Chapter 3
It turned out that Helen Jones had persuaded her husband, Ralph, a London businessman, to agree to make her lifetime dream of moving to the West Country a reality, while keeping a pied-à-terre in the capital.
Ralph had just acquired business interests in the area in the form of an IT company in Plymouth, but at first he’d been reluctant to begin a house search, claiming he was too busy for distractions.
It had been Helen who’d found Sycamore House, which had lain empty for several years following the death of the previous owner.
There had been some legal dispute about inheritance that had taken a long time to untangle before the place could be sold on, and it had been in a neglected state, ripe for renovation.
A scruffy home-made plaque by the front door had borne a Latin name, Casa Mirabilis, but Helen had decided to rename the place after the two sycamores flanking the entrance to the drive.
Sycamore House seemed far more dignified and suitable.
The condition of the house didn’t bother her and she was staying in one of the four spacious bedrooms, making the excuse that she wanted to supervise the builders and get a feel for her new home so she could put her own stamp on it once the essential structural work was finished.
Ralph, however, had different priorities and had booked into the Marina Hotel in Tradmouth, guaranteeing himself some luxury while the renovations were taking place.
Wesley wondered fleetingly whether Chaz, the muscular builder, was the reason Helen had opted to stay in the house rather than enjoying the comforts of a four-star hotel but he dismissed the thought, telling himself that his career as a detective had given him a suspicious mind.
Once she’d shown Wesley and Gerry into the dining room, she told them that she needed to return to the traumatised builder, who was demanding more refreshment to help him recover from his shock.
‘You must have had a shock yourself,’ said Wesley.
Helen took a deep breath. ‘That’s true, but someone’s got to keep calm and carry on,’ she said bravely. ‘Keeping busy and making the tea helps to take my mind off it, I suppose. Better get on.’
As she left, the CSIs arrived, and Wesley and Gerry watched as they carefully removed the rest of the wall.
Jenny, one of the forensic team, had already checked with Chaz, who’d assured her that it was safe to dismantle the sealed-off alcove.
He’d added that he couldn’t lend a hand because he’d been so upset by what he’d seen, muttering something she couldn’t quite make out but which sounded very much like compensation.
She told the detectives that she’d tried her best to appear understanding, but Wesley suspected sympathy had been in short supply.
‘He should have your job,’ he whispered to her as she walked past.
She rolled her eyes and smiled. ‘Yes, I’ve had to deal with some nasty sights in my time.’
‘Anything to report on this one?’
‘Adult male. Fully clothed. Body in a fairly good state of preservation; signs of mummification. I’m sure you’ll be relieved to know that it’s likely he was put in there after death.
No indications that he was alive when the work was done; no sign that he was clawing at the plasterboard or anything like that. ’
‘Thank God for that,’ said Gerry. ‘Can’t think of anything worse than being walled up alive.’
Wesley shuddered. He’d suffered from claustrophobia since childhood, and in his view, being unable to escape from a confined space was the stuff of nightmares.
‘Wesley, Gerry, delighted to see you.’
They recognised the voice at once. The pathologist, Dr Colin Bowman, seemed to treat every encounter as a jolly social occasion, even when a decaying corpse was present.
‘What have you got for me today?’ He rubbed his hands together as though he was anticipating a treat.
‘Mummified corpse hidden inside a wall,’ said Gerry.
‘Really?’ Colin sounded slightly amused. ‘How very Gothic. I suppose I’d better take a look.’
Gerry led the way over to the corner of the room, where the CSIs had just finished ripping out the plasterboard, revealing the body in its full horror for the first time. They stood aside to let Colin see the focus of their attention.
‘Oh my,’ he said, suddenly serious, before opening his case and starting a preliminary examination with great care.
A few minutes later, he packed his instruments away and delivered his verdict.
‘Won’t be able to tell you much until I get him on the table. All I can say at the moment is that he’s male, probably around five foot nine. As for the cause of death, that’ll remain a mystery until I make a more thorough examination.’
‘Any idea of his age?’
‘Not young, certainly. Possibly late middle age. He appears to have a good head of grey hair.’
‘Any idea how long he’s been in there?’
Colin considered the question for a few moments.
‘The clothing looks fairly modern. By modern, I mean late twentieth century or maybe even more recent; certainly not Victorian, so he wasn’t put there when the house was built.
As far as I can tell, he’s wearing twill trousers, a shirt and a sweater, but the latter has served as moth larvae’s dinner.
At first glance the clothes appear to be good quality.
Not that I’m any sort of fashion expert, of course,’ he added with a smile.
‘So we have a well-dressed middle-aged man,’ said Wesley. ‘The type who’d probably be missed.’
Gerry called over to Jenny. ‘Have you found anything else in that cavity, love?’
The CSI produced a couple of evidence bags. ‘There was a sheet of paper by his feet. Looks like some kind of list. And a letter. Might have dropped out of his pocket.’
Gerry’s face lit up as though he’d just struck gold.
Wesley was already wearing crime-scene gloves, so he took the sheet of yellowing paper from the evidence bag that Jenny handed him and unfolded it carefully.
There were words neatly printed on the lined page, which looked as though it had been torn out of a notebook.
Bonnacon. Ape. Griffin. It did indeed appear to be some kind of list, albeit a short one.
When he showed it to Gerry, the reaction was a shrug. ‘Any idea what it means?’
‘I recognise ape and griffin, of course, and I think a bonnacon is some kind of legendary bull. It looks like a list of animals, real and mythological.’
‘Let’s have a shufti at the other bag,’ Gerry said impatiently.
Wesley unfolded the letter with great care. It had been typed on thin paper with an old-fashioned typewriter, with each letter e raised above its neighbours.
‘What does it say?’ Gerry asked, straining to peer over Wesley’s shoulder.
‘It’s addressed to a Dr Aleric Donnal. Address, Harbour Steps in Tradmouth.
The letterhead just says “Tradmouth Second-Hand Books”.
No address.’ Wesley began to read aloud.
‘ “Dear Aleric, I am pleased to inform you that the book you asked me to find is now available. If you would drop into the shop before you set off for pastures new, I will be pleased to discuss remuneration. As for the other matter, you’re welcome to call at the house any time. Yours, Ethelred.” ’
‘Doctor?’ Gerry frowned. ‘A medical man?’
‘Or an academic. It shouldn’t be hard to find out.’
‘Aleric and Ethelred. They’d stand out in the school playground,’ said Gerry, shaking his head.
‘Depends on the school,’ said Wesley with a grin.
‘I suppose all the kids at your posh alma mater had names like that.’
Wesley’s ambitious parents, both doctors originally from Trinidad, had made sacrifices to give their offspring the best education available, and Gerry, the son of a Liverpool docker, sometimes couldn’t resist the temptation to tease him gently about his public school background.
‘I admit there were a few Tarquins and Augustuses – or should that be Augusti?’
Gerry grunted and ignored the question. ‘Any date on that letter?’
‘Sadly not.’
‘What’s “the other matter”, I wonder?’
‘Unfortunately the letter doesn’t tell us that. Or what is meant by “pastures new”.’
‘Pity.’
Colin Bowman had been listening to their conversation while he packed his instruments away. Now Gerry turned to him.
‘Well, Colin, I hope you’re going to give me an accurate time of death.’
The doctor shook his head, a wide grin on his lips. ‘You were always one for a joke, Gerry.’
‘A rough estimate?’ said Wesley hopefully.
‘Impossible, I’m afraid. Post-mortem tomorrow morning. Nine-thirty.’
‘That’ll do nicely,’ said Gerry.