The Plague Maiden (17 page)

‘And it was DCI Norbert who told you not to follow it up?’

‘He reckoned we had a watertight case. He probably didn’t want to waste time.’

Wesley wasn’t convinced. His mind was already working overtime, considering other possibilities.

‘Do you remember Hobson saying he was with a woman at the time of the murder?’

Sam snorted. ‘Oh yes. He came up with that one just as we were about to charge him. Said she was somewhere in America but
he had no idea where. Very convenient.’

‘So Norbert ignored it?’

‘As stories go it was a bit thin. Can’t say I believed it myself.’

‘She turned up the other day. She’s the new witness I mentioned.’

Stan stared at him for a moment, lost for words.

‘Were there any other suspects for the Reverend Shipborne’s murder before the stolen goods turned up?’

Stan Jenkins shook his head and poured himself another
drink. ‘We always worked on the theory that he disturbed a burglar. There was no evidence that it was any more complicated
than that. The French windows to the study where he was found had been forced open and the cleaner said that some valuable
silver had been taken, so it was just a question of waiting for someone to try and dispose of it.’

‘Was the cleaner ever suspected?’

‘No. She’d gone home just before seven after cooking his evening meal but she found she’d left her purse in the kitchen so
she went back to the vicarage at ten to get it. That’s when she found him. She was never a suspect.’

‘So you think it was a simple case of a burglary gone wrong?’

‘Well, I presume you’ve read the files.’

Wesley sensed that Stan was on the defensive. ‘Or perhaps that was what someone wanted us to think.’

‘You’ll have to excuse Wesley, Stan. He’s a graduate … always looking for the hidden meaning.’ Heffernan gave a loud belch.
‘Pardon me.’ He turned to Wesley. ‘Go on, Wes, tell us your brilliant conspiracy theory. The Reverend Shipborne was really
an enemy spy and he was eliminated by a CIA agent who later planted the knocked-off silver on a petty villain. Give us a break,
Wes. Too much education can be a dangerous thing.’

When Heffernan began to laugh and Stan Jenkins joined in, Wesley took a sip of his tonic water, feeling that he was being
ganged up on.

When the laughter stopped Stan leaned over to Wesley and tapped him on the knee. ‘If you’re absolutely determined to think
there’s more to Shipborne’s murder than meets the eye, then there was one name you might be interested in. The Reverend Shipborne
was a great friend of an old villain called Barry Castello.’

‘Was he?’ Heffernan sounded surprised.

‘They were bosom buddies. It seems that Castello claimed to have seen the error of his ways and he bought a farm up on Dartmoor
… turned it into a sort of unofficial
rehabilitation place for kids who’d just come out of young offenders’ institutions. He has them working on the farm, making
themselves useful for a change. Shipborne was a great supporter of the scheme.’

‘So what was Castello inside for?’

Heffernan and Stan looked at each other.

‘His favourite pastime was armed robbery,’ said Stan. ‘Banks and post offices mainly. Used to like to get his victims so scared
that they’d wet themselves … gave him a feeling of power. Not a nice man.’

‘So how come Shipborne was so friendly with him?’

‘Repentant sinner, wasn’t he?’ said Heffernan. And you know how much vicars like those. Castello was a great advert for the
church.’

‘You think it was all an act?’

‘Who can say? I’m a churchgoing man myself and I don’t doubt these things can happen … that’s between Castello and his Maker.
And I must say that from the time he announced his conversion to the press he never pointed another sawn-off shotgun at anyone
ever again.’

‘Or if he did, we never caught him at it,’ said Stan, the cynic.

‘He announced his conversion to the press?’ Wesley sounded surprised.

‘Oh yes. It seems that Shipborne visited him in prison … he was some sort of chaplain at the time … and when Castello told
him he’d seen the light, Shipborne made sure the media got to hear of it. It was then that they started appealing for funds
to set up Damascus Farm.’

‘The place for young offenders?’

‘That’s right. It was set up as a charity.’

‘And does it actually work?’ Wesley asked, interested.

‘Castello says so,’ said Heffernan. ‘He claims his lads have a remarkably low reoffending rate.’

‘Was this Castello ever in the frame for Shipborne’s murder?’

