The Skeleton Room (14 page)

Wesley had been watching the man in the bed: there was something in his attitude – the almost fanatical determination in
his eyes – which didn’t quite add up. There was something he wasn’t sharing with them. ‘You seem very keen to get this man,’
he said quietly. ‘Almost as if it’s personal.’

Harry Marchbank looked at Wesley, his eyes full of venom, leaning forward as though he were about to spit in his face. ‘You
don’t know nothing about it. Think you’re so bloody clever, don’t you. Why don’t you go back where you came from . . . we’d
all be a bloody sight better off.’

‘You mean they’re missing me at the Met?’ Wesley couldn’t resist goading the man.

‘You know what I mean. I hear you’re married to a white woman. I think that’s awful. I think . . .’

Wesley looked him in the eye. ‘Nobody cares what you think, Marchbank. I can see now why everyone in Tradmouth was so glad
to see the back of you,’ he said calmly, before walking out of the ward without looking back.

Gerry Heffernan had followed him, and as soon as they were outside the swing-doors he put a hand on his shoulder. ‘Don’t let
him get to you, Wes. That’s what he wants.’

‘I know. I’ve met his type before, unfortunately.’ He walked to a corridor window overlooking the river and stared out, watching
the craft flitting purposefully along the water. As his initial wave of anger began to fade he turned to Heffernan, who was
standing by his side. ‘I reckon Harry’s probably a sad man behind all that racist, bullying front; a bit pathetic really.’

‘You think so? I reckon he’s just a nasty bastard.’

‘Sometimes the job attracts that type . . . inadequate men who think it’ll give them their little bit of power . . . make
them someone.’

Heffernan looked at him, surprised. ‘Didn’t know you went in for psychology in your spare time, Wes.’ He had never thought
of Harry Marchbank like that before, but maybe Wesley was right. Maybe there was unhappiness; a deep inadequacy, behind the
man’s unpleasantness. ‘At least we haven’t got to put up with him in Tradmouth any more, thank God.’ He touched Wesley’s arm.
‘Come on, let’s go and see what Della has to say for herself.’

Wesley made for the next ward and for once he was pleased to see his mother-in-law. Della was guaranteed to get the bitter
taste of Harry Marchbank out of his mouth. She was sitting in the chair by her bed, looking bored. Her eyes lit up when she
saw the two men enter the ward. Entertainment was about to be provided.

‘Well, if it’s not my favourite son-in-law. How’s Pamela? Poor girl, she looked so tired last time I saw her.’
She looked into Wesley’s eyes anxiously. ‘She is all right, isn’t she? I feel so helpless being stuck in here when I could
be helping her.’

Della had never been one for taking any domestic responsibility off her daughter’s shoulders – she was more likely to turn
up at unsocial hours expecting to be wined and dined than to roll up her sleeves and help with the cooking and childcare.
But Wesley thought it best not to draw her attention to this fact, so he just smiled and gave the answer she expected to hear:
Pam was fine – positively blooming.

She beamed at Heffernan. ‘Nice to see you, Gerry. Is this a social call?’ she asked, obviously glad to be the centre of attention
of two members of the male sex.

‘Not exactly. We’d like to ask you some more questions about your schooldays.’

‘Can’t think why. The most exciting thing that ever happened to me was when we found the French mistress’s knickers on the
washing line and I hoisted them up the flagpole. You’re not arresting me for that, are you?’

Wesley ignored her last remark and focused on the matter in hand. ‘We’ve evidence that the skeleton we found in Chadleigh
Hall might date from the 1960s, around the time you were there.’

Della hadn’t expected this. She sat quite still for a few moments, shocked.

‘I know it’s a long time ago, but do you remember anything that might help us identify the skeleton? Last time we spoke you
mentioned some workmen. And a girl who ran away. Have you remembered any more? Anything at all?’

Della shook her head. ‘Sorry. It’s all a bit vague.’

‘What about old school friends? Are any of them still around?’

‘The only ones I’ve kept in touch with are miles away.’

‘What about teachers?’ There was a chance that staff would remember more than the unobservant young, busy
with their own teenage preoccupations.

Della thought for a moment. ‘Frostie’s still alive apparently. Which is surprising – she seemed ancient when I was at school.
She was in the local paper a few weeks ago; something to do with painting.’

