The Plague Maiden (4 page)

Neil’s eyes suddenly focused past Wesley’s shoulder. Wesley looked round to see Dr Colin Bowman striding across the field.
He wore a waxed jacket and sturdy walking boots – a wise choice in the circumstances – and carried a bag, the tools of his
trade. He greeted Wesley and Neil cheerfully.

‘Good to see you, Colin,’ said Neil. ‘How are you?’

‘I’m very well, thank you, Neil. And yourself?’

‘Mustn’t grumble. Spot of archaeologist’s knee and a permanent empty feeling around the wallet but apart from that …’

‘Wesley said you’ve got some corpses for me.’ He spoke with eager anticipation. Perhaps things had been quiet down at the
mortuary recently.

‘Three complete skeletons,’ Neil announced, almost with pride. ‘Now we’ve dug a bit farther we think there are probably more.
It’s possible it could be some sort of burial pit for battle victims … or even plague victims. If you could have a quick look
and see what you think …’

The archaeologists had all stopped digging and watched as Matt helped Colin into the trench. Colin squatted down beside him,
examining the bones that lay exposed. After a few minutes he looked up.

‘Well, I can say life is definitely extinct,’ he began with a grin. ‘But I’d need to do a proper examination down at the mortuary
to tell you any more. I can see no obvious traumatic injuries … no broken heads or obvious sword wounds. But just because
these three don’t show anything, it doesn’t rule out the possibility that they died in battle. As for plague … well, it’s
possible, I suppose. Wouldn’t there be records of burials?’

‘Not in the fourteenth century,’ Neil replied. ‘Church registers weren’t kept until the sixteenth.’

‘But you think they’re old?’ Wesley asked warily, hoping that his official involvement was about to end.

Colin hesitated and scratched his head. ‘I’ll tell you more when I’ve had a chance to examine them properly.’

Wesley smiled. It was typical of the pathologist to hedge his bets. He looked at his watch. Half past five. Time to get back
to the office to finish his paperwork and then get home to Pam at a reasonable time. There was nothing more he could do here
until they knew the age of the skeletons for certain.

‘Going, Wes?’ asked Neil.

‘I’ll leave you to it. I can rely on you to make sure everything’s done properly according to Home Office regulations, can’t
I?’

‘Of course.’

‘In that case, I’ll leave it in your capable hands.’ He glanced down at the skull that grinned up at him from the soil. ‘And
hope they turn out to be well and truly medieval.’

Wesley had taken a few steps when he heard Neil’s voice loudly behind him. ‘Oh look, Colin, this one’s got three fillings
and a metal pin in his right leg.’

Wesley swung round, his heart pounding. But when he saw Neil and Colin Bowman standing in the trench, helpless with laughter,
he couldn’t help joining in. The laughter was liberating; it lifted his spirits.

Rachel, he noticed, was staring at them disapprovingly.

‘I’ll be in touch,’ Wesley called, raising a hand in farewell.

He walked to the car, Rachel following a little behind. They didn’t say a word to each other on the journey back to the station.

Wesley arrived home to find Pam reading a story to Michael. The three little pigs. Pam’s mother, Della, had bought him the
lavishly illustrated edition, saying it was very appropriate for a policeman’s son. That was Della all over: never one to
miss out on a dig against authority.

Pam looked up as he walked in.

‘How are you?’ he asked, concerned.

‘Fine. Don’t fuss.’ She shifted her position to make herself more comfortable. She felt bigger with this pregnancy than the
last: or perhaps it was just her imagination. Little Michael grabbed at the book, longing to know more about the Big Bad Wolf’s
efforts to earn his bacon.

‘I’ll take over if you like.’

Pam smiled. ‘Thanks. I’ll see if the supper’s ready.’

‘Unless you’d like me to see to supper and …’

‘No, I’ll do it. Good day?’

Wesley hesitated. Had it been a good day? It had been a frustrating one with hints of possible trouble to come. First the
letter about the vicar’s murder all those years ago: the letter claiming that Chris Hobson, the man put away for it, was innocent
after all. But it was a rare villain who wasn’t thought innocent by somebody.

