The Shining Skull (14 page)

‘They’ve cropped up in a lot of my researches over the years,’ he began.

‘Who have?’

‘The Shining Ones. The followers of the Blessed Joan.’

‘Joan Shiner? I looked her up on the Internet last night.’

Grooby’s face was serious. ‘Have you seen the website? The Disciples of the Blessed Joan?’

‘Can’t say I looked at that one.’ The truth was he and Pam had glanced at it and passed it over as appearing too weird. They’d
gone for the plain facts of Joan Shiner’s life, ignoring anything that looked like New Age mysticism.

‘Did you know the Shining Ones used to hold their meetings in the attic of the Bentham Arms. And that one of the Benthams
was a leading light in the movement – an Elizabeth Bentham – the sister of one Sir John – was introduced to Joan Shiner by
her friend,
Lady Penworthy, and she came to be one of her most ardent supporters.’

‘You mean she gave her money?’ Neil had always been of a cynical disposition.

Grooby gave a mirthless smile. ‘Even prophetesses need to eat, Dr Watson. You were enquiring about the symbol on the tombs
you’re, er, digging up, is that right?’

‘Yes. John Ventnor told me that you were the person to ask.’

‘I suppose I am. It’s not much use talking to Mr Ventnor. The church didn’t altogether sympathise with the Blessed Joan’s
claims.’

‘A friend who teaches in a local primary school told me the kids have a skipping rhyme about . . . ’

‘Oh yes. “Joanie Shiner burning bright, Joanie Shiner our true light. Baby, baby where are you? In the stars that shine on
you.” I’m glad to hear these old rhymes are still going strong in this age of computers and iPods.’ He smiled as though congratulating
himself on his knowledge of the modern world.

‘Tell me about Joan Shiner.’

‘Her family were poor and she went into service at the age of ten, finally becoming housekeeper to a popular, if unconventional
preacher.’

‘Housekeeper? Anything more?’

Grooby raised his eyebrows. ‘The Blessed Joan claimed to be pure, Dr Watson. She was examined by seven matrons and found to
be so.’

Neil was about to say something flippant but one look at Grooby’s face told him that he was treating the subject of the Blessed
Joan with deadly seriousness.

‘Do you believe she was some sort of prophet, then?’

Grooby looked rather flustered, as though he’d been caught out. ‘Oh, I wouldn’t say that exactly. But she had a great deal
of influence in this area at the time and the support of certain members of the Bentham family, which was probably why she
made Stoke Beeching her headquarters, much to the horror of the Rector of the day, a mealy-mouthed gentleman called the Reverend
Charles Boden.’

‘So the Rector disapproved?’

Grooby nodded.

‘And this Joan had influence?’

Grooby hesitated. ‘Yes. She seemed to have quite a hold over her followers.’

‘So what happened to her in the end?’

‘It’s rather sad actually. She was convinced that she was going to give birth to a child called the Shining Babe. She’d prophesied
its birth, of course and she appeared to be pregnant. But after nine months nothing happened and she died several months later.
It might have been a phantom pregnancy . . . or some sort of cancer perhaps. Mary the First – Bloody Mary – suffered much
the same sort of thing in the sixteenth century of course.’

‘So that was that?’

‘Not necessarily. According to that website I mentioned, some people think she’s been reincarnated . . . in California of
all places.’

Neil raised his eyebrows. ‘Where was Joan buried?’

‘In the churchyard at Howsands – the trouble was, the village fell into the sea . . . and so did the churchyard so . . . ’
He gave a theatrical shrug. ‘She was supposed to possess the seven secrets of the universe but goodness only knows what she
did with them. There was talk of a box of some kind but again, I’ve no idea where it could have got to . . . if it ever existed.
I’ve looked for it, of course . . . tried to follow clues but . . . ’

‘Have any of her present-day followers ever turned up in Stoke Beeching?’

‘People come from time to time to look at the church and the Bentham Arms where the Shining Ones used to hold their meetings.
I met a man a few months ago. He used to live in Devon but he’d been up in Leeds for years . . . only just moved back down
here. He said he’d seen the website and he was very interested in the Blessed Joan.’

‘How interested?’

