Chapter 17
It had been good to see Wesley and Pam the previous evening, Neil thought as he brushed away the soil from the statue that had just emerged from the ground to join the three he’d already seen.
This one was some sort of deformed ape with the tail of a fish; a nasty-looking thing in his opinion.
There must have been a whole array of the strange creatures somewhere on the building, perhaps on the roof, guarding over it, intended to frighten away evil spirits perhaps – not that Neil believed in such things.
However, he knew that the medieval mind thought very differently.
The devil had been everywhere in those days, doing his best to trap the unwary into sin.
He could hear Helen Jones nattering away to one of the postgrad students in the trench they’d started at the far end of the building.
The gruesome discovery in her house didn’t seem to have dampened her spirits for long.
He wondered fleetingly how she felt about her husband, Ralph, booking himself into a luxurious hotel while she slept on site in a bedroom she insisted was perfectly habitable.
She’d mentioned that her husband came from a family where money had been scarce and that he always chose to stay in the best hotels during his many business trips.
She, in contrast, had been brought up with every luxury, as her late father had owned a successful company, and she rather enjoyed the novelty of basic living – provided it was only temporary.
But it still seemed like an odd arrangement to Neil.
During one of the mostly one-sided conversations they’d had while they were digging, she’d revealed that she and Ralph had met while he’d been working for her father.
He’d joined the company after several years spent working in South Africa and soon become a rising star, eventually taking over when her father retired.
Ralph had married the boss’s daughter, but she joked that he’d married beneath him, because he was far cleverer than she was.
Neil liked her self-deprecating humour. And he had a sneaking admiration for her determination to overcome the shock of the grim discovery in her new home and resist the temptation of a luxury hotel.
His phone rang and he was pleased to see Annabel’s name on the caller display. He wiped his hands on his combat trousers before answering. ‘Hi, darling. How are you?’
‘Fine. Look, I’ve found something that might interest you about the Sycamore House site. There’s a mention in some old court records of a chapel belonging to an Augustinian priory in the town of Neston. It’s also referred to as the site of a holy well. Any sign of a well?’
‘No. But there’s a large wooded area, so I’ve no idea what we might find in there. The owner, Helen, says she hasn’t explored most of the grounds yet. Having a look is on my list of things to do after we’ve uncovered more of the building.’
‘Any burials?’
‘We haven’t come across any yet. But it’s early days.’
‘According to contemporary records, the main benefactor of the priory was a man called Thomas de Fontescue.’
‘Really? The Fontescues are still about.’
‘I know. They’ve been in these parts for centuries.’ There was a short pause, as though Annabel was about to make a confession. ‘For a brief time in my misspent youth I went out with Miles Fontescue. Nothing serious, you understand,’ she added quickly.
Neil felt slightly unnerved by the mention of Annabel’s past love life. He’d never thought of himself as the jealous type, and he felt a little ashamed of himself as he ended the call.
He shoved the phone into one of his many pockets and squatted down again.
If this was the site of a medieval holy well, it could originally have been a sacred spring in the days before Christianity arrived in Britain.
The ancient native tribes of the island, in Devon’s case the Dumnonii, were fond of making sacrifices in liminal places – lakes, shores and springs, portals between the real world and another dimension. If he could find evidence of that . . .
He began scraping at the earth with fresh enthusiasm, wondering whether Aleric Donnal, the man in the wall, had died because of something he’d discovered about the site. Then he told himself that he was letting his archaeological imagination run away with him.
Lizzie Prothero was somewhat deaf, but once she’d switched on her hearing aid, the interview proved fruitful.
According to Lizzie, Sue Potter had been a nice neighbour; friendly and helpful, but not the kind to intrude on anyone’s privacy.
When Lizzie had seen her the previous morning, she’d been looking forward to the medieval festival at Fontescue Hall the following day.
In fact she’d seemed positively excited about it.
When they asked Lizzie why Sue would have been wearing her costume the previous evening, the answer was simple.
She’d told Lizzie that she intended to take the rest of the costumes over to one of her fellow re-enactors in Neston.
