The Plague Maiden (7 page)

But as it was only a contract cleaner Dr Choudray carried on and thought no more about it.

‘Let’s put it this way, Gerry, the ghost of Lady Chatterley was hovering in the air.’

Gerry Heffernan grinned. Even he, with his limited literary knowledge, had heard of the lustful Lady Chatterley.

‘Chris Hobson was Janet Powell’s “bit of rough”. They had it off in her utility room after he’d cleaned out her gutters. I
don’t suppose she wanted to get her sheets dirty.’

‘You’re sounding very judgemental today, Wesley.’

‘Well, I don’t think it was true love on her part. He, on the other hand, might have had different ideas. He wanted her to
leave her husband. It sounds like he was starting to get serious and that’s when she decided to call it a day. If he was in
love with her that explains why he didn’t tell the police he was with her on the night of the murder when he was first questioned.
However, later on he did say that he was with a woman – said he hadn’t wanted to involve her because she was married.’

Heffernan snorted. ‘A gentleman thief … whatever next?’

‘He said she was somewhere in the USA but he’d no idea where. DCI Norbert obviously didn’t think it was worth following up.’

‘And Hobson never named her?’

‘If he did it’s not in the file. I wonder how Hobson feels now after he’s served twelve years in the nick while his lady friend’s
been living the high life in New York. She found out he was serving time a month ago and she’s only come forward now because
her husband’s just run off with a barmaid and she’s nothing left to lose.’

‘If I was Hobson I’d be harbouring uncharitable thoughts about Mrs Janet Powell … but maybe he’s a nicer person than me.’
Heffernan grinned angelically, sat back and put his feet up on the desk. ‘But I doubt if twelve years inside will have done
wonders for his better nature.’ He picked up a thick file that was lying on his desk, on top of an untidy heap of similar
files. ‘I suppose I’d better go and have a word with the Chief Super … tell him the bad news.’

Wesley didn’t reply. He was already two steps ahead, wondering who, if Chris Hobson was really innocent, had actually killed
the Reverend John Shipborne all those years ago.

He looked at his watch. He wanted to get home, away from thoughts of the fickleness of humanity and violent death.

If you want a job doing, do it yourself had been one of Neil Watson’s grandmother’s favourite sayings. And now he knew exactly
what she’d meant.

The police were useless. They used any pretext to shirk their duties – lack of manpower being their usual excuse. He had told
Wesley quite firmly that the site needed a twenty-four-hour police guard but Wesley, to his disgust, had seemed mildly amused
by his high expectations. That was why Neil had pitched a small ridge tent in the corner
of Pest Field and now lay curled up in his sleeping bag, fully dressed, with only a torch, a thermos flask and an alarming
selection of creepy-crawlies for company.

It was just after one o’clock in the morning and the field was silent apart from the usual country noises: screaming owls,
barking foxes, lowing cows and a passing local who’d had a few too many during an after-hours drinking session at the Horse
and Farrier and was now convinced that he could give Pavarotti a run for his money.

Neil lay on the hard ground, alert at first, but then he closed his eyes. One of the young female diggers, a red-haired girl
called Emma, popped unbidden into his drowsy thoughts and he experienced a warm tingling in his loins. He had spoken to her
only about professional matters so far, but there was plenty of time for that to change, he thought to himself as he laid
plans that he knew in his heart of hearts he would be unlikely to keep to.

After a while he drifted into sleep, but when the noise came he awoke, confused, thinking he was in his own bed at his Exeter
flat, reaching for the clock on his bedside table. It took him a few seconds to realise that he was in a tent in the corner
of a field, alone apart from an unknown quantity of buried skeletons.

As soon as his situation dawned on him, his heart began to pound. What had seemed like a good idea in the light of day now
seemed the height of folly. If he encountered the nighthawks, what exactly was he supposed to do if they didn’t run off as
soon as they realised he was there?

The sounds were getting nearer. Faint electronic bleeps magnified in the still night air. A metal detector. There were no
voices. Perhaps whoever it was had ventured there alone. Neil held on to this optimistic thought as he extricated himself
from the warm embrace of his sleeping bag.

The noises stopped and Neil sat for a minute or so, listening. Perhaps it had been his imagination, or perhaps he had been
dreaming. But he felt he ought to make sure.

As he unfastened the front of the tent the noise of the zip
seemed as loud as a cannon roar in the darkness. He squatted at the tent’s entrance, perfectly still, listening, before crawling
out into the damp and cold.

