Chapter 33
If it had been up to Wesley, he would have gone to see Dale Gadson straight away, in spite of the late hour. But Gerry thought they’d done enough that day. Besides, Gadson wasn’t going anywhere. He had his animals to look after.
Wesley walked home up the steep, narrow streets, passing Aleric Donnal’s cottage on the way.
He couldn’t help imagining the grey-haired academic living there alone, with only his books and research for company.
He knew this was enough for some people.
But he himself was somebody who needed friends and family around him.
Everybody was different, he thought as he reached his house in the modern close at the top of the hill overlooking the ancient port.
What it lacked in character, it made up for with space and a decent garden, both rare things in the older parts of Tradmouth.
He put his key in the front door, looking forward to spending what was left of his evening relaxing; he felt he needed a few hours to recharge without the need to think about the case.
Although he’d probably wake up in the early hours with the possibilities running through his head.
Two deaths of very different victims. And the only link he could think of between them was a leaflet for the same zoo and the strange picture and quotation found near Sue Potter’s body, identical to one in the book in the briefcase belonging to Aleric Donnal, the facsimile copy of a medieval bestiary created by pre-Reformation monks to inform the literate and illiterate alike about the wonders of nature – and its dangers in the form of fearsome beasts, both mythological and real.
He was greeted in the hall by Sherlock, his tail wagging like a windscreen wiper as Wesley fussed him.
‘Michael about?’ he asked Pam as she emerged from the kitchen.
‘He’s up in his room doing what teenage boys do,’ she said with a roll of her eyes. ‘Amelia’s in the living room. And Neil’s here. We’re in the kitchen.’
Before heading for the kitchen, Wesley made a detour to the living room, where he found Amelia kneeling by the coffee table sorting through the cards he’d asked Pam about on Friday night.
Each depicted a fantastic beast: crocodiles crossed with gazelles; elephants crossed with leopards.
He knelt by his daughter and asked her about them.
‘They’re beasties,’ she said matter-of-factly. ‘It’s a game called Beast Book. You collect the cards and swap them until you’ve got sets. I’ve got five sets already,’ she added proudly.
‘Haven’t you got any homework to do for tomorrow?’
Amelia looked sheepish. She’d been distracted by the latest school craze and her dad had caught her out. ‘I’ll go and do it now.’ She picked up the cards carefully, as though they were her most treasured possession, and disappeared upstairs.
Wesley went into the kitchen, followed by Sherlock, where he found Pam and Neil sitting with cups of tea.
‘You’re very late,’ Neil said accusingly.
‘I believe you visited my mother’s new healing retreat today,’ said Pam, tilting her head to one side, waiting for information.
‘I needed to speak to June, her business partner.’
‘You do realise Della’s moaning about police harassment?’ she said with a grin. ‘You know what she’s like.’
Wesley knew all right. ‘It turns out June used to live in the house where that mummified body was found.’
Pam shuddered. ‘She was living there with a dead body on the premises? What a horrible thought. What did you have to eat?’
‘Indian takeaway.’
‘Good job. You’d be too late anyway. I’d made a shepherd’s pie, but Neil’s had it.’
Neil grinned and patted his stomach. ‘Annabel’s out tonight and you messaged Pam to say you were grabbing something at work, so it was going begging.’
‘You’re welcome.’ Wesley felt a small frisson of resentment, swiftly suppressed. Neil was an old friend, and there was no reason why he shouldn’t have the meal he himself hadn’t been able to eat.
Neil delved into one of the pockets of his combat trousers and pulled out a couple of small plastic boxes.
‘Feast your eyes on these little beauties,’ he said as he passed them to Wesley.
The glint of gold was unmistakable. ‘Two gold nobles. Edward IV. Wars of the Roses. Exciting. And valuable. They were worth a lot to the average person back when Edward was on the throne, and today you’re talking thousands.
I suspect they were offerings to the holy well and there’s a chance there might be more.
That’s why I’ve got a couple of students camping out on the site, in case of nighthawks. ’
‘Very wise.’
‘Helen’s providing them with hot chocolate and snacks.’
‘Sounds like Helen’s a bit of a treasure herself.’ Wesley peered at the coins through the Perspex lids.
‘I’ve reported the find to the local Portable Antiquity Scheme officer, of course.’
‘That’s right. Do everything by the book.’
‘Don’t I always. It was common in the Middle Ages to make offerings at holy sites.
Although the origins date back much further than that, into prehistory.
Sacrifices in liminal places.’ Neil chuckled.
‘It’s probably the origin of the wishing well.
If only people knew the truth. The well is mentioned in some ancient documents as the holy well of St Julian.
It was lost after the Reformation and rediscovered by yours truly.
’ He gave a mock bow. He looked pleased with himself and Wesley couldn’t blame him.
It was an important discovery. ‘Like I said, I’m having the site watched.
Don’t suppose you’d lend us your Sherlock as a guard dog? ’
‘He wouldn’t be much use to you,’ Wesley said as the dog gazed up at him adoringly.
Neil laughed. ‘Not offering his services as a police dog then?’
‘Hardly. He’d treat any criminals as his new best friends.’ Wesley passed the coins back to Neil. ‘If these were offerings, two gold nobles seems remarkably generous.’
‘People in medieval times thought differently to us. If someone had a particular devotion to the saint whose well it was, they’d give more. Annabel has found out that the well was once known as St Catherine’s well, but the dedication was changed sometime in the late fifteenth century to St Julian.’
‘Wonder why?’
‘Well, there are a few St Julians. But one of them, St Julian the Hospitaller, is the patron saint of murderers.’