The Plague Maiden (27 page)

‘He said he didn’t see any silver and I believed him.’

‘He might not have noticed it if he’d just been looking for ready cash.’

‘So who planted the silver in Hobson’s flat?’

‘I think we can both guess, can’t we? Norbert would have done anything to protect his son.’

Wesley glanced at his watch again but Heffernan seemed in no hurry to go home … with Sam and Rosie being back at university
up North, he had nobody to go home for. He scratched his backside. ‘Tell you what, Wes, we’ve just got time to pay Aaron Hunting
a visit and let him know we’ve found his poisoner. I’ll be interested to see if he recognises Loveday’s name.’

They spoke little on the journey to Hunting’s house: at least they had cleared up the supermarket poisonings now, although
Wesley still wanted to know what was really behind it … what had driven Loveday Wilkins to gamble with strangers’ lives. He
held on to a vague hope that Aaron Hunting might be able to throw some light on the matter … but he wasn’t going to hold his
breath.

The door of Hunting Moon House was opened almost as soon as they’d pressed the doorbell. Hunting had been waiting for them,
his face a picture of relief.

‘Come in, come in. Chief Superintendent Nutter called me to say that you’d made an arrest. Come through to the drawing room.
I’ll arrange for some tea. Is that all right?’

Wesley and Heffernan followed their host down the hallway. It was nice to be welcome for a change.

‘So who have you arrested?’ Hunting asked as they sat down.

Wesley’s eyes were drawn to the scene outside … to the grey waters of the river underneath a leaden sky. A navy patrol boat
glided silently past, separated from them by a sheet of glass. Heffernan stayed silent, so he cleared his throat and looked
at his host. ‘A young woman. We picked her up in a flat in Morbay … a squat.’ He didn’t mention Pat or Sunita’s connection.
As far as he was concerned it was irrelevant.

‘What’s her name?’

‘Loveday Wilkins. I’m afraid we haven’t been able to question her yet. It appears she has mental health problems and the doctor
says we’ve got to go easy for now.’

Wesley noticed that Aaron Hunting’s face had gone quite pale. He opened his mouth to speak and then closed it again.

‘I’m afraid we’ve no idea why she did it yet.’

‘But you’re sure it’s her? You’re sure you’ve got the right person?’ Hunting sounded anxious. Heffernan, sitting on the sofa
beside Wesley, gave him a nudge.

‘Have you ever heard the name Loveday Wilkins before? Is there any chance she could have a grudge against you for some reason?’

Hunting gave an almost imperceptible shake of the head and said nothing.

‘She didn’t actually work for Huntings but she did work for a contract cleaning agency who provided temporary cleaners at
your Morbay store in the early mornings. That’s how she knew so much about the layout of the store and managed to plant the
goods without being detected. Does the name ring any bells? She’s in her late twenties or early thirties, about five foot
five, with thin brown hair which she usually wears in plaits. She has scars on her wrists.’ He looked at Hunting enquiringly
but the man shook his head again.

‘I can’t help you. I’m sorry.’ There was something in Hunting’s tone which told Wesley that this was his last word on the
matter. Something in his eyes, however, suggested that he knew more than he was letting on.

‘I wonder if we could have a word with your wife, Mr Hunting? She might recognise this girl’s name. Is she at home?’ Wesley
said the words casually, watching Hunting’s face.

‘I’m afraid my wife’s not been well for some time and she’s not up to receiving visitors. Perhaps in a few days.’ He stood
up. ‘I’ll go and see where that tea is.’

Hunting disappeared through the door, leaving the two policemen gazing at the scene outside.

Amy Hunting sat in her bedroom at Hunting Moon House and stared at the wall. She spent a lot of time doing that. It seemed
to be the only thing left to her. That and the cold, clear comfort of a vodka bottle and whatever pill Dr Allen cared to prescribe
that month. There had been so many types of pill that she had lost track.

