The Plague Maiden (15 page)

Wesley thought for a moment. ‘I’ve never actually excavated a plague pit but I’ve read site reports and seen pictures of them
and they do look remarkably similar to the one in Pest Field. The dead at that time would normally have been buried individually
in the churchyard, so if a large number were buried hurriedly in a pit, that means that something overwhelming must have happened
to cause the usual burial customs to be abandoned. Probably a battle or some catastrophic outbreak of disease.’

‘Well, from examining the bones I think I can safely rule out the first option. Also the plague would explain the name Pest
Field. Probably derives from pestilence … plague.
That fits, I suppose.
Yersinia pestis
… the bubonic plague, commonly known as the Black Death because of the characteristic dark blotches and bruises on the victim’s
flesh. It spread rapidly, you know … carried by rat fleas.’

They had reached a pair of plastic swing-doors. Colin went ahead and pushed them open. They stepped into a white room, furnished
with stainless steel. In the centre lay a trolley, a white sheet covering a hard, uneven shape, giving the appearance of a
hilly model snowscape. Wesley looked at it uncertainly, wondering whose remains lay beneath: the unknown medieval man’s …
or Helen Wilmer’s.

Colin whipped the sheet off with a dramatic flourish and it fell to the floor in a crumpled heap. ‘Our friend from the pit.
I asked them to bring him here so that I could have a closer look. Nasty head wound. Even if all his companions had died of
the plague that was almost certainly the cause of his death. He was found sprawled out untidily, whereas someone had made
a bit of an effort to lay the other bodies out in a vaguely east–west orientation. He was also lying slightly above the others,
as though they’d been buried and while the earth was still soft someone opened the grave again and tipped him in on top …
good way to dispose of your victim.’

Wesley stared down at the battered skull, the grinning teeth and the cavernous eye sockets.

‘It’s a young man, early to mid twenties. Five feet eight inches tall, slightly built. No obvious sign of disease. He had
good teeth … not much sign of wear which, according to the archaeologists, might indicate that he wasn’t a member of the peasant
classes who survived on gritty bread. That’s one theory, anyway. Apparently a richly decorated dagger was found next to him,
which would seem to fit with him being a member of the higher social classes.’

‘So what do you think caused the head wound? A sword or … ’

‘I’d say the proverbial blunt instrument … something
large and heavy. He wouldn’t have stood a chance. And I think he was attacked from behind.’

‘And he’s definitely medieval?’

‘I’d say almost definitely … and the archaeologists agree.’

‘Not my problem, then.’ Wesley felt relieved: he had enough on his plate. He turned his back on the grinning skull. ‘What
about the other skeleton?’

Colin covered up the bones and made his way through another swing-door into an adjoining room. This room was lined with steel
drawers, like a giant filing cabinet. Colin pulled one of the drawers out to reveal another white sheet covering another set
of bones. Only this one
was
Wesley’s problem.

‘I did my examination earlier this afternoon and you’ll be getting my report in due course.’

‘And?’

Colin drew the sheet back, gently this time. This skeleton was smaller, more delicate than the other. There was still hair
attached to the skull and somehow Wesley found this disturbing, as though it made her more real.

‘I think my first supposition was correct – she was strangled. Then something pretty violent happened to cause her post-mortem
injuries … perhaps she was thrown about … or possibly run over by a car.’ He thought for a moment. ‘Yes. The injuries are
more consistent with the car theory.’

‘Would there have been a lot of blood?’

‘Not if she was already dead when the injuries happened. But if they occurred before or at the time of death – if, say, he
ran her over before strangling her – then he might have had blood on his clothes. In which case, you’d think someone would
have noticed.’

Wesley had been staring at the bones but he looked up. ‘You underestimate the loyalty of some people. Some wives and mothers
wouldn’t give their loved ones up to the police whatever they’d done.’

‘Don’t know that my wife would be that understanding,’ Colin muttered.

‘Nor mine.’ This reminder of Pam made him look at his watch.

