The Plague Maiden (5 page)

They walked up the path and Neil put the key in the church’s great oak door. It turned stiffly and the door opened with a
creak worthy of any horror movie. They stepped inside the church and stood for a minute or so as their eyes grew accustomed
to the gloom. The place smelled of musty prayer books, and particles of dust swirled and danced in the shafts of light creeping
in through the plain leaded glass windows. Only the large window above the altar at the east end contained stained glass.

Wesley scratched his head. ‘What are we looking for exactly, Neil?’

‘Is there any sort of guidebook?’ Neil looked round the building. Most churches in his experience had some sort of bookstall
selling books or leaflets telling the casual visitor something of the place’s history. But there was nothing like that at
St Alphage’s and he thought this was a strange omission.

They strolled slowly around the church, noting that the rood screen was finely carved and still bore its medieval paint in
parts. The walls had been whitewashed. In some churches this had been done to cover up medieval wall paintings in the days
when that sort of thing was considered undesirable, so who knew what lay beneath the whitewash here? But at first sight, interesting
features were thin on the ground. A motley selection of eighteenth-century memorials lined the walls, all commemorating members
of a family called Munnery … probably the local squires.

As they wandered into the chancel Wesley noticed a fine tomb to their right bearing two recumbent figures in Elizabethan costume.
The text around the tomb announced that they were Sir John and Lady Elizabeth Munnery,
which seemed to confirm that the Munnerys had been big noises in Belsham for quite some time. At his feet Wesley saw a fine
medieval brass set into the floor, informing him that a Ralph de Munerie had been a power to be reckoned with back in 1466.

Neil had his notebook out and was scribbling furiously, but Wesley wasn’t sure what he had found that was worth writing about.
They knew that the lords of the manor were called Munnery but that was about all they knew. According to the tomb inscriptions
all the Munnerys appeared to have died in their beds at a ripe old age. Nothing about them being serial killers who buried
their victims in a mass grave in Pest Field. But then Wesley wasn’t really expecting it to be that easy.

They strolled back down the aisle side by side, and they were about to leave by the south door when Neil stopped. ‘What about
the tower?’

‘What about it?’

‘It’s sometimes the oldest part of a church. It’ll be worth a look. I was told that some old vicar had it locked up a few
years ago. Makes you wonder, doesn’t it.’

‘Mrs O’Donovan said it was unsafe.’

‘I wonder who told her that.’ There was a hint of cynicism in Neil’s voice. ‘It looks solid enough from the outside.’ He tried
the tower door. It was locked but one of the keys on the ring Mrs O’Donovan had given them fitted the lock. ‘Let’s see what
the vicar was trying to hide, shall we.’

‘Dry rot, I should think,’ said Wesley, pouring cold water on Neil’s fiery imagination.

Neil took no notice and pushed the door until it opened stiffly with a loud creaking and scraping. The space beyond was pitch
dark and reeked of bat droppings, or at least Wesley assumed it was bat droppings. Neither he nor Neil had come prepared with
a torch, but Neil produced a box of matches from the inside pocket of his combat jacket. He struck one and the flickering
gold light lit up the small,
square chamber for a few seconds, showing up a fine array of cobwebs and six dust-shrouded bell ropes. Wesley had once harboured
a fleeting fancy to try his hand at bell-ringing but he certainly wouldn’t have risked it here: if the bells were still up
there, one pull on the rope would probably bring them crashing through the rotten ceiling on top of them. He could just make
out some sort of pattern on the far wall but he assumed it was just many years’ accumulation of bird droppings: it was impossible
to see in that light.

Neil stepped farther into the tower and lit another match, illuminating three recumbent figures lying to one side of the bell
ropes. There were two men carved in alabaster, the colour of Devon fudge, their armour as battered as their features; their
noses had gone, as had their hands and toes. They wore helmets and, judging by the position of their wrists, they had been
lying in an attitude of pious prayer. The woman had fared somewhat better. Her nose too was no more, but the rest of her body,
the carved folds of her alabaster gown and wimple, had survived remarkably well.

