Chapter 5
‘Did Darren the tree surgeon have anything interesting to say?’ Gerry asked as they drove away from Sycamore House.
‘He showed me the wall they’d found. I could be wrong, but it looked old; medieval maybe. I’d like Neil to have a look at it.’
‘You think it’s a job for the County Archaeologist?’
‘He’s got a posher job title now. Heritage Manager – Archaeology and Historic Environment.’
Gerry rolled his eyes. ‘I stand corrected. But we’ve got a dead body on our hands, so we mustn’t get sidetracked, Wes. I know what you’re like.’
‘Darren found something else too – sculptures that looked like gargoyles. He said his mate would want to sell them for garden ornaments and make himself a few quid if he didn’t keep an eye on them, so he’s keeping them hidden somewhere safe.’
They’d reached the outskirts of Tradmouth and would soon be back at the station.
They’d already rung ahead to bring the team up to date with the latest developments, and instructed them to discover all they could about Aleric Donnal and Ethelred, adding that if the latter was a book dealer, he shouldn’t be hard to trace.
Hopefully there’d be information waiting for them when they arrived.
‘One thing’s for sure,’ said Gerry as he walked into the CID office with Wesley by his side. ‘That bloke didn’t seal himself up inside that wall.’
Wesley said nothing. As far as he was concerned, Gerry had just stated the obvious.
While Gerry headed for his office, Wesley checked the messages on his desk. He’d also asked the team to trace the former owners of Sycamore House and had given them the name Darren had mentioned, Fortescue-Barnes.
‘I’ve got something.’
He turned round to see DS Rachel Tracey holding out a sheet of paper.
‘Good work. What is it?’
‘Tradmouth Second-Hand Books is long gone. It was a little shop near the boss’s house on the road leading to Baynards Quay, one of those “down the rabbit hole” sort of places, full of rickety shelves crammed with musty old books.
It was owned by an Ethelred Bingley and it closed about eight years ago. It’s now an optician’s.’
‘Is Bingley still in the area?’
‘He died soon after he gave up the shop. He was pretty elderly when he retired, according to my sources.’
‘Sources?’
‘I called my parents to see whether they knew anything about the place. They remember it from years ago. My dad used to go in there from time to time.’ Rachel’s parents’ farm was just outside Tradmouth, so they were familiar with the changing face of the town.
‘Anything else?’
‘I haven’t found anything on Aleric Donnal yet. He definitely wasn’t on the medical register, so I think we can assume his doctorate is in some other subject. And Sycamore House used to be known as St Julian’s and was last owned by someone called Timothy Fontescue-Burns.’
Wesley raised his eyebrows. Darren had got it almost right.
Rachel scratched her head. ‘I wonder if he’s any relation to the owners of Fontescue Hall. It’s a big place between here and Dukesbridge. Very old local family, lords of the manor and all that.’
‘Do they still live at the hall?’
Rachel’s family had been in the area for generations and her knowledge of local matters often proved invaluable.
Wesley was originally from London, and had transferred to Tradmouth after serving in the Met’s Art and Antiques Unit because his wife, Pam, was a local girl who wanted to move back to be near her recently widowed mother.
Even though he’d been in Devon a long time now, he knew there was still a lot he had to learn about his adopted area.
‘Oh yes,’ said Rachel. ‘The Fontescues are still in residence. The hall’s open to the public, and they hold lots of events in the house and grounds.
Vintage car rallies, flower festivals, craft fairs, Christmas markets, the sort of things that bring in the money to keep the place going.
I hear they’re holding a medieval festival there at the weekend. ’
This caught Wesley’s attention. ‘Might be worth paying it a visit. Pam and the kids might enjoy it.’
He tried to sound confident, but he wasn’t altogether convinced by his own words.
Even though his thirteen-year-old son, Michael, had been an enthusiastic participant in the archaeological dig led by Wesley’s old university friend, Neil, over the previous summer holidays, taking him and his eleven-year-old sister to a medieval festival might be a step too far.
Michael’s Dartmoor dig had focused on the excavation of a Second World War aircraft used to transport spies; a far more exciting subject for an adolescent boy.
Wesley hoped that the deadly danger he had faced on that dig, along with seeing his Uncle Neil in peril, hadn’t put him off archaeology for life.
He appeared to have recovered well from his ordeal, even boasting about it to his friends with typical teenage bravado.
But Wesley knew that he still woke up at night with bad dreams. Healing took time.
Rachel’s voice interrupted his thoughts. ‘The Fontescue-Burns who owned Sycamore House might be a poor relation.’
‘If he was, we don’t want to ruffle any aristocratic feathers by accusing their relatives of murder, do we?’
‘I don’t think the boss would share your scruples,’ said Rachel. Gerry Heffernan was no respecter of social position. He generally left Wesley to deal with the upper echelons of society, saying that his polished upbringing had equipped him with the necessary charm and tact.
Before Wesley could answer, Rob Carter rose from his seat next to the large window overlooking the Memorial Park and the river beyond. It was a view people paid good money for when they were renting properties in the town.
‘Sir, Sarge. I’ve got some information about the former occupants of Sycamore House.’
‘Well. Don’t keep us in suspense.’
Rob cleared his throat. ‘Timothy Fontescue-Burns ran some sort of commune there.’
Wesley nodded. This matched what Darren had learned from his grandfather.
‘Anyway, he died of a drugs overdose in August 2017, aged thirty-eight. I’m trying to find the report.’
‘Thanks. Someone also mentioned that there was a problem with inheritance and that’s why the house stood empty for some years. Can you see what you can find?’
‘If he was into drugs and lived in a commune, he might not have been organised enough to make a will, so it would have taken a long time to sort out the legal stuff.’
‘You’re right, Rob. And see if you can find any information about any other members of the commune who lived there. I’d like to speak to them if possible.’
Wesley returned to his desk and picked up his phone.
Gerry had told him not to let the discovery of what appeared to be archaeological remains distract him from the investigation, but a call to Neil wouldn’t take long.
Then he’d have done his bit to save some potentially interesting relics from being turned into garden ornaments.
Neil answered after three rings. ‘Hi, Wes. How are you doing?’
‘Fine. You?’ Since the events on Dartmoor the previous month, Wesley felt a new protectiveness towards his friend.
‘I’m OK. Got to carry on, haven’t you?’ Neil answered breezily. ‘Is this a social call?’
‘Not exactly. I’ve come across something you might be interested in. Some tree surgeons were working at a house near Neston and they turned up a wall that looks medieval. They also found some stone carvings – maybe gargoyles, or grotesques.’
‘What about the owners?’
Wesley hesitated. ‘It’s a Mrs Jones, but you might have to ask her nicely because she’s just had a bit of a shock. Her builders found human remains hidden inside a wall in one of her downstairs rooms.’
‘You mean a skeleton? Archaeological?’ Wesley could hear a note of excitement in his friend’s voice.
‘Afraid not. Look, I’ll give you the address, then it’ll be up to you.’
‘Fair enough,’ was the reply.