Colin sighed. ‘Well, samples have been taken for forensic analysis and I’ve done a rough dental chart. All the remnants of
clothing have been bagged up for the lab, including the belt she was wearing.’

‘What about shoes?’

Colin frowned, as though annoyed with himself for not noticing the obvious. ‘Do you know, Wesley, it doesn’t seem she was
wearing any.’

‘Interesting. It indicates that she might have died somewhere else and her body was brought to Pest Field for burial.’

‘It’s possible. Any idea who she is yet?’

‘Nothing definite, but a twenty-one-year-old Belsham girl disappeared in 1991. Name
of Helen Wilmer.’

‘Well, at least that gives you a starting point.’ Colin hesitated. ‘I’ve been wondering if your murderer knew the history
of the field. It seems like a tremendous coincidence that he should choose that particular field to bury her in … after all,
Devon’s hardly short of fields, is it?’

Wesley nodded. He had had the same thought himself.

Colin covered up the bones and walked over to a steel filing cabinet in the corner of the room. He opened the top drawer and
took out three plastic bags containing objects that Wesley couldn’t quite see. ‘These were found on the body.’

He handed the bags to Wesley, who held them up for examination. One bag contained a small heart, a locket; silver, probably,
although its time in the earth had turned it black as iron. Another contained a small watch with a rotting leather strap;
the face was discoloured but Wesley could just make out the small Roman numerals on the dial.

Colin pointed to the third bag. ‘This wasn’t found on the body but just above it, buried in the same hole. It’s a silver
St Christopher … looks like a man’s to me, but I could be wrong.’

Wesley peered at it. ‘It’s possible the killer may have lost it when he was burying her … it’s the best clue we’ve got so
far. Thanks. Mind if I take these with me? They might come in handy for identification.’

‘Sure, help yourself. I was going to have them sent over anyway.’

‘How soon can I have your report?’

Colin smiled. ‘Tomorrow okay?’

Wesley hurried from the mortuary. It was getting dark and Pam would be waiting for him, trying to entertain a tired toddler
and wondering what time her husband would put in an appearance. But somehow he didn’t feel like going home just yet.

Wesley called in at the station to drop off his three new items of evidence. Rachel was there alone in the CID office – avoiding
going home … just as he was. She looked up as he entered the office, her eyes welcoming and hopeful. But Wesley just greeted
her with a friendly hello and made no attempt to strike up a conversation.

He sat down at his desk without taking off his coat, as he knew he shouldn’t be staying, and took the plastic bags from his
pocket. When he looked at the necklace and the watch, he suddenly felt sad. These little things, these personal things that
the dead girl had chosen or had been given as a present by those who loved her, brought home to him the enormity of what had
happened to her. A young girl’s life had been cut short. Death had triumphed over hope. And the St Christopher … had that
belonged to Helen, or her killer? Or had someone lost it in the field, in which case it had nothing to do with the case at
all?

He sat gazing at the things for a few moments before placing them carefully in his drawer. He couldn’t put off the journey
home any longer. He stood up and looked at Rachel, whose attention seemed to be focused on her
computer screen, and when he said goodnight she looked up and gave a shy half-smile. Wesley hesitated for a second before
walking out.

The evening air was cold as he headed for home up the steep, narrow streets that led away from the old part of the town by
the waterfront, up towards the newer properties that had been built over green fields in recent decades. Wesley’s was one
of these houses; a modern detached in a cul-de-sac full of similar dwellings. He and Pam had hankered after something with
more character – but these days character came at a price they couldn’t afford.

As he climbed he could feel the strain on his thighs and his heart rate increasing: this was his daily exercise. But today
every step was an effort and he found himself longing for a warm, comfortable car.

When he reached the house he put his key in the door but hesitated for a second before turning it, gathering his thoughts.
Pam would be tired and it would be up to him to get his own meal, bathe Michael and put him to bed. Normally he didn’t mind
a spot of father–son bonding, but tonight he felt drained and exhausted and he imagined that Pam would be in no position to
offer tea and sympathy.

