The Marriage Hearse (24 page)

‘I think Ralph, the younger son, went off to London to join the theatre. Same time as Shakespeare. He was an actor but he
wrote a play and a copy somehow ended up at Talford Hall near Exeter. They’re performing it at Neston Arts Festival at the
weekend.’

‘Are you going?’

‘Yes. I’m taking someone who works in the archives … she helped me with the research for … Would you like to come with us?’

Margaret grinned. ‘You won’t want me cramping your style.’ She almost winked.

Before Neil could protest that he and Annabel were just good friends, Margaret handed him a large blue and white Cornishware
mug filled with steaming tea. Then she offered a plate of buttered scones. Neil allowed himself to be pampered. It didn’t
happen often.

When he had finished telling Margaret the ins and outs of the Strong family tree, as far as he knew it, she stood up and took
off her apron. ‘I’ve got something to show you. Come on.’

He followed her out of the kitchen, through the hallway that must once have been a medieval screens passage, into a low-beamed,
rather shabby living room. A door off the living room led to a wide, dark oak staircase. Neil trailed after his hostess, fascinated.
It was a rambling house, added to over the centuries
and, as she led him down the landing, he knew he was entering the oldest part of the house. At the end of the landing she
opened an ancient oak door and stood aside. The room beyond was obviously used for storage and old items of dusty furniture
were piled high on the bare floorboards.

‘I think it’s the oldest glass in the house. Just there. Look.’

Neil walked towards the diamond-paned window that let the
summer sunlight in, lighting up the dust particles that danced in its beams. On a small pane low down on the window’s left-hand
side he saw that someone had scratched some letters on the glass.

He bent down to study it. ‘There’s two lots of initials here and a date … RS and CM. 1581.’

‘I’ve always wondered about it. Who were RS and CM?’

‘Well, the date’s just about right for our Ralph Strong. But who CM is,
I don’t know. A girlfriend.’

‘I think they called them sweethearts in those days.’

The doorbell clattered in the hallway below. Margaret looked at her watch. ‘That’ll probably be the vet. You’ll have to excuse
me, Neil.’

‘You will come to the play with us?’ he said impulsively as they descended the staircase. ‘And Brian.’

‘Oh, he won’t leave his beasts … not while there’s cows still in calf. But I’ll come, if I may. I’ll enjoy it. Especially
if he used to live in my house.’

Neil left Margaret talking to the vet, punching out Annabel’s number on his mobile phone. If she could find him a young woman
living in Upper Cudleigh at the appropriate time with the initials CM who didn’t make it through to the marriage and burial
registers, he might be a step nearer finding a name for his skeleton.

Wesley found Marion Blunning sorting through patients’ notes at the nurses’ station in Ward D5 at Tradmouth Hospital. She
looked surprised to see him, even perhaps a little alarmed. But she greeted him with cool politeness.

‘I don’t think I can help you,’ she began. ‘I’ve told you everything I know about Kirsten and Stuart Richter.’ She gave Wesley
an impatient look. They were wasting her valuable time.

But Wesley wasn’t put off. ‘Is there somewhere we can talk in private?’

Without a word Marion led him through to an office, cluttered with files. She sat down on the only chair and waited.

He came straight to the point. ‘Kirsten told a colleague of hers, a Simon Jephson, that she’d discovered something about Richard
Harbourn … something that shocked her. Did you know about this?’

Marion picked up a pen that was lying on the desk and started to turn it in her fingers. ‘She said she’d found some letters.’

‘What about?’

‘She wouldn’t say. Look, this can’t have anything to do with her death.’

‘Possibly not, Miss Blunning, but I’m trying to find out all I can about Kirsten.’

‘You’ve got the man who killed her.’

‘I’m not sure we have.’

He had said it. Voiced his fears. He felt strangely liberated, having spent the time since Richter had been charged going
along with Gerry Heffernan’s assumption that once they had arrested Françoise Decaux for the murder of Abdul Ahmed, everything
would be right in the small world of Tradmouth CID, that the sun would shine all day, the local criminals start doing charity
work and world peace would suddenly break out. But now he knew that Heffernan was deluding himself. Perhaps the appearance
of Joyce Barnes on the horizon had clouded his judgement.