Then there had been the threat to the supermarket.
Probably nothing. Probably some disgruntled employee or an over-enthusiastic environmentalist with a grudge. And of course
there were Neil’s skeletons. But then Neil had always had an irritating habit of uncovering bones at inconvenient moments.

‘I saw Neil today.’

Pam looked at him, her face expressionless. ‘How is he? We’ve not seen him since he was working on that shipwreck.’

‘Is it that long?’ He was surprised at the swift passage of time. Probably a sign of advancing age. ‘He was up to his knees
in mud in a field just outside Neston. Village called Belsham. They’re building a new supermarket there and he’s found some
skeletons on the site.’

‘Old ones?’

‘I sincerely hope so. What about you? Done anything exciting?’ For the sake of equal opportunities, he thought he’d better
ask, although now that she was on maternity leave from her teaching job her days were usually filled with matters domestic.

‘Your sister rang.’ She paused, as if preparing to make some momentous announcement. ‘You know Mark’s family come from near
Tavistock?’

‘Yes,’ he said, wishing she’d come to the point.

‘Well, it turns out he’s been applying for vacancies in the Exeter diocese and he’s got a job, or a living or whatever it
is they call it, near Neston … a church called St Alphage’s. He starts quite soon but Maritia’s staying on in Oxford until
she’s finished her GP training. She wants to do locum work around here when they’re married. Isn’t that great?’

This was good news. Wesley had always been close to his sister, Maritia, who had studied medicine at Oxford and had worked
at the John Radcliffe hospital there before training for general practice. A year ago she had met Mark, a young curate, and
that spring they had become engaged. Wesley’s parents had taken an instant liking to Mark. But
even if they hadn’t been regular churchgoers, delighted at the prospect of having a clergyman in the family, the kindly and
sometimes over-enthusiastic Mark would be a hard man to disapprove of.

The early misgivings Wesley’s parents had experienced over their son’s choice of a white partner hadn’t seemed to arise in
Maritia’s case. At one time the Petersons had expected Wesley to settle down with his former girlfriend – a bright and beautiful
black solicitor who attended their church, now married to an up-and-coming MP. Pam’s unexpected appearance on the scene had
been a shock for them and they had urged caution. But, as far as the Petersons were aware, Pam and Wesley’s mixed race marriage
had encountered few serious problems so far, which eased any anxiety they might have felt about Maritia and Mark’s future.

‘That’s fantastic news.’ Wesley put his arms around Pam and they kissed, first quickly, then more passionately. He held her
as close as their growing child allowed until she broke away. ‘I’ll get the supper. I’m starving, I don’t know about you.’

As Wesley watched her disappear into the kitchen, he suddenly thought of the bones Neil had found, and he had the uneasy feeling
that he was experiencing the calm before some sort of storm.

‘Pigs, pigs,’ cried a small voice from the sofa, reminding Wesley that peace and relaxation were rare and precious commodities.

At eight o’clock, within the three-foot-thick walls of A-wing at Her Majesty’s Prison Hammersham, Chris Hobson sat on the
bottom bunk preparing for yet another quiet night in. He pulled the rough blanket over his knees as though for protection.
Not that he needed much protection. He was a lifer: a murderer. And as his victim hadn’t been a woman or a child, his conviction
had appeared to earn him some respect in the closed, strange world of the prison. The others gave him a
wide berth. Even in the damp and dangerous territory of the showers nobody had bothered him after that initial incident: the
other man had lost two teeth.

Chris Hobson had developed a tough shell out of necessity. If you weren’t hard, you didn’t survive. He’d learned a lot in
prison: some of the regulars even referred to the place as ‘the university’. Some university.

He’d served twelve years of a life sentence and the fact that he still proclaimed his innocence at every opportunity seemed
to irritate the authorities. They didn’t like an unrepentant sinner. Especially a sinner who insisted he’d never been a sinner
in the first place. But as Chris had told anyone who cared to listen time and time again, he wasn’t going to own up to something
he hadn’t done just to satisfy a load of smug do-gooders.

There were times when he felt angry and times when he despaired. But today was different. Today he’d had Janet’s letter. Today
there was hope.