He stood up and walked, shivering, towards his trench. There was no breeze and the trees around the edge of the field stood
motionless, as if in expectation.

Then a blow to his back caused him to stumble and fall down into the depths of the open trench, clawing at the damp ground.
The fall knocked the breath out of him, and when he tried to open his mouth to call for help he found he couldn’t move. He
could taste blood in his mouth as he curled himself up defensively and the only thought in his brain was survival. All other
thoughts were subsumed to this most basic of instincts, his flesh feeling as though it had been ripped apart with red-hot
pokers.

As he listened to retreating footsteps padding away across the muddy ground, he lay there, fighting oblivion, his mouth filled
with blood and earth. Then, with a great effort, he managed to open his eyes for a few moments.

Staring up at him were the empty eye sockets of a skull, a death’s head. The thought that this was the end, that death had
come to claim him, flitted through his head before he finally lost consciousness.

I have read more of Barnaby’s work and I find myself fascinated by the character of Hammo, who was priest of Belsham all those
years ago
.

He must have been an ordinary parish priest, rather like myself – a fallible, sinful man doing his best to come to terms with
evil. I wonder what became of him. No doubt I’ll find out if I have the time – or the courage – to read on
.

Barnaby’s thesis begins to disturb me for I can’t help seeing myself in the place of the man at the centre of his story. I
sometimes feel my conscience is eating away at my very soul
.

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

Neil had been found half conscious and disoriented at seven that morning by a postman on his early round. The postman had
taken the trouble to peep over the fencing in Pest Field because he was curious about what was going on in there, and as soon
as he noticed a man lying there bleeding and dazed in one of the deep trenches, obviously the victim of some beating or accident,
he had rung the police and the ambulance service. All Neil could say to the uniformed officers who answered the call in their
patrol car was that
he hadn’t seen who had attacked him. In spite of his weakened state he had objected at first to the idea of going to hospital
to get checked over. However, when he found that every movement was torture and he could hardly keep his eyes open, he realised
that he was in no position to refuse, so he allowed himself to be placed on a stretcher and whisked off in an ambulance to
Morbay General as Tradmouth Hospital had no available beds.

At nine o’clock Neil’s colleagues arrived to continue their work, only to find Wesley Peterson waiting for them, hands in
pockets, with DC Trish Walton standing solemnly by his side like a professional mourner at a funeral. Wesley had hardly said
a word to Trish on their way there. The thought of Neil being a victim of violent crime seemed unreal, but he told himself
that every victim of every crime he had ever dealt with was somebody’s friend or relation. Although this one was different
somehow. This one was personal.

Trish glanced at Wesley, not knowing quite what to say, and she was relieved when she saw one of the archaeologists approaching,
a lean man, a little older than Wesley, who wore his hair tied back in an untidy ponytail and was dressed in mud-caked jeans
and a combat jacket similar to the one Neil habitually wore.

‘Any news?’

‘They’ve taken him to Morbay. Last I heard it was concussion and possibly a few broken bones.’

‘Any idea what happened?’ Matt mumbled awkwardly, glancing at Trish.

Wesley shook his head. ‘According to Neil someone gave him a hefty shove into the open trench. Don’t worry, we’ll get them.’
The quiet determination in his voice made Matt believe what he said.

‘If there’s anything me and Jane can do … ’

‘Just carry on with the dig … that’s what Neil’d want.’ He turned to Trish. ‘Trish, can you make sure everyone on the site’s
interviewed and asked if they’ve seen anyone suspicious hanging around. And have a word with the occupants
of any houses that overlook this site. Someone might have seen something.’

Trish nodded solemnly and rushed off, although Wesley wasn’t too hopeful that her questions would bear fruit. The good people
of Belsham would have been tucked up in their own or each other’s beds at the time of the attack, and it was doubtful that
the archaeologists would have taken much notice of anything that hadn’t been buried in the ground for the past few hundred
years. But it was worth a try.

‘So what was Neil up to?’ he asked Matt as soon as they were alone.

‘Apparently he asked for a police guard on the site and was told it wasn’t on.’ Matt looked at Wesley with more than a hint
of reproach and Wesley looked away. He felt bad enough already without having his nose rubbed in it. ‘He said he’d stay on
the site and keep watch. We were going to take it in turns … do alternate nights.’

‘Didn’t he have his mobile? Why didn’t he call … ?’

‘Maybe he didn’t have time.’

