The Skeleton Room (29 page)

‘Funny Brenda should disappear and leave her daughter like that.’

‘Not if she knows the kid’s happy with Carole.’

Carole answered her telephone. She had just got back home with Kayleigh in tow but there was still no word from Brenda: she
sounded rather worried. Gerry Heffernan, at his smoothest, said he’d be round later to give Sam a lift home and Wesley suspected
that he’d be expected to provide the transport again.

After lunch, when Wesley announced that he was going
to visit the former owners of Chadleigh Hall, Heffernan pulled a face and said he could go alone. Wesley left him in the
pub with a fresh pint of bitter on the table in front of him.

Neil had already provided him with the Iddacombes’ address and he drove out of Tradmouth towards Bereton, aware of the vast
expanse of sea to his left. He had once seen a map of the coast on which all the known shipwrecks were marked: hundreds of
them, all lying beneath the waves, keeping their secrets. Just like the
Celestina
.

He spotted Bear Head lighthouse on the headland, the squat white tower that had once guided ships around the treacherous coast
now sitting serenely beneath the cloudless blue sky. He drove on until he came to a gravel track and, keeping the tower in
sight, arrived at his destination. The building at the base of the tower was low and whitewashed. From a distance it had looked
pristine, but close up it was clear that it needed a fresh coat of paint. He parked beside an ageing grey saloon car and knocked
on the glass front door.

The lady of the house answered. She was probably in her seventies with tight grey curls above a thin, suspicious face. She
greeted him with a hostile ‘Yes?’ and looked poised to shut the door on him. Anxious to prove he wasn’t a criminal, a Jehovah’s
Witness or a door-to-door salesman, Wesley produced his warrant card and asked whether he could have a word with Mr Iddacombe
about Chadleigh Hall. The woman opened the door reluctantly to let him in.

‘You have a very interesting house, Mrs Iddacombe,’ Wesley commented, making conversation.

She said nothing as she led him into the living room, a surprisingly dark space with small square-paned windows. The room
was a mess. Unwashed cups stood on the coffee table and the plain red carpet showed up every biscuit crumb.

‘Please excuse the state of the place, Inspector. My cleaner was supposed to be coming this morning but she
didn’t turn up.’ Mrs Iddacombe sounded annoyed. ‘I’ll call my husband. George!’ she bellowed in no particular direction.

A few seconds later George Iddacombe appeared, a tall gentleman with a military bearing and a moustache to match.

‘Brenda still not turned up?’ he asked, hardly seeming to notice Wesley. ‘Bloody unreliable.’

Wesley introduced himself and received an inquisitorial stare. ‘I’m sorry, I couldn’t help overhearing . . . is your cleaner
called Brenda Dilkes?’

‘Yes. How do you . . .’

‘And you were expecting her today?’

‘Yes. Why?’

‘It’s just that we’d like a word with her ourselves.’

The Iddacombe looked at each other as if his words confirmed all their worst fears about their errant cleaner.

‘Perhaps if she turns up, you’ll let me know.’ Wesley handed Mr Iddacombe his card.

‘Inspector, eh?’ George Iddacombe stared at Wesley, curious. ‘Come about Brenda, have you? What’s she done? You said you thought
she was light fingered, didn’t you, dear?’ His wife said nothing. ‘Caught up with her at last, have you?’

Wesley wasn’t sure whether the man was joking. He had an old-fashioned, clipped way of speaking. A relic of the British Empire;
a man out of his time.

‘Actually I’m here about another matter. I understand you received a visit from a friend of mine: an archaeologist. Dr Neil
Watson.’

Iddacombe nodded, wary. His wife began to bite a fingernail.

‘I believe you used to live at Chadleigh Hall, sir?’

‘When I was a child.’

‘But children can notice a lot. Do you remember anything odd happening? Or any old family stories of a girl disappearing?’

‘You’re talking about that skeleton, aren’t you? Your friend mentioned it when he was here but . . . I didn’t say anything
because it was a bit of a shock coming out of the blue like that.’ The old man sat down and invited Wesley to do likewise.

Mrs Iddacombe opened her mouth to speak but thought better of it. She picked up some dirty cups from the coffee table and
walked out, giving her husband a warning glance.

‘When I was small I used to have a nanny who liked ghost stories. I remember she told me a tale once about someone being walled
up in a secret room somewhere in the house. Frightened the life out of me, she did.’

‘Where did she get the story from?’

