The Merchant's House (25 page)

Neil’s eyes wandered to the bottom of the document; the most recent members of the family. There didn’t seem to be many of them. ‘What about these? Are any of them still alive?’

‘Not in this parish. But the only daughter there, Rose, she married someone from the parish of Little Tradmouth. I suppose she might be dead by now. She was born in 1910.1 don’t know if they had children. You could check the parish records up there if you like. She’s the only daughter of the eldest son. If this journal you mentioned has been handed down in the family, it could well have come to her.’

‘I might try and track her down – or her descendants. If I’ve got time. We’re getting a bit pushed at the dig. Time limits and all that.’

‘If you ever need a hand,’ the vicar grinned enthusiastically, ‘I’d be only too pleased to help. Parish responsibilities permitting, of course.’

Neil thanked him. As the deadline drew nearer he might need all the help he could get. The discovery of a murder victim, even from the distant past, had slowed things up considerably.

Wesley was relieved to be back at the station. He didn’t like hospitals, even those at the luxury end of the market.

Gerry Heffernan had suggested he spend some time with Pam, seeing he was on the premises, while he went back to Tradmouth and caught up with some paperwork. Thoughtful of the man, but Wesley would have preferred to get back to work … although he didn’t care to admit it.

He had spent half an hour making polite conversation with his wife. It is impossible, Wesley thought, to talk normally to anybody, however intimately you know them, in a hospital. He had left as soon as he could respectably do so and drove back to Tradmouth. If possible he wanted to see Neil at lunch-time to find out how things were progressing.

The office was quiet; everyone intent on work. Heffernan came out when he saw Wesley had returned. ‘I’ve not told you about my little discovery, have I, Wes?’

‘What discovery’s that, sir?’

‘Our friend Mrs Hughes, Sharon Carteret’s landlady. She was married before to someone called Berrisford, and they had a son who lives up north.’

‘Er …’

‘Stan Jenkins isn’t in but when he gets back I’m going to ask him. I think she could be Jonathon Berrisford’s grandmother.’

‘And if she is?’

‘I’m getting a feeling in my water that there’s some connection. The kid Sharon was with looked like Jonathon. Her landlady was his grandmother …’

‘That’s just conjecture, sir. We don’t…’

‘I’m talking ifs here, Wes. When I first started in CID my old inspector told me to follow my instincts, so I’m following them. Okay? After lunch, when I’ve talked to Stan, I might pay Mrs Hughes another visit. You can come with me if you like. But make sure you have a cup of tea before you go. You’ll not get one there.’

They were interrupted by Rachel. ‘Excuse me, sir, but Steve and I have got a lead on Chris Manners. He sometimes goes to the Anchor on Saturday nights.’

‘I think you’ve got yourself a date there, Rach. Get over there tonight and don’t let Steve drink too much or pick up any fallen women.’ She nodded, not relishing a night out with Steve Carstairs. Steve considered himself to be God’s
gift to women; and if this was the case, thought Rachel, the Lord was seriously short-changing the female sex.

The inspector had taken Stan Jenkins to the Tradmouth Arms for lunch. Wesley decided on a pasty and a visit to the dig.

Darren was standing proudly in a trench, holding a piece of pottery at arm’s length. Wesley asked him what he’d found and Darren, overawed, responded enthusiastically. The boy was coming on: he clearly had a real interest. There was no sign of the metal detector.

Neil was in the hut, leaning over the sink, cleaning the mud off a few finds.

‘I’ve just been to see the vicar. He’s made us a great family tree. I told him we’ll use it in the exhibition.’

‘Any news on the journal?’

‘I’m going to St Peter’s church at Little Tradmouth to see if I can trace the surviving relatives. Fancy going over there now? It won’t take long. How’s Pam?’

‘She’ll be fine. They’re keeping her in overnight.’

