The Skeleton Room (35 page)

‘So?’

‘Eventually Kilburn’s caught by a detachment of soldiers from Plymouth who have been sent to sort out the situation. He’s
brought to justice and people who have been his accomplices give evidence against him to get themselves off the hook. To read
the trial report you’d think that Jud Kilburn did it all single handed, whereas in reality virtually the whole village was
in on it, and those that weren’t turned a blind eye to what was really going on. But when Kilburn stood trial something unexpected
happened.’

‘What?’ Wesley was impatient to know the rest of the story. He looked at Pam and saw that she was listening intently.

Neil paused to take a drink, looking from one to the other, enjoying the suspense he had created. ‘As I said, Jud Kilburn
began to throw accusations around at his trial. He said that someone else was the brains behind the whole operation. He even
claimed that the
Celestina
had been wrecked on this person’s orders and that the captain’s wife hadn’t been on board. He said that she’d found out what
was planned and had threatened to tell the soldiers so that her husband would have a chance of survival. But then she was
murdered to prevent her from talking. Of course, nobody believed Kilburn. Everyone knew that the captain’s wife, Mary Anne,
had been aboard the ship: she had been buried in the churchyard with all the other victims. But what if she hadn’t been? What
if someone else was buried in her place? There must have been a lot of confusion with bodies being pulled from the sea.’

‘Go on,’ said Wesley impatiently.

‘Jud Kilburn said that Mary Anne Smithers was walled up in a small dressing room off one of the bedchambers to prevent her
warning anyone. Hence the wedding ring with her initials – Mary Anne Iddacombe. He said that she’d been drugged and tied up
in there. And he said he’d sealed up the room himself.’

‘Why didn’t anyone go and look in Chadleigh Hall to see if he was telling the truth?’

‘Because the whole story was dismissed as Jud Kilburn’s attempt to dodge the gallows. He was found guilty and the judge said
all his accusations were to be treated as rubbish. Nobody bothered investigating because nobody believed him. And of course
there was the small fact that the judge was a friend of the person he was accusing. I had to go back to the original trial
transcripts: even the author of that book about the wreckers says he told wicked lies at his trial, but he doesn’t say what
they were. And because everyone assumed he was lying, nobody bothered to check. He also said that there was no treasure aboard
the
Celestina
, only iron: it was all an insurance fraud. Nobody believed that either. But I know from our excavations that he was right.
Jud Kilburn was telling the truth.’

‘So who did he say was behind it all?’ Pam asked.

Neil said the name and Wesley nearly choked on his beer.

*

Saturday passed quietly in the CID office. A statement had been taken from the owner of the Morbay newsagent’s, who was still
very vague about who had picked up the Chadleigh Holdings letters. Quite a few people used the shop as an accommodation address:
it may have been an elderly lady or a middle-aged man or a fair-haired young woman, possibly Brenda Dilkes – on the other
hand it could have been a young man who vaguely fitted Robin Carrington’s description. If it had been a regular customer,
the newsagent said, he would have known. Presumably, Wesley thought, whoever was behind Chadleigh Holdings had made sure they
didn’t run the risk of becoming a familiar face.

Wesley told Gerry Heffernan what Neil had discovered about the Chadleigh Hall skeleton and the chief inspector greeted the
news with relief. If it dated back to the eighteenth century, then it definitely wasn’t his problem. One less thing to worry
about.

Wesley knew he was right. But somehow he couldn’t get the image of those small, sad bones out of his mind. Mary Anne Smithers,
née Iddacombe – if it was her – still haunted him. Maybe she was trying to tell him something.

Monday morning saw all hands on deck in the CID office with Gerry Heffernan strutting between the desks like a ship’s captain
on the bridge waiting for the first sight of land. Everyone was telephoning banks and other financial institutions, trying
to trace an account in the name of Chadleigh Holdings.

At ten o’clock exactly, Trish Walton struck lucky. Chadleigh Holdings had an account at a bank in Morbay. They were on to
something at last.

Wesley and Heffernan rushed out as Trish was warning the bank manager of their imminent arrival. They’d waited long enough,
and they were anxious to get the case cleared up once and for all. If their suspicions were correct, whoever was behind Chadleigh
Holdings was clever . . . and dangerous.

*

Much to Gerry Heffernan’s surprise, the bank manager turned out to be a woman. Mrs Simmons was in her thirties with short
brown hair and a businesslike suit. She greeted them with a brisk handshake. Wesley had the impression of an actress playing
the part of a successful businesswoman – or the popular conception of the successful businesswoman: there was a softness and
uncertainty in Mrs Simmons’ eyes which belied her apparent coldness.

