Chapter 10
The Duke’s Arms was a traditional sort of pub, not much larger than many people’s living rooms. It consisted of a single bar and was the kind of establishment in which a pickled egg and a packet of crisps was the only solid sustenance available, the antithesis of the modern gastropub.
Gerry eyed the hand pumps on the bar greedily.
But they weren’t there for fun. They needed to speak to Darren’s grandfather.
They scanned the bar for likely candidates. Most of the drinkers weren’t the right age to be the man they were looking for. But one elderly man sitting on his own on a stool at the end of the bar with a half-empty glass fitted the bill.
Wesley wondered whether Darren’s grandfather would be the kind to treat someone with his skin colour with suspicion, but the man’s reaction when Wes offered to buy him a pint made him realise he’d been unfair.
‘Thank you kindly,’ he said with a grateful raise of his glass. ‘Don’t mind if I do.’
‘You wouldn’t have a grandson called Darren, would you? Tree surgeon?’
The man looked up, puzzled. ‘Mate of his, are you?’ At that moment he noticed Gerry standing behind Wesley. ‘Who’s your friend?’
When the two policemen showed their ID, the man turned his head away.
‘Don’t worry, you’re not in any trouble,’ Wesley assured him. ‘We just want to ask you about a job you did, that’s all.’
The man hesitated for a moment, then, clearly deciding they could be trusted not to arrest him, he nodded. ‘It’s a good while since I did any work. What do you want to know?’
‘What’s your name?’ Wesley asked. ‘We can’t keep referring to you as “Darren’s grandad”.’
‘Pete,’ the man answered. ‘Pete Wolsey.’
‘And you did some work at Sycamore House?’
He shook his head.
‘It used to have a different name. Casa Mirabilis,’ said Wesley.
Pete gave him a sideways look. ‘Yeah, I remember now. I did do a bit of work there.’
Gerry made himself comfortable on a neighbouring bar stool while Wesley remained standing.
‘What exactly did you do?’ Wesley asked.
‘Knocked through a cupboard under the stairs and fitted a toilet.’
Gerry took over. ‘When was this?’
‘Years ago.’
‘Can you be more exact?’
‘Around ten years. Maybe twelve. Can’t rightly remember.’
‘Did you find anything unusual?’
The man took a sip of the pint Gerry had bought him. ‘Might have done.’
Gerry leaned forward, putting his face close to Pete’s. ‘Well?’
Wesley, feeling that patience and tact were required, put his hand on Gerry’s arm.
There was a long silence before Pete spoke.
‘This hippy bloke wanted to make a cloakroom downstairs, so he asked me to knock through the cupboard next to the front door. That’s all.
I fitted a proper door, plastered it up all neatly and did the tiling, then a mate of mine put a toilet and basin in so the hippies had something to piss in,’ he added with a smirk.
‘You never did any work in the dining room – small room next to the kitchen?’
‘No, just the hall.’ He took another drink. ‘Look, he said I could keep it. I didn’t steal it and that’s God’s honest truth.’
‘What are you talking about?’
‘The briefcase. Found it in the cupboard. He said it didn’t belong to him and I could do what I liked with it.’
‘Who did?’
‘That posh hippy bloke. There were some funny smells in that place, I can tell you. Drugs,’ he added sagely. ‘I heard he died of them.’
‘Did you look inside the briefcase?’
Pete’s expression was wary, as though he feared he was about to be accused of theft.
‘It’s OK,’ Wesley said reassuringly. ‘If I was given something like that, the first thing I’d do is find out what was in it.’
‘Yeah. I opened it, but there was nothing inside except this book with weird pictures.’
‘Have you still got it?’ Wesley asked, holding his breath while he waited for the answer.
‘Dunno. It was a long time ago.’ Pete took another sip from his pint while he considered.
‘I might have shoved it in the loft with all the other junk. Tell you what, I’ll have a look and let you know.
’ He grinned, showing a row of crooked yellow teeth.
‘Never thought I’d be helping the police with their enquiries at my age. ’ He raised his glass. ‘Cheers.’
‘What do you think about this briefcase then?’ Wesley asked when they were back in the car.
‘It might not have belonged to our dead man,’ Gerry replied.
‘He said it contained a book with weird pictures. It could be the book Aleric Donnal borrowed from the archives. Beasts of the Middle Ages.’
‘We’ll have to wait and see. Fingers crossed he’s kept it.