The metal base of the top bunk creaked dangerously as Big Jim Toolan turned over. ‘I can’t read this fucking word. What is
it?’ Chris glanced up. A page from the
Sun
came fluttering down and Chris caught it in mid-flight.

‘What word’s that, then, Jim?’

Toolan was an armed robber who’d done a bank job but neglected to make sure that the getaway car had enough petrol. Big Jim
Toolan wasn’t known for his towering intellect.

‘The one under the picture of the slag … begins with “e”.’

Chris scanned the page and began to read. ‘“Educated Mandy has five GCSEs but her brains aren’t her biggest assets.” Is that
it?’

‘Yeah. She’s all right, isn’t she?’

‘Wouldn’t push her out of bed,’ Chris replied automatically, even though he found it best not to dwell on such things in his
current situation. It would be foolish for a starving man to think of fresh-baked bread or ripe, succulent
strawberries. An occasional glimpse down the front of the creative writing teacher’s blouse had to suffice for the time being.

‘Wish I could read as well as you.’

Chris smiled but didn’t answer. At least in prison he wasn’t at the bottom of the pecking order, not like in the outside world.
Although in the weeks before his arrest things had started to look up … until Janet had gone off to the States.

‘You got a letter today, didn’t you?’

‘What about it?’

‘You just looked pleased with yourself, that’s all.’

Chris threw off his blanket and jumped to his feet. He leaned forward until his face was level with Big Jim’s. If it had been
anyone else, he would have told them to piss off and mind their own business, but Big Jim was the nearest thing he had to
a mate inside. And he had to tell somebody: he couldn’t keep it to himself any longer.

‘I’ll let you into a secret.’

‘What?’ Jim sat open mouthed, an expression of anticipation on his large, pallid face.

‘I’m getting out of here. They’re going to get new evidence. Told you I was innocent, didn’t I?’

Big Jim Toolan’s jaw dropped. ‘But what about me? What will I do?’ he asked in a desperate whisper. As he turned towards the
wall, the bunk shuddered dangerously.

It was 10.30 that evening when Edith Sommerby staggered from her bed and slumped down by the lavatory. The world was spinning
and there seemed to be two of everything, which didn’t make sense to Edith. She closed her eyes tight and felt sweat dripping
down her face, even though she was shivering. She retched again, clutching her aching stomach.

‘What’s the matter with you, woman? You’ve woken me up.’

Edith waited in terror, her lips pressed together, suppressing gasps of pain. Not wishing to disturb Fred, she
hadn’t switched the light on and she lay now in the jaundiced glow of the street light that stood outside the window. She
could hear Fred’s shuffling footsteps, his slippers on the fitted carpet in the hallway. He mustn’t find her like this. If
she had been able to summon the strength she would have locked the bathroom door. But she could only lie, as though paralysed,
on the cold lino floor. Helpless. At that moment, Edith wished for death.

By the time Fred Sommerby pushed the door open and pressed the switch that flooded the small, shabby bathroom with light,
Edith had lost consciousness. He walked slowly up to her and prodded her backside with his stick. ‘Get up, woman. What are
you up to? Get up.’ His orders lacked their usual certainty. Perhaps this time she wasn’t pretending.

He stood listening to her rasping breath for a full minute before making his way into the hallway to call the ambulance.

It was half past midnight and as the Horse and Farrier, Belsham’s only pub, had thrown out its last customers an hour before,
there was nobody about. The full moon cast a pale light on the scene but the hooded man felt safe as he flicked the switch
on the side of his machine. He had taken precautions. He had thought of everything.

The archaeologists had erected temporary fencing around the site to shield it from view. But from the hooded man’s point of
view, their efforts were futile. They wouldn’t keep him out. Rather they would help him: the fencing would hide his activities
from prying eyes.

He began to walk slowly, sweeping the machine over the ground, waiting for the sound in his headphones; the sound that would
tell him he had struck lucky. It wasn’t long before he heard the piercing electronic whine in his ears. He paused then he
made another sweep, and there it was again. He had to locate the exact spot and he sent up a silent prayer that this was it.

He took his spade and began to dig.

Barnaby called today and left me a draft copy of the first section of his thesis. As I began to read, I became so absorbed
that I was almost late for a meeting with the parish council
.