‘You do appreciate this information is confidential, Chief Inspector?’

‘Of course.’ Heffernan slouched in his seat and scratched his stomach. ‘You can rely on our discretion, love. But this is
a murder inquiry.’

Mrs Simmons stared like a frightened rabbit when the word ‘murder’ was mentioned and pushed a file towards him as if she wanted
nothing more to do with it. It was Wesley who opened the file and began to read.

When he reached the names of the two authorised signatories of the Chadleigh Holdings account – Brenda Dilkes and Sandra
Bracewell – he looked at Gerry Heffernan and took a deep breath. Somehow this wasn’t what he had expected.

They returned to the office, and as Wesley pored over the print-out of Chadleigh Holdings’ bank account, he noticed something
odd; something that shouldn’t have been there.

Every year for the past five years a few thousand pounds had been withdrawn, presumably to purchase the endowment policies
from their hapless owners. Then a substantial five-figure sum had been deposited some time later, presumably the policies
paying up on their former owners’ deaths. These large sums were swiftly taken out of the account, leaving just enough in for
next year’s purchase. Neat. A regular income for someone who didn’t baulk at committing murder to make a living.

But there was something out of place. Five and a half thousand pounds had left the account a few months earlier, presumably
to buy Sally Gilbert’s policy. But then a similar sum had been withdrawn a couple of weeks later. Wesley scratched his head.
Had there been another death? Had they been too preoccupied to notice that it fitted the pattern? After sticking to one murder
a year so as not to arouse the suspicions of the various insurance companies who had been obliged to pay up, was the killer
getting greedy?

He took the print-out over to Trish Walton’s desk and asked her to make a phone call. Half an hour later she walked up to
his desk with a triumphant grin on her face.

‘You were right, sir. There was a second advert placed in the
Echo
a couple of weeks after the one Sally answered.’ She looked him in the eye. ‘Does this mean there’ll be another murder?’

Wesley shook his head. He wasn’t sure what it meant. He phoned the bank. There was nothing else he could do for now.

And then a call came from the Met.

Robin Carrington had escaped from the magistrates’ court in London by climbing out of a lavatory window. And Harry Marchbank’s
guvnor would be eternally grateful if the Devon force would keep a look out for him just in case he headed back. As the French
police hadn’t caught up with Harriet yet, it was assumed that he’d try to reach her somehow, and if the phone number of Old
Coastguard Cottage was the only way she had to contact him . . .

But although Wesley made cooperative noises down the phone and assured his London colleagues that they would be on constant
lookout in case Carrington showed his face on their patch again, his mind was on other things.

There was a killer about – and if that killer wasn’t
caught soon, there was a chance that he or she would kill again.

Two officers were dispatched to bring Sandra Bracewell in for questioning. They had orders to keep things low key. Just a
chat down at the station.

As it was coming up to lunch-time and they couldn’t do anything more until Sandra had been brought in, Gerry Heffernan suggested
that he and Wesley get out of the office to have something to eat. They could buy a pasty and eat it back at his place, washed
down with a decent cup of tea. Wesley agreed. He too felt he needed a change of scene.

They walked through the busy streets to Baynard’s Quay, stopping to buy their lunch on the way. It was good to be out of the
office. And perhaps it would help them to think.

‘You keeping your eyes peeled for Robin Carrington?’ Heffernan asked, not sounding too concerned. ‘That lot in the Met couldn’t
organise a piss-up in a brewery – I mean, how did they let Carrington give them the slip? He’s hardly in the same league as
the Krays.’

‘Somehow I can’t see him coming back here. He’ll make for Dover or Folkestone.’

‘You reckon?’

Wesley didn’t answer. Recent developments had caused him to lose interest in Robin Carrington.

‘So Sandra Bracewell’s behind these murders?’

‘That’s what it looks like. Her and Brenda both worked at the Tradfield Manor
– that’s how they must have got to know each other.’ Wesley didn’t sound too certain. ‘And if Sandra’s planning another one,
getting greedy, that’s when they start making mistakes. The bank is tracing who the latest payment was made to but Mrs Simmons
said it could take some time. I told her it was urgent.’

‘You should have laid it on thick, Wes. You should have
said it was a matter of life and death. It might be if whoever sold Sandra that policy is walking into her trap at this very
moment.’

‘I’d never have had Sandra Bracewell down as a murderer,’ Wesley said as Gerry Heffernan unlocked his front door. ‘In fact
Miss Snowman said she wasn’t too bright.’

‘She pulled off that successful disappearing act all those years ago and arranged for those letters to be sent. You can never
tell. Or maybe it was Brenda who did the actual murders.’