Neil lit yet another match and shuffled his way over to the effigies. ‘They’re quite early. Fourteenth-century, I reckon from
the armour and the dress. If those poor sods in the field were plague victims then this lot could have been around at the
time. I wish we had some light in here. I think there’s some sort of inscription on this one but … shit … bloody hell.’ The
match had burned down to his fingers and he shook it frantically until the flame was out and they were left in darkness.

Undeterred, he lit another and squatted down, reading the indistinct Latin on one side of the woman’s tomb. ‘I think her name’s
Eleanor, wife of … hang on a minute … wife of Urien de Munerie. Well, well. The Munnerys had this place sewn up back then
and all.’

Wesley was hovering just inside the doorway. ‘How long are you going to be? I’ve got to get back to the office.’

But Neil wasn’t listening. In spite of a scorched finger he
was enjoying himself. ‘So this one must be Urien and this one …’

‘I’ll have to go.’

Another match was struck. ‘Hang on. This one’s Guy and it says he was the son of Urien and Eleanor de Munerie.’

Wesley took a deep breath of stale air. Neil couldn’t be hurried. He would have to leave him to carry out his historical detective
work alone.

‘I’ve nearly finished. Just hang on a minute. Hey, this is interesting. The inscription continues round the other side of
Urien’s tomb. It says “Pray for the soul of his son Robert be he alive or dead”. What do you think that means?’

Wesley shrugged. ‘Went missing in the crusades? Ran away to the bright lights of London like Dick Whittington and lost touch?
How should I know? Perhaps there might be something in the manor records if they exist.’

‘They don’t. I’ve asked.’ Neil stood up, dusting himself off in the heavy darkness. ‘It might be worth looking into, just
out of interest, if nothing else. We’ll come back again with some proper torches so we can see what we’re dealing with.’

‘Good idea,’ Wesley said, relieved to be going at last.

Neil lit his last match and held it up. In the brief flare of light Wesley thought he could make out something that looked
like graffiti gouged into the stone behind the effigies.

Neil had seen it too. ‘Bloody vandals get everywhere,’ he muttered before stepping out into the church and shutting the tower
door firmly behind him.

The woman stood near the fountain at the entrance to the memorial gardens and stared across the road at the police station.
She was a lady of a certain age, with the svelte look of one who had the money to take good care of herself. She wore a simple
cream wool coat with a neatly tied silk scarf
at the throat and her blonde hair had been expertly cut into a neat bob. Every so often she raised her left hand to push an
imaginary strand of hair off her face. It was a nervous reaction … but then Janet Powell felt nervous.

Janet had never had anything to do with the police before, apart from attending a neighbourhood watch meeting a week after
her return to England. Even then she had never actually talked with the plump and amiable community constable who was obliged
to be present at such functions. Her only knowledge of the police was from the television … and from what she had been told.
And it was the latter source of information which made her fearful now. She felt bad about what she had failed to do all those
years ago – her sin of omission – even though that omission hadn’t been her fault. But at least she could put things right
now.

Posting the letter had seemed like a good idea at the time … rectifying matters while staying out of it herself. But the moment
it had disappeared into the letterbox she realised that the action had been foolish and cowardly. The police needed statements,
evidence, not just unverifiable hints. If she was to make amends for her silence, she had to face them.

And as for the most awkward question of all, why she hadn’t come forward at the time, she would simply tell the truth: until
a month ago she knew nothing of Chris Hobson’s conviction. By the time he was arrested she’d already been in the States with
her husband for several weeks, all contact with Hobson severed: he hadn’t even known which city she was in – she’d thought
it was best that way.

For twelve not very happy years she’d been living in New York. But then the years before that hadn’t been particularly happy
either … perhaps that was why she had thrown caution to the wind and taken up with Chris Hobson. Chris had been a member of
what her soon-to-beex-husband habitually called ‘the criminal classes’: he had been the ultimate defiance.

Her mouth was dry and her heart pounded in her chest as she walked across the road. A van narrowly avoided her and the driver
wound the window down and shouted something that she couldn’t quite hear, but she was sure it was obscene. Oblivious to everything
but her coming ordeal, Janet Powell pushed at the swing-door of Tradmouth police station and it opened smoothly to admit her.