‘Surely you can’t think this thing about Kirsten’s father has anything to do with her murder? It’s ridiculous.’ She stood
up. ‘Look, I’ve got to get back. If I were you I’d ask Kirsten’s mother.’ She hesitated, suddenly less sure of herself. ‘There
was something strange. A couple of weeks ago Kirsten asked how she should go about tracing a nurse. Asked if there’d be anyone
here who’d known her.’

‘A nurse her father had had an affair with?’

Marion shrugged.

‘What was this nurse’s name?’

Marion screwed up her face. ‘I think it was Sister Williams.
Yes, that’s right. Sister Williams. That’s all … no Christian name. Look, I have to go.’

Wesley stood aside to let her out of the cramped office. ‘Of course. Thank you for your help.’

She turned to him as though she was about to say something then she thought better of it and disappeared down the corridor
into one of the side wards.

As Wesley left the hospital he felt more confused than ever.

Trench two had been closed down. Neil had decreed there was nothing in it left to discover and now the earth was being put
back, prior to the building work starting. He and his team had done their bit in that particular area and now it was time
to concentrate on the newest trench, nearer the stable block, which was still in the process of being dug by a team of willing
volunteers, supervised by Neil and his colleagues.

It was Thursday. A working day. But that hadn’t stopped the volunteers arriving with keen eyes and shiny new trowels to lend
a hand. Archaeology to some was an intriguing leisure activity, to others it was a job. But to Neil Watson it was a way of
life.

Neil had seen the notices up in the hallway of the main house.
The Fair Wife of Padua
. Rehearsal today. Six thirty. Audience welcome. The archaeological team knocked off at five thirty but Neil decided not to
leave with them. It was a hot day and he was thirsty so he filled a plastic bottle with drinking water from the tap before
making his way over to Tradington Hall, curious to hear the words that Ralph Strong had written all those hundreds of years
ago spoken out loud.

He still wasn’t absolutely sure that his skeleton – he had begun to think of her as his – had any connection with Ralph the
playwright. Perhaps he would never know for certain. There were some mysteries in archaeology that remained precisely that
… mysteries.

Keeping an eye on the time, he ate a sandwich in the refectory and at six thirty-five he strolled over to the theatre. As
usual there was music. Music drifting from open windows, seeping under rehearsal room doors. Voices, violins, pianos, harps,
lutes. All faint
and muffled, giving the impression of hushed yet frantic preparation for some important occasion. He crossed the courtyard
to the main entrance. To his right was the arched entrance to the great hall. The rehearsal was taking place here, although
there was talk of performing the play out of doors if the weather held.

The door stood open and Neil slipped inside, looking at his watch. He couldn’t stay long. There seemed to be a small audience
– interested members of the public with nothing better to do and a few local youths who were watching this example of the
Elizabethan theatre open mouthed. They had heard it was good in the second half … plenty of blood and gore like in a film
rated eighteen for violence. But, so far, it was a bit tame for their taste.

Neil stood near the door and listened. The man taking the lead seemed a little unsure of his lines. But then he had overheard
someone saying that the man who had been playing the Duke of Padua had been arrested – something to do with illegal immigrants
– and this man was his understudy. Sometimes truth was stranger than fiction.

A young man was speaking on the stage, holding the hand of a pale girl with long dark hair. He was gazing into her eyes earnestly.
His voice, when he spoke, was deep and resonant yet lacking passion. But Neil hardly noticed the delivery. He was concentrating
on the words.

‘I pledge to thee, sweet maid, the best of love. And as thou pluckest the heart from this man’s breast, I give it to thee
gladly, ere I rest in long eternity.’

Neil stood, frozen to the spot, until the director’s voice disturbed his thoughts. ‘Can I stop you there.’ He sounded like
an exhausted student teacher, overwhelmed by a barrage of appalling behaviour from a class of thirteen-year-olds.

‘Paolo, you’re supposed to be pledging your undying love, not reading the weather forecast. And the words “pluckest the heart”
– it’s an omen … a hint of what’s to come. Later on in the play her heart’s really going to be torn out of her breast. It’s
a horrific metaphor … give it some meaning, for God’s sake.’ He sighed. ‘Take it from the top again, will you?’