But as he opened the front door he heard the sound of voices drifting across the hall from the living room. Pam had a visitor.
A male visitor. Wesley took off his coat and hung it up before pushing the living-room door open.

‘Wondered what time you’d be back.’ Neil Watson was sitting stiffly in the armchair Wesley usually occupied. His face was
still bruised and discoloured and his voice was weak, as though every breath were an effort. He looked as though he shouldn’t
have been allowed out of hospital.

‘What are you doing here?’ Wesley knew it wasn’t the most original of questions but it was the only one he could think of
on the spur of the moment.

‘Your wife is an angel of mercy. They discharged me from hospital and she said I could stay here for a while.’

‘The alternative was going back to his flat on his own. I
don’t know how they expected him to cope.’ Pam sounded indignant.

‘So why did they discharge you?’

‘They said I was well enough and they needed the bed, simple as that.’ Neil looked at him
pathetically. ‘Hope it’s okay … Pam said … ’

‘Yeah, yeah. ’Course it’s okay.’ Wesley felt he could hardly say otherwise. He wasn’t the sort of man who could turn away
an injured friend … his sister had always said he was too soft, which probably wasn’t a good trait in a policeman.

‘I’ve made up the spare bed.’

‘I won’t be any trouble,’ said Neil weakly. Wesley didn’t believe a word of it. Neil had always been trouble to someone.

Wesley looked at his wife, noting the dark rings beneath her eyes. ‘Are you all right?’

‘Yes. Of course I’m all right.’

‘You married a wonderful woman,’ Neil observed.

‘I know,’ Wesley replied automatically, feeling a pang of guilt as he wondered whether Rachel was still keeping her lonely
vigil in the office.

June Seward pushed her trolley down the cereals aisle of Huntings supermarket at nine o’clock. The place was busy, but then
it always was in the evenings when people with lives similar to June’s own grabbed themselves a spare hour to do the weekly
shop.

June was a mother of two pre-school children working full time as an administration assistant in Morbay Council’s planning
office, and each Friday evening her husband, Bob, baby-sat while she took the car to Huntings to forage for essential provisions.
Bob himself couldn’t be allowed to tackle the job, of course, as June knew that he’d be away from the house for three hours
and would return home with a car boot full of chocolate biscuits, beer cans and crisps. If you wanted a job doing properly,
sometimes you had no choice but to do it yourself.

June’s shopping didn’t take long because over the years
she had developed a system. When she reached an aisle she left her trolley in a central spot and scuttled to and fro between
the shelves, consulting her neatly written and comprehensive list. Not many chocolate biscuits made it into her trolley. June
favoured healthy eating.

When she reached the chiller cabinets she observed that there was nobody near the speciality cheeses so she parked the trolley
there and made for the far end of the aisle. As she hurried back to the trolley with an armful of organic fruit yogurts she
noticed something out of place among her neatly organised pile of shopping.

What looked like a folded sheet of white paper had been placed in her trolley on top of a packet of wholemeal bread rolls.
June leaned over and picked it up, thinking that someone had dropped their shopping list into her trolley by mistake.

She turned it over and saw that it was an envelope addressed to the manager and marked urgent. The address had been printed
neatly by hand but there was nothing out of the ordinary about the envelope’s appearance. June placed it in the metal child
seat next to her eggs and, when her shopping was done, she handed it to the woman on her checkout, explaining that she had
found it in her trolley.

The woman on the checkout rang the bell under her till three times before she began to deal with June’s shopping. June was
just beginning to pack her bread carefully into a carrier bag when a middle-aged man wearing a smart suit appeared as if from
nowhere. The checkout woman handed him the letter and he tore it open in panic as June watched, surprised by his melodramatic
reaction. She saw the colour drain from his face before he barked the order that the fire alarm should be sounded and the
store evacuated immediately.

June went home that evening without her shopping.

There, I’ve said it … got it off my chest … confessed – I don’t really know what to call it. A public announcement, I suppose
… and you don’t get more public than a pulpit, even in these days of dwindling church attendances
.