A large policeman with a short, neat beard stood behind the reception desk. He had three stripes on his arm and looked the
gentle-giant type; not the sort of man to subject her to hours of fierce interrogation. But then what happened to her in that
building probably wouldn’t be up to him. She thought of the tales Chris Hobson had told her about the police and suddenly
lost her nerve. She was about to turn and leave when the large sergeant addressed her.

‘Can I help you, madam?’

His voice was warm with a distinct Devon accent and his expression was sympathetic. She swallowed hard. It was too late to
back out now.

‘Er … is Inspector Norbert … er … does Chief Inspector Norbert still work here?’ She suddenly felt stupid. Perhaps Norbert
had been transferred or retired years ago.

The large sergeant looked solemn, like one about to break bad news. ‘I’m afraid Mr Norbert passed away some time ago. I’m
sorry.’ He lowered his eyes respectfully and observed a couple of seconds’ silence. ‘Can anyone else help you?’

Janet hadn’t known what to expect after all these years but somehow the news of Norbert’s death made her mind go blank. Perhaps
she should never have sent the letter.

‘Would you like to see someone from CID?’ the sergeant asked. He was a pleasant, fatherly man, eager to be helpful. Not the
sort of policeman Chris had described – but perhaps the next officer she encountered would be.

But she could prove Chris Hobson’s innocence. She had seen him on the television, older and haggard, with a hardness,
a bitterness, that he hadn’t possessed when she had known him. Prison had changed him. And she felt uncomfortably responsible
for that.

‘Yes,’ she heard herself saying.

‘Can you give me some idea what it’s about?’ The sergeant looked at her expectantly.

The words came out quickly. ‘It’s about Chris Hobson … the Shipborne case … the vicar who was murdered in 1991. I wrote to
Mr Norbert about it.’

Sergeant Bob Naseby smiled and invited her to take a seat before picking up the phone on the desk.

Five minutes later a young black man emerged from a door to Janet’s right. He was slim, average height with delicate features
and intelligent eyes. He didn’t look like a policeman … or at least not like the type of policeman Janet was expecting. The
sergeant whispered something to him which Janet couldn’t quite hear, then the young man came towards her, smiling and holding
out his hand.

‘I’m Detective Inspector Peterson. I believe you want to speak to someone about the Shipborne case?’

‘Yes.’ Janet shook hands with the inspector, although her own hand was clammy and trembling with nerves. The inspector was
well spoken and seemed pleasant enough, but she reminded herself that it might all be part of a routine … nice cop, nasty
cop. Maybe she would meet up with the nasty one next.

But Inspector Peterson led her into one of the ground-floor interview rooms and ordered tea for them both. There was no sign
of the nasty cop as yet.

‘I presume it was you who wrote the letter we received … Mrs Powell, is it?’

She felt her heart racing in her chest. ‘Yes. Janet Powell.’

‘I was about to pay you a visit, Mrs Powell. Thank you for saving me the trouble.’

She glanced up and saw that he was looking at her intently. She suspected that nothing much would get past him.

‘What is it you want to tell me? I’ve looked up the Shipborne case and it really did seem to be cut and dried at the time.’
He inclined his head, waiting for a reaction.

Janet felt herself blushing. She looked down at her trembling hands and tried to think of the right words to say. Inspector
Peterson waited patiently.

‘Take your time,’ he said gently after a minute or so. Janet looked up at him again and he smiled encouragingly. ‘Why don’t
you start at the beginning? What was your connection with Chris Hobson?’

At least this gave her a starting point. She took a deep breath and began. ‘I met Chris a couple of months before the murder.
He did some work at my house … clearing out the gutters. I invited him in for a cup of tea. His colleague had gone off somewhere
– I can’t remember where exactly – and it seemed … well, I was making a cup of tea for myself so it seemed like a friendly
gesture, if you know what I mean.’

‘Yes. Go on.’

Her cheeks turned a bright shade of red. ‘Well, my husband was out. I’d never done anything like that before or since and
… it just happened.’

‘You, er … went to bed with him?’ Wesley tried hard to keep his voice neutral. Some of his colleagues would have found Janet
Powell’s confession a source of gleeful amusement … the stuff of the more salacious Sunday newspapers: the stereotypical bored
housewife rutting with any male who happens to walk up her outwardly respectable garden path.