He was a wiry man,
average height with a mop of grey hair and the weather-beaten features of one who has spent most of his adult life working out of doors. He moved slowly towards the door, hoping it wasn’t Cissy Hutchins wanting another job done just when he was settled for the evening. It was good on telly tonight.

He opened the door to find two young men standing there. He’d seen the black one before at the farm: he was one of the policemen who’d come up to interview that Mrs Truscot when she found the body. The other one didn’t look like a policeman with all that hair, but you never knew nowadays. What did they want?

‘I know you,’ he said to Wesley in an accent that was pure West Country. ‘You’m one of them policemen what come about the murder. Come along in. I don’t mind helping the police with their enquiries.’

Wesley decided to do the talking, seeing he had a head start already. ‘Mr Boscople?’

‘That’s me.’

‘My name’s Wesley Peterson. I’m a detective sergeant but I’m not here professionally.’ He pointed to Neil. ‘This is Neil Watson. We’re doing some detective work of our own.’

‘Private detectives?’ Bill Boscople was impressed.

‘I’ll let Neil explain. He’s with the County Archaeological Unit.’

Boscople looked confused, but as Neil gave an account of the dig and his discoveries, he began to nod with understanding.

‘Aye, me mother were a Banized. I did hear tell that her family were not short of a bob or two at one time, but …’

‘The wills in the museum at Tradmouth mention a journal, Mr Boscople. I know it’s a long shot but we worked out from your family tree that if it still existed, it might have come to you.’

Boscople looked puzzled. ‘What would it look like, this journal?’

‘A book, I should think, handwritten … a diary.’

Boscople shook his head. ‘I never seen it.’ He paused, deep in thought. T don’t know what’s in them trunks, mind. Put ‘em in the attic when me old mum died and never
looked in ‘em. You’re welcome to have a look if you like, if it’s for the museum.’

Neil was longing to get his hands on the trunks but tried to contain his impatience. ‘The vicar of Tradmouth’s made up your family tree from the old church records, Mr Boscople. I’ll take you along to see it one day if you want. And you must come to the exhibition at the County Museum – it’s about your family, after all.’

‘Aye, but they were a murdering lot by the sounds of it. What was it? Two skeletons you found. Don’t know as I want to go.’

‘If we find this journal…’

‘Oh, aye, that’s what you’ve come for.’ He led them to the top of the steep, narrow, uncarpeted stairs and pointed up at a small trapdoor. ‘They be up there.’ He looked Wesley up and down. ‘You’m not really dressed for it, me luvver. I’d send your mate up.’

Neil, clothes already grimy from the dig and game for anything, was provided with a ladder and a torch. Wesley stood at the bottom in his working suit, waiting selfconsciously. Bill Boscople, he thought, probably didn’t have a high opinion of people who wore suits.

It was a full fifteen minutes before Neil emerged, filthy but triumphant. ‘You should have a look in those trunks, Mr Boscople. There’s all sorts in there: war medals, old clothes, letters – fascinating stuff.’

‘I’ll take yer word vor’t.’ Boscople looked unimpressed.

Wesley could hardly contain his curiosity. ‘Did you find it?’

Neil sat on the top rung of the ladder, grinning. He took a small brown leather-bound volume from his pocket and held it up.

‘Would you mind very much if I kept this to have a good look at it? I’ll return it as soon as we’re finished with it, of course.’

‘You’m do what you want wi’it. ‘Tis no use to me. If it make you two gentlemen ‘appy then you keep it. What’d I do wi’it?’

‘Would you donate it to the museum, then, Mr Boscople? It’d be very much appreciated.’

‘I told you, ‘tis no use to me. What’d I want wi’ old smelly books?’

“Thanks very much. We’ll make sure there’s a special notice up saying you kindly donated it.’

Boscople again looked unimpressed. He glanced at the cheap carriage clock on the tiled fireplace. It was nearly time for his programme. He suddenly had a thought. ‘It’s not worth ort, is it?’

‘Not a lot in monetary terms, Mr Boscople,’ said Neil earnestly. ‘But in historical terms, for the museum, it’s very valuable.’

‘So it i’n’t worth much money, then?’

‘I’m sorry, probably not much. But as I said …’

‘You ‘ave it, then. More use to you than me.’

Neil and Wesley bade Bill Boscople a polite farewell before he changed his mind.

Wesley invited Neil back for an evening meal. Then they could have a look at the journal properly. If Pam hadn’t cooked enough, he could always go down to Tradmouth for a takeaway. The journal lay on Wesley’s lap. He opened it. The spidery handwriting was surprisingly easy to read. He read through the first pages, which were mainly accounts of how trade was going, interspersed with local gossip about the mayor, vicar and other solid citizens of the Banizeds’ acquaintance. It seemed it would prove to be a fascinating account of life in a thriving port in the first quarter of the seventeenth century. He resisted opening the later pages. What, he wondered, would they reveal about John Banized, Merchant of Tradmouth?

When they arrived at Wesley’s house, he carried the journal carefully inside and placed it in the centre of the coffee table.

Elaine Berrisford put on her coat; the nights were getting colder. She pushed the front door to make sure it was locked. The alarm was on, and the light in the living room. She shivered as she walked to the car, which was parked at the side of the cottage on the drive they had created by demolishing a section of hedgerow; it was amazing how
much life had been in that hedge – birds, small animals, insects.