‘Not seriously,’ said Stan. ‘But I’ve always believed that
leopards can’t really change their spots … they might manage a cosmetic job for a few years but nobody changes that much permanently.
However, having said that we checked him out and it seemed he had an alibi. He was up at the farm at the time with his merry
band of bad lads as witnesses. And it wasn’t really his MO.’

‘Unless he and Shipborne had fallen out …’

‘Who knows? But there was no hint of it. Castello claimed to be devastated when
he heard about the murder. However, Damascus Farm did very nicely out of Shipborne’s will.’

Wesley said nothing more but stored the information in his mind – another possible lead to be followed up when they had the
time.

To Wesley’s relief Heffernan declined a second can of Boddingtons but Stan, anxious for the company, continued to make extravagant
offers of food and drink which it took a great deal of will-power to decline.

As they were leaving Wesley turned to Stan. ‘Did you have any doubts at the time about DCI Norbert’s handling of the Shipborne
case?’

He saw Stan glance at Gerry awkwardly. ‘Hindsight’s a wonderful thing, Wesley, as I’m sure you know. And I’m not going to
say anything against Geoff Norbert … not when he’s not here to defend himself.’

As they walked down the garden path past Stan’s green creations, Wesley knew that Stan had told them all they needed to know.
Norbert had cut corners. The only thing he didn’t know yet was whether it was through incompetence, over-enthusiasm … or for
some other reason.

Wesley and Heffernan climbed into the car and drove back to Tradmouth in silence.

As he put the key Pam had just obtained from Mrs O’Donovan in the church door, Neil felt in his pocket with his other hand.
He had remembered to bring a torch this time.

‘Do you want me to do that?’ Pam asked when she saw him struggling with the stiff lock. The trouble with broken ribs was that
the most commonplace of movements produced fierce stabs of pain when they were least expected. Neil stood to one side and
let Pam take over.

When the door creaked open Pam stepped inside the church first. Neil shut the door behind them, experiencing an agonising
twinge of pain as he pushed it shut.

Pam walked slowly up the aisle, conscious that her advanced pregnancy had given her a waddling gait. Feeling heavy and tired,
she sank down onto one of the front pews.

‘I’m going to have a look in the bell-tower. Fancy joining me?’

‘Are you sure it’s safe?’

‘Oh yes.’ He sounded confident.

Pam sighed and stood up stiffly, putting a supporting hand in the small of her aching back.

They walked back down the aisle, both hobbling slowly like a pair of invalids. Neil gave Pam the key to the tower and she
unlocked the door.

‘It’s not very clean in there,’ he warned before she opened the door.

‘I can cope.’ She stepped inside first and the smell of dust, decay and pigeon droppings hit her nostrils. ‘I see what you
mean.’

He handed her the torch. She stood in the doorway, flicked it on and shone the beam around the room. ‘Perfect if you were
filming a remake of
Dracula
. You bring a girl to the most romantic places, Neil Watson. Are you absolutely sure it’s not dangerous?’

Neil didn’t answer. Something had caught his attention. He took the torch off her and began to wander around the room, avoiding
the bell ropes that dangled down like hangman’s nooses. The beam of light hit the west wall. Beneath a small, high window,
opaque with years of grime, was what had looked in the flickering light of a burning match like a pattern of bird droppings.
But now, with a
proper light, Neil could see it for what it was – a wall painting … an extremely old one. He could just make out six faint
figures, flaking and faded with the centuries. There were three healthy-looking individuals dressed in rich robes on one side
… and on the other stood three gruesome, bony figures, crawling with worms and topped by grinning skulls. Skeletons representing
death. Neil stood quite still and stared at the image.

‘What is it?’ Pam whispered. She hardly liked to raise her voice in such a place.

But Neil was absorbed in his own thoughts. ‘I can’t believe William Verlan didn’t mention this,’ he muttered.

Pam repeated her question and this time Neil looked round. ‘I think it’s a depiction of the Three Living and the Three Dead.
It was a popular story around the time of the Black Death in the fourteenth century. Three handsome young kings meet three
corpses who tell them “such as thou art, so once was I. As I am now, so thou wilt be.” It means all the money and power and
good looks in the world can’t save you from death.’

‘A sobering thought.’ Pam tilted her head to one side and looked at the wall painting. It was crudely executed, hardly the
work of a talented artist … but it still had the power to disturb. ‘Do you think it’s got something to do with your burials?
Possible plague pit … a story from the time of the Black Death?’