Somehow I feel better now my involvement in the trial is out in the open and people know what I really am. If there is to
be forgiveness, there must first be honesty … a frank acknowledgement of one’s wrong-doings
.

I think that, on the whole, my congregation took it very well, except for a couple of people who walked out of the church
afterwards ignoring my outstretched hand and looking at me as though I’d disappointed them … as though they’d thought me one
thing and I’d turned out to be something else, something far inferior
.

And yet perhaps they were just being honest. Perhaps the rest of them were thinking what they were thinking but hiding behind
the mask of British good manners. People do not expect their vicar to be a sinner. They expect him to preach about God, not
to attempt to emulate Him
.

From a diary found among the Reverend John Shipborne’s personal effects

‘They evacuated the store last night and it’s being kept closed this morning while they do another thorough search. Sturgeon
said he doesn’t want to take any more chances.’

Wesley nodded solemnly.

‘The shelves are being searched now.’

‘So what did the note say exactly?’

Heffernan picked up the notebook on his desk and read. ‘“You’ve already seen what I can do. Make enquiries about the death
of a Mrs Edith Sommerby in Morbay Hospital if you have any doubts. Today six extra items of stock were placed on your shelves.
That means there could be six people dead, or even more. The items haven’t been sold yet but it’s only a matter of time, and
the only sure way to prevent any more deaths is to close the store at once. And keep it closed. Or will you put profit above
people as your sort usually do? I’ll be in touch.”’ He looked at Wesley. ‘It was the same as the other note … letters cut
out of the local newspaper.’

‘How unoriginal.’ Wesley flopped down in the chair by Heffernan’s desk. ‘I think this confirms that our friend is pursuing
some kind of vendetta against Huntings.’

‘Mmm. I still think past employees with a grudge are our best bet.’

Wesley thought for a moment. ‘Or present employees. Whoever sent that letter knows exactly what’s going on in that supermarket
… even down to whether a certain item’s been sold or not. And there’s quite an anti-capitalist sentiment there too … putting
profit above people.’

‘I think all the staff should be interviewed, don’t you?’

‘I’ll get onto it right away. I’d like to talk to Keith Sturgeon again. He might have some ideas. And don’t forget we’re supposed
to be seeing Aaron Hunting this morning. I don’t know what we’re going to say to him … I suppose it’ll just be a matter of
making reassuring noises. Let’s face it, we haven’t got very far.’

‘Don’t be such a pessimist, Wes. We smile nicely and
tell him we’re doing everything we can. Leave it to me. He’ll be putty in my hands, you’ll see.’

Wesley looked at his boss, at his tousled hair and the slightly fraying shirt cuffs protruding from the arms of his well-worn
jacket, and felt sceptical about his last statement.

It took the best part of an hour to organise a team of officers to visit Huntings and interview all the staff. Wesley told
Paul Johnson to keep going through the files on employees, past and present. He was certain that the name of the poisoner
would be found somewhere in Huntings’ personnel records. It was just a matter of sifting through the information, of finding
the proverbial needle in the haystack. Police work at its most boring.

But at least they could tell Aaron Hunting truthfully that something was being done, Wesley thought as he and Gerry Heffernan
walked through the damp, narrow streets. It was difficult to see Hunting’s house from the road. There was a rough stone wall
low enough to allow the passer-by a breathtaking view of the river beyond, but it wasn’t until they looked downwards that
they spotted the roof of Hunting Moon House, an expanse of slate clinging to the river bank. There was an entryphone by the
discreet gate and Heffernan, never at home with technology, allowed Wesley to press the relevant button to announce their
arrival. There was a buzzing sound as the gate was unlocked electronically. Wesley pushed it and it opened.

‘I only live down the road and I’d no idea all this was here.’ Gerry Heffernan looked about him in wonder as they walked through
a neatly manicured terraced garden. The path was gravel, as immaculate as in a miniature Zen garden, and there was a rockery
on either side. Even in the autumn there was a subtle, well-planned display of colour, probably the work of a professional
gardener: somehow he couldn’t imagine Aaron Hunting getting his own hands dirty.