‘Can you tell if they got away with anything?’

‘They’ve dug some holes but I guess Neil disturbed them before they could … ’

Wesley thought for a moment. ‘Have you had experience of nighthawks before?’

Matt nodded. ‘Unfortunately, yes.’

‘Are they usually violent?’

Matt shrugged. ‘Not the ones I’ve come across. I should have thought they’d be more likely to run for it if they were disturbed.
It’s not as if we’re expecting to find anything particularly valuable on this dig. We’ve no reason to think it’s another Sutton
Hoo or Tutankhamun’s tomb. Unless the bastard who attacked Neil knows something we don’t.’

Wesley turned and stared at the church tower that peeped over the trees – the last place he’d gone with Neil. Matt might be
right – Neil’s attacker or attackers might have known something about the site that the archaeologists didn’t. Perhaps there
was something more down there than
ancient horseshoes and old coins.

‘I’m going to put a police guard on this site,’ said Wesley. ‘If the attacker comes back for whatever it is he was after,
we’ll get him.’

‘Bit bloody late,’ said Matt under his breath.

As Wesley walked away towards the road, Matt found himself regretting his words. He guessed that Wesley was feeling bad enough
as it was.

Sister Atkins hadn’t been absolutely sure about the cause of Edith Sommerby’s death at first, but she’d thought about it overnight,
lying awake in her single bed, turning it over in her mind, and she was now as certain as she could be without the final confirmation
of the laboratory results. And, according to the memo that had been going around, the police wanted to know as soon as possible.

She glanced out of the office window. She had a good view of the ward from there so she could keep a watchful eye on her staff
and patients. The man who had been admitted that morning with concussion and broken ribs was stable now, but when he had first
arrived and had lost consciousness she had feared that his head injuries might be more serious than was first suspected, or
that one of the broken ribs had punctured a lung. But he had been X-rayed since and nothing sinister had shown up. It seemed
that he had been lucky.

Her newest patient was an archaeologist who had been keeping an eye on his dig and minding his own business when he’d been
attacked. Sister Atkins didn’t know what the world was coming to … it certainly wasn’t getting any better. The police probably
did their best but it seemed that, like King Cnut, they were trying to hold back the rushing tide of crime and wickedness.

The thought of the police reminded Sister Atkins of Edith Sommerby and her extremely unpleasant husband. Dr Choudray may have
advised caution, but she was as sure about Edith’s death as she could be. She stared at the phone
on her desk for a few moments before picking up the memo from hospital management saying that the police wanted to know of
any poisoning cases, even cases of food poisoning. After re-reading it several times, she dialled the number printed at the
end of the memo.

Wesley was holding his emotions in strict check but Gerry Heffernan could tell that the attack on Neil had upset him. Even
when you deal with crime and violence day in, day out, it’s different when the victim is someone you know. He told him to
sit down and shouted into the outer office for someone to bring two cups of tea. There was nothing like tea for shock, in
Gerry’s opinion, and it usually helped in cases of frustrated anger as well.

‘So how is he?’ he asked.

‘He’s been taken to Morbay … there weren’t any beds at Tradmouth. I rang up and they said he’s comfortable.’

Heffernan nodded solemnly. ‘They always say that. Don’t worry, Wes. He’ll be back digging his holes again in no time. All
we’ve got to do is find the bastard or bastards responsible. Have you told Pam yet?’

Wesley shook his head. ‘I don’t want to upset her … not with the baby so near and … ’

Pam and Neil had gone out together at university. They were close … or as close as anyone could get to Neil. Wesley wasn’t
sure how she’d take the news in her present condition.

‘Any leads?’

‘One of the archaeologists thought he saw someone hanging around by the trees the other day but it was all a bit vague … no
description, no time.’

‘What about the damage?’

‘A few holes have been dug but it was all very haphazard. The attacker exposed another skeleton near the ones they’ve already
dug up. There was a dagger next to the bones – pretty well preserved, apparently – and a few medieval coins just lying there
in the ground: whoever
dug them up had made no attempt to take them. Matt said it almost seemed as if they were looking for something specific, something
they knew was there. Not like usual nighthawks who are after any coins and buried treasure they can lay their hands on. Matt
reckons it’s very odd.’

Heffernan scratched his head. ‘Sounds odd to me an’ all. Any ideas?’