‘I think his interest was more than casual, if you get my meaning.’ He paused. ‘In fact he seemed a little odd . . . But it
takes all sorts, doesn’t it?’ Grooby began to sort through the papers in front of him. ‘Look, I’ve got copies of quite a few
contemporary documents. Letters from local people mentioning Joan Shiner. Pamphlets, that sort of thing. And I’ve got some
fascinating stuff about the Amazing Devon Marvel if you’re interested.’

‘John Ventnor mentioned him. Wasn’t he some sort of mathematical genius?’

‘Indeed he was.’ Grooby blushed. ‘His name was Peter Hackworthy and as a matter of fact he’s an ancestor of mine – my mother
was a Hackworthy.’

‘So what did he do, this Marvel?’

‘Around the time Joan Shiner was active in the area, the Rector, Charles Boden, discovered that Peter had amazing talents.
He could add, subtract, divide or multiply any numbers that were given him. Unfortunately, the Hackworthys were at the bottom
of the social pile in those days and the Rector and Peter’s father had rather different ideas about how his gifts should be
used. The Rector wanted to send him away to a school run by a friend of his in Oxford and pursue the life of a scholar and
his father wanted to exploit the lad for financial gain and lift the family out of poverty. There were a lot of children in
the family – not unusual for those days – so you can’t really blame him. You can’t judge our ancestors by the standards of
today, can you?’

‘So who won? The father or the Rector?’

Grooby smiled. ‘The money, I’m afraid. His father hawked the lad round inns and assembly halls until he became quite a celebrity.
He even performed in front of the Prince Regent.’

‘What happened to him?’ Neil leaned forward. The story of the young boy manipulated by his greedy father had caught his imagination.

‘It’s said that he suddenly lost his powers and from that time on he never went on the stage again and ended his life in obscurity,
having lived to a ripe old age. He married and had children and I’m a direct descendant . . . Although unfortunately I haven’t
inherited his talents. According to the burial register, he’s buried in the churchyard, but there’s no headstone.’

‘Perhaps the pressure got too much for him. Maybe the price of celebrity was high even then.’ Neil looked at his watch. He
had been away from the excavation longer than he intended. But he had one more question to ask. ‘Have you ever come across
the name Juanita Bentham?’

‘I have indeed. In fact I have some of her correspondence in my collection. She came originally from the West Indies – she
married Sir John Bentham and died young, I believe. She had one son, Charles, who eventually inherited the estate.’

‘Do you know what she died of?’

Grooby shrugged his shoulders. ‘I’m sorry, I don’t. But I know
that she was very much against her sister-in-law’s devotion to Joan Shiner. I have copies of some letters she wrote and in
one she refers to Joan as a charlatan.’ He hesitated. ‘It was rumoured that the Shining Ones had something to do with the
boy, Peter Hackworthy, losing his remarkable abilities. But I don’t see how the two things could be connected, do you?’

‘But these odd sects had some nutty ideas, so it’s not beyond the bounds of possibility.’ He paused before dropping his bombshell.
‘We had to disinter Juanita Bentham’s coffin and it turned out she wasn’t buried alone. There was the skeleton of an adolescent
boy in the coffin with her. His throat was cut.’

Grooby looked genuinely surprised. ‘Really?’

‘Maybe he was abducted by this strange sect for some reason and that’s how they got rid of his body. Maybe they practised
human sacrifice.’

A guarded expression appeared on Grooby’s face. ‘Now, now, Dr Watson, I think we’re getting into the realms of fantasy here.
There was never any hint, even from the Reverend Charles Boden, that Joan Shiner’s followers went in for that sort of thing.’

Grooby began to make for the door.

‘Look, if you find out any more about Juanita or the Shining Ones, will you let me know?’

‘Of course,’ was the automatic reply.

Neil knew his time was up so he thanked Grooby and left, with the uncomfortable feeling that the man had some special knowledge
that he had no intention of sharing. But Neil’s curiosity was aroused. Someone had dumped a murdered boy in Juanita Bentham’s
coffin and he wanted to find out who that someone was.

He was halfway down the garden path when he remembered the question he should have asked . . . but it would wait for another
day.

Wesley and Heffernan had arranged to meet Rachel Tracey at the Ship, a comfortable pub on Derenham waterfront. But it was
no social assignation: they wanted to meet well away from Leah Wakefield’s house just in case it was being watched by the
kidnapper or his associates. The last thing they wanted to do was to let him know that the police had been brought in and
put Leah in danger.