She saw that the men were looking puzzled. ‘Not painting walls – painting pictures, watercolours. She had some paintings in
an exhibition – somewhere in Neston, I think it was. Miss Amelia Snowman, retired headmistress. As I said, I was just amazed
she was still alive.’

‘You don’t happen to know where she lives, do you?’

Della shook her head. ‘I have no desire to meet that woman again – even if she has turned into a harmless old lady who’s taken
to painting watercolours in her retirement. I just remember her as an evil, sadistic old bat.’

Wesley, who could imagine that Della would have provoked this quality in her teachers, said nothing. He looked at his watch.
It was time they were going.

An artistic spinster called Miss Snowman whose face was splashed all over the local paper couldn’t be that difficult to track
down.

Steve Carstairs sat on the edge of Trish Walton’s desk. She looked up at him and smiled. Then she saw that Rachel Tracey was
looking at her, so she returned her attention to the pile of statement forms on her desk.

‘How’s it going?’ Steve asked, lowering his voice.

‘I’ve drawn a blank with the people in Sally Gilbert’s address book. Most of them hadn’t seen her for ages – just exchanged
Christmas cards, that sort of thing. I’m just going through all these statements from people on Monks Island, but they were
all struck blind and deaf last Friday afternoon. I mean, a woman’s shoved off a cliff and nobody sees a thing. Funny, isn’t
it?’

‘Hilarious. You up for a bit of house-to-house later?’

Trish felt her cheeks burning. ‘Why not.’

Steve picked up a paper clip from her desk and began to
straighten it out absent-mindedly. ‘If you wanted a cottage down here and you didn’t want to go through the usual agencies
or holiday letting places, where would you go?’

Trish thought for a moment. ‘There are adverts in the papers . . . private lettings.’

‘Mmm. Suppose so,’ he said unenthusiastically, imagining himself trawling through endless back copies of the local and national
papers.

‘Or there’s always that place in Neston.’

‘What place?’ He leaned forward, suddenly interested.

‘There was all that trouble about it a few months ago, remember? It’s a sort of information centre for squatters in the middle
of Neston called Home from Home and it’s run by some vicar who says he’s providing a service for the homeless. It gives out
information about empty second homes and holiday properties – usually in isolated places where nobody would know what was
going on. It’s all very organised, like a sort of New Age estate agents – only they don’t hand over the keys. And they’re
careful to keep on the right side of the law so there’s not much we can do about it.’ She looked him in the eye and grinned.
‘Why? Thinking of moving out of your flat, are you?’

But before he could answer, Trish’s phone rang. Steve mouthed, ‘See you later,’ and scurried back to his desk. Even though
Trish’s suggestion about Home from Home was a long shot it might be worth looking into. But after the boss’s warning about
getting involved with Harry’s work, he’d have to tread carefully.

Harry was a mate – he’d been good to him in the old days. He owed him a favour.

There were times when Robin Carrington felt that he needed a break from poring over old documents in dusty archives. He would
have liked to have gone into Tradmouth again; have a drink in the Royal Oak, perhaps meet up with Brenda. But after the shock
of seeing Harry Marchbank, he wasn’t prepared to take any risks.

He hoped that Neil Watson had contacted the Iddacombes – George and Marjorie – in the converted lighthouse they called home.
When he had spoken to them on the phone they had seemed interested in the discovery of the
Celestina
and their links to the American Smithers family. But when they had invited him to visit them he had made his excuses and
declined. Why should he put himself in a vulnerable situation when he had found Neil Watson to do the job for him?

But there was one gamble Carrington was willing to take. If Marchbank had spotted him in Tradmouth, that was where he’d keep
looking, so Neston, eight miles upstream, would probably be safe.

With this in mind he drove to Neston and parked in the carpark of the biggest, most anonymous supermarket in the town. After
shopping for a few essentials, he left the car there and took a walk around the winding back streets, fascinated by the New
Age shops; the crystal and health food shops staffed by earnest-faced women who looked as if they rarely smiled, let alone
laughed.

