Chapter 39
On the way to Lofton Hall, Wesley kept thinking of the call he’d just received from Neil. A possible murder weapon.
Gerry wanted to know why it hadn’t been found when the place was searched, and Wesley explained that the chest had been in the attic at the time and the weapon had been well hidden beneath a number of old tiles.
However, he thought the boss had a point.
The search team obviously hadn’t been as thorough as they should have been.
He’d sent someone over to Sycamore House to relieve Neil of the responsibility and take the knife to the lab. Hopefully, if it did turn out to be the weapon that killed Aleric Donnal, it would yield some clues.
When they arrived at Lofton Hall, Wesley stood in front of the house for a few moments, taking in the architectural features.
Dating back to the fifteenth century, it was a low stone building with mullion windows filled with old leaded glass and an arched oak front door studded with iron.
The medieval manor house near an ancient church had once been the hub of the village, but now it was a museum piece, preserved by the Heritage Trust for future generations.
Gerry nudged his elbow. There was no time to waste and they needed to get a move on.
Penny Worksop was expecting them, and she met them in the main hall, a gloomy space decorated with antlers and heraldic shields and a minstrels’ gallery to one end.
Wesley estimated that she was in her fifties.
Her brown hair was pinned up in an untidy bun, and she had a pleasant, open face.
She wore a long black skirt, a cheesecloth top and a pair of reading glasses on a chain around her neck.
‘You’ll be the officers from Tradmouth? Your station rang to say you were on your way.’
‘Sorry we couldn’t come yesterday,’ said Gerry. ‘Something cropped up.’ He didn’t elaborate.
Penny gave a gracious nod. ‘We might be interrupted by visitors if we stay in the house, so it’s probably best if we speak in the cottage.’
She led them through the house to a back door.
When they reached the stable yard, she made for a door at the end.
The cottage had probably once housed a senior member of the hall’s outdoor staff – a head gardener or coachman perhaps.
The living room was compact but comfortable and bathed in the sunlight filtering through the diamond-latticed panes.
She invited them to sit and offered tea. Both men accepted gratefully.
‘Of course I’m keen to help in any way I can,’ she said once they were settled with steaming mugs.
Gerry swooped on the offered plate of chocolate biscuits and helped himself to two.
‘I remember Dr Donnal. He’d just come back from France and was researching at Morbay University.
He seemed a nice man. Unworldly, if you know what I mean.
Not the type to get himself murdered, I wouldn’t have thought. ’
Wesley could see an expression of satisfaction on Gerry’s face. It looked as though they’d found the ideal type of witness. Someone sensible and keen to talk, who might be able to throw welcome light into the shadows of Aleric Donnal’s life.
‘I heard that a body had been discovered at a house outside Neston,’ she continued, ‘but the news didn’t give any more information.
When the name was released, I was away having a short break in Spain, so it came as quite a shock when your officer told me it was Dr Donnal.
’ She tilted her head to one side as though she was waiting for them to tell her more.
Wesley glanced at Gerry. It would probably do no harm to fill her in on a few details. ‘His body was found behind a wall. Somebody, presumably his killer, placed him in an alcove, which was then sealed up and plastered over.’
She stared at them in horror. ‘He was walled up? Not alive, I hope?’
‘No,’ Wesley reassured her. ‘According to our pathologist, he was certainly dead.’
She shook her head in disbelief. ‘But I can’t for the life of me think why someone would want to kill him. He was a rather unassuming academic. Hardly the kind to make enemies.’
‘That’s what we keep being told. What was your father’s relationship with him?’
‘They were on friendly terms. My father used to source books for him; ones that were hard to get hold of by normal means.’
‘Rare books? Medieval manuscripts? The sort usually found in museums or archives?’ A suspicion was forming in Wesley’s mind.
But Penny soon dashed his budding hopes.
‘Oh no, nothing terribly valuable. Dusty old books by Victorian scholars mainly. As far as I know, my dad never dealt in priceless illuminated manuscripts or anything like that. His interest was in books, not ancient treasures sold for huge sums by auction houses.’
‘So he wouldn’t have been able to get his hands on an original medieval bestiary?’
‘He might have dealt with books on the subject, but I can’t remember him ever mentioning that he’d acquired the real thing. You’re thinking someone killed Dr Donnal to get hold of some priceless manuscript?’
‘It’s a possibility we have to consider.’
‘Well, if he did have anything like that, I assure you my dad had nothing to do with it.’ She said the words with absolute certainty.
‘There is a connection between your father and the house where Professor Donnal’s body was found.’ Wesley paused to let his statement sink in. ‘Your father used to own the house around the time Dr Donnal died.’
Her hand went to her mouth. The news had clearly shocked her.
