Chapter 38
The following morning, they made the early start Gerry had planned.
By the time they left for the mortuary, the CID office was buzzing with activity.
Suzy Porter was still demanding police protection.
Gerry had sent Trish over to explain the situation and assure her that they’d given the author of the anonymous emails a warning.
She’d returned to the office looking drained after her encounter.
Another dead end. There seemed to be a lot of them.
After Gerry’s morning briefing, the two men walked to Tradmouth Hospital.
Unusually, Gerry didn’t have much to say for himself as they made their way along the embankment by the river.
It wasn’t long since they’d last made the journey, and Wesley found himself hoping it wouldn’t happen again soon.
He couldn’t shake off the fear that there was some sort of serial killer with a medieval fixation around, and he’d worked with Gerry long enough to sense that he was thinking the same.
The sun was shining and there was a gentle breeze, so the yachts were out in force on the river, making the most of the good weather before autumn set in. It wasn’t the day to be inside a mortuary, breathing in the smell of disinfectant and formaldehyde, but they had no choice.
Wesley knew this particular post-mortem was bound to be even grimmer than usual. When he’d seen what the big cats had done to Dale Gadson, he’d felt sick. His parents had wanted him to follow them into the medical profession. But he’d known even as a teenager he wouldn’t have the stomach for it.
He stood beside Gerry during the procedure, hoping nobody would notice that he kept his eyes averted, staring at a steel trolley in the corner as though it contained something truly fascinating.
However, he was able to listen to Colin’s commentary.
The pathologist sounded more subdued than usual as he worked. It was a nasty one.
When he had finished, Colin gave his verdict.
‘The lions certainly did some damage, but I’m afraid you won’t be able to arrest them for murder.
This poor man was dead before he was put into the enclosure.
It hasn’t been easy to ascertain the actual cause of death, but I’ve seen evidence of asphyxia. ’
‘You mean he was strangled?’ said Gerry, as though he found it hard to believe.
‘Indeed. And I think the killer used the lions as a handy way of covering his tracks.’
Wesley nodded. ‘The victim will be covered in lion DNA. Not much trace left of anything else. I noticed a wheelbarrow near the scene. It could have been used to transport the victim to the enclosure.’
‘Forensics are going over the whole place, so we should soon know,’ said Gerry.
The DCI was unusually quiet on the walk back to the station. Wesley had nursed a hope that Gadson’s death had been accidental; a careless miscalculation after he’d had a few drinks, perhaps. But Colin’s verdict had changed all that.
There was one person they needed to speak to as a matter of urgency. All patrols were still on the lookout for Jim Baker. He had access to the zoo and he’d also argued with Sue Potter, which meant he had a link to both cases, although they hadn’t yet been able to connect him to Aleric Donnal.
‘We mustn’t forget Ethelred Bingley’s daughter,’ Wesley said when they reached the station entrance. ‘When she was contacted yesterday to change the appointment, she said she’d be in all day today. We’ve got a lot to sort out, so do you want to send Trish and Rob?’
Gerry shook his head vigorously. ‘No way. After what we’ve just seen, I need some fresh air. A distraction.’
‘OK, a drive across Dartmoor to Lofton Hall it is then.’ Wesley felt quite relieved that Gerry had made the suggestion. ‘Bingley’s daughter works for the Heritage Trust. Wonder if Neil knows her.’
‘We can ask her when we get there.’ The DCI checked the time.
‘We’d better tell everyone where we’re going.
And what Colin said. And there might be news from the CSIs at the zoo.
They may have found some clue in Gadson’s house or office as to why he wanted to speak to us so urgently.
’ He sighed. ‘Pity we didn’t go round there right away when he called. He might still be alive.’
‘We couldn’t have known, Gerry. Don’t blame yourself.’
‘I can’t help it. He said he had something important to tell us and we went swanning off home thinking it’d keep till the morning. Of course I feel guilty. Maybe I’m getting past it. Maybe it’s time I hung up my handcuffs.’
‘Nonsense. Of course you’re not past it.’
Wesley tried to sound reassuring, but Gerry’s words had sent a chill through him.