He passed Neston’s grand parish church without going in. He had had enough of things ecclesiastical over the past couple of
weeks, as he had spent much of his time trawling through church records kept in Exeter. He had found Captain Isaiah Smithers’
baptism in the register of St Margaret’s, Tradmouth, and the entry for his burial – and that of his wife, Mary Anne – at Chadleigh
Hall’s chapel, the cause of their deaths given as drowning with a note in a spidery hand saying that Isaiah was Master of
the
Celestina
, wrecked in the cove.

When he had cast his net wider, searching through the registers of other churches in the area, he had come upon an entry in
Millicombe parish church’s marriage register: Isaiah Smithers, ship’s master, had married Mary Anne Iddacombe, younger daughter
of the late John Iddacombe Esquire and Mistress Mercy Iddacombe of Chadleigh Hall, in 1771. Robin had noted the date with
surprise. Captain
Smithers and Mary Anne hadn’t been married long when they died, side by side, in the swirling, hungry waters of the English
Channel. When he had discovered their grave in Chadleigh Hall’s little graveyard, he had pictured them as middle aged and
many years married when they took their last fatal journey. But Isaiah had been twenty-six and Mary Anne ten years his junior
– sweet sixteen. Too young for life to end.

He knew the Chadleigh Hall connection would please his clients: a long time ago he had discovered that there was nothing people
liked better than to find they were related to gentry. And the rest of his job would be relatively simple. It wouldn’t be
long before he had a full family tree for Mr and Mrs Smithers of Connecticut, dating back to the early seventeenth century.
When he had gathered all the information he would print it out and post it to them, arranging for their payment to be sent
to his solicitor in London to be forwarded on to him when things were more settled. Not that the money would be an issue now
. . . not like it used to be.

With these thoughts whirling in his head, Carrington wandered into a gloomy second-hand bookshop. He remembered the place
from previous trips. One year he had spent hours searching through its shelves and had come away with a slim volume of local
tales, published in the reign of Queen Victoria. Once again he made for the local history section at the back of the shop,
his footsteps echoing on the dusty floorboards.

Standing in front of the tall bookshelf, he breathed in deeply. A unique smell – the smell of slightly damp paper, musty and
strangely comforting. He scanned the books with their faded brown, green and blue bindings, the titles hard to make out against
the muted colours. There were no bright paperbacks here, only the venerable, forgotten volumes of yesteryear; the kind of
books that had always fascinated Robin Carrington.

He was searching for some reference to Chadleigh or
Millicombe – something that would tell him more about the places and their people – and after half an hour he found what
he was looking for. A slim brown volume entitled
An Account of the Dreadful and Wicked Crimes of the Wreckers of Chadleigh
by a Reverend Octavius Mount. He pulled the book from the shelf and flicked through it.

After a few minutes Robin Carrington found what he was looking for: the name Captain Isaiah Smithers. And five minutes later
he left the shop, clutching the small, dusty book close to his chest.

As Carrington was emerging from the bookshop, Wesley Peterson was driving through Neston’s narrow and crowded streets.

‘What’s this woman’s address again?’

‘Laburnum Cottage, Berry Ducis – just outside Neston. Rachel said it’s near Berry Ducis castle. According to Rach she’s looking
forward to our visit – she’ll be getting the kettle on so put your foot down.’

Wesley’s foot stayed exactly where it was on the accelerator. Speed wasn’t an option on the congested roads of summertime
Neston. And the likelihood of the Miss Snowman Della had described fussing over a pair of policemen with hot cups of tea was
remote. But he didn’t say so: he wouldn’t rob Heffernan of his hopes.

Miss Snowman’s thatched cottage was picture-postcard pretty. A pair of large laburnum trees stood in the front garden, giving
the place its name. All Wesley knew about laburnum trees was that they were pretty when in flower but highly poisonous and
hazardous to children. Perhaps Miss Snowman, who had been charged with the care of the young for so many years, preferred
it that way.

Heffernan nudged Wesley’s arm when he had rung the door bell. ‘You do the talking, Wes. You sound posher than me.’

Della’s former headmistress answered the door. Wesley had calculated that she would be in her eighties or nineties.
But if the woman who stood before them, with a ramrod-straight back and sharp blue eyes, was that old she certainly didn’t
look it. Time had been kind to Miss Snowman, which is more than her former pupil, Della, had been.