The Shadow Collector (2 page)

Wesley climbed out of the driver’s seat and shut the door, flicking the lock absentmindedly even though he knew this particular
security precaution was unnecessary in that isolated spot. He saw the woman look him up and down with undisguised curiosity:
perhaps when she’d last lived in Devon a policeman of West Indian origin was a rarity. His parents had raised him to believe
that it was rude to stare but he couldn’t resist the temptation to study Lilith Benley in return. She was tall, around five
feet ten, and although her frame was big she looked slim and muscular, as though she’d spent time working out. Her thick black
hair was peppered with grey and cropped short, emphasising her strong features, and she wore a long black skirt and tight
black T-shirt. She was what Wesley’s mother would have described as a striking woman – only on the verge of beautiful but
impossible to ignore.

He felt Gerry’s arm nudge his and they began to walk towards the house, Gerry sticking close to him as though he needed support.

‘Sergeant Heffernan, thank you for coming,’ she said formally as they approached. Her voice was quite high-pitched, more feminine
than Wesley had expected.

‘It’s Detective Chief Inspector Heffernan now.’

‘Congratulations.’ She looked at Wesley. ‘Aren’t you going to introduce us?’

‘This is DI Peterson.’

‘Pleased to meet you, Detective Inspector Peterson,’ she said with a hint of irony. She looked at Gerry, a smirk on
her pale lips. ‘I should have known you’d bring a friend. Policemen always go round in pairs, don’t they … like the old music
hall comedians.’ The smirk turned into a smile that lit up her face, but her eyes were watchful, hard.

‘You’d better come in,’ she said after a few moments. She turned her back on them and disappeared into the house and when
Gerry followed, Wesley fell in behind.

As he entered the indoor gloom of Devil’s Tree Cottage he took in his surroundings. The place clearly hadn’t been touched
since the time of the murders. There were cobwebs everywhere, like some fairy-tale castle frozen in time. Traces of grey fingerprint
powder could still be seen on the woodwork, as though someone had made an effort to clean it off but hadn’t made a very good
job of it. The heavy brown furniture in the shabby parlour was shrouded in a layer of dust and grimy curtains hung in limp
tatters at the windows. An empty rocking chair stood near the fireplace, its cushion torn and tattered, stuffing bursting
from its innards like the guts of some dead, mauled creature.

‘I apologise for the state of the place. I only got back a few days ago and I haven’t had a chance to do much. I’m only relieved
that it wasn’t vandalised when I was … away. But I expect it was protected by the superstition of the locals,’ she added with
a hint of bitterness.

‘I believe you reported a break-in.’ Gerry sounded businesslike, erecting a barrier of reserve between himself and the murderess.

‘Somebody broke in yesterday evening while I was out.’

‘What was taken?’

‘A book.’

‘What kind of book?’

She paused, as though she was considering her answer
carefully. Whatever this book was, Wesley knew it wasn’t just the latest bestseller. This book had significance.

‘It’s called Book of Shadows. I … I used to be what’s sometimes called a white witch, a follower of Wicca. The book contained
spells and details of my personal spiritual journey. It was on the shelves up there.’ She pointed to a battered bookcase full
of faded paperbacks and dusty china. ‘I’d been for a walk and when I came back I found a pane of glass smashed in the back
door.’

‘Is that all they took, this Book of Shadows?’

‘As far as I can tell at the moment.’ She gave a bitter smile. ‘I thought a reputation like mine would guarantee that I was
left in peace.’

The words were defiant. And unrepentant. Whatever this woman had done in the past, Wesley suspected that she had few regrets.
Or if she did she was doing her best to hide them.

‘You say you used to be a white witch. Given it up, have you?’ Wesley could hear the scepticism in Gerry’s voice.

Lilith looked away. ‘Prison changes people, Chief Inspector. Not always for the better.’

‘I’ll get our crime scene people out here to see if your intruder left any fingerprints,’ said Gerry. He was shuffling towards
the door as though he was anxious to be gone. ‘If that’s all …’

‘No it isn’t all. I’d like some protection. Let’s put it this way, the local community has hardly been welcoming. And I feel
vulnerable here on my own.’

‘Vulnerable like those two lasses you killed?’