‘But she was murdered herself, so Sandra must be the brains behind it. And we had her down as the Chadleigh Hall skeleton.’

As they entered Gerry Heffernan’s living room from the narrow hall, he spotted an envelope on the mantel-piece and picked
it up. On it was scrawled a note in the untidy handwriting Rosie Heffernan had inherited from her father.

‘Gone to work. Ship Shape’s sending me to that lighthouse again. Be back later. R.’ Gerry Heffernan smiled to himself before
screwing up the note and throwing it in the fireplace.

But Wesley bent down and picked it up. Then he took it over to the table and flattened it out.

‘Isn’t that taking recycling a bit far, Wes?’

Wesley didn’t answer. He was examining the expensive-looking cream envelope with the thin blue line running along its gummed
edge. There was another note on the back in faint pencil. Wesley screwed up his eyes to try to make out what it said.

He handed the envelope to Heffernan. ‘Does this look familiar to you?’

Heffernan took it and turned it over. ‘Yes, but . . . There must be loads of ’em about.’

Wesley’s mobile phone rang and, after a brief conversation, he turned to Heffernan.

‘That was Trish. The bank’s got an address for us.’

Heffernan looked at the paper bag in his hand which contained his pasty. He supposed he could eat it on the way.

The accused stated that on the night before the
Celestina
was lost he visited Chadleigh Hall, the dwelling of Mistress Mercy Iddacombe, a widow, her son James and two daughters, one
married to the
Celestina
’s master, Captain Isaiah Smithers. He was asked by the said Mistress Iddacombe to look out for the
Celestina
and put a lamp on the cliff top to guide her into the cove. The
Celestina
and her cargo were heavily insured, although the accused claimed that the cargo was worthless and that there was a sailor
on board who had been paid by the said Mistress Iddacombe to hole the ship’s hull and cause the vessel to founder at that
point so that he could come ashore and make himself known to the accused.

The accused stated also that this conversation was overheard by the wife of the Captain of the said ship who had been forced
by illness not to accompany her husband on the voyage. This lady, Mistress Mary Anne Smithers, became sorely distressed at
the prospect of her husband’s ship being wrecked and threatened to tell the authorities of her mother’s plans. The accused
then stated that Mistress Iddacombe gave her daughter a strong dose of opium and ordered the accused to place her in a room
which was then bricked up and all trace of it removed. The accused stated that Mistress Iddacombe was deeply jealous of her
daughter as she and the said Captain
Smithers had been lovers and the Captain had abandoned the mother to marry the daughter. He also said that Mistress Iddacombe
had been giving poison to the said Mary Anne Smithers and that she had issued orders that Captain Smithers was to be saved
from the wreck and brought to her. However, the Captain died after a fight on the shore.

The judge directed the jury to disregard these wild accusations as Mistress Mary Anne Smithers had been identified as one
of those who died in the wreck of the
Celestina
and Mistress Iddacombe was a respected shipowner who had lost not only her daughter and sonin-law, but also a great treasure
of gold and jewels aboard the
Celestina
. Such lies against an innocent lady, he said, were further proof of the criminal character of the accused.

From an account of the trial of Judah Kilburn, 14 September 1772 at Exeter

The last thing they wanted to do was to alarm Ms Theresa Palsow of 14 Nelson Crescent, Neston. Wesley and Heffernan sat in
the car for a few moments staring at the house, a new box on an estate a bus ride from the town centre.

‘Better get it over with,’ said Heffernan.

They got out of the car, watched by a group of curious children circling on bicycles, and walked up to the white UPVC front
door. As Wesley rang the bell he could hear a baby crying inside and hurried footsteps in the hallway before the door opened
to reveal a thin young man with a goatee beard. He wore a faded T-shirt decorated with milky vomit around the left shoulder
and had the harassed look of a house husband.

‘Mr Palsow?’ Wesley asked, holding up his warrant card.

‘No. Carter. Palsow’s my partner’s name.’

‘Is that Theresa Palsow?’

‘Yeah. Why? Is she okay? Has something happened?’

‘Nothing to worry about, Mr Carter. Just routine.’ Wesley said, trying his best to sound reassuring. ‘Is Ms Palsow in?’

‘No. You’ve just missed her. She’s gone out.’

Wesley came straight to the point. ‘Do you know if she’s sold an insurance policy recently? An endowment policy?’

Carter frowned. ‘Yeah, a few weeks back. Why? What’s all this about?’

‘May we come in?’

Carter led them into a living room, half decorated and strewn with brightly coloured plastic toys. A young baby sat gurgling
in a bouncing chair near the fireplace.