Wesley shook his head again. For once he hadn’t a clue. Neil, his friend since their first year at university, was lying in
a hospital bed, fighting for his life for all he knew, and Wesley felt useless, helpless. ‘House-to-house haven’t come up
with anything. Nobody saw any strange cars or … ’

‘So whoever did this just melted into the night, did he? Someone must know him. Would he have been bloodstained?’

‘Probably not.’

‘Maybe we should start by tracking down everyone with a record for this sort of thing and checking their alibis. Get Steve
onto it right away.’

Wesley took a deep breath, forcing himself to be detached, professional. ‘I’ll see to it.’

The chief inspector’s phone rang and he answered it. After a brief conversation he looked across the desk at Wesley. At least
this was something to take his mind off Neil’s plight. ‘That was a Sister Atkins from Morbay Hospital.’ He noticed a sudden
look of panic flash across Wesley’s face. ‘Don’t worry, it wasn’t about Neil. This Sister Atkins has seen our memo. A woman
died yesterday and she reckons it was botulism poisoning. And guess where the dead woman lived … ’

‘Where?’ Wesley didn’t feel up to guessing games.

‘Just across the carpark from Huntings supermarket. Now the sister said they can’t be sure about the cause of death until
after the post-mortem, and of course it might have nothing to do with Huntings, but … ’

Wesley nodded. ‘I once shared a flat with a biochemistry student who told me that it’s possible to culture botulism if you
know what you’re doing, and it’s just the sort of thing guaranteed to put a supermarket out of business. Shop at Huntings
and get food poisoning. It could be what our anonymous letter writer meant.’

‘We need confirmation before we go any farther. I think we should go and have a word with this Sister Atkins, and we can drop
in on Neil while we’re there, eh,’ Heffernan said gently. ‘Don’t worry, Wes. He’s in good hands.’

Wesley didn’t comment. ‘Let me know when you want to go,’ he said quietly, before leaving the boss’s office and making for
his own desk, head down. He didn’t feel much like talking.

Matt and Jane looked down at the bones. After the events of that morning neither of them felt in the mood to do much about
them. But the work had to go on, and soon Jane began to record their finds, even though her heart wasn’t in it.

But it was the dagger which interested Matt. He could tell it was medieval, possibly fourteenth-century. The blade was badly
corroded but the handle seemed better preserved, and it was just possible, beneath the rust and soil of centuries, to discern
some sort of symbol or decoration carved into it. It had been lying close to the skeleton’s left hip, as though he had been
wearing it in a scabbard that had long since rotted in the earth. There was a ragged hole the size of a small apple in the
back of the skull. The man with the dagger was the first of the skeletons they had found in the pit to bear any signs of violence.

Of course, they couldn’t be sure without further investigation, but it was just possible that they might have a murder victim
on their hands. At least it would take their minds off other things for a while.

Neil Watson lay helpless on the bed, filled up with
painkillers and feeling sick. Heffernan made himself comfortable on the plastic visitor’s chair provided and Wesley went off
in search of another and returned a few minutes later, his mission successful.

‘Don’t worry about the dig,’ Wesley began. ‘Matt’s taken charge. It’s all going fine.’

Neil tried to nod weakly and winced with pain.

‘So have you had any more thoughts on who did this?’ Heffernan said loudly, earning himself a disapproving look from a passing
nurse.

Neil began to look agitated, whether from the memory or from the frustration of not being able to remember, Wesley couldn’t
tell. ‘It happened so fast. I think I heard a noise and went out of the tent but I don’t really remember. It’s all hazy.’

Heffernan grinned. ‘It wasn’t an irate husband, was it?’

Neil tried to smile. ‘Chance’d be a fine thing. Sorry, Gerry, but I’ve not had much luck in that direction recently. Is there
much damage to the site? Did he get much?’ His voice was feeble, shaky. Wesley found his friend’s weakness faintly disturbing.
Evidence that even healthy flesh is fragile and vulnerable.

‘You say “he”. You think there was just one?’ Wesley asked.

‘Yeah. I’m pretty sure there was only one. But he was a big bastard. Took me by surprise. You haven’t told me how much he
got away with.’

‘According to Matt he didn’t get much. He uncovered a medieval dagger and some coins but he just left them lying there on
the ground … almost as though he was looking for something else. I don’t think your attacker was your average nighthawk.’

‘More like a bloody heavyweight boxer.’

Wesley smiled. At least Neil had managed to retain a sense of humour.

‘Do you think it could be something to do with Huntings? Do you think they could be trying to warn us off?’