Chapter 30
On their return to Tradmouth, Rachel parked in the station car park. But instead of heading into the building, Wesley began to walk away in the direction of the high street.
‘Where are you going?’ Rachel said, changing direction to keep up with him.
‘I want to visit Ethelred Bingley’s old shop.’
‘But he died years ago. It’s an optician’s now. My mum got new glasses from there last week. We’ve been trying to trace Bingley’s surviving relatives, but nobody’s had any luck as yet.’
‘Someone at the shop might know who they dealt with during the purchase. Has anyone been round there?’
‘It’s on our to-do list.’ Wesley could hear the irritation in Rachel’s voice.
She’d taken his question as a criticism, but he hadn’t meant it like that.
He knew only too well the pressure the team had been under, and the man who’d happened to sell Donnal a book all those years ago hadn’t been a principal line of enquiry.
Although after their meeting with June, that had changed.
‘This won’t take long, Rach. And if I find we’re wasting our time, we can get straight back to the station.’
She didn’t answer, and they walked to the shop in silence.
When they reached Ulswater Opticians, a bell jangled as Wesley pushed the door open.
As soon as they entered the shop, lined with displays of designer spectacles, a smart young woman behind the modern reception desk looked up and smiled. ‘Good afternoon. How can I help you?’
Wesley produced his ID. ‘Is the owner in? We’d like a quick word, if that’s possible.’ He returned her smile to put her at ease. ‘Just routine.’
At that moment, a door beside the counter opened and an elderly woman emerged, followed by a man in his forties wearing a crisp blue shirt and an expression of confident professionalism.
‘Mr Ulswater, these people are here to see you.’ The receptionist didn’t mention in front of the customer that they were from the police, as though she feared that a visit from a couple of officers might damage the firm’s reputation.
Mr Ulswater, all smiles, dealt efficiently with the lady, saying her glasses would be ready to collect in a week. The satisfied customer left the premises, and once she was gone, the receptionist introduced the two detectives.
‘How can I help you?’ Ulswater asked, with the innocent curiosity Wesley had seen so often on the faces of upright citizens with a clear conscience. He led them into an office at the back, as neat and ordered as the main shop, and invited them to sit.
‘I understand that you purchased these premises from an Ethelred Bingley,’ Wesley began.
‘Yes, I believe that was his name. But I don’t think I can help you, because I never met Mr Bingley.’
‘What can you tell us about the transaction? Who did you deal with?’
‘Mr Bingley had already passed away when the premises were put up for sale, and his daughter dealt with everything. But it was all done through our solicitors, so I never met her either. May I ask why you want to know?’
‘Mr Bingley’s name has come up in a case we’re investigating and we’d like to speak to someone who knew him.’
‘Is that the case of the body found in that house near Neston?’ Ulswater sounded excited, as though he fancied himself as an amateur sleuth about to become embroiled in a fascinating investigation.
‘Yes.’ Wesley thought he might as well take advantage of the man’s enthusiasm. ‘Do you know anything that might help us?’
The keen expression vanished. ‘Sorry, I don’t.’
‘Well, do you have an address for Mr Bingley’s daughter? Or failing that, can you give us the solicitor’s details?’
‘I think I might have her address somewhere. I’ll look it out now and let you know.’
‘Thanks. That would be a great help.’
Neil’s bone specialist, Margaret, had taken the skeleton from the shallow grave just outside the chapel to the lab. She’d promised a verdict within the week. Neil knew these things took time, so he’d just have to be patient.
The foundations of the chapel had now been partly revealed, exposing some interesting medieval encaustic tiles.
But Neil had decided to wait for reinforcements to arrive before extending the trench any further.
This left him free to concentrate on the well for a few days.
Helen Jones was nowhere to be found, so he walked into the trees with a couple of postgrad students to carry on his investigations.
He couldn’t help feeling a little concerned about Helen.
She’d seemed so enthusiastic at first, even passionate, but for the past couple of days she’d made excuses.
She had a lot to do in the house. She was too busy.
Yesterday, when he’d gone up to the house to ask if she was going to join the team, he’d caught her crying and had beaten a hasty retreat before she saw him.
Neil wasn’t one to embrace embarrassing situations.
The police had finished inside the house, but he hadn’t heard that they’d found anything new.
He’d been thinking about the dead man and his special interest in medieval bestiaries.
The grotesque stone carvings, strange hybrids and mythological beasts had now been taken away to the Archaeological Unit’s store for safety.
As Darren the tree surgeon had observed, a lot of people would probably fancy them for garden ornaments, and Neil hadn’t wanted them to go walkabout.
As he reached the well, he heard a voice behind him: one of the postgrad students, a small young man with tousled red hair and freckles. ‘I thought it might be useful to sweep a metal detector over this area.’ He sounded uncertain, as though he feared Neil would knock back his suggestion.
‘I see you’ve brought it with you,’ said Neil, looking at the instrument the student was carrying. It was something he’d been intending to suggest himself, but he’d been too preoccupied with the chapel and the skeleton they’d found. ‘Good idea. Get going, then.’
He watched as the detector was passed over the waterlogged patch in front of the stones. Soon he heard a telltale bleep. The signal was loud and strong, so Neil nodded to the young man. It was time to discover what lay beneath the ground.
They both took their trowels from their pockets and began digging. Soon they’d gone down far enough to reveal something glinting in the sunlight.
There was only one thing that gleamed like that. Gold.
Gerry looked positively excited when Wesley broke the news. ‘We now know Ethelred Bingley owned Sycamore House before Tim Fontescue-Burns bought it. And he has a daughter. We need to speak to her.’
‘Mr Ulswater has her details somewhere and he’ll be in touch as soon as he finds them.
’ Wesley paused for a moment, deep in thought.
‘From everything we’ve learned so far from the builder, Pete Wolsey, and June who used to live there, it seems increasingly likely that Aleric Donnal was killed just before Fontescue-Burns moved into the premises.
Donnal borrowed that book on the sixth of May.
It was due back on the twenty-seventh and he wasn’t the type who’d return books late, so he was probably killed between those dates.
June Wogan told us she moved in on the first of June but Timothy Fontescue-Burns already had access to the house a week or so before that.
If what she said is true, and I’ve no reason to doubt her, either Timothy killed Aleric Donnal as soon as he took over the property, or we can rule him out on the assumption that the body was already behind the wall by then.
Fontescue-Burns mentioned some dodgy building work in one of the downstairs rooms to Pete Wolsey when he came to fit the downstairs loo, and I doubt he’d have drawn attention to it if he was the one who put the body there. ’
‘I agree.’
‘June mentioned that there were sitting tenants who left before she moved in because Timothy didn’t think they were the right sort.’
Gerry smiled. ‘Blackballed from a hippy commune. You’ll be telling me next he insisted on the blokes wearing ties.’
‘She thought Aphrodite and Apollo were already living there and that Timothy let them stay because he thought they fitted in.
‘In that case, we really need to find them. They could be vital witnesses.’
The phone on Gerry’s desk began to ring. After a short conversation, he put the receiver down and turned to Wesley.
‘That was a woman who lives in Belsham. She says she’s been receiving threats. Her name’s Suzy Porter. And she thinks Sue Potter was murdered by mistake.’