‘I suppose it was just a local legend. One of these things that gets about.’ He hesitated. ‘I asked my parents about it and
they were furious and they told me never to mention it again. And then they sent the nanny away, which was a shame because
I . . .’ He hesitated. ‘I liked her. And I was sent away shortly after . . . boarding school.’ The stiff upper lip quivered
slightly and Wesley suspected that the old man had just described a time of great sadness.

‘When was this person supposed to have been walled up? Recently or . . .’

‘Oh, I shouldn’t think so. It was just a story; you know how these old legends get about.’

Mrs Iddacombe had returned and stood behind her husband’s chair protectively. ‘It’s all nonsense, you know . . . ghosts and
skeletons . . .’

‘A skeleton was found, Mrs Iddacombe. And I’m afraid we have to ask questions when a body’s found,’ Wesley stated, earning
himself a suspicious look.

He stood up. ‘Thank you, Mr Iddacombe. You’ve been very helpful. If Brenda turns up, please let me know.’

‘I hope she does,’ said Mrs Iddacombe. ‘I’ve got the grandchildren coming over later.’ She looked around her in despair.

But Wesley had other things on his mind than Mrs
Iddacombe’s domestic problems. ‘By the way, Mr Iddacombe, do you know what happened to your nanny?’

‘I’ve really no idea,’ the old man said sadly. ‘She didn’t keep in touch.’

Wesley drove away from the lighthouse, wondering why a nanny’s indiscreet story had provoked such anger in the Iddacombe household
all those years ago. Perhaps the parents were just concerned that she would give her young charge nightmares. Or had there
been more to it than that?

He toyed with the idea of going straight back to the police station but instead he made his way to the hospital mortuary,
where Colin Bowman greeted him like a long-lost friend and provided him with a large cup of freshly brewed coffee and a biscuit
from a box marked ‘Fortnum and Mason’.

‘I wondered if you’ve discovered any more about the Chadleigh Hall skeleton,’ Wesley said after he’d munched through his third
biscuit.

‘Funny you should mention that, Wesley. I was about to ring you. I sent away some samples for testing and I’ve just had the
results back. Traces of arsenic were found in her hair.’

‘She was poisoned?’ This was something he hadn’t expected.

‘Not necessarily. Arsenic was commonly used in all sorts of things in the past, even wallpaper. Did you know there’s a theory
that Napoleon was poisoned by absorbing arsenic from his green wallpaper?’

Wesley smiled. ‘I’ll take your word for it. So this means she was either poisoned deliberately before being put in that room
to die or that she lived at a time when arsenic was easily absorbed from her environment.’

‘Either, I suppose. But somehow I just have this mental picture of a young girl being turned into a helpless invalid by being
slowly poisoned. It happened, you know. There were many cases . . .’

‘But you have no proof?’

‘Sorry. No. But I still have the feeling that she was in that room a long time – perhaps a century or two. But that’s good
news for you, isn’t it? It means that it’s not your problem.’

But Wesley felt that it was his problem. As he walked back to the police station, he felt that he needed to find out who the
girl was and who had brought about her horrible death. The murderer or murderers may well have died years ago but he still
wanted to know. He felt that someone should tell her story and that she shouldn’t be left as a forgotten pile of bones in
a mortuary drawer.

Denise Fishwick kept Brenda Dilkes’s key – in case of emergencies. She had only had to use it twice in the five years she’d
had it. Once when she’d let the gas man in to mend the cooker and another when Brenda had locked herself out.

She had seen the police car call by earlier and leave when the officers received no reply. Denise had hidden herself behind
the curtains – a great skill with so much of her to hide – and munched a packet of biscuits as she watched the morning’s entertainment.
But now somebody was ringing the door bell. Once. Twice. Three times. Urgently.

Denise ambled towards the front door, her large hips swaying, like a ship in full sail. She found it hard to move quickly
and rarely even tried.

When she opened the door she found a tall, well-dressed woman standing on her doorstep. She had seen her in the driving seat
of the smart four-wheel-drive that had dropped Brenda off once when her car was out of action. Brenda had told her about her:
Carole Sanders, the rich and generous employer who obligingly looked after Kayleigh whenever she was asked. Denise could have
done with one of those herself.

Denise smiled, showing a row of uneven, stained teeth, her smooth plump face folding into dimples.

It was Carole who spoke first. ‘Sorry to bother you but I’ve been expecting Brenda to come for her daughter but she’s not
turned up. Do you know where she is, by any chance? I can see her car outside but . . .’

Denise shook her head.

‘Have you got a key to her house? Only I’m a bit worried and . . .’

