A Painted Doom (27 page)

Sherry Smyth hadn’t known whether Jonny Shellmer had had any brothers or sisters – it was something he never talked about.
He had told her there was someone down in Devon he wanted her to meet – but that could have been anyone, Wesley thought, frustrated
at his lack of progress, his inability to penetrate the mystery of Jonny Shellmer’s last hours.

He kept staring at the photograph, willing it to give up its secret. Four young people sitting on the waterfront at Derenham
on a hot summer day.

To the left of the group stood a tall, thin boy with dark hair who glared arrogantly at the camera. Next to him was a girl
with huge dark eyes and curly dark hair. Then a
chubby boy who looked about fifteen. And to the right, slightly apart from the rest, was a boy in his late teens, more a man
than a child. The dark-haired boy stood close to the girl, their arms touching. Brother and sister or just friends? Wesley
couldn’t tell. But he was almost certain that the dark-haired boy was Jonny Shellmer.

He put the photograph in an evidence bag. He would take it back to the station and show it to Gerry Heffernan. It was always
worth getting a second opinion.

He was about to leave the bedroom when Steve appeared in the doorway. He held some papers that looked ominously like bills
of some kind, the sort of post that arrives, unwelcome, on most doormats with monotonous regularity.

‘I’ve found a piece of paper pushed under the phone. It’s got a number on it. I’ll check it out when we get back to the station.’

They drove back to Tradmouth. Wesley attempted to strike up a conversation, asking Steve what else he’d learned about Shellmer’s
early life from his authorised biography. But Steve hadn’t progressed much further. All he knew was Shellmer’s parents had
broken up and Jonny had stayed with his mother in Liverpool.

Wesley asked if there was any mention of what had happened to Shellmer’s father. But Steve shook his head: any painful or
embarrassing facts had been glossed over. Not much dirty linen had been washed in
Jonny Shellmer – Rock Boat Legend
, published by Tring and Jarman, price £12.99, Steve told him with some regret.

Neil Watson pushed open the glass doors of Tradmouth library, strode towards the counter and asked whether Anne was about.
A severe-looking woman in an inappropriately floral dress told him that Anne was in the back looking for something, and instructed
Neil to wait. A queue of elderly ladies was building up behind him, all clutching thin romantic volumes to their tweed-clad
chests. Neil shifted from foot to foot, hoping Anne wouldn’t be long: he was
already on the receiving end of some very dirty looks.

A few minutes later Anne emerged from a doorway marked ‘staff only’. He took the book out of his coat pocket. It was not much
thicker than the old ladies’ romantic novels – but it lacked the regulation sensually enticing cover.

Anne approached him, smiling, and he held the book out. ‘Here it is. I’ve brought it back.’

She took it from him and began to flick through the yellowed pages. ‘Have you read it?’

He looked sheepish. ‘Yes. It didn’t take long. There are only eleven letters and the rest of the book’s just some old Victorian
vicar waffling on about the Wars of the Roses. There are one or two mentions of the house in the letters, and the bits about
Richard being injured in the battle and getting mugged are interesting.’

Anne turned the book over in her hands. ‘Do you want to keep it out a bit longer?’

‘Yeah. If that’s okay.’

‘No problem,’ she said with a shy smile. ‘Have you found out the date of that history evening yet?’

‘It’s next Saturday. I’m doing a talk about the dig and Jeremy Sedley’s taking part. Have you heard of him? He’s an actor
– been on the telly.’

Anne nodded, wishing he’d get to the point.

‘Come along if you like. It should be good.’

He was about to turn and leave, but he hesitated. ‘Er, thanks, Anne.’ He looked down at his shoes, still muddy from the dig.
‘Look, er … if you’re free one night why don’t you come down to the Tradmouth Arms. We’re down there most nights.’

Anne took a depth breath. Pam had warned her about Neil’s vagueness. She had no intention of getting a baby-sitter and venturing
into the pub on her own just on the off-chance that he’d be there.

She reached over to the counter and picked up a pen and a piece of paper. ‘I’ll give you my number. You can ring
me when you’re planning to be there. Okay?’

Neil took the paper and stuffed it into his pocket. Then he raised a hand in farewell and left.

