The Shroud Maker (14 page)

At least that would start the ball rolling.

Jason Teague sat in the Tradmouth Arms staring at his pint of lager. Kimberley had sounded pathetically pleased to hear his voice when he’d called to arrange to meet her again. She wasn’t really his type but he’d go along anyway.

Dennis Dobbs still hadn’t turned up and, if it wasn’t for the opportunity to get involved in the charter business – an option he was seriously considering – and the fact that the police had said they’d probably need to speak to him again, he might have cut his losses and gone off somewhere where the weather was more predictable. With his crewing skills he was always in demand and he liked the itinerant life, existing in the moment free as the seagulls that wheeled overhead.

Den had promised everything would be straightforward but now he knew it had been a mistake to go along with his plans. He’d been too trusting and now he’d learned his lesson. Men like Dobbs always lead you into trouble.

His mobile phone was on the table in front of him and when it started to ring he looked at the caller display. At last Dobbs had deigned to return his calls. He answered with a hushed ‘Where the hell have you been?’, glancing round the bar to make sure nobody was taking too much interest.

But Den didn’t answer the question. Instead he asked one of his own. ‘Have the police gone yet?’

Pub walls, he knew only too well, are often bristling with ears so he answered simply, ‘No.’

There was a long silence at the other end of the line. Then Dennis Dobbs spoke again. They needed to meet to sort out their unfinished business once and for all.

Wesley and Gerry found Chris Butcher aboard his boat, a gleaming white forty-foot cabin cruiser called
Palkin’s Beauty
. The name caused Gerry to raise his eyebrows and mutter something about everyone being obsessed. As soon as Gerry called Butcher’s name the man emerged on to the deck and Wesley sensed that he wasn’t pleased to see them. But after a few moments he rearranged his features into the standard expression of the helpful citizen and invited them aboard, asking how he could help them and trying his best to sound sincere about it.

They were led down into a plush cabin, complete with leather upholstery and a bar, and Butcher offered them a drink. Gerry refused and Wesley did likewise. They weren’t there to socialise.

They sat down, sinking into the soft feather cushions that had been neatly arranged on the seats. No wonder Butcher felt he could live aboard while his house was being renovated; it was far more comfortable than many hotel rooms Wesley had seen.

‘We’ve just found out that you’re responsible for the Shipworld website,’ Wesley began. ‘It’s very popular, I believe.’

‘Fantasy fiction is a big growth area. We have a great following.’

‘Where did you get the idea for the site?’

‘From a book about John Palkin. It was written by a Victorian descendant of his called Josiah Palkin-Wright. The man was a typical Victorian scholar.’ He smiled as if he was enjoying some private joke. ‘Or some people these days would say obsessive.’

‘Do you think up the stories?’

‘I had the initial idea for Shipworld but now the storylines are developed by someone else.’

‘Who?’

There was a moment of hesitation. ‘Sometimes fans contribute but most of the recent stuff has come from someone called Palkinson.’

‘Palkinson?’

‘That’s what he calls himself. His nom de plume.’ He tried to smile but didn’t quite succeed.

‘Ever met him?’

Butcher looked away. ‘That’s not how it works. It’s anonymous.’

‘But traceable.’

‘I expect you’ve got the resources for that sort of thing,’ Butcher said, trying his best to sound casual.

Wesley made a mental note to get someone on to it. He wanted to know who Palkinson was. And how, in the case of Kassia Graylem, he’d managed to make fiction fit with fact so accurately.

‘Does Palkinson provide the illustrations as well?’

‘No. Some are provided by fans, like the copy, but it’s hard to get material that’s good enough so a professional illustrator does most of them. He lives here in Tradmouth.’

‘We’ll need his name and address,’ said Gerry.

Chris Butcher looked uncomfortable as if he feared he’d land his illustrator in some sort of trouble. Nevertheless he recited the details; most of the Shipworld illustrations were done by a Miles Carthage who lived there in Tradmouth. Gerry made a great show of writing down the name and address in his notebook.