‘Nice,’ was Wesley’s only comment. At last they had reached the front door, a grand affair in oak. Only a small
section of the house itself was visible from here. The rest, like the garden, was on different levels, built into the bank
of the River Trad with its own private boathouse beneath. Wesley, who kept a weather eye on the local housing market, guessed
that Hunting Moon House was one of the most desirable properties in the area. Worth a million, at least … possibly much more.

The great oak door opened to reveal a middle-aged man with steel-grey hair. He was just below average height, around five
feet six, but his almost military bearing made him appear taller. After the policemen had introduced themselves, Aaron Hunting
looked them up and down with intense blue eyes, as though assessing their suitability for the task. After a few seconds he
addressed Wesley, ignoring his boss.

‘Thank you for coming, Inspector. I’m sorry for turning your colleagues away yesterday, but I did want the matter dealt with
by someone more senior.’ He stood aside politely to let them into the large, airy entrance hall.

‘I assure you, Mr Hunting, we’re taking the threats to your supermarket very seriously indeed. I suppose you’ve been told
about the latest letter?’

‘Of course. But I want to know what the police are doing to catch this lunatic.’

‘We’re doing everything we can, sir. We’re examining lists of your staff, past and present – trying to trace anyone who might
have a grudge against the company. And we’re interviewing all your employees and examining the footage from your security
cameras for the relevant times.’

Hunting, satisfied that Wesley was talking sense, led them through into the main living room. The view of the river through
the huge windows was breathtaking, and Wesley noticed that Gerry Heffernan’s eyes had been drawn to the boats gliding up and
down beyond the glass.

But after a few moments Heffernan turned to face Hunting. ‘Can you think of anyone who might want to get at your company?’
he asked bluntly. Appearances had been
deceptive: he hadn’t been distracted by the scenery after all. ‘What strikes me is that our letter writer doesn’t seem interested
in blackmail … he hasn’t asked for money. He just wants to get at Huntings … to close you down. Can you think of anyone who
might fit the bill?’

Hunting shook his head. ‘Not all successful businessmen get to the top by treading on other people, you know. I like to think
I’ve treated my staff and customers pretty fairly.’

Heffernan was about to open his mouth to answer but Wesley got in first. ‘I’m sure you have, Mr Hunting. But anybody in your
position can have enemies. Envy itself can be a powerful emotion.’

Hunting sat down and signalled the policemen to do likewise. He smiled sadly. ‘I suppose you’re right.’

‘So can you think of anyone who could be jealous of your success … or bear a grudge against you for any reason?’

It could have been Wesley’s imagination but for a split second Hunting looked uneasy before he shook his head vehemently.
‘Nobody at all. Can I offer you tea?’ He looked from one to the other hopefully, as though anxious to keep them there. Perhaps,
Wesley thought, he knew exactly who was after him and was glad of some temporary police protection.

Hunting pressed a bell-push by the great stone fireplace: Wesley had associated such arrangements with grand houses of past
centuries and he was surprised when a maid, dressed in demure black and white, appeared in answer to the call. She was a small,
dainty woman, not young, not old, of oriental appearance, Filipina perhaps. Hunting gave his orders and she scurried out,
as unobtrusive as a mouse.

‘I wonder if your wife is aware of any animosity against your company, Mr Hunting,’ said Wesley tentatively when the maid
had gone. He didn’t even know whether Hunting was married but it was worth a try. Maybe Mrs Hunting, if she existed, had a
vindictive lover. Or maybe he was being over-imaginative again.

‘My wife isn’t well, Inspector. She rarely goes out these days.’ Hunting’s face was a neutral mask.

‘I’m sorry to hear that.’ Wesley regretted bringing the subject up.

When the tea arrived, he quickly steered the conversation back to the subject of the threats. Hunting seemed genuinely shocked
at the news of Edith Sommerby’s death. And he remembered the case of Fred Sommerby – he had been a violent, unpleasant man
and his manager had had no choice but to sack him. It was quite possible, he thought, that a man like Sommerby might still
bear a grudge against the company.