Neil nodded. He had thought about Pam last night – the kisses they’d exchanged at that long-ago party where they’d first met, how they’d gone out together for six months, how he’d introduced her to his family – then to his friend, Wesley. But Neil, wise enough to realise that the clock couldn’t be turned back, liked Wesley and bore him no ill-will – except in the small hours of the morning when he thought of what might have been. But then Pam seemed happy with Wesley. She had shown no emotion when she had met Neil again other than pleasure at meeting an old friend after many years. Perhaps things had worked out for the best.

‘Darren’s shaping up well.’

‘He’s a natural.’ Neil’s mind returned to archaeology. ‘He reckons he wants to go back to college and do his GCSEs then go on to university. I told him that if he helps out on digs as a volunteer he’ll be getting involved – it’ll all help. Have you got time to come over to Little Tradmouth?’

Welsey looked at his watch. ‘If we’re not too long. We can go in my car.’

St Peter’s, Little Tradmouth, was built as a chapel of ease
in the eighteenth century, to relieve the overworked villagers of that small but expanding farming community from the pains of having to trail into Tradmouth itself for Sunday service. The church was plain, unlike the vicar’s wife who greeted them. A tall woman in her thirties with a face and figure that would stop traffic even in London’s busiest streets, she explained that her husband was responsible for five parishes and had had to go early to one of his churches to prepare for a wedding; such are the rigours of rural church life.

She unlocked the huge oak door and they stepped into the echoing silence of the nave. The vicar’s wife walked in front of them to the vestry, her hips swaying provocatively under her tight jersey dress. Wesley, who had been brought up by strict churchgoing parents, felt a little uneasy at finding a clergyman’s wife so alluringly attractive. Neil, from an atheistic family with no such hang-ups, watched her appreciatively and enjoyed the experience.

She pointed to a large oak cupboard. ‘You’ll find all the registers in there.’ She unlocked it slowly to reveal a row of dusty leather-bound volumes. ‘I’ll leave you to it, then. Just drop the key in to the vicarage when you leave.’ She smiled, a dazzling smile. ‘And let me know how you’ve got on, won’t you?’

When she’d gone they exchanged looks.

‘Lucky old vicar,’ said Neil appreciatively. ‘We’d best get on. There’s a lot to look through.’

Wesley, his eye on the time, thought he’d have to go back and leave Neil to it. Then they struck gold. At last, in a dusty baptism register, they found what they were looking for.

A boy, William, had been born in 1937 to a William Boscople and his wife Rose (née Banized). The deaths register revealed that the parents, William and Rose, had departed this life within a year of each other in 1982, their earthly existence reduced to ill-written entries in a country church register.

Their searches done, Neil and Wesley strolled back down the grave-lined church path towards the vicarage. Maybe
the vicar’s wife would know the whereabouts of William Boscople the younger.

But she didn’t. They were new to the parish, she explained, only arrived six months ago and hadn’t met everyone yet. She’d ask around for them. She uncrossed her beautiful legs and offered them coffee. Wesley happened to mention that his wife was in hospital and her expression changed to one of concern. She was not a vicar’s wife for nothing.

Wesley started the car, leaving Neil enjoying a second cup of freshly ground ecclesiastical coffee. He had said he’d walk back to Tradmouth along the cliff path. The exercise would do him good.

Wesley drove along country lanes walled with hedgerow. When gates gave glimpses into the fields beyond, he noticed that the rich red earth was ploughed bare, the harvest gathered until next year when the cycle would begin again. There was something about this countryside, something that nagged away at his mind; some connection. If only he could remember where he had heard the name Boscople.

The midday meal that Gerry Heffernan had consumed at the Tradmouth Arms was considerably larger than Wesley’s pasty. Wesley found him slumped in his swivel chair, sated and content. The inspector raised himself up.

‘Come on, Wes. Let’s get over and see this Hughes woman. I could do with a walk.’

‘Good lunch, sir?’

‘Very good. I think I’ve laid Stan Jenkins’s diet well and truly to rest.’ He smiled with satisfaction and stood up slowly. ‘Nice walk and a little sail on the ferry – just what the doctor ordered. Come on.’