‘I’d put money on it if I had any,’ Neil replied. ‘If this is the genuine article it should be properly conserved … it’s an
important find.’ He swung the torch beam around the tower and brought it to rest on the wall above the tombs. Letters had
been gouged into the stone, crude work, more like graffiti than stone carving. The letters were uneven, hardly legible. Neil
suspected vandals until he stepped closer and began to decipher the words. He had yet to come across a vandal who wrote in
Latin.

‘What does it say?’ Pam asked quietly.

‘It’s not easy to read.’ He squinted at the letters and
translated the clearest section slowly. ‘I think it’s … “the miserable … dregs of the people … survive”.’ He shook his head.
The rest is just scrawled … can’t make it out.’

‘If we had a big sheet of paper we could take a rubbing and you could study it at your leisure.’ Pam was a primary school-teacher,
always ready with a practical solution to any problem.

Neil nodded. It was a good idea and he wished he’d thought of it. But this writing on the wall wasn’t going to disappear …
he had plenty of time to make sure it was properly recorded and deciphered.

‘What about the tombs?’

‘Wes and I had a quick look at those before. They’re fourteenth-century … family called Munnery … or de Munerie. There are
some later memorials to the Munnery family in the main church … presumably the descendants of this lot.’

He shone his torch on the first of the three tombs, on the battered alabaster figure lying on the top as though asleep. The
beam shifted to the next, a woman in a wimple with her hands pressed together in pious prayer. ‘That’s Eleanor, wife of Urien
de Munerie.’ The light came to rest on the third figure, a noseless knight in armour, his head resting on what looked like
a helmet. ‘And that’s Urien. It says round the side that he had a son called Robert.’ Neil bent down stiffly to read the inscription.
‘Pray for the soul of his son Robert, be he alive or dead.’

‘What does that mean?’

‘Presumably he went missing.’

‘So do you think this lot died of the plague?’

Neil began to read the rest of the lettering carved around the edge of Urien’s tomb. Pam bent down and ran her fingers over
it in the torchlight. ‘Is this a date here?’ She pointed to what looked like Roman numerals.

‘Looks like 1357. If the plague came in 1348, it looks as if old Urien survived it. What about the others?’

‘Can’t see any dates. I wish they had some proper lights in here.’

‘When we come back we can bring something better.’

‘We’re coming back?’ Pam sounded surprised.

‘Well, I am. And I’ll need someone to hold my hand, won’t I?’ He smiled at her hopefully. She felt her child kick within her
and turned away.

‘Why don’t we go into Neston and pick up some tracing paper and pencils so we can make a rubbing of the graffiti?’

Pam sighed. ‘Okay … but can we go now?’

Neil looked disappointed but began to hobble into the nave. Pam followed, turning to lock the door of the tower behind her.
Its secrets could wait until another day. They walked out of the church in silence, and it wasn’t until they were on their
way back to the car that Neil spoke again.

‘I heard the other day that a woman should marry an archaeologist because the more she turns into a ruin, the more fascinating
he’ll find her.’

Pam began to laugh. ‘Pity Wesley gave it all up and joined the police force, then.’

‘You don’t like him being a policeman, do you?’

Pam stopped. ‘I didn’t have much say in the matter. It’s what he wanted to do.’

‘You’re not answering the question.’

She hesitated. ‘I get fed up with it sometimes. The long hours he puts in and …’

‘You don’t have to be a ruin for an archaeologist to fancy you, you know.’

She stopped and stared ahead of her, avoiding Neil’s eyes. ‘I think it’s best if we both forget you said that, don’t you?’
she said quietly after a few moments.

Neil’s face reddened and he said nothing. They got into the car and drove to Neston in silence.

Finding Helen Wilmer’s parents was an easy task. They still lived in the same small bungalow on the outskirts of Belsham.
They had stayed there, hoping all the time that they would hear Helen’s key in the front door … that she
would have a change of heart and return to them. After a few years of painful waiting, Stephen Wilmer had suggested that it
was time to move house and make a fresh start. But his wife had been reluctant … what would Helen do, she said, if she came
home and found strangers in the house? So they had stayed, growing old and waiting for the day when their Helen, their only
child, would come back to them. Hope was the only thing they had left.