She ran her left hand over her mouth and felt the coarse skin beneath her fingers, remembering William Verlan … recalling the
time when she had still had her looks and had taken refuge in such temporary physical relationships to dull the pain. But
now every time she looked in the mirror she saw an old woman staring back: with lank greying hair and no make-up on her thin,
sallow face. She was fifty but she felt twenty years older.

Of all the men she’d taken to bed in those wild, desperate years, she remembered William Verlan particularly. He was American,
a university lecturer she met at some long-forgotten party; a quiet man with clean-cut hair and a taste for corduroy jackets
and neatly pressed jeans: so different from Aaron. He had spoken of history – medieval was his period – and she had listened
as he’d talked of other times, other worlds. She hadn’t heard much of what he’d said but she’d found his soft New England
accent hypnotic as she had stood, head slightly inclined in an attitude of rapt attention, clutching her glass of Chardonnay
tightly, as though afraid it would be snatched from her. Aaron had told her not to drink while she was taking the anti-depressants.

She had ended up in bed with William that night in the larger of the two bedrooms in his neat, sparsely furnished cottage
near the centre of Belsham. The sheets had been clean, changed that day: she remembered that detail but little else. She supposed
that sex had dulled the agony for a while … but not for long. She buried her face in her hands. If the nightmare began again
it would mean another spell in the clinic … more drugs to blot it all out. Sometimes she longed for the sterile safety of the
clinic … and sometimes she dreaded it.

The door opened and she looked up, her heart pounding. Aaron was standing there looking at her in the cold, pitying way he
always looked at her nowadays.

‘Have they gone?’ she whispered.

‘Not yet. I’ve offered them tea.’

‘I heard them talking. They said something about … ’

‘Don’t worry. The doctor won’t let her talk to them yet.’

‘Is she …?’

‘I don’t know. They won’t say much.’

‘You should tell them.’

Aaron Hunting shook his head.

‘You should tell them, Aaron … tell them who Loveday is. Why don’t you tell them?’

Aaron Hunting walked over to the chair and put his arm around his wife’s shoulders. ‘Now we don’t want them bothering you …
asking you questions, do we?’ He leaned across and put his face close to hers but she turned her head, avoiding the warmth
of his breath. ‘This is our business, Amy. It’s nothing to do with the police or anybody else. Is it?’

As he started to stroke her hair, Amy Hunting flinched. Then she began to sob.

Wesley got home just as Pam was putting Michael to bed. He offered to take over, to give Michael his bath, but Pam said he’d
be more use clearing up after Neil, who was sprawled across the sofa in the living room surrounded by
books and papers. There’s an old saying that fish and guests stink after three days, and Wesley could tell by the tone of
Pam’s voice that Neil had begun to over-stay his welcome. And besides, Pam said, Michael was running a temperature and the
last thing he wanted was the unfamiliar excitement of Daddy in the bathroom. Her words hit Wesley like a hammer. Had he become
such an unfamiliar figure to his own son? Still smarting, he made his way downstairs.

The scene in the living room reminded Wesley of his student days. Neil was sprawled with his feet up on the sofa. All around
him books and papers were scattered. Dirty cups and plates stood on the floor and coffee table: Neil hadn’t bothered to use
mats and a couple of ominous rings were forming on the wood. Neil looked up as he entered the room and greeted him with a
lazy ‘Hi’.

‘Just like old times,’ Wesley said pointedly. ‘Haven’t you thought of clearing this lot up?’

Neil smirked. ‘Don’t be so suburban, Wes. Relax.’

‘It’s okay for you but me and Pam have got to clean up after you.’

‘You sound like my mum. Have a beer. And before you ask, I’m feeling a lot better. Definitely on the mend. I went to the hospital
today and they said I could drive again if I was feeling up to it.’

‘So where did all this lot come from?’ Wesley surveyed the mess of books and photocopies with a sinking heart.

‘Libraries, archives. I hear they’ve got something about Belsham at the time of the Black Death at Morbay University, so I’m
planning to go over there and have a look.’