‘The young woman who was found dead was called Kassia Graylem. Did you know her, by any chance?’ Wesley drew the picture taken from the festival programme from his pocket and passed it to Butcher. He saw that the man’s hand was shaking a little as he gave it back, as if he feared it was contaminated and he wished to get rid of it.

‘No. I don’t know her.’

‘Are you sure about that?’

Butcher gave an almost imperceptible shake of his head but Wesley knew he was lying. ‘Where were you around six o’clock on Saturday morning?’

‘I was here.’

‘Can anyone confirm that?’

He hesitated. ‘No. My wife was in London that night.’

They thanked Butcher for his time and as they stepped ashore Wesley glanced back. Butcher was watching them. And he looked worried.

‘I’m going to have a word with Miles Carthage. Want to come with me?’ Wesley said, looking at his watch.

Gerry shook his head. ‘Our new chief super wants to be brought up to date with the Kassia Graylem case.’

Wesley caught a hint of uncertainty in Gerry’s voice. Over the years he had reached an understanding with Chief Superintendent Nutter, who had recently retired. Gerry hadn’t reckoned much to Nutter as a copper but, on the other hand, he hadn’t interfered too much and Gerry had liked it that way. But CS Noreen Fitton was a new broom brought in from HQ over Gerry’s head. He wasn’t sure of her yet so he was treading warily. Wesley wondered how long he could keep it up.

In the end Wesley decided to take Rachel with him to Albany Street. As they cut through the winding back streets, avoiding the festival crowds, the drizzle was trying its best to turn into rain. They emerged on to the market square where shoppers browsed amongst the vegetables, clothing and bric-a-brac while the stallholders attempted to erect makeshift awnings against the wet.

‘How are your wedding preparations going?’ he said to Rachel as they walked. He thought it polite to ask.

‘OK.’

He waited for her to elaborate but when she stayed silent he got the message that she didn’t want to discuss the matter. He couldn’t help feeling curious about her reticence, wondering if her farmer fiancé, Nigel, had transgressed in some way. From what he’d seen of Nigel he seemed a good, reliable man. It was Rachel rather than her colleagues, though, whom Nigel had to impress.

They climbed the steps up to the street above, steadying themselves on the metal handrail attached to the wall. When they reached the top Rachel set off ahead of him, striding upwards, her steps shortened a little by the tightness of her skirt. Wesley followed, examining the house numbers as they made their way up the hill and eventually they reached number forty-eight, a tall, whitewashed double-fronted house, larger than its neighbours, with bay windows to the ground floor. An oval painted sign told them that this was North Lodge and two bells beside the glossy black front door indicated that the building was divided into flats. There was also a circular plaque to the right of the door informing the passer-by that between the years 1888 and 1918 the building had been home to local historian and author Josiah Palkin-Wright. Miles Carthage’s name was printed neatly beside the upper bell. Wesley reached out and pressed it.

After a minute or two the door opened a crack, as though the occupant was preparing to slam it shut. When Wesley announced himself it opened a little wider. And when they held up their ID cards, the man in the hallway made a great show of examining them. He was a wiry man, dressed entirely in black, and his skin was pale, suggesting he rarely spent time out of doors. His dark, almost black curly hair was neatly cut and there was an intensity in his pale eyes that Wesley found a little disconcerting.

When Rachel asked if they could come in and have a word, he hesitated before standing to one side to admit them. He led them up the central staircase and through an open door to their left into a spacious room, brightly lit by a tall window. The centre of the room was dominated by a large table covered with paints, paper and a half-finished picture; a work in progress.

Glass cases of the type normally found in museums stood around the walls. Wesley could see they contained specimens of moths and butterflies, the small corpses pinned there for eternity.

‘I see you’re a collector,’ he said.

‘I inherited them. But, as an artist, their beauty fascinates me.’

‘They’re more beautiful alive,’ said Rachel.