But I wouldn’t be surprised if he chucked it in the bin if he thought it wasn’t worth anything.
It’s time we found out more about this Timothy Fontescue-Burns.
I got Ellie to call ahead, so the lord of the manor is expecting us at Fontescue Hall.
Don’t forget to tug your forelock when you meet him. ’
Wesley smiled to himself and they drove on in silence.
When he’d looked up Fontescue Hall online the previous evening, he’d discovered that the original building on the site dated to the Middle Ages.
But sadly, in his opinion, the Fontescue family over the centuries had been wealthy enough to follow fashion and put a classical facade over the original structure, while extensive alterations had virtually obliterated all traces of the old hall, which was now only visible in a couple of internal courtyards in the staff quarters, classical architecture being considered too good for the servants.
The drive was lengthy enough to impress any visitor, a symbol of the Fontescues’ status in the area, even though the family had never been rewarded with any form of title.
Wesley drove smoothly towards the house, keeping to the ten-mile-per-hour speed limit.
They were there on police business, so they ignored the signs to the car park and he brought the car to a halt in front of the house.
It wasn’t open to visitors that day, so they’d have the place to themselves.
Gerry marched straight to a magnificent front door set behind a row of classical columns and knocked three times.
‘Wonder if a snooty butler will tell us to use the tradesmen’s entrance. If he does, I’m going to pull rank,’ Gerry said with some glee.
Wesley suppressed another smile. Gerry didn’t often allow the chip on his shoulder to show, but this was one of those times. ‘I’ll do the talking if you like,’ he offered.
As Gerry grunted a reply Wesley couldn’t quite make out, the huge door opened slowly with a painful creak.
The man standing there was wearing jeans and a sweatshirt.
He was in his mid to late thirties with a shock of fair hair and an open face.
‘Hi. Sorry about the noise. This door’s not used much and I’ve been meaning to oil the hinges.
You’re the policemen? I had a call earlier saying you were on your way.
Come in, come in.’ He held out his hand. ‘Miles Fontescue.’
Wesley shot Gerry a glance as they shook the man’s hand and introduced themselves. The DCI had made assumptions, relied on stereotypes, which wasn’t like him at all.
They were led through a series of lavishly furnished staterooms, past red silken ropes designed to keep visitors from coming into contact with the valuable objects on display.
Eventually they climbed some back stairs to the quarters where the family actually lived.
Here things were a lot more homely: shabby sofas and battered Victorian sideboards cheek by jowl with IKEA bookcases and threadbare rugs.
The flowers in a Chinese vase on the windowsill were on their last legs, and there were used cups and dirty plates on a side table.
‘Excuse the mess,’ said Miles as he invited them to sit. ‘My wife’s away and I haven’t got round to clearing up.’
Wesley nodded in understanding and moved a cardboard file from the sofa, placing it on the pine coffee table in front of him.
Gerry came straight to the point. ‘I understand you gave evidence at the inquest of your cousin, Timothy Fontescue-Burns.’
‘That’s right. I was studying at Oxford at the time, but I came home for the inquest. Tim was fifteen years older than me, but I’d known him from when I was little.
He’d always been . . . a bit wild. His mother, Evelyn, was my father’s younger sister.
She married an artist called Burns and they moved to the south of France, but he was killed in a plane crash when Tim was ten.
She eventually came back to the UK with Tim and they lived in Neston.
Tim got in with a New Age crowd there and eventually started his own commune.
His mother came to live here at the hall, but eight years ago she was diagnosed with cancer, and she died six month later.
My parents looked after her at the end.’
‘Do your parents still live here?’ Wesley asked, curious.
‘Oh yes. They’re in the lodge. As for my Aunt Evelyn, Tim’s mother, I think she despaired of him in the end, even though she’d lived quite an unconventional lifestyle herself while she was in France.
She was devastated when Tim died of that overdose, of course.
I think it hastened her end to be honest.’
‘I believe you visited the commune?’
‘Casa Mirabilis,’ Miles said with a smile. ‘I went there a few times. Aunt Evelyn wanted to know what Tim was up to, and my dad asked me to find out.’
‘What was the house like back then?’
‘I thought it was an architectural monstrosity, to be honest. All dark brick and gloomy gables surrounded by woodland. Tim thought it was perfect, but then he always did have a taste for the theatrical.’
‘We’ve seen it,’ said Wesley with a smile. ‘Was there any building work going on when you went there?’