‘How did she sell the policy? Through a broker or . . .?’

‘No. She answered an advert in the paper. We needed some ready cash. Why? What is this?’

Wesley produced Sally Gilbert’s envelope. ‘Do you know if Theresa’s received a letter like this recently?’

Carter took the envelope from him and studied it, frowning. ‘She got one exactly like it the other day.’

Wesley and Heffernan looked at each other. ‘Did she show you what was inside?’

Carter shook his head.

‘Do you know where the letter is? Can we see it?’

Carter told them to hang on and left the room. As soon as he was out of sight, Gerry Heffernan bent down to make a fuss of
the baby, pulling faces and entertaining the infant with a cloth rabbit which he found lying on the floor near by. Wesley
had always known that the boss was a big softie on the quiet. But when Carter returned he straightened himself up and looked
serious.

‘I can’t find it. I’ve looked in all the usual places and . . .’

‘Did she tell you what was in it?’

Carter was beginning to look worried. ‘No. I asked her
but she said she couldn’t tell me yet – said it was going to be a surprise for me. I thought it was something to do with
my birthday – it’s tomorrow. Why? What’s all this about?’

Wesley glanced at the cheap carriage clock on the mantelpiece. ‘Do you know where she’s gone?’

‘No. She took the day off work today. Said she had something to do. Said she was meeting someone.’

‘Who?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Please, Mr Carter. Is there anything else you can tell us? Anything at all? What were her exact words?’

He thought for a moment. ‘She just said she was meeting someone. And she said she might have a surprise for me when she got
back. She was in a good mood when she left . . . excited, like a kid at Christmas.’

‘And you didn’t ask her where she was going or who she was meeting?’

‘Of course I did but she wouldn’t say. Look, what is all this? I’ve got a right to know.’ The baby, sensing tension, started
to cry. Carter bent down to pick it up.

‘Can you give us her car registration number? And have you got a recent photograph?’

‘I’m not saying any more until you start telling me what the hell this is all about!’ Carter yelled, holding the baby so tight
that it started to cry again.

Wesley faced him, knowing that if he hadn’t had the baby in his arms he would probably have thrown a punch by now. He understood
how he felt but he couldn’t reassure him. And he had never been much good at telling blatant lies so he tried the truth. ‘Look,
there’s a possibility that Theresa might be in danger. That’s why we have to find her.’

Carter stared at him, dumbstruck, before reciting the details of Theresa’s car. Then he placed the baby on the grubby sofa
and began to pace up and down.

Wesley stepped out into the narrow hallway and put through a call to the station. All patrols were to look out for
Theresa Palsow’s rusty white Ford Fiesta. It was urgent. Possibly a matter of life and death.

He returned to the lounge, where he found Gerry Heffernan with the baby on his knee. Under other circumstances the big man’s
display of softness would have made him smile. But his attention was on Carter, still pacing up and down in a world of his
own.

All of a sudden the pacing stopped. Carter swung round to face them. ‘Last night she asked me the best way to get to Tradmouth
Castle. She’s not local, see. Comes from Somerset.’

‘She just asked this last night, out of the blue?’

Carter nodded.

Wesley saw that Heffernan was passing the baby to its father: at least it would give him something to take his mind off Theresa.

‘We’ll ask a WPC to come round and give you a hand; just while we make sure your, er . . . Theresa’s safe,’ said Wesley, aware
that his words were hardly a comfort.

They left the house quickly, hoping they were wrong.

Pam Peterson had just lifted Michael into the child seat of the supermarket trolley when she heard a familiar voice.

‘Hello, Pam. How are you keeping?’

She turned round and saw Jackie Brice grinning at her over a trolley piled with groceries. ‘Hi, Jackie. I’m fine, thanks.
Enjoying the holiday?’

But Jackie had spotted Michael. ‘Hasn’t he grown since I last saw him.’

Michael grinned happily. Like most babies, he had taken to Jackie immediately.

‘I read about Kayleigh’s mum in the paper,’ Jackie said, turning her attention back to Michael’s mother. ‘Isn’t it awful?
Poor little Kayleigh. Such a selfish thing to do when you’ve got a little one depending on you.’

‘She must have been desperate. Poor woman.’

The two women observed a few seconds’ silence as they
contemplated Brenda Dilkes’s death.

‘Have you heard how Kayleigh is?’ This had been worrying Pam ever since she’d heard the news.

‘She’s gone to Brenda’s mum – she only lives this side of Plymouth. It’s terrible for the poor little maid. She’s such a nice
child. I met her on the way to the shops just before Brenda passed away and she was chattering to me like she does.’ Jackie
raised a finger, as though she had just remembered something. ‘You know you were worried about that present she gave you?
That Brenda had spent too much on it?’