‘You just hold on and I’ll fetch it.’

It seemed an age before Denise returned, apparently unhurried. Carole asked her to come with her; to have a look around next
door to see whether Brenda had left any clue as to her whereabouts. It had been a while since she had last heard from her
and little Kayleigh was starting to ask where her mother was.

Hearing this last piece of information, Denise felt she had no choice but to do her bit.

She waddled in front of Carole Sanders – conscious of the taller woman’s simple elegance; the plain, well-cut dress and skilfully
tied scarf contrasting with the faded cotton frock that strained over her own ample bustline – and held the key out before
her. She stepped aside to allow Carole to enter the house first and watched as the other woman stepped lightly over the cheap
nylon carpet that had never looked clean since Brenda had bought it. Carole called Brenda’s name but there was no reply.

Denise followed her into room after room, all empty but showing recent signs of occupation, and she was reminded of something
she had seen on an ‘unexplained mysteries’ programme on the telly – that ship, the
Mary Celeste
. A half-drunk cup of tea; a half-eaten sandwich; a magazine flung on the settee open at a page on how to get your man – something
that had never brought Brenda much luck: Kayleigh’s father was a ship – or rather a sailor – who had passed in the night some
nine years before.

It was the silence which Denise found disturbing. She waited at the bottom of the stairs while Carole went up to the bedrooms:
she found stairs difficult and, besides, she
had an uneasy feeling that she might want to make a quick getaway.

When she heard Carole Sanders scream, she knew that her instincts had been right.

I am sorry to say that many lives were lost on the night of the wreck – and not all, I suspect, owing to the cruelties of
nature.

It was many months later that I came to Tradmouth and found the port as busy as ever: the river was a forest of masts and
sailors roamed the quayside, some the worse for drink. I watched as cargoes were loaded onto the ships that waited to sail
off to distant ports: some to the fishing grounds of Newfoundland; some to the West Indies and the Americas carrying supplies
for settlers in the New World; others to Spain and France to return with cargoes of port and wine.

And then there was the darker side of Tradmouth shipping; the privateers sailing from the port looking for foreign ships to
bring back as prizes, to make rich men of their masters and crew. As a clergyman, naturally I disapproved of this unwholesome
enterprise, but I was well aware that many respectable shipowners were involved – Mercy Iddacombe included.

I was surprised to meet with Captain Smithers on the quayside outside the offices of Mistress Iddacombe’s company. He greeted
me with much courtesy and I enquired after his wife, Mary Anne’s, health. It was then he informed me that she would be sailing
with him on his next voyage, if she was well enough, and this news
pleased me, as I had been concerned about the attention he had paid to Mistress Iddacombe when we had all dined together.
He was to take command of a new ship called the
Celestina
and she was to carry a cargo of great value. The Captain was clearly proud of his new command, more prestigious than the
Jane Marie
with her cargo of household goods bound for the settlers of Newfoundland.

It is sometimes as well that we cannot know what the Almighty has in store for us.

From
An Account of the Dreadful and Wicked Crimes of the Wreckers of Chadleigh
by the Reverend Octavius Mount, Vicar of Millicombe

‘So who found her?’

‘Mrs Sanders,’ Wesley replied.

Rachel Tracey nodded knowingly. ‘The boss’s latest lady friend?’

‘I hardly think she merits that title yet,’ Wesley corrected with the hint of a smile. ‘The dead woman was her cleaner and
she was doing her a favour by looking after her daughter, Kayleigh, while she was at work. Brenda was supposed to be picking
the little girl up from Mrs Sanders’ house but when she didn’t arrive and wasn’t answering her phone, Mrs Sanders came round
here and found . . . well, you know what she found. It gave her a terrible shock and she’s worried about the effect it’ll
have on the little girl. Nice lady, Mrs Sanders.’

‘So you’ve given this blossoming romance your blessing?’

‘He’s thinking of asking her out for a meal, not booking the church. I despair of the station gossip machine sometimes.’

Rachel walked over to the window and looked out. She could see Gerry Heffernan standing beside a large four-wheel-drive car
with a middle-aged woman who was
dabbing her eyes with a crumpled tissue. He looked as though he was longing to put a protective arm around her shoulder but
hadn’t quite summoned up the courage.

‘The doc thinks it’s suicide, I take it?’

‘Looks that way.’

Wesley said nothing more. He climbed the stairs, making for the bedroom where the scenes of crime officers and Colin Bowman
were going about their mournful tasks.