Wesley turned away, trying to hide his irritation. He and Neil had shared a flat together at university. It was only then
that it struck him how much he had changed since those days while Neil had stayed the same. He walked out of the room and
into the kitchen, where he found his dinner in the microwave … a pointed reminder from Pam of his late return.

He was about to turn the machine on when Pam came in.
She ignored him and started to search the cupboard where they kept the medicines.

‘What’s the matter?’

She turned to him and he saw that she looked worried. ‘He’s getting worse. His temperature’s shot right up.’

Wesley stood there puzzled for a second, and then he realised she was talking about Michael, not Neil. She resumed her search
of the cupboard.

‘Shouldn’t you wait and see how he is in a couple of hours?’

She swung round, looking at her husband as though he’d just suggested they abandon their child in an alligator pit. Then she
put out her hand to grab the phone.

But before she could touch it, it began to ring. Wesley picked it up. It was the station. Pam stormed out, muttering something
about finding her mobile, while Wesley tried to listen to what the officer at the other end was saying.

A body had been found in the river at Tradmouth and Gerry Heffernan wanted him there right away. He put the phone down and
went to look for Pam to tell her he was going out again. But when he found her in Michael’s brightly painted bedroom she was
in no fit state to take in what he was saying. Michael was lying in her arms, emitting a grizzling whine, his body floppy,
his eyes closed. She looked up when he came in.

‘I’ve rung the doctor. He said he’ll come as soon as he can.’

‘Good.’ Wesley hesitated on the threshold. ‘I have to go.’

Pam said nothing. She was rocking Michael to and fro, crooning, her anxious eyes focused on his face. She didn’t reproach
Wesley … but then she didn’t need to: he was reproaching himself.

He left the house without saying goodbye to Neil and drove the short distance to the waterfront.

*

A yachtsman had seen her jumping in. She hadn’t taken a
running leap, just let herself drop forward, as though surrendering herself to the embrace of the grey water. Wesley had heard
a local legend to the effect that the Trad claimed a life each year, but there had been two drownings already that year so
it looked as though the river’s appetite was increasing.

The yachtsman had made an attempt to rescue the woman but he hadn’t been able to reach her in time, and he’d called the police
and ambulance as soon as he realised his rescue efforts had been in vain. But then perhaps she hadn’t wanted to be saved.

Wesley and Heffernan stood side by side on the quayside as the officers on the police launch pulled her body from the river.
It was dark and Wesley gazed across the river to the lights of Queenswear, wondering why he was there. It was a case of suicide …
cut and dried.

Two officers on the police launch were placing the woman’s body gently on the floor of the bobbing boat. Wesley glanced at
his companion and was surprised to see that he was clutching a woman’s handbag to his chest. In the darkness he hadn’t noticed
this odd addition to the chief inspector’s wardrobe.

‘That her handbag?’

Heffernan looked round. ‘Yeah. She’d left it on the quayside. I’m surprised nobody had nicked it.’

So was Wesley but his thoughts were running ahead. ‘So why are we here for a jumper? Surely Uniform could have dealt with
it.’

Heffernan sighed. ‘I’m sure they could in the normal run of things, Wes. But the name on the credit cards in this handbag
is Mrs Amy Hunting. It’s Aaron Hunting’s wife.’

‘So why did she jump in the river?’

‘That’s what I’d like to know.’

In the course of my research into the effects of the Black Death on the Tradmouth, Neston and Morbay area, I came across an
account of events in 1348 that brought to mind the old European legend of the plague maiden: a beautiful young witch who brings
plague to a community; a feared figure, armed only with a red scarf and a broom to sweep away the living. To trace Belsham’s
own plague maiden the main source document I have used is a sermon of Abbot Thorsleigh of Morre Abbey (Exeter Cathedral archives)
written more than twenty years after the events he describes. Thorsleigh’s story seems rather like a fictional account on
first reading – a cautionary tale perhaps. However, as the name of the main protagonist is Robert de Munerie and there are
de Muneries buried in Belsham parish church, I began my researches with the aid of Belsham’s vicar, the Reverend John Shipborne,
who was good enough to allow me access to his church
.