She felt in her pocket. It was still there. She unlocked the car and got in.

Jennet is beyond reason. Last night I did discover her trying to lift the child from his cradle while my wife was at her toilet. She says she will have him; will take him from the house and back to her family. She threatens to tell the truth abroad, that the child is hers as a consequence of my lust for her.

I know not the remedy for this. The Lord doth punish me for my misdeeds.

Extract from the journal of John Banized,
30 March 1624

Pam was nearly asleep when Wesley came to bed. He and Neil had had a lot to discuss, and some cans of best bitter to get through. Pam had gone to bed at half ten – she had work the next day.

‘You’re a lucky man, Wes,’ Neil had said wistfully when Pam had said goodnight. Wesley found himself wondering just how serious Pam’s relationship with Neil had been before he had met her. She had never mentioned him, but now he had come back into their lives she seemed glad to see him – even when he descended on her for an unplanned dinner. But these were night thoughts, the kind rendered insubstantial by morning light. Pam was just pleased to see an old friend. Her spirits had certainly risen since her conversation with Maritia. Maybe she was taking her sister-in-law’s advice to heart. He hoped so.

They had begun to read the journal, laughing at the
candid comments about the pompous citizens. The writing was lively and legible, but the pages were brittle and had to be treated with the utmost care. It had been decided that it should stay in Wesley’s care for the time being, his house seeming safer than any alternative overnight accommodation.

Wesley couldn’t resist it – just a quick read before he went to sleep. They had reached the part where Jennet had been taken on as a serving maid, but had decided to leave the next thrilling instalment for another night. But it was there, on the coffee table. Wesley gave in to temptation and carried the volume carefully upstairs. Pam turned over in bed; she was in that state between waking and sleeping.

‘You’re not bringing that dirty old book to bed with you, are you?’ She turned away sleepily and closed her eyes.

Wesley undressed quietly and got into bed, turning his bedside light on. Pam hid her head under the duvet. He was tired, very tired, but the small brown book lying on the bedside table was more enticing than any amount of sleep. He picked it up, turning the pages delicately, carefully: he didn’t want to damage such an ancient volume. He sat back against the padded headboard, making himself comfortable. This would take a long time. Pam shuffled further under the covers, as if to make a point.

Wesley began to read from where he and Neil had left off. He couldn’t resist the temptation of discovering what had happened to Jennet, whether the master of the house had been considerate enough to commit his deeds to paper for future generations.

The master of the house had indeed been obliging; the journal had clearly been for his eyes alone. Wesley was growing accustomed to the handwriting and the style and he was able to read quickly as the account of John Banized’s temptation unfolded. It was a familiar story, that of yielding to forbidden desire, well-known by policeman and clergyman in existence.

Adultery hadn’t come easy to John Banized. His increasing helplessness as he faced the failings of his flesh, his seesawing emotions of pleasure and regret, were palpable. Wesley found himself wondering about Jennet’s
feelings on the matter. He turned the pages, unable to put the volume down as the story developed. He began to read about the substitution of the babies with unease. Had he not been dealing with a similar case, similar emotions, for the past few weeks?

He read on. Things were becoming more and more desperate, John Banized more and more helpless. He reached the part where Jennet wanted to take the child, her child. He could hardly leave the narrative at this point. He read on.

2 April 1624

May the Lord forgive the deeds I am to write of. I am cursed for my sins. I have paid for my wrongdoings a hundredfold.

Last night I did discover Jennet with the child. She wore her cloak and had with her her belongings. She did say to me that she would go from the house and take Thomas with her. He was hers and no man could deny her. She did vow to declare the truth across the district if I would not pay her a handsome sum for the upkeep of the infant. I did offer her a sovereign, hoping to persuade her but she did take it and say it would suffice for the journey.

I was pleading with her, kneeling to her, as my wife did enter the chamber. She saw me, my face buried in Jennet’s lap as in our days of lust. She said she would speak to Jennet privily. I left them, praying that Elizabeth would move Jennet to reason.

When I returned to the chamber a good half hour later, a piteous sight did meet my eyes. I tremble now to recall. My wife stood, the babe in her arms. On the floor amid the rushes, Jennet lay, face downward. The leather belt which I had left upon the bed was fastened tight around her slender neck. I did lift Jennet in the hope that the spirit had not left her. But her face was blue and her tongue did protrude and her eyes did stare … oh, I tremble to recall it … her lovely face destroyed and showing all the corruption of our sin. My wife did not cry. I said to
her ‘What have you done?’ She did say nought but sang softly to the child and rocked him in her arms.

I waited till the household was abed then I did bury Jennet in the cellar. I did throw the ring I gave her into the grave and some sweet herbs in memory of the pleasure we had shared. I read the prayers over her and begged the Lord to take her soul to Him. I could not have paid a higher price for my sin.

Wesley put the book down. The policeman in him realised he had just read an account of a murder, a statement of the despair and pain of a man and woman who lived four hundred years ago. No wonder the Banizeds kept the journal secret for so many years. Bill Boscople couldn’t possibly have known its contents – and would he have been so willing to give it away if he had?