The thing I found saddest about the events he writes about so vividly is that death appears to beget death. One would think
that the unhappy folk of Belsham back in 1348 would have been heartily sick of death, sated with watching the suffering of
their loved ones. And yet it seems from Barnaby’s research that one of their number developed a taste for death, a love of
evil. I ask myself how this could be, but as yet I have found no answer
.

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

The next morning Wesley opened the file bearing the name ‘Hobson’ and the musty scent of slightly damp paper wafted towards
his nostrils. The station cellar probably wasn’t the best place to keep old records but it was the only space they had. He
was about to start reading when the telephone rang. He picked up the receiver and recited his name.

‘Nighthawks.’

‘What?’

‘Nighthawks. They’ve been over the bloody site. I don’t know what they’ve got away with.’

‘Now calm down, Neil, and give me the details. Nighthawks? You mean people with metal detectors?’

‘That’s what I said. Bloody nighthawks. What are you going to do about it? There should be a police guard on the site and
…’

Wesley smiled at his friend’s naivety. ‘We haven’t got the manpower. Why don’t your team take it in turns to stay up there?
Give the police a call if there’s any trouble. Sorry, but that’s the best thing I can suggest. Now tell me exactly what’s
happened. Has anything been stolen?’ he asked before Neil could raise any objection to his suggestion.

‘How should I know? I don’t know what’s down there yet, do I?’

Neil was right; it had been a stupid question. But then he didn’t feel fully awake yet as Michael had kept them up half the
night complaining about a newly erupting tooth. ‘Is there much damage?’

‘They’ve dug a few holes.’

‘I presume the skeletons you found have been removed.’

‘Of course. But it looks as if there are more down there.’

‘Still think it could be a plague pit?’

‘I’m having a look at the church today to see if there’s anything there that might give us a clue. You’ll be coming down to
interview me about the damage to the site later.’ This was a statement rather than a question.

‘If I’ve got time.’

Neil grunted and put the phone down, but before Wesley had a chance to return to the Chris Hobson file Gerry Heffernan lumbered
out of his glass-fronted office. He stopped in the middle of the floor and held up a sheet of paper.

‘Mr Sturgeon from Huntings has just been on the phone again. He’s had another letter this morning.’

Wesley looked up expectantly. ‘And?’

Heffernan read from the paper in his hand. ‘“I see the jam’s been sold already and when your customer dies you’ll realise
that I really mean business. A lot more will die and so will Huntings when people start avoiding the place like the plague.
Watch and wait.” That’s it.’ The chief inspector looked up. ‘Presumably this means that whatever they’ve planted in the store
has been sold to some poor unsuspecting sod. Sturgeon’s taken all the jam off his shelves.’

‘It might still be a hoax. Have there been any reports of suspicious deaths? Poisonings?’

‘Not yet, Wes, but give it time.’

Wesley thought for a few moments. ‘Most of Huntings’ customers probably live in the Morbay area so it might be worth contacting
Morbay General Hospital to see if anybody’s been admitted with symptoms of any kind of poisoning. The first letter mentioned
biological warfare, and at a guess I’d say that implies some kind of food poisoning or something from a poisonous plant or
fungus rather than an industrial poison or something like broken glass.’

Rachel was looking at Wesley as though she was impressed by his reasoning … which was more than Wesley himself was. It was
sheer guesswork and he knew that he could be completely wrong.

Heffernan raised his eyebrows. ‘Okay, get in touch with the hospital … if you think it’s worth it.’

‘Even if nothing’s happened yet it might be wise to alert them in case anything does.’

‘You believe this nutter, then?’

‘Do we really want to take the risk of ignoring him?’

Heffernan shrugged. Wesley was probably right.

‘The fact that our letter writer knows that whatever it is has been sold implies that he or she is keeping a close eye on
the place. Sturgeon’s said he’s told his staff so they’re all on the lookout for anything suspicious.’

‘About time too. Of course, one of his staff might be responsible.’

Wesley noticed that Rachel was sitting at her desk, unusually quiet. He would normally have expected some contribution, some
comment or theory, but she looked preoccupied, lost in her own little world. He wondered whether there was anything wrong.
Then he turned his attention to his own desk. Unlike Heffernan’s it was neat and organised apart from an untidy, discoloured
file lying open in its centre.