Carthage gave a mirthless smile. ‘I can’t say I agree. These specimens are over a hundred years old and if they’d lived their natural lifespan, they would have rotted to dust many years ago. Now they’re immortal.’

Wesley’s eyes were drawn to the half-finished picture on the table. Something about art had always fascinated him. Perhaps because he had no talent in that direction himself, the ability to capture scenes and people on paper seemed like some sort of miracle.

It was the image of a group of women in flowing medieval robes, stylised, almost Art Nouveau in browns, greens and gold. The women were all beautiful with fluid curls and perfect feline features but somehow they lacked character – and humanity. They were images from another age, expertly executed but hardly original. There were knights too, strangely androgynous and as beautiful as the women.

‘You’re an illustrator I believe?’ In Wesley’s experience artists, with their fragile egos, can never resist talking about their work.

‘Yes.’ He spoke with a slight lisp that made him sound almost childlike. ‘These are for a new book about King Arthur.’ He swept a hand towards the pictures on the table.

Wesley noticed that Rachel was examining some canvases piled up against the far wall. From time to time Carthage glanced over his shoulder at her, as if he was afraid she was going to vandalise his life’s work. The only time Wesley had seen anyone so jumpy was when they had something of a seriously criminal nature to hide. He carried on talking. If Carthage was preoccupied with what Rachel was doing, he probably wouldn’t be able to concentrate on thinking up convincing lies.

‘We’ve been talking to Chris Butcher. He says you do illustrations for the Shipworld website.’

‘That’s right.’

‘You’ve heard about the woman who was found dead in the river? She was cast adrift in an inflatable dinghy.’

‘I don’t know anything about that.’ The denial sounded unconvincing, like a child trying to wriggle out of some discovered petty wrongdoing
. It wasn’t me. I never did it.

‘She was wearing a blue velvet medieval gown.’

They hadn’t been invited to sit so the three of them were standing, Carthage by the table facing Wesley and Rachel behind, out of Carthage’s line of sight. She’d finished her cursory examination of his work and Wesley could see a look of suppressed triumph on her face, as if she’d discovered something interesting. They had no search warrant, so she was being discreet.

She had something in her hand. A sketch book. She made her way over to Wesley and passed it to him. What he saw made his heart beat faster: it was a picture of a cog, just like the tattoos on the shoulders of the dead Kassia and the missing Jenny Bercival.

Wesley placed it on the table and took the picture he’d printed of Alicia dead in the boat from his pocket. ‘Did you draw this?’ He handed it to Carthage who stared at the picture for the few moments before answering.

‘Yes, this is one of mine. The story was that Alicia had betrayed the Shroud Maker so he strangled her and placed her on a boat to voyage to the Realm of the Dead where the Birds of Morven pecked out her eyes as punishment. It’s all there in the narrative. I go by the text and illustrate it as best I can.’

Wesley picked up the sketch book and flicked through the pages: the cog had been drawn time and time again from many angles, the rigging lovingly depicted, accurate to every fibre of the rope. Carthage had clearly been aboard the
Maudelayne
because he had drawn the deck and the interior of the cabins. Then further on there were figures in medieval dress, men and women, young and old, wealthy and humble.

When he came to the next to last page he saw something that made him freeze. It was definitely her: Kassia Graylem in her blue velvet gown, although in the pencil sketch you couldn’t see the colour. In one picture she was standing, eyes shielded as if she was gazing out to sea, and in the other she was walking, her delicate fingers lifting the hem of her gown off the floor. The artist had captured her vitality, her grace of movement. And for Wesley, who had only seen her in death, he had made her human.

Wesley held it up in front of Carthage’s face.

‘Why didn’t you tell us you knew the dead woman?’

He was silent for a while, as though his mind was working hard to come up with a valid explanation. ‘I didn’t know her. She was just a musician I saw performing at a concert. I decided to draw her. I draw lots of people and…’ His voice trailed off.