Neil crept out. He needed time to think. ‘I pledge to thee, sweet maid, the best of love.’ Now he knew for certain that Ralph
Strong, the playwright, had given the girl buried in the field, whoever she was, the locket as a token of his love. But how
had she died? And why?

And there seemed to be only one suspect … Ralph Strong himself.

It was coming up to eight o’clock and Wesley had decided to go home. Stuart Richter was safely in custody, as was Sean Sawyer.

The students at Morbay Language College had been questioned again that afternoon in the hope of gleaning some clue as to Françoise
Decaux’s whereabouts. Sean and Carla Sawyer had refused to say anything, apart from stating that they had no idea where Françoise
was. Yes, she had gone through with a bogus marriage to the man found dead in the Loch Henry Lodge Guesthouse but as far
as they knew, she had been paid the standard two thousand pounds for her trouble and had had no further contact with her bridegroom.
Whatever she had done, she had done off her own bat. It was no concern of theirs and they had nothing to do with his death.

Wesley’s instincts told him they were telling the truth. But someone had killed Abdul Ahmed. And Françoise seemed the most
likely suspect. Perhaps she’d panicked when she realised the enormity of what she had done. She might have been afraid of
her family finding out. Who knows?

And as for Kirsten Harbourn, the more he thought about it, the more he was convinced that things weren’t as straightforward
as they appeared. But he had to convince Gerry Heffernan, whose mind was on other things … such as taking Joyce Barnes, the
registrar, out to dinner at the Tradmouth Castle Hotel later that evening. He had told Wesley all about his plans, like a
teenager eagerly anticipating a date with the girl of his dreams.

As soon as Wesley put his key in his front door, Pam ambled into the hall to meet him, her arms folded.

‘I threw your supper in the bin hours ago,’ she said accusingly. ‘I thought you said you wouldn’t be late.’

‘Sorry. I’ll make an omelette or something. Is Maritia in?’ he asked, kissing her on the cheek absent-mindedly.

‘She’s still at the vicarage. They’re painting the study and Mark’s putting up shelves.’

‘Well, it hasn’t been lived in for a while. And I don’t suppose it’s been decorated since …’ He hesitated. The thought of
Belsham Vicarage made him shudder. The last vicar to live there had been murdered in the study and his successors, having
the cure of souls of several parishes, had opted to live elsewhere. The church, however, had sold off most of the other clergy
houses in the area, leaving Maritia and Mark with little choice. Maritia saw its potential and was determined to make the
best of the situation. The soul of the Reverend John Shipborne, who had met his end so violently and tragically, was elsewhere
and at peace, she said. He was hardly likely to trouble them.

He noticed Pam was wearing more make-up than usual and he could smell the perfume he had bought her for Christmas.

‘You look nice. You going out somewhere?’

She gave a secret smile. ‘Didn’t I say? I’m going out for a drink tonight with some of the teachers from school to celebrate
the end of term. You’ll be OK, won’t you? You won’t have to go out and tackle any serial killers or …’

The sarcasm in her voice hit him. It was unfair. He didn’t arrange for crime to take place just to annoy her. ‘You go ahead.
Have a good time.’

She smiled but didn’t answer. She didn’t even kiss him as she swept out of the front door on her way to her night out with
the girls.

Berthe didn’t know what to do. She had found the address and the van was parked outside. But something told her not to venture
any further. And that something was fear.

Den Liston lived in an isolated house, just outside Tradmouth, about fifty yards off the main road down a narrow lane, not
far from the park and ride. A former farmworker’s cottage, it looked
neglected, even sinister, with its creeping ivy, flaking paintwork and dusty windows. The white van, however, was spotless.
Den Liston had his own priorities.

Berthe had had little to do with the electrician who had spent a few days working at the college, and what she had seen she
hadn’t much liked. Unlike Françoise.

It was still light but in an hour or so the dusk would come. But Den Liston’s curtains were shut and Berthe stood, wondering
what to do. She had begged a lift from one of the teachers who had dropped her off in Tradmouth. She had taken the bus from
the quayside to the park and ride which operated in the summer months in a field a mile or so out of town, next to a campsite.
Den’s cottage was a stone’s throw away and she felt quite pleased with herself for finding the place. She had come too far
and put in too much effort to turn back now.