Miles thought for a moment. ‘The first time I visited there was a builder working in the hall. Tim said he was having a loo fitted under the stairs. People were sick of traipsing upstairs to answer a call of nature, he said.’
‘Were you aware of any work being done elsewhere in the house?’
Miles shook his head. ‘Not that I noticed. Why?’
‘Did you ever go into the dining room, the small room next to the kitchen?’
‘No, I don’t think that room was used.’
‘Human remains have been found sealed up behind the wall in there, in what might have once been some kind of alcove. Are you sure you never went in there when you visited?’
Miles frowned, making an effort to recall the scene.
‘I’m pretty sure I didn’t. Mind you, most of the time I was concentrating on Tim.
He was getting on my nerves, to tell you the truth.
Spouting all this nonsense about energy and ley lines.
He said the house was built on the site of some sacred well.
Druids were mentioned at one point, I think.
’ He rolled his eyes. ‘I think he’d taken something. It was hard to get through to him.’
‘What about the other people living there? How many were there?’
‘I’m sure Tim said there were five, including himself.
I saw some of them floating around as though they were in a daze.
And before you ask, I’ve no idea what happened to them after Tim died.
A couple gave evidence at the inquest, but it wasn’t much help.
A woman called Fiorenza found him, and she’d laid him out in his bedroom surrounded by flowers before anyone bothered calling my aunt.
They really should have called the police and ambulance, but that was left to my father.
The coroner was critical, but I don’t think his words had any effect.
If you ask me, they lived in their own little world. ’
‘Have you any idea where we might find Fiorenza?’
‘No. Sorry.’
‘When did your cousin buy the house?’ Gerry asked.
‘Must have been around 2011. About six years before his death.’
‘Who owned it before that?’
‘I don’t know. But it was pretty shabby and I don’t think Tim ever redecorated or made any improvements, apart from that downstairs loo. I got the impression the house might have been rented out before he bought it, but I’ve no idea who lived there. Sorry I can’t be more help.’
‘You’ve been a great help,’ said Wesley.
‘These human remains – any idea who they belonged to? It wasn’t a member of Tim’s commune, was it?’
‘The body is that of a man, probably in late middle age, and items have been found that suggest his name was Dr Aleric Donnal. Ever heard of him?’
Wesley was expecting a negative reply to his question, so Miles Fontescue’s answer came as a surprise. ‘I’m sure I’ve seen that name recently. Hang on.’
He disappeared, and returned a few minutes later carrying a sheet of paper.
‘Dad and I were going through some old correspondence the other day and this was among it. I promised him I’d shred all the out-of-date stuff, but I haven’t got round to it yet.
’ He handed the letter to Wesley. ‘I happened to notice the name because it was so unusual.’
Wesley read it out loud. ‘ “Dear Mr Fontescue, I am an academic and have been conducting research into certain ancient manuscripts. I wondered if you were aware of anything in your family archives relating to medieval bestiaries, the subject of the research I’m carrying out at the moment. I have found a single reference in the cathedral archives in Exeter to a Fontescue Bestiary, but nothing else. Please feel free to ignore my request if you are not in possession of such a volume. Thanking you for your kind attention, Dr Aleric Donnal.” It’s dated the sixteenth of February 2011.
And the address is given as Harbour Steps. ’
‘What’s a bestiary?’ Gerry asked.
It was Wesley who answered. ‘It was a book filled with illustrations and descriptions of various animals. They were often made in monasteries to teach about creation. Some of the animals are easily recognisable, but others are legendary beasts like dragons and unicorns, which to the medieval mind probably seemed as real as the elephants or rhinoceroses people had never seen. There are still a few examples in museums around the world.’ He turned to Miles.
‘Have you anything like that in your family’s library or archives? ’
Miles shook his head. ‘I only wish we did, because it sounds interesting . . . and valuable.’ He thought for a few moments.
‘I remember now. I came home from university one weekend and Dad told me that some academic had been rooting around in the muniment room. Do you think that could have been this Dr Donnal?’
‘It would help if we could have a word with your father,’ said Wesley as he placed the letter in the evidence bag he’d taken from his jacket pocket.
‘Like I said, you’ll find my parents in the lodge by the main gates. You can’t miss it. Talking of things medieval, we’re holding a medieval festival here tomorrow. You’re welcome to come if you’ve got time. There’ll be music and a re-enactment group. Should be fun.’
‘Thanks,’ said Wesley. ‘We’ll bear it in mind.’