I think it best to begin with the basic narrative gleaned from Thorsleigh’s writings. Thorsleigh begins with an account of
the activities of Robert de Munerie, the younger son of the lord of the manor of Belsham, who, it was alleged, dabbled in
the black arts; alchemy, necromancy and conjuring spirits. He travelled to Tradmouth on his father’s business at the time
plague broke out in the town. However, Robert never succumbed to the illness – probably because of some natural immunity –
and he began to believe that he was protected by supernatural powers. While in Tradmouth he began to write up scientific observations
about the effects of the plague: the proportions of men, women and children who became ill; their symptoms; how long it took
them to die, etc. He appeared to use a methodical approach, common among scientists of today but quite innovative in the fourteenth
century
.

However, events were soon to take a more sinister turn, and I shall deal with the consequences of Robert’s misguided experiment
in due course
.

Extract from Barnaby Poulson’s PhD thesis

Wesley left it to the DCI to inform Aaron Hunting of his wife’s death. Heffernan put on a suitably solemn expression and decided
to take Rachel with him to break the news. It wasn’t a task he looked forward to but someone had to do it.

When Wesley mentioned that Michael wasn’t well, Heffernan told him to get back home. It was 9.30 and there was nothing more
he could do for Amy Hunting until the morning.

Wesley was surprised, even shocked, at how reluctant he felt to leave the place where Amy had died. He stood for a while on
the quayside, staring at the dead woman as she was photographed and examined. He had never seen Amy Hunting alive but there
seemed to be something familiar about her face, although he couldn’t think what it was. She hadn’t been in the water long
enough for her body to be marred in any way, and in death she looked small and delicate; her pale, almost translucent flesh
seemed unlined, but perhaps that was just an illusion. She was arranged neatly on a stretcher with her long-fingered hands
crossed over her chest, as though laid out for her burial. A dull gold
wedding ring hung loosely on the third finger of her left hand – suggesting that she had lost weight since her wedding to
Aaron Hunting – but she wore no other adornments and the plain black dress, clinging to the wet contours of her body, served
as a tasteful shroud. There was a slight smile on her lips, as though she were in a deep, peaceful sleep. Amy Hunting had
embraced death willingly and it had claimed her gently, like a lover.

Wesley watched the forensic team go about their work for a few minutes before creeping away. He had brought the car because
he wanted to get to the scene quickly, but now he wished he had left it at home because he felt he needed a walk to clear
his head.

When he arrived back home he parked in the driveway, noticing that Pam’s car had gone and all the lights in the house were
blazing. As soon as he put his key in the lock Neil opened the door. He looked uncharacteristically anxious and the colour
had drained from his face. A sudden feeling of dread clutched at Wesley’s stomach. Something was wrong.

‘They’ve gone to the hospital,’ Neil began. ‘The doctor came and said to get him there right away.’

Wesley felt his heart thumping. ‘What’s wrong?’

Neil just shook his head. He wasn’t well up on childhood ailments. Wesley got straight back into the car and drove to Tradmouth
Hospital. His mind wasn’t on his driving and he almost collided with a lorry coming out of a side road. He knew he was speeding
but somehow the prospect of a fine seemed unimportant at that moment.

At the hospital he found Pam sitting by Michael’s cot, her hand through the bars, holding onto his tiny hand, her eyes watching
his face intently. Michael lay quite still, sprouting wires and drips. A monitor next to the cot emitted soft electronic bleeps.
Pam didn’t look up when he came in, as though she were afraid that if she took her eyes off her son for a moment she would
break the flow of the invisible stream of will-power that was keeping him alive.

Wesley drew up a chair and sat beside her. ‘What have they said?’ he whispered.

‘They’ve done tests to see if it’s meningitis,’ she whispered back. ‘His temperature’s rocketed.’ She squeezed the little
hand and the toddler stirred a little.