Anne took her place behind the counter and an elderly lady handed her a book that bore a picture of two unrealistically attractive
people in a passionate clinch below the words ‘A Foolish Attraction’.

She smiled as she stamped it and handed it back. Probably an omen, she thought.

Steve Carstairs studied the list of numbers called from Jonny Shellmer’s telephone. Angela Simms’s Neston number featured
several times. Perhaps Sherry Smyth had had a rival. But having seen both women, he couldn’t imagine it somehow.

He placed the piece of paper he had found by Shellmer’s phone on the desk in front of him and checked it against the list.
Shellmer had called the number on the Wednesday morning; the day of his death.

Steve dialled and, after a brief conversation, replaced the receiver and scowled before walking slowly over to Wesley’s desk.

Keeping the number of a provincial public library by the telephone was hardly the behaviour one would expect of a bad boy
of rock.

Right reverend and worshipful mother,

We were on the road for Tradmouth on Monday last when five or so persons, lying in wait on the highway, did set upon us and
rob us. Whereupon, knowing the great power of the evil-doers and for fear of death, I fell upon my knees before them and cried
them mercy on my father who is still weak of his wounds gained in battle. At that they mocked us and beat me and robbed us
of all we possessed. It is said there is no country in the world where there are so many thieves and robbers as in England.
A priest found us and took us to the magistrate who took pity on us and clothed us and gave us shelter, for the robbers had
beaten me sorely. We set off for home as soon as my father is strong enough to travel.

I beg you, good mother, to discover if my brother, John, was abroad that night, for I am certain that he was among them who
robbed us, though they hid their faces. I pray I am mistaken for my father’s sake.

Convey my greetings to my sweet sister, Elizabeth.

Your loving son, Edmund

Written at Master Ralph Browne’s house near Exeter
this twenty-eighth day of May 1471

When Wesley arrived home at a reasonable hour, Pam
suggested that he make the supper. He put some chips in the oven and began to prepare an omelette. It was about time he did
something, he thought to himself, especially as he was deserting the nest the next day to travel up to Liverpool. And Pam
still looked tired. If his waking thoughts hadn’t been filled with Lewis Hoxworthy and the Shellmer case, he might have been
worried about her health.

Gerry Heffernan, excited at the prospect of returning to his roots for a day or so, had made generous offers to guide Wesley
around the city’s attractions. Wesley hadn’t the heart to tell him that he just wanted to get back to Devon as soon as possible.

On the way up the M5, they were to call on Chris Pauling, Rock Boat’s former drummer, who had hit hard times in Gloucestershire.
Steve had telephoned him and he was expecting them. Steve said he’d sounded friendly on the phone, but then commented cynically
that he supposed it was to put them off the scent – nobody looked forward to a visit from the police. But the absence of a
warm welcome had never put Tradmouth CID off before.

Wesley had found Steve’s other bit of news that afternoon – the fact that Jonny Shellmer had telephoned Tradmouth library
on the morning of his death – rather puzzling. The library had been contacted and nobody had remembered talking to him. But
if it had been a general anonymous enquiry, that was to be expected. They had checked and confirmed that Jonny Shellmer did
not hold a library ticket. But he might have been planning to take books out and had rung up to enquire about the procedure
and the opening hours. Steve’s discovery might mean something – but, on the other hand, it might mean absolutely nothing.

When the meal was finished Wesley thought to himself modestly that his cooking skills were showing a slight but noticeable
improvement. But Pam made no comment as she cleared the dishes away. You can’t win ’em all, thought
Wesley philosophically as he got up to answer the front door.

Neil stood on the front step and grunted a greeting before walking in. Pam had just disappeared upstairs to bath Michael.
Wesley could hear her singing to him – ‘Frère Jacques’ again; the child would be speaking French by the time he was five,
thought the proud father. Wesley led Neil into a living room strewn with brightly coloured plastic toys.

‘What brings you here?’ he asked, suddenly feeling weary, hardly in the mood for socialising.

‘I’ve been reading the Merrivale letters,’ Neil announced, sitting himself down on the sofa.

‘Interesting?’

