Chapter 37
Gerry shifted his head to one side to let Wesley see. The footage was grainy, but it was definitely Jim Baker walking briskly towards the zoo entrance less than an hour before Wesley and Gerry made their grim discovery. He walked past the girl without purchasing a ticket.
‘According to the time on the footage, this was at eleven-thirty this morning. The girl on the desk says there was nobody else inside the zoo at that time. We’ve traced the last people to leave via their credit card details, but they didn’t see anything.
They were taking their toddler on her first zoo visit so they were a bit preoccupied. ’
‘So Baker probably had the whole zoo to himself for a while. No CCTV. And no staff apart from our lady of the ticket desk and Dale Gadson.’
‘She said it was a quiet day.’
‘Not for the lions it wasn’t,’ muttered Gerry.
‘She said she’d seen Baker go in earlier too. He’d already been in once and he must have come back.’
Gerry sighed. ‘And now it looks as though he’s gone to ground, which suggests he has something to hide.’
‘Unless he’s frightened of something – or someone.’
‘He’s bound to turn up sooner or later. In the meantime, we’ll have to see what forensics come up with.’ Gerry clapped his hands. ‘Right, Wes. Let’s get home and make a fresh start in the morning.’ He hesitated. ‘We’ve got the post-mortem at nine-thirty. Afraid it might be a grisly one.’
Gerry’s words echoed through Wesley’s head as he made the steep uphill journey home. He knew it was best not to think about it or he wouldn’t get to sleep that night.
As Neil uncovered more of the well, its structure half tumbled into the spring, he experienced an excitement he hadn’t often felt since his early days as an archaeologist, when every fresh discovery filled him with excitement.
Hundreds of years ago, this well had been the focus of people’s prayers and devotions, perhaps even since pagan times.
It was where they would have left their offerings, gifts they could barely afford to part with, in the hope of gaining the saint’s favour.
Why the well’s dedication had been changed from St Catherine to St Julian was something he couldn’t fathom, and he doubted he would ever solve the mystery after so many centuries.
However, it still niggled at the back of his mind.
Was the St Julian of the well really St Julian the Hospitaller, the patron saint of murderers?
He’d looked him up and discovered that he had other responsibilities, such as ferrymen, circus workers, innkeepers and hunters, but it was the word ‘murderer’ that stood out, especially as a man had been found murdered inside the nearby house.
Most of the students who’d been helping him had returned to Exeter in their minibus, and the two lads who’d volunteered to guard the site had gone into Neston for something to eat, leaving Neil alone on the site.
It was a time of day he enjoyed, when he had a chance to think about the people who’d once lived, worked, loved and maybe hated there.
What had gone through their minds as they offered their valuable gold coins?
They must have been desperate to make such a sacrifice to the saint. But why?
He was lost in thought as he began to scrape away the soil from another sodden stone, imagining the pilgrims walking to the sacred well wearing homespun gowns and woollen hose and kneeling in prayer in the very spot where he was working centuries later.
He heard a sob, and for a moment he thought it was his imagination, maybe a distant echo of some past pilgrim’s emotion.
Then he heard it again, closer this time. A definite sob. A woman crying. He straightened up and looked around. Nobody. He walked out of the trees, his trowel still in his hand. Helen Jones was sitting on one of the newly excavated walls, head in hands, her shoulders shaking.
Dealing with a weeping woman was definitely outside Neil’s comfort zone, so he hesitated, wondering how to tackle the situation. In the end, he decided to face it head-on.
‘Hi, Helen. Is everything all right?’ He knew it was a silly question, but he couldn’t think of anything else to say.
She looked embarrassed as she hastily wiped her eyes with the back of her hands.
‘What’s wrong? Anything I can do?’
‘No,’ she said, pulling a tissue from the pocket of her jeans and wiping her eyes.
‘Are you sure? You look upset.’
She twisted the tissue in her fingers and stood up. ‘I need to get back to the house.’ She began to walk away. Then she stopped and looked round. ‘If you must know, my husband wants to sell Sycamore House.’
This was something Neil already knew, but he wasn’t going to let on that he’d overheard the argument between husband and wife.
‘He says it’s cursed. I think that body in the wall upset him more than he’d like to admit.’
‘So why the tears?’ As soon as the words left his lips, he regretted his boldness.
‘I don’t want to sell. I love the house and the grounds.’ She made a sweeping gesture. ‘And all this history. I really can’t stand the thought of leaving.’
‘Even after what your builder found in that wall? I wouldn’t blame you if you wanted to.’
She shook her head. ‘That thing’s been taken away. It’s not there any more, so it doesn’t bother me.’ She hesitated. ‘Look, Neil, will you come back to the house with me – have a drink?’
He wasn’t sure whether he detected a suggestion of something else behind her words. But to be on the safe side, he made an excuse. He needed to get back to his fiancée. He found himself emphasising the word.
As he watched her leave, he wondered why the place meant so much to her.