This idea had occurred to Wesley as well. What if Sommerby had used this ruse to kill two birds with one stone – to get rid
of his wife and to revenge himself on Huntings? In which case there need have been no poisoned goods planted on the shelves
at all – Sommerby could have poisoned the jam in his wife’s bag at his leisure. But then would Sommerby have possessed the
necessary skill to create the bacteria? It was something he’d have to find out.

As they talked, Hunting refused stubbornly to live up to Wesley’s preconceptions. He had assumed that the founder of Huntings
supermarket chain would be a hard-nosed businessman, a ruthless entrepreneur. But Wesley was struggling to see him as the
spiritual heir to Dickens’s wicked Victorian factory owners, who sent ragged children to an early grave and lived in luxury
while their workers starved in squalor; in fact, by the time he was leaving Wesley was beginning to like the man, against
his instinctive prejudices. However, he told himself that it took a certain ruthlessness to get ahead in business: the amiability
could be an act, a ploy to get what he wanted … whatever that was.

But it seemed that Gerry had struck up some rapport with Hunting, especially when the subject of sailing came up. As the two
men began to discuss the merits of various types of radar and global positioning systems, Wesley asked for
directions to the lavatory and excused himself. But it wasn’t the demands of his bladder which were making him restless; he
found himself wanting to see more of the house, perhaps to pick up some clue about the invalid Mrs Hunting. Her absence intrigued
him, but he didn’t know why.

He ignored the directions to the downstairs cloakroom and made for the wide staircase. It was solid polished wood, a thing
of beauty, but at that moment Wesley wished it had been thickly carpeted to mask the sound of his footsteps. He walked up
on tiptoe, ready with the excuse that he was lost if anybody appeared to challenge him.

He strode along a wide landing. On his right a row of large windows looked out onto the river, letting dappled light flood
in, and the doors leading off the landing to his left were heavy oak in the Arts and Crafts style. As in the small portion
of the house he had already seen, everything here was elegantly simple and much to Wesley’s own taste.

When he was halfway down the landing he stopped suddenly, stood quite still and listened. The sound was there, soft but unmistakable.
Somebody in one of the rooms was crying, sobbing their heart out.

Wesley listened for a few seconds and then turned back.

Neil Watson sat stiffly in the passenger seat of Pam’s VW Golf, wearing the stoical expression of the brave invalid.

When they stopped at a set of traffic lights on the outskirts of Neston, Pam turned towards him. ‘Are you okay?’

‘I’ll live,’ he replied in a martyred voice, enjoying the attention. He hadn’t been so well looked after since he’d lived
at home with his mother … and that seemed like a long time ago.

‘Are you sure you’re up to this? Surely Matt can cope …’

‘I only want to see how far they’ve got. I don’t intend to do any digging.’

‘I’m glad to hear it.’ She knew Neil of old and she wouldn’t have been surprised if he had hobbled from the car and grabbed
a spade. ‘You’ll have to take it easy, you know.’

‘Do you know, Pam, motherhood suits you.’

She didn’t consider the remark worthy of a reply. ‘Where did you say this place was?’

‘Just follow the signs to Morbay and Belsham’s about a mile down the main road. You can’t miss it.’

Pam had never connected the words ‘urban sprawl’ with the small town of Neston, but as drove she noticed that small factories,
stores and housing estates had sprung up like grey fungi on either side of the road. Belsham, once a separate settlement on
the road to Morbay, was becoming joined to Neston by an umbilical cord of brick and concrete. It was still a village, but
only just.

It was also the perfect place to build a new Huntings supermarket to serve Neston’s hungry population: just out of town and
with plenty of parking.

Neil had been right; you couldn’t miss Belsham with its older houses and cottages, its church and its pub. Neil told Pam to
park by the church and she pulled in. ‘So what exactly do you think you’ll be able to do here?’ she asked as she helped Neil
from the car.

‘I want to find out what made this place tick at the time of the Black Death.’

‘So you’re sure it’s a plague pit you’re digging up?’