Wesley took the drinks over to the table they’d chosen in the corner of the lounge bar. If anybody was watching them, they
were just a group of friends having a Saturday pub lunch and they were careful to keep up the façade . Heffernan had ordered
a pint of bitter while Wesley, the driver, and Rachel, the nursemaid to the Wakefield family, made do with orange juice.

When the sandwiches had been delivered to their table, they got down to business.

‘How are they?’ was the first question Gerry Heffernan asked.

Rachel suppressed a yawn. She looked tired, as though the strain was getting to her. ‘Suzy took some sleeping pills after
she delivered the money. She’s been spark out ever since. Darren’s getting jumpy, waiting for news. The manager, Brad Williams,
is taking it all calmly.’

Wesley looked up. ‘Too calmly, do you think?’

Gerry Heffernan immediately grasped the implication of Wesley’s words. ‘You think he arranged it? You think it could all be
an elaborate publicity stunt?’

‘Some people would do anything for publicity these days. And let’s face it, when this all comes out, it’ll hit the headlines
with a mighty bang.’

‘But we’re doing our best to make sure it won’t come out, aren’t we?’ Rachel said. ‘And the state Suzy’s in – you couldn’t
fake that.’

‘Maybe her and Darren aren’t in on it. Maybe it suits Brad Williams better if their reactions are genuine.’

‘Williams provided the money,’ said Rachel. ‘Well, most of it. Darren stumped up the remaining five grand. Neither of them
seems too worried about getting it back as far as I can see.’

‘Which points to Williams being behind it. If it was his money, surely he’d be wanting it back. Unless he regards that sort
of sum as loose change,’ Wesley added with what sounded a little like envy.

Heffernan shifted in his seat. ‘If it turns out you’re right, Wes, we’ll throw the ruddy book at that Brad character. Wasting
police time’ll be the least of his worries.’

‘I could be wrong,’ Wesley acknowledged. ‘But, in view of the similarity to the Marcus Fallbrook ransom notes all those years
ago, I think we should have another word with this Mark Jones. Try and pin him down, find some link to someone who was around
then who’s still around today. It can’t be a coincidence, surely. The lab couldn’t do proper tests on the Leah Wakefield
note because the abductor wanted it back but they reckoned there was a good chance that the paper was the same as the 1976
ones. And the writing looks identical too so it was either done by the same person or someone trying to copy the original.’

Rachel took a long drink of orange juice. ‘There is another possibility.’

Wesley and Heffernan looked at her, curious.

‘What if it’s someone who was involved in the original case – not the kidnapper but someone who knew the contents of the note
– has managed to get hold of some similar paper?’

Heffernan leaned forward. ‘Who have you got in mind?’

‘I know we don’t like to think of it but what about the police officers who worked on the Fallbrook case at the time?’

There was a long silence. Both men knew that Rachel’s suggestion wasn’t altogether outrageous.

Heffernan looked Wesley in the eye. ‘Fancy a session at the Bentham Arms?’

‘Not particularly. You think Barry Houldsworth might know something about all this, do you?’

‘We won’t know if we don’t go and ask him. And I want to find out why he didn’t mention Jenny Booker’s death and all.’

‘I’d prefer it if he came into the station.’

Heffernan shook his head. ‘I think he’d be more willing to reminisce on his own home turf, Wes. We’ll put him on our list.
But the person I really want to see is Jones. If he is Marcus, he must remember something about who kidnapped him, surely.
Give him a call at his guesthouse, will you? Tell him we’re on our way.’

Wesley took his mobile from his pocket and called the number, only to be told that Mr Jones was out. He said he was going
to see his brother.

‘Getting his feet well and truly under the Fallbrooks’ table by the sound of it,’ was Heffernan’s cynical verdict.

‘Maybe he’s just getting to know his family,’ said Rachel, slightly irritated at the chief inspector’s lack of trust. Families
were important: living away from home for the first time, she was beginning to realise that.

Rachel had to get back to the Wakefields. She had taken an hour’s break for lunch, leaving a young policewoman who was
new to Tradmouth, to hold the fort and to alert her immediately if there were any developments. Tim had said he was coming
over to make some modifications to the recording equipment. And she wanted to be there when he arrived.