Then, once she got home from making her delivery, she planned to try on her own costume.
She’d worn it a week ago at a festival in Tradmouth, and seams often became torn or frayed, so repairs had to be made.
Sue was very particular about things like that.
This answered a question Wesley had been asking himself.
He’d been puzzled at first when Colin said she’d probably been dead around twelve hours, because, seeing how the corpse was dressed, he’d assumed she’d been killed that morning while she was preparing for the journey to Fontescue Hall.
This meant they could probably pinpoint the time of the murder to an hour or so after she’d arrived back from making the short journey to Neston the previous evening.
And once the colleague who’d received the costumes had been interviewed, hopefully the timings would become clearer.
Their next port of call was Fontescue Hall, where the medieval festival would still be in full swing. Wesley had wanted to attend with his family, but now it looked as though he was going to be there under different, sadder circumstances.
When they reached the hall, they showed their ID to the young lad in the high-vis vest who was doing his best to shepherd vehicles into the overflow car park, and parked in front of the hall. They were there on official business.
Wesley suggested they begin by trying to find Miles Fontescue. Gerry, however, disagreed. They needed to speak to Sue Potter’s fellow society members first to find out what they could about the dead woman, maybe things Mark Fitzgerald and Lizzie Prothero hadn’t been aware of.
Diving into the crowd to the strains of lively medieval dance music, it felt as though they were stepping back in time.
Men in period dress wandered round with falcons on their arms, and inside tents people were demonstrating ancient crafts with earnest concentration.
Others, sporting heavy homespun costumes, seemed to be having tremendous fun as they addressed each other as ‘mistress’ and ‘master’ and uttered phrases in a strange sub-Chaucerian language, presumably how they imagined people used to speak back in the day.
Wesley headed towards the ale tent and Gerry followed.
‘This was where she was supposed to be working. She was Mistress Potter, the ale wife,’ Wesley said as they entered the shade of the large marquee.
It was a popular attraction, with drinkers seated at long trestle tables.
At one end of the tent several barrels of real ale were lined up, and costumed re-enactors were busy filling plastic glasses with the amber liquid.
Wesley walked over to the makeshift bar, where a young woman in her twenties in full costume smiled at him.
‘Prithee, what can I get you, my lords?’ she asked.
‘We’ve got Silly Juice, Spirit Lifter and Fontescue’s Folly.
The last one’s been brewed specially for the occasion.
’ She sounded a bit bored, and Wesley assumed she went through this spiel with each customer.
But when the two detectives showed their ID, she suddenly looked alert and dropped the cod-medieval talk.
‘What is it? We’ve checked everyone’s age. Asked for ID.’
‘Don’t worry, love, we’re not here about that,’ said Gerry, at his most avuncular. ‘You were expecting Sue Potter to turn up this morning.’
The young woman frowned. ‘Yes, we’re getting a bit worried. People have been trying to call her, but there’s been no answer. Sue’s normally so reliable. It’s not like her at all. Has something happened? Is she all right?’
It was time to break the bad news. ‘I’m afraid she’s been found dead at her home.’
The woman’s hand went to her mouth and Wesley could tell that her shock was genuine. ‘That’s terrible. How did she . . . ?’
‘I’m afraid we’re treating her death as suspicious,’ said Wesley gently. ‘What can you tell us about her?’
‘I didn’t know her well, but she seemed really . . . nice. If I were you, I’d speak to Tom Bellow, the butcher. He’s sort-of in charge. He’s doing the hog roast.’
‘We should get the team down here to conduct interviews with all the society members,’ Wesley said once they’d left the ale tent. ‘Although I’m inclined to wait until close of play. There’s a lot of families with children here and it seems a shame to spoil the festival.’
Gerry looked round at the scene. It was a fine day, mercifully free of rain, and everyone seemed to be having a good time.
‘You’re right, Wes. It’s not as though this is the actual crime scene, so it seems a bit mean to spoil everyone’s day for the sake of a couple of hours.
We’ll have a word with this Tom Bellow and get the team here to take statements once things quieten down a bit. ’