‘He did own a property near Neston at one time. You’re saying that’s where . . . ?’
‘Yes. Sycamore House.’
For a moment she looked relieved. ‘That’s not right. The house Dad owned was called St Julian’s.’
‘The name was changed by subsequent owners.’
She took a deep breath. ‘I see. That’s why I didn’t make the connection.’
‘Can you tell us about it?’
‘My father inherited it from his parents and rented it out, but I don’t think he ever charged rent at the market rate.
I suppose you could describe him as rather na?ve, but he was perfectly content with a small regular sum.
Although he did sell it for quite a bit in the end – said it supplemented his pension. ’
‘Did you ever go there?’
‘Only as a child, when my grandparents were living in the place. I remember thinking it was rather creepy and I never went back there after they passed away.’
‘Your father never lived there himself?’
‘Good heavens, no. He had a little place in Tradmouth, near the shop. His parents bought St Julian’s after my dad went away to university, but they never did much to it.
My grandfather was a historian, and Dad used to say he’d bought the house because he’d heard there was an old chapel in the grounds.
Not that my grandfather was ever serious about excavating it.
I think he just liked the idea.’ She raised her hand as though she’d just remembered something.
‘I think Dad said his father had done some digging around and found some old tiles, but I’ve no idea what happened to them. ’
‘Some were found in a chest in the attic,’ said Wesley, thinking it best not to mention the knife discovered with them. ‘A friend of mine is an archaeologist and he’s excavating the chapel at the moment. He’s found an old holy well too.’
Penny smiled. ‘My grandfather would have loved that. He died when I was about ten, so I never really knew him. I wish I had, because we could have shared our love of history.’ She gave a modest smile. ‘That’s why I do the job I do.’
Wesley decided it was time to come to the point. ‘As landlord, your father would have had access to the house. Do you know of any building work that was done there?’
Penny shook her head. ‘My father wasn’t a practical man and he never did any work himself.
He wouldn’t have known where to start.’ She smiled fondly.
‘He even needed an electrician to change a plug. In fact he didn’t go to the house very often.
He let the place furnished just as his father had left it.
He was far too busy running the shop and was just glad of a little extra money coming in.
’ She leaned forward, and Wesley suspected she was anxious to avert suspicion from the father she’d loved.
‘I remember him describing himself as a hands-off landlord. If something needed doing, he called someone else in.’
‘Do you know the names of any tradesmen he dealt with?’ Gerry asked.
‘No, but I’ve kept a lot of his things. I couldn’t bring myself to throw anything away. The old records from the shop are in the loft, and there might be something about the house up there too. But it’ll take some time to find it all.’
‘If you can dig out anything relevant, we’ll send someone round to fetch it,’ said Wesley, handing her his card. ‘But if you can find it sooner rather than later, we’d be very grateful,’ he added.
She thought for a few moments, then her eyes lit up, as though she’d just remembered something important.
‘There is something. I was up in the loft looking for one of my late mother’s old recipe books the other day, and I came across a ledger.
When I looked inside, I found a list of names under the heading “St Julian’s Tenants”.
It must have been mixed up with some old books that came from the shop.
When Dad died, things became rather chaotic. ’
Gerry nodded in sympathy. He wasn’t the most organised person himself when it came to paperwork.
‘I was going to put it back in the loft with the rest of Dad’s things,’ Penny continued, ‘but I haven’t got round to it yet, so it must still be in the kitchen drawer. Hang on.’
She leapt up, and Wesley heard noises from the adjoining room. It seemed an age before she reappeared holding a large book in her hand.
‘Here it is. Names of his tenants and when they paid their rent,’ she said, before handing it to Gerry, who was sitting with his arm outstretched, waiting impatiently.
‘Have you ever come across the names Susan Potter or Suzy Porter?’ Wesley asked while Gerry flicked through the ledger.
‘I don’t think so.’ Penny drew a deep breath as the realisation dawned. ‘Isn’t Susan Potter the name of that woman who was murdered in a village near Neston?’
‘That’s right.’
Her hand went to her mouth. ‘That’s terrible. I’ve never heard of Suzy Porter.’
When Wesley heard the DCI mutter, ‘Gotcha,’ he turned his head to look at him.
‘What have you found?’
With a smug grin on his face, Gerry passed the ledger to Wesley. It was open at a page listing the tenants who’d lived at St Julian’s during the period September 2010 to May 2011, just before the house was purchased by Timothy Fontescue-Burns.
Wesley’s eyes travelled down the list, and he suddenly understood the reason for Gerry’s satisfied expression.
The name Carlo Lanzani stood out like a beacon. As did the name Jim Baker. The third tenant was called Aphrodite Benson – the member of Timothy Fontescue-Burns’s commune who’d stayed on when the house changed hands.