Pam nodded.

‘I asked Kayleigh where her mum had got it.’ She laughed. ‘Well, you know how nosey I am.’

‘And did she tell you?’

‘Oh yes.’

‘So where did she get it?’

Jackie Brice told her.

Gerry Heffernan chewed his nails as Wesley drove.

‘Can’t you go any faster?’

Wesley put his foot down.

Heffernan’s mobile began to sing its cheerful rendition of ‘The Ride of the Valkyries’ in his jacket pocket. He answered it,
and after a series of grunts he turned to Wesley. ‘Sandra Bracewell’s not at home: she told her husband she was going to visit
her old school friend, Carole. Put your foot down, eh?’

When Wesley spotted the sign to Tradmouth Castle, he swung the car off the main road.

Theresa Palsow parked her car by the small café to the side of Tradmouth Castle, relieved that the ancient vehicle hadn’t
decided to break down on the way. But soon that wouldn’t be a problem. Soon she’d be able to afford a new one.

She looked around. There weren’t many people about,
only a young dark-haired man coming out of the gift shop and an elderly couple sitting on a bench beneath the ruined walls
of the old part of the castle, gazing out to sea. Perhaps it was them. But it seemed unlikely. Surely Iddacombe Finance’s
executives would look more business-like. These two seemed more like pensioners who had all the time in the world to sit on
benches in beauty spots and watch the world go by.

She took the letter from her bag and read it again. She had read it so many times since its arrival that she knew it off by
heart.

‘Dear Ms Palsow, I am writing to inform you that the will of one of our clients has named you as a beneficiary. I was informed
by our client before his death that he wishes the matter to remain strictly confidential and it is a condition of his will
that you should tell nobody about your receipt of this letter, not even your spouse or closest relatives. If it is found that
this condition has been broken you will, of course, forfeit the considerable sum of money that is owing to you. This condition
may seem unusual but it is due to delicate personal considerations that can only be revealed to you at a face-to-face meeting
under conditions of the strictest confidentiality. As our Tradmouth offices are undergoing extensive refurbishment at the
moment, I feel it might be best for us to meet informally at a neutral location. I suggest that the café at Tradmouth Castle
would be a most suitable venue where we can discuss the matter over tea. I look forward to meeting you outside the café on
Monday, 6 August at 3.30. Please bring this letter with you as proof of your identity. Yours sincerely, B. Dilkes.’

Theresa smiled. This was the sort of thing she had dreamed of; the sort of thing that happened to other people. There would
be no more debts; no more loans; no more threats and demands for payment. The sale of the endowment policy had paid off most
of her debts but now, for the first time in her life, she’d be able to afford a few little luxuries. She felt a warm glow
of happiness as she contemplated
a life without the constant worry of bills shooting through the letter box like guided missiles.

As she put the letter in her pocket, she saw that the elderly couple had stood up and were looking in her direction. Theresa
locked the car door and stood quite still, watching as they made their way slowly down the steps. The man was holding the
woman’s hand, helping her down.

They were coming towards her. She took the letter from her pocket and held it out ostentatiously. With any luck, her troubles
would soon be over.

‘I’ve been trying Carole’s number but there’s nobody in. Wherever Sandra’s gone, it isn’t there.’

‘Is Sam working at Carole’s today? Has he got a mobile with him?’

‘He doesn’t tell me what he’s up to and he usually forgets his mobile anyway. How much farther to the castle?’

‘Not far now.’

But as they rounded the next bend, Wesley saw a slow-moving tractor ahead.

‘Theresa Palsow?’

Theresa swung round. She hadn’t heard the footsteps behind her.

‘Yes,’ she answered, holding the letter with trembling hands. She didn’t know why she felt nervous: perhaps it was the thought
that this might change her life. But, she told herself, she had nothing to lose.

‘May I have the letter? Just to verify that you are who you say you are.’ When Theresa handed over the letter, it was opened
and read.

‘Good,’ said the stranger after a few seconds, smiling encouragingly. ‘Do you mind if we go for a short walk before we have
our tea? Some of what I have to tell you is highly confidential and I don’t want to risk being overhead. Let’s take the footpath
over there and have a little chat,
shall we?’ The stranger smiled again. ‘Work up an appetite. I believe the café’s cream teas are excellent.’

Theresa was unused to walking and she didn’t know whether the cheap sandals she was wearing were up to it. But she followed
the stranger obediently. If there was a fortune at stake, she would willingly sacrifice a pair of plastic snakeskin mules.