‘Mmm. The father, Richard Merrivale, has a son, John, by his first wife who’s a bit of a lad and gets involved in all sorts.
They try to get him married off to calm him down. Then Richard and his younger son, Edmund, go away to fight in the Wars of
the Roses and the mum, Marjory, is left trying to find a wife for her wicked stepson, John, and a husband for her own daughter
Elizabeth. You can imagine this poor woman tearing her hair out and desperate to get the kids off her hands.’ He handed Wesley
the book. ‘The best bit is where Richard and Edmund, the younger son, are mugged on the way back from fighting in the Battle
of Tewkesbury and the boy suspects that his stepbrother was one of the muggers.’

‘Any clue to the headless skeleton’s identity?’

Neil shrugged. ‘Not really. I’m presuming the Merrivales who wrote the letters are the same ones who owned the place I’m digging
up – they mention their manor house at Derenham but there’s nothing about any beheadings or fires.’ He gave a swift résumé
of his visit to the Merrivale chapel and his discovery of the strange burning image on the tomb of Richard and Marjory – the
pair who, he had discovered, featured so prominently in the letters. ‘There is a brief mention of the Merrivale chapel in
All
Saints church but that’s about all,’ he added with some regret.

‘Nothing about the Doom, then?’

‘Not a sausage. Talking of sausages, have you had your dinner?’ Neil leaned forward hungrily. ‘I’m starving.’

‘We’ve already eaten.’ In more leisured times, Wesley would have offered his friend some sustenance. But he was tired. And
he had the long drive up North in the morning. ‘The Tradmouth Arms do very good bar meals,’ he said, hoping Neil would take
the hint.

Neil stood up. ‘Fancy a pint, then?’

There was a wailing sound from upstairs. Michael had been taken out of the bath he so enjoyed. ‘Better not. Long day tomorrow.’

‘I’m off to Exeter as soon as I can get away from the dig to see what else I can find about the Merrivales,’ Neil said, making
for the door. ‘Sure you won’t join me for a pint?’

Wesley shook his head. As Neil disappeared down the drive he found himself yawning. He turned and saw that Pam was standing
at the bottom of the stairs watching him.

‘Something wrong?’ she asked gently.

He closed the front door and took his wife in his arms. ‘It’s this case,’ he said, kissing the top of her head absent-mindedly.
‘It’s not certain but there’s a chance that the missing lad was abducted. He’d arranged to meet a man he’d been in touch with
on the Internet. I don’t know if I’m getting soft but it makes me feel …’

‘I know.’ She gave his hand a sympathetic squeeze.

He nodded, glad that she understood. ‘I’ve got a feeling we’re not going to find that poor boy alive.’

Pam put her arms around him and they clung together until the sound of the baby’s urgent cries wafted down the stairs.

Gerry Heffernan had begged a lift to All Saints church, Derenham, from one of his fellow choir members. An extra rehearsal
for the history evening had been called for that
night. And Heffernan was only too glad to get out of his empty house, where he knew he would brood about Heygarth’s release.
It was better to be with people.

All Saints church was packed, and he meandered up towards the choirstalls, pushing past the assembled actors on the chancel
steps. He mumbled a swift apology as he trod on the trailing hem of a woman’s medieval gown and pressed on to where his fellow
choir members were sorting through their music. He saw Nicola Tarnley sitting at the end of a group of large sopranos, her
head bowed over a sheet of paper, and he felt a sudden desire to speak to her – but now wasn’t the time.

As the choirmaster hadn’t arrived, Heffernan wandered off down the church again. He didn’t know much about the history of
All Saints, but no doubt he would soon be enlightened by the motley throng of amateur actors who were milling about in costumes
from various centuries. He recognised Maggie and Jim Flowers, who were dressed in rich medieval garb, their demeanour and
hairstyles, however, proclaiming them to be firmly rooted in the present day. He was about to greet them but they looked away.
Perhaps the prospect of socialising with a policeman who had called at their house to question them didn’t appeal. Or perhaps
they had something to hide.

He was about to wander back to the choirstalls when the lights in the side aisles flashed on and he saw the Doom, illuminated
in all its lurid horror. Heaven and hell; vengeance and punishment. He stopped in his tracks and stared: it wasn’t a thing
that could be easily ignored. He hurried back up to the chancel. Five minutes later the first dress rehearsal began.