She flinched as though Gerry had struck her. ‘I had nothing to do with their deaths. I was innocent.’

‘Your mother confessed.’

‘The state she was in, she would have confessed to anything.’ She almost spat the words.

‘We haven’t got the manpower to mount a round-the-clock guard,’ said Wesley. ‘Anyway, your intruder was probably an opportunist
who thought the place was empty. As far as I can see there’s no evidence you’re in any danger … unless you’ve received any
threats you haven’t told us about …’

She shot a glance at Wesley, as though she was unsure how he’d react to what she was about to say. ‘I want the case reopened.
I need to clear my name.’

‘Have you got new evidence?’ Gerry sounded distant, as though he was reluctant to get involved.

‘Not yet but …’ She looked Gerry in the eye. ‘You were more sympathetic than the rest of them back then. They decided right
from the start that Mother and I were guilty but you kept an open mind. You asked questions.’

‘I always keep an open mind … so does Inspector Peterson here. But it didn’t do much good in your case, did it? You killed
those two lasses. The forensic evidence proved it.’

‘That evidence was planted. We had nothing to do with those girls’ deaths.’

Wesley noticed that her hands were clenched in frustration.

‘A jury thought otherwise so unless new evidence comes to light I can’t help you. We’d better be off.’ Gerry made for the
door and Wesley followed. But when he reached the threshold he turned. ‘Why did you come back?’

‘I’ve got permission,’ she said. ‘Apparently my so-called victims’ families have moved away and I’m not considered a danger
any more.’

‘Are you planning to stay?’

‘It’s my home. Any reason why I shouldn’t?’

Gerry didn’t answer. He marched quickly out of the cottage and made straight for the car.

‘Well?’ Wesley said as they were driving away.

‘I just wish she’d stayed away.’

‘Any chance she was innocent?’

‘No chance.’

He didn’t say another word until they arrived back at the police station.

As soon as the meeting with the conservation officer was over, Neil Watson of the County Archaeological Unit took his mobile
phone from his pocket. But before he could key in the number he wanted, he heard a voice calling his name.

‘Dr Watson. Are you there?’

‘Yes, I’m here.’ He was standing in the long-disused east wing of Mercy Hall, in a spacious, oak-panelled room that would
become a study once the renovations were finished. He stood by the open trapdoor, gazing down at the top four steps of what
seemed to be a buried staircase. If Neil’s suspicions were right, the stairs had once led down to some sort of cellar, long
since filled in with soil and building rubble.

Evan and Harriet Mumford had purchased the historic house on the hill overlooking Tradmouth eighteen months ago and, as it
was grade two star-listed, they were having to jump through any number of hoops to undertake its restoration. Two thirds of
the house had already been restored to what estate agents call a high standard. But the builders had only just begun work
on the semi-derelict east
wing where, in the room called the small chamber on the plans, they’d discovered the filled-in cellar. The conservation officer
had insisted on calling in the County Archaeological Unit, which would add to the cost but money didn’t seem to be a problem
for the Mumfords. All right for some, Neil thought.

Evan Mumford owned an import company – although Neil wasn’t sure exactly what he imported. He was a big man with a florid
face, an ill-tempered mouth and a liking for expensive suits, but fortunately he was too busy making money to interfere much.
His wife, Harriet, however, was a sweetie, a sculptress by occupation who displayed a sporadic enthusiasm for the history
of the house, like a child who picked up a toy for a while then soon became bored once something more interesting came along.
She was in her thirties, around ten years her husband’s junior, with straight blonde hair that framed elfin features. She
was the sort of woman who was aware of her own sexual allure and the skin-tight jeans and white T-shirt she was wearing that
day showed off her slender figure to best advantage.

‘How’s it going?’ she asked, picking her way across the debris towards him.

‘I’ve put a probe down and I reckon the cellar’s about seven feet deep. It’s just a question of digging it out to see what’s
down there. I’ll need some help, of course …’

‘More archaeologists?’ She sounded as though the prospect pleased her. Perhaps, Neil thought, she’d always harboured ambitions
to follow the profession: many people seemed to – until they learned of the need to work in a muddy trench in all weathers
and the paltry financial rewards.