There was an unfamiliar look of despondency on the DCI’s chubby face, and he suspected that nothing he could say would make any difference.
‘Come on, Gerry, let’s get up to the incident room, then we’ll pick up the car. ’
Neil wouldn’t have admitted it to anybody, but he felt inclined to avoid Helen Jones that day. He’d spent the previous night with Annabel, eating pizza, drinking wine and talking about the discovery of the holy well.
At one time he’d felt awkward when Annabel spoke about her classy friends and their activities, which included riding to hounds and attending charity balls, and he’d feared that their social differences would eventually come between them.
But over the years Annabel had become more involved in her work and their mutual interest in history had brought them closer together.
She still had friends and contacts in that other gilded world, but now she appeared to have abandoned the social whirl and exchanged it for Neil and his passion for the past. There were times when he couldn’t believe his luck.
He was working on the well with a couple of the postgrad students, uncovering more of the masonry around the base, when he heard a voice calling his name. ‘Neil, can I have a word?’
He stopped scraping away at an earth-caked stone and looked round, his heart beating fast. Helen Jones was standing there looking at him.
She wore a low-cut top and tight jeans; hardly an ideal outfit for digging.
He saw that her clothes were remarkably clean.
She’d been helping out at the chapel site most days, but clearly today excavation wasn’t on the agenda.
‘Hi, Helen,’ he said, straightening up. ‘What can I do for you?’
‘Come up to the house. I’ll make a coffee.’
‘Sorry, I haven’t really got time today.’
‘Your friend the police inspector wanted to know if there was anything in the house that might be connected to the previous owners. Would you come up and have a look at what I’ve found? Please.’
The mention of Wesley made Neil feel that he couldn’t really refuse.
After all, there had been a body in the house, a murder from a decade and a half ago, and he knew Wesley was desperate to find the solution.
If he could help his friend, he would, in spite of the faint warning signals he was beginning to experience.
‘I’m not really dressed for it,’ he said, looking down at his soil-stained clothes and muddy boots.
‘Don’t worry about that. The place is still a building site.’
‘Have you managed to get a new builder yet?’
‘Chaz has agreed to come back and finish the job. I played the maiden in distress and told him that my husband has abandoned me and gone back to London.’
‘Has he?’
She shrugged her shoulders. ‘It’s half true. He’s still staying at the Marina Hotel in Tradmouth, because he’s busy with the new business in Plymouth. But I wasn’t going to tell Chaz that.’
‘Is the house on the market yet?’
‘I told Ralph I’d contacted the estate agent but they hadn’t got round to putting a board up yet. But I haven’t called them. I lied.’
‘What will he say when he finds out?’
‘I don’t know and I don’t care. I don’t give up that easily.’
They’d reached the front door. There was no sign of Chaz’s van and no sound of work from inside the building. ‘Is Chaz here?’ Neil asked.
‘He’ll be back later. We’ve got the place to ourselves for a few hours.’
‘So what have you found?’ He was trying his best to sound businesslike, hoping she’d get the hint.
‘It’s in the bedroom. Come up.’
Alarm bells began to ring in Neil’s head. This woman was at loggerheads with her husband and he feared she might be trying to involve him in some way. If this was the case, he was determined not to play her games. ‘Can’t you bring whatever it is down here?’
‘That might be difficult. It’s an old chest – and I mean really old.
And heavy. Chaz found it in the attic and I asked him to bring it down.
I thought it would fit nicely at the end of my bed if it was polished up.
It’s got some interesting carvings. And there’s something inside. Come and have a look.’
Neil was torn, tempted by the possibility of seeing the antique. Eventually he made a decision. ‘OK. Show me. But I mustn’t be long.’
She led him up the wide oak staircase, looking back every now and then to make sure he was following.
Once on the landing, she opened a door to her right.
Her bedroom. At the end of the super-king-size bed stood a carved oak chest. He’d half suspected she’d been using the prospect of an intriguing antique as some sort of bait, but it did look very old.
He squatted down to examine the carvings.
Figures in medieval dress along with animals and birds.