‘I’ve started reading up on the Chris Hobson case.’

Heffernan grinned. ‘I heard you’d asked for the files. Always making work for yourself. Are we going to pay a call on this
Mrs Powell, then?’

Wesley sighed. ‘When I’ve got a moment. Neil rang. He’s had nighthawks. I promised I’d go over there.’

‘Nighthawks? Is that infectious? Has he seen a doctor?’

‘Nighthawks are people with metal detectors who dig up archaeological sites at night.’

‘So what does he expect you to do about it?’

‘Show my face. Make it look as if we’re doing something. I told him that his team should take it in turns to watch the site
at night and call the uniforms out if anything happens. I think he was hoping for a round-the-clock police guard.’ Wesley
grinned.

‘Hasn’t he seen our overtime budget?’

‘I’m afraid Neil inhabits a parallel universe where the police’s main priority is the protection of his site.’ He stood up.
‘I’ll make that call to Morbay General. I know it’s a long shot but if anyone’s been poisoned by eating something they’ve
bought at Huntings, at least we might get to know right away. Then I’d better go and calm Neil down, and if I’ve got a spare
moment I might get a chance to go and see this Mrs J. Powell. And I’ve asked Steve to trace those two people who were sacked
from Huntings. It might be worth having a word.’

Wesley looked at his watch, wondering how soon he could get out to Belsham. And what he’d find when he got there.

*

In the intensive care unit of Morbay General Hospital Dr Vikram Choudray looked down at the patient and shook his head. She
had been rushed in by ambulance in the early hours of the morning and in Dr Choudray’s professional opinion it was touch and
go. She looked so fragile lying on the bed, a pile of flesh and bones in a pale blue hospital gown, tubes sprouting from her
parchment skin, her thin grey hair soaked in sweat. The monitor bleeped monotonously but that was a good thing. It was when
it emitted a constant whine that the staff would know that all their best efforts had been in vain.

‘Doctor …’

Choudray turned. Sister Atkins was standing there. She was a statuesque woman with fair hair folded into an immaculate French
pleat, giving her the look of some serene Roman goddess come among mortals disguised in a nurse’s uniform. She towered over
the doctor as she smoothed down her thin plastic apron.

‘There’s been a call from the police. They want to know if anybody’s been admitted with any sort of poisoning, particularly
food poisoning.’ She looked at the grey figure on the bed. ‘I think we should tell them about Mrs Sommerby.’

‘We won’t know if it’s poisoning until we get the results back from the lab.’

‘I’ve seen something like this before when I worked up North. I’m sure it’s …’

‘The husband told me that she didn’t eat anything he didn’t eat.’

‘How can he be sure of that? He can’t have been with her twenty-four hours a day. She might have gone shopping and had a cake
or an ice cream …’

‘So why haven’t there been other cases? I say we wait until we’re sure. We’d only be wasting the police’s time if we were
wrong.’

Dr Choudray turned his attention to the patient in the next bed while Sister Atkins checked Edith Sommerby’s
blood pressure. The readings weren’t good. She was weakening; Sister Atkins knew the signs.

If Dr Choudray hadn’t been so pedantic, she would have rung the police already. But perhaps he was right. They should wait
and see.

‘Much damage?’

Neil Watson stared down at the series of neat holes in the ground. ‘If I knew what they’d taken I’d tell you. They’re usually
after coins or jewellery.’

‘They probably only got away with a couple of old horseshoes and a rusty nail,’ Wesley observed optimistically.

‘Let’s hope, eh. We’re taking it in turns to keep watch from now on.’ He shuddered. ‘Wish the weather was better. Not brought
the lovely Rachel with you today?’

‘I thought I was just about capable of tackling this one on my own. Why do you ask?’

‘No reason,’ Neil said with a meaningful grin.

‘What’s the latest on the skeletons?’

‘We found two more this morning. They’re being lifted now. Again no sign of battle wounds.’ He shrugged. ‘It could be a plague
pit, I suppose. There’s certainly no trace of any building which seems to knock our leper hospital theory on the head.’