‘My team are still working on Princes Bower – the Civil
War fortifications up by the castle – so I can’t really spare anyone at the moment. But it’s important that we don’t miss
anything of significance down there so if some of your builders are willing to work under my supervision …’

‘I’ll ask them.’ She sounded a little unsure of herself, as though she suspected their reaction might not be altogether positive.

‘The Conservation Officer wants the panelling in this room removed and stored somewhere safe while the building work’s going
on.’ He pointed at the dusty oak panelling; classic Tudor linenfold, well preserved considering the state of the room. It
was an original feature of the house and it was in danger of being damaged. ‘It’ll look great polished up and replaced once
the work’s finished. But it needs to be handled very carefully.’

‘I’ll tell Lee.’

There had been a succession of tradesmen traipsing in and out of the house but Lee seemed to be a regular fixture. Lee was
small with blotchy skin and a midriff that bulged over his jeans – and he didn’t look the sort who’d take much interest in
archaeology.

Harriet hovered there, as though there was something else she wanted to say and Neil waited for her to continue. She and her
husband were paying for his time and expertise so he was happy to work at the pace she wanted.

‘There’s something I’d like to show you when you’ve got a moment,’ she said.

‘No time like the present,’ said Neil, brushing the dirt off his hands.

‘It’s outside.’ She looked grateful that he was taking her seriously – perhaps her husband didn’t.

He let her lead the way out past the half-demolished
skeleton of a lath and plaster wall in the passage and when they reached the back door they stepped out into the cobbled kitchen
yard where a rusty water pump still stood in the corner above its crumbling stone trough.

‘It’s out here,’ she said, glancing back to make sure he was following. ‘The stonemason found it and he thought I’d be interested.
I promised to show you.’ Neil was walking beside her now and when she linked her arm through his, he hoped that the filthy
sweatshirt he wore for digging in the cooler months wouldn’t soil the pristine white of her top. But she didn’t seem to care
so why should he?

She stopped and pushed back the evergreen foliage that grew over a low wall. ‘There it is.’ She pointed to a stone, larger
and smoother than its fellows. There was something carved on it; letters below a rough, almost childlike, picture.

‘It looks like a gallows,’ she said. ‘And the writing underneath looks like AH October 2nd 1643.’

Neil considered all the possibilities for a few moments. ‘The initials above your front door are MH and the date’s 1594 so
this could be a relative of the original builder. I looked into Tradmouth Library yesterday when I’d finished at the dig and
I found out that this house was built by a Matthew Hadness around that date.’

She gave him a sideways look, a secretive half-smile on her painted lips. ‘You’ve been doing your homework.’

‘I like to know what I’m dealing with.’ He stared at the stone. At first he thought he might be mistaken about the gallows
… but he wasn’t. They were plain to see, as was the little stick figure dangling from the rope, like a completed game of hangman.
Only the figure wore a long skirt. A woman.

She tilted her head to one side. ‘Does it mean that someone connected with this house was hanged in 1643?’

‘That was the year Tradmouth was besieged by the Royalist army during the Civil War.’

She touched his arm, her fingers with their short, unvarnished nails resting for a while on his sleeve. ‘I never paid much
attention to history at school but you bring it to life. Maybe I could go down to the library myself. You could give me a
few hints about what books to look for.’

For a few moments Neil didn’t answer, trying to ignore the look in her eyes; rapt attention and something else. It was something
he hadn’t seen in the eyes of a woman for quite a long time – too long maybe. The flirtatious glint of sexual interest. But
her husband looked the sort you didn’t cross.

‘There’s also that interesting motto over your drawing room fireplace,’ he said, trying to steer the conversation away from
the personal. ‘Mors vincit omnia.’

‘What does that mean?’

‘Death conquers all.’

The production team of
Celebrity Farm
referred to the place as a set. But to Rupert Raybourn, Jessop’s Farm was all too real; smells, muck and all.

When he’d wrestled with the milking machine first thing that morning, watched with quiet amusement by the farmer, Joe Jessop,
Rupert had experienced another of those pangs of regret that had become so familiar in recent weeks. His agent had persuaded
him to take part in the show to revive his flagging career. But Rupert suspected it had been a mistake to agree. The whole
thing seemed to him to be a terrible ordeal by humiliation.