The chest seemed original and he guessed it dated to Tudor times, or maybe even to the century before.
When he opened the lid, noting that it pivoted back on iron rings in place of hinges, he saw several tiles inside: medieval encaustic floor tiles, the type often found on the floors of ancient churches and monasteries.
He turned to Helen. ‘Mind if I take these to show my colleagues? We found similar ones in the chapel, but these are well preserved. Quite exciting. I can’t wait to tell my fiancée.’ He emphasised the last word again, just to make the situation quite clear.
‘Help yourself.’ She sounded mildly disappointed.
Neil picked one of the tiles up carefully. He needed to put them somewhere safe, but he supposed his car would do.
‘When Chaz brought the chest down, I was half afraid I’d find another body inside,’ she said unexpectedly.
‘Glad you didn’t.’ He gazed down into its dark depths.
There was something else in there: a stained piece of rag in the corner that had been concealed by some of the tiles.
He leaned in and pulled it out. To his surprise, something fell to the bottom of the chest with a metallic clatter.
When he peered down, he saw that it was a fairly modern kitchen knife, the blade stained with what he took at first for rust. ‘Got a plastic bag?’ He tried to sound casual.
Helen had received one shock recently and he didn’t want her to have another.
She hurried away and returned a few minutes later with a supermarket carrier. Neil picked up the knife gingerly with the bag, taking care not to touch it.
‘What is it?’
‘Nothing important,’ he said unconvincingly, stuffing the folded bag into one of his pockets.
‘Won’t you stay? There’s a bottle of wine I’ve really been wanting to open.’
Neil felt his cheeks reddening. ‘Very kind of you, but I need to get back.’
Once he’d gathered up as many of the tiles as he could carry, he hurried downstairs. He had the feeling that he’d just had a narrow escape. But the contents of the chest had definitely been worth the risk. Now he had to let Wesley know what he’d found.
Thomas de Fontescue, his confession
the 15th day of September 1493
I am near death and my dear brother attends upon me.
He was ever the best of us, a good soul who dedicated his life to God and Our Lady as a holy monk.
Brother Anselm, as he is now known, was also a loyal servant to our good King Henry, carrying messages to Brittany during His Grace’s years of exile.
I have always trusted my brother with my life – and with knowledge of my darkest deeds, knowing he would keep my confidence.
I am a murderer. I killed a man out of envy and lust – two of the deadliest sins – for which I fear I shall pay dearly in the next life.
Sir Simon Garnet was a loyal follower of King Edward and then of his brother, King Richard, who was later slain by our good King Henry at Bosworth Field.
For this I held him as an enemy to the Lancastrian cause.
Yet this is not the reason I committed my deadly sin.
In the year 1484, the year before King Henry’s forces landed at Milford Haven to challenge the usurper Richard, Garnet was away from his estate attending to business in Neston, for he had much interest in the cloth trade in that town.
I too was in Neston, but when I saw him there, I made no acknowledgement of his presence.
Instead, to my great shame, I rode swiftly to his house, where I was received by his wife.
Mistress Isabella Garnet was a great beauty, with flaxen hair and a fair countenance.
I once sought her hand in marriage, but she refused me, a rejection that filled me with anger and resentment.
I can only think that Satan was whispering in my ear, and I obeyed, for I was suddenly unable to contain my desire for her.
I murmured her name and reached for her hand, but she responded only with horror, saying she had always despised me in spite of my wealth and that she had a great affection for her husband.
I tried to kiss her, to stop her lips with mine, but she fought like a lioness, saying again that I repelled her and she could never love me.
To hear these barbed words emerge from those beloved lips hurt me as though a knife had been thrust into my heart.
Before I knew it, my hands were around her slender neck , squeezing the life from her in my fury.
She had rejected my advances and my devotion and I lost all control of myself.
My violent passion lasted only a moment, but she had fallen lifeless to the floor.
I had killed my beloved. I was a murderer, and now, if I were not to pay the penalty for my grave crime, I must consider what to do next.
There were no servants about, and all was silence until I heard distant hoofbeats. The master of the house had returned, and I knew I must make haste to escape.