They reached Mary Hughes’s house at around half past two. As Wesley rang the doorbell he was aware of a movement in an upstairs window, the flickering of a net curtain. She was in; he was certain of that. He tried again.

This time she answered, her expression cold. Her face looked strained and there were dark rings under her eyes which were visible in spite of her immaculate make-up. There was something bothering her.

‘I don’t know what you’re wasting your time for,’ she said grudgingly. ‘I’ve told you everything I know. I really can’t help you more than I have already. I’m sorry.’

She seemed to be about to shut the door on them when Heffernan pushed forward determinedly. ‘If we could just have a word, Mrs Hughes. It won’t take long.’

He was halfway through the front door. There was nothing she could do about it. ‘Cup of tea’d be nice, love. I’m spitting feathers here.’

Wesley had to admire his boss’s cheek. Mrs Hughes looked at the inspector as if he was something she’d found rotting in her dustbin. She complied in silence. The tea was served in bone-china cups.

‘I think there’s something you’ve not told us, Mrs Hughes,’ the inspector said softly when they were settled.

The woman’s eyes narrowed. ‘I’m sure I don’t know what you mean.’ Wary.

‘You’ve been married twice, I believe?’

‘It’s not illegal,’ she snapped.

‘Your first husband’s name was Berrisford.’

Wesley sat watching her reaction, the bone-china cup halfway to his lips.

‘Yes.’

Heffernan paused to increase the pressure. ‘You have a son, I believe. What’s his name?’

‘Alan … his name’s Alan.’

‘And he lives where?’

‘Up north.’

‘Where up north?’

‘Outside Manchester. Why?’

‘Did his son go missing recently?’

She turned to face him, her face blank. ‘Yes.’ Whispered.

‘Is his son Jonathon Berrisford? Is Jonathon your grandson?’

She nodded. ‘I’m sorry, Inspector, I’ll have to ask you to leave. This has been distressing for the whole family and …’

‘Just one more question and then we’ll go, Mrs Hughes. Have you any idea where your grandson is … any idea at all?’

She didn’t answer. ‘I’m feeling unwell, Inspector. I’d be grateful if you’d leave.’

They were halfway down the road to the ferry before Heffernan spoke. ‘What do you think, Wes?’

‘She knows something. Should we take her in for questioning, let Inspector Jenkins know?’

‘One thing I learned when I went to cookery evening classes after Kathy died was that if you leave tough meat to simmer gently for a long time, it goes all tender and breaks up nicely. I find it works on suspects too.’

‘So we leave her?’

‘Oh, we keep going back to give her a stir from time to time.’ He grinned wickedly. ‘There’s one thing, though …’

‘What’s that?’

‘I think we can put Stan Jenkins out of his misery. I reckon that Jonathon Berrisford’s most probably alive and well and living not a million miles from here.’

Last night Elizabeth was delivered of a boy. He is small and scarce like to live. But he doth feed and clings to life.

Jennet’s time is near and
I
do keep from her company.
I
must needs pray and repent me of my great sin.

Extract from the journal of John Banized,
20 February 1624

Rachel thought she’d better get changed for the evening. Jeans, her new black ribbed top: they’d do fine for the Anchor. Her mother had asked her if she was going anywhere nice, and why didn’t she put that new dress on. Rachel had explained patiently that it was work, she didn’t have a date. Her mother had looked disappointed.

Perhaps, Rachel thought to herself, she was outgrowing the farm. Perhaps it was time to start looking for a place of her own.

She met Steve outside the market and had to admit that he looked quite presentable, and there was a refreshing absence of suggestive banter. When they entered the Anchor Rachel felt relieved that she’d rejected her mother’s advice and worn her jeans.

The Anchor wasn’t the roughest pub she had been in, but it came close. The walls were shiny imitation wood, as was the bar. Fruit machines lined the walls like an alien guard from the pages of one of Steve’s favourite science fiction
novels. They sat at a round table in the corner, wood-effect laminate for easy cleaning, and sipped ice-cold, tasteless lager.