‘He’s in good hands,’ he muttered, aware that he was uttering a cliché. But sometimes clichés are the only things that seem
appropriate.

He put his arm around her, closed his eyes and began to pray.

‘There’s been a call from Wesley, sir. His little boy’s in hospital. Suspected meningitis. He’s been at the hospital all night
so he won’t be in till later.’

Gerry Heffernan looked up at Rachel anxiously. ‘What did he say? How’s the kid? What do the doctors say?’

Rachel, who had been told only the bare facts of the situation, shook her head helplessly. As she turned to go Heffernan picked
up the phone and punched out Wesley’s home number.

The phone was answered immediately. Wesley had just returned home to have a shower and grab something to eat. Heffernan was
lucky to catch him in. He said that they were still waiting for the results of the tests and Pam was refusing to leave Michael’s
bedside for a rest, even though, in her condition, she could do with one.

Heffernan’s instinctive response was to tell Wesley not to bother coming into work. They could do without him for a day and
he’d call round later to brief him on the latest developments.

But as soon as he put the phone down he looked out at the busy office beyond the glass partition, at the harassed faces of
the officers as they trawled through files and paperwork, and regretted his generosity. He needed Wesley’s logical way of
looking at things. But then he told himself that a day or so wouldn’t make much difference … unless Nutter started piling on
the pressure again about the Hobson case.

A few moments later Rachel returned, poking her head around the door nervously. ‘We told Mr Hunting last night that you’d
call on him this morning to take a statement. Do you want to leave it till later or …’

Heffernan pushed his pile of paperwork to one side and stood up. ‘No, love. The Chief Super’s made it very clear that Mr Hunting
can’t be kept waiting.’

Half an hour later Rachel was ringing Aaron Hunting’s doorbell, the chief inspector standing beside her, shuffling his feet
like a nervous schoolboy.

It was the solemn-faced maid who answered the door and stood aside to let them in. She led them to the living room overlooking
the river, gliding in front of them like a black-clad ghost. The sky was dark today and the deep grey of the river matched
their mood. The house was silent, a house in mourning for its unseen mistress.

Hunting didn’t keep them waiting for long. Heffernan had last seen him at eleven the night before when they had met at the
hospital for the formal identification of Amy’s body, but he seemed to have aged ten years overnight and black smudges beneath
his eyes suggested that he hadn’t slept.

Rachel had been sitting beside Heffernan on the large leather sofa but she scrambled to her feet when Hunting appeared. ‘We’re
sorry to bother you, Mr Hunting,’ she said gently. ‘But we did say we’d be calling this morning to take a statement …’

Hunting sank down in an armchair. ‘That’s quite all right. I know you have a job to do.’ His voice was quiet, the sort of
softness that precedes tears. But the eyes were dry and he stared straight ahead.

Heffernan glanced at Rachel. ‘We need to know your wife’s movements, sir. And her state of mind. Did she give you any hint
that she might take her own life?’

Hunting put his head in his hands for a few moments. Then he looked up suddenly. ‘You might as well know that my wife hasn’t
been well for a long time. She’s suffered
from depression off and on for years.’

Heffernan made sympathetic noises but felt an overwhelming relief. This one was going to be straightforward. A simple case
of suicide … if suicide was ever simple.

‘We didn’t find a note. I wondered if she’d left one here.’ Hunting stood up and left the room. Half a minute later he returned
with a sheet of expensive notepaper and gave it to the chief inspector. Heffernan scanned it quickly and frowned, puzzled,
before handing it to Rachel.

Hunting continued. ‘When you came round yesterday to tell me that you’d found the person responsible for the threats to my
business … ’ He hesitated. ‘My wife overheard our conversation. She heard you mention Loveday’s name. As you see from that
note, she couldn’t bear the idea of Loveday causing trouble again. That’s why she felt she couldn’t go on any more.’

‘I don’t understand,’ Heffernan prompted, hoping he was about to get an explanation.