Wesley could see the diggers working in the trench at the other end of the field. Plastic boxes sat on the side of the pit,
waiting to receive the carefully excavated, recorded and labelled bones. A young woman sat on the edge, face intent and feet
dangling, sketching the bones and their relative position, while a young man near her was measuring and taking photographs.

‘Let’s go to the church,’ Neil said suddenly. ‘I’ve not seen it yet.’

Wesley’s brain suddenly made the connection. ‘Is it called St Alphage’s?’

Neil looked at him, surprised. ‘Yeah. How did you …?’

‘My future brother-in-law’s just been appointed as vicar
somewhere around here. I’m sure St Alphage’s is the name of his new church.’

Neil looked unimpressed. ‘Small world. We’ve got to call at a Mrs O’Donovan’s for the key.’

Wesley frowned as he tried to recall why the name seemed familiar. Then it came to him. A Mrs O’Donovan had cleaned for the
late Reverend Shipborne and she had found his body. If she had the church keys, then surely it was the same woman. He didn’t
know why he felt an inexplicable thrill of anticipation at the prospect of encountering someone directly connected with the
Shipborne case.

Neil ignored the other diggers as they made their way across the field and out of the gate. But Wesley looked over to where
they were working. Bones were being lifted carefully out of the trench and placed in their waiting boxes. If Neil’s theory
about a plague pit was correct, there would probably be enough human remains in there to keep Colin Bowman busy for weeks.

When they reached what had once been the village street, now just a section of the main road from Morbay to Neston with houses
either side, they had to stop and wait for a break in the stream of traffic. Things would get a lot worse once the new branch
of Huntings was built. But then presumably someone in the lofty ivory tower of the local planning department had considered
that possibility … or perhaps not.

Mrs O’Donovan lived in a small brick council house, banished to the outer edge of the village next to an electricity sub-station.
Her house had a neat look, with fresh green paintwork and a tiny, weed-free front garden. She had been the late vicar’s cleaner,
Wesley remembered, and presumably she still had some links with the church if she was entrusted with its key. He knocked on
the door.

‘Is she expecting us?’ Wesley asked.

Neil nodded. ‘I rang earlier. She said it was no problem.’

The door opened to reveal a plump woman in her sixties with untidy grey hair, bright blue eyes, apple cheeks and a
generous mouth. In her youth she would probably have resembled a buxom milkmaid, but time had given her a maternal appearance.
Everybody’s idea of the perfect granny. When she smiled it was dazzling.

‘You must be the archaeologist,’ she said, her accent pure Devon. She stared at Wesley for a few seconds, trying hard to hide
her suspicion but not quite succeeding. ‘And you’re not from round these parts?’ It was a question rather than a statement.

‘I’m a friend of Neil’s. We were at university together.’

The suspicion disappeared from Mrs O’Donovan’s eyes. After the initial few moments of uncertainty, Wesley seemed to have passed
some sort of test. ‘You’ll be wanting the key to the church. Now don’t go in the tower … it isn’t safe in there. And mind
you lock up after you and bring the key straight back, if you please.’

‘Of course.’ Wesley gave her a reassuring smile. ‘You cleaned for the late Reverend Shipborne, I believe?’

The suspicion reappeared on her face. ‘Who told you that?’

‘I’m a policeman, a detective inspector. I heard about the case. It must have been a terrible shock.’

There was no mistaking it. As soon as Wesley announced that he was a policeman her attitude had changed. And he didn’t think
it was anything to do with the case bringing back disturbing memories. For some reason Mrs O’Donovan was wary of the police.
And he wondered why.

‘Well, that went down like a lead balloon,’ Neil said as they strolled up the church path.

‘What did?’

‘You saying you were a policeman.’

So Neil had noticed it too. It hadn’t just been his imagination.

They crossed the busy road again, dashing across when there was a gap in the traffic, and made straight for the church. The
building, set in its graveyard like a ship anchored in open water, was clearly ancient, but there was
a slight air of neglect about the place. The grass that surrounded it had been trimmed but some of the gravestones had toppled
over and the parish notice-board beside the lychgate was in need of a coat of paint. There was one tattered notice pinned
to it, announcing a parish jumble sale a year in the past.