Hunting squirmed in his seat. ‘There’s something I didn’t tell you yesterday.’ There was a long silence. ‘The fact is, Chief
Inspector, Loveday Wilkins is my daughter. Wilkins was Amy’s maiden name … Loveday stopped calling herself Hunting when she
left home.’

Heffernan glanced at Rachel, who was sitting beside him, listening intently. Somehow he hadn’t been expecting this. ‘Why did
she leave home?’ he asked. It was the first thing that came into his head.

‘The usual sort of thing … teenage traumas. She had always been very volatile … unbalanced. Disturbed, I suppose you could call
it.’

‘Took after her mother?’ Heffernan knew the question was impertinent but he asked it anyway.

‘Possibly.’ The word was whispered. Hunting began to stare out of the window, and the light from the dappled water reflected
on the ceiling moved across his face so that his expression seemed to change by the second. Heffernan wished he could read
his thoughts.

‘So why did she threaten your supermarket?’

‘I can’t say. She was a very disturbed adolescent … she gave us no end of trouble and rejected any help we offered. After a
while you have to back off with children like that and wait for them to come to you … or so we were told by the experts. She
went to five boarding schools and got expelled from all of them. Then there were spells at various clinics. We hoped she might
grow out of it. She was … is an intelligent girl, and we hoped going to university would do her some good, but she dropped
out after her first year and took a succession of dead-end jobs.’

‘How do you think she’ll react to the news of your wife’s death?’

Hunting frowned. ‘I’ve really no idea.’

‘Would you like to see your daughter, Mr Hunting? She’s at the police station. Perhaps you’d like to break the news about
your wife … ’

He shook his head. ‘I don’t think I could tell her. In fact, after what she’s done, I don’t think I even want to see her.’

Heffernan could think of nothing to say. Apart from the usual teenage tantrums, raising his own children had been relatively
plain sailing, even when their mother had died unexpectedly. Disturbed children were uncharted territory, something he came
across only when he picked up the pieces if they turned to crime, as they often did.

But Rachel came to the rescue. ‘I think we understand, sir. Perhaps in a few days … ’

Hunting glanced at her gratefully, his eyes glistening with unshed tears. Coming face to face with Loveday was the last thing
he wanted right now.

‘Can you think why your wife chose to drown herself?’ Rachel asked gently.

Hunting shook his head. ‘I’ve no idea. Perhaps it was something to do with me spending so much of my spare time on the river …
perhaps she wanted to make a point. I don’t know.’

Heffernan gave Rachel an almost imperceptible nod.

‘Do you mind if we have a quick look at your wife’s room, Mr Hunting?’ she said.

A momentary flash of alarm passed across Hunting’s face. ‘Of course. Corazón will show you. He stood up and pressed a bell-push
by the fireplace which brought the maid scurrying in. As Heffernan and Rachel followed her out, the chief inspector noticed
that the expression on Hunting’s face was like an inscrutable mask. There was no grief and no relief there … nothing.

Corazón opened the door of Amy Hunting’s room for them then left, something that Heffernan was grateful for. He didn’t feel
comfortable searching someone’s room when he was being watched. He shut the door and surveyed the scene. It was a feminine
room, full of frills and flowers. A flimsy dressing gown hung behind the door. There was no sign of masculine occupation.

‘Separate rooms, sir?’

‘Maybe he snores. Anyway, it’s a big house and there’re just the two of them … three if you count Corazón …
so why put up with snoring and cold feet on your back, eh? And if you fancy a bit of how’s-your-father there’s nothing to
stop you creeping down the landing at midnight, eh? Probably more fun that way.’ He noticed Rachel press her lips together
disapprovingly. ‘They say a lot of rich people have separate bedrooms. One thing about this job, Rach, you get to learn how
the other half lives.’

Rachel began to search. She tried a door, probably connecting to the adjoining room, but it was locked: perhaps Aaron Hunting
slept next door … and wasn’t welcome at night. She began with the obvious places like the bedside drawer, then the wardrobe.
Heffernan sat on the bed and stared out of the window. This room too overlooked the river.