Colin greeted Wesley at the door in an inappropriately hearty manner. But Wesley’s eyes were drawn beyond him to the figure
on the bed. Brenda Dilkes lay there as if asleep, her eyes closed and her arms by her side. An apparently peaceful death.
An empty pill bottle stood on the grubby white beside table beside a tall clear glass bottle that had once contained vodka.

‘Definitely suicide?’ Wesley asked.

‘I think so but I’ll be able to tell you for certain when I’ve done the post-mortem.’

‘Did she leave a note?’

‘I don’t think anything’s been found. Sorry, Wesley, I must go. Duty calls.’

Colin disappeared down the stairs with a cheery wave, leaving Wesley at the doorway watching the busy scene in the bedroom.
It had the feeling of a film set where the star on the bed was pretending to be asleep surrounded by bustling technicians
and make-up staff who would be unseen in the finished product. But Brenda Dilkes wouldn’t sit up when the scene was ended.
Her sleep was the real and permanent thing.

There was nothing Wesley could do, so he turned and walked down the stairs, back to Rachel and normality. But his mind was
still on Brenda Dilkes. She had given her daughter Sally Gilbert’s necklace to present to Pam as an end-of-term gift and she
had helped to hide the stolen computers. Whatever was going on, Brenda had been involved. And now she was dead.

Was it remorse? Fear of being caught? Without a note,
he supposed they’d never know. Perhaps it had all become too much for her. Whatever the reason, she hadn’t thought of Kayleigh.

He wandered outside. Carole Sanders had gone and Gerry Heffernan was talking to a couple of uniformed constables. His eyes
lit up when he saw Wesley, hungry for information.

‘Colin says it’s probably suicide. What did Mrs Sanders say?’

‘She said that Brenda had been a bit down lately, as if she’d had something on her mind. And she thought it was only a matter
of time before her nasty habits caught up with her.’

‘Nasty habits?’

‘She found it hard to keep her hands off other people’s property. She used to pinch things, even from Carole.’

‘I suppose the necklace could have come from one of the people she cleans for . . . or a hotel guest.’

‘It could have come from anywhere Brenda Dilkes had been. I’m really surprised she didn’t have form. Who else did she clean
for?’

‘I’ve just been to see the Iddacombes. She cleaned for them and they hinted that she was light fingered. Where’s Mrs Sanders
now?’

‘She’s gone back home to Kayleigh. She says she’s left her in the tender care of her nephew, Jason. She’s going to have to
break the news. I don’t envy her. Poor kid.’

Wesley looked at his watch. There was nothing he could do here: as Colin Bowman had said, it was a probable case of suicide.
But there were questions he’d wanted to ask the dead woman. Principally where she had obtained Sally Gilbert’s necklace. He
began to walk back to his car and Gerry Heffernan fell in behind him.

‘I nearly forgot, Wes. Robin Carrington wants a word with you.’

‘What about?’

‘He didn’t say.’

‘When’s he being taken back to London?’

‘When we’ve finished with him. I hope that’ll be sooner rather than later.’

‘We’ve not really got much on him, have we? Only the Monks Island carpark ticket. There’s nothing to suggest that he ever
met Sally Gilbert.’

‘That’s why we’re holding him. We’re . . .’

‘Waiting for something to turn up?’ Wesley smiled. ‘Now where have I heard that line before?’

They drove back to the station in amicable silence. As soon as they arrived, Wesley announced that he was going straight to
the cells to see what Robin Carrington had to say, promising to call Gerry Heffernan if it turned out to be something interesting
. . . like a confession to Sally Gilbert’s murder.

When he reached the cells, the custody sergeant showed him to Robin Carrington’s private apartment: tiled walls; a thin plastic-covered
mattress; and the heady aroma of stale urine and disinfectant. When the sergeant peeped through the spyhole he saw Carrington
sitting with his head in his hands. When the door was unlocked the prisoner stood up.

Wesley stepped into the cell. ‘You wanted to see me?’ he said quietly.

He still found it difficult to believe that Robin Carrington was a cold-blooded murderer. If he had met him at a social gathering
he would have thought him a pleasant man, hardly the aggressive type: and Neil had obviously taken a liking to him.

Carrington had insisted that the murder had been his wife, Harriet’s, idea and that she had administered the fatal injection
of insulin to the unfortunate victim. But was he to be believed? And at the back of Wesley’s mind was the thought of the other
deaths, all falls from cliffs, all at the same time of year, all with the same smell about them. Robin Carrington came down
to Devon at the same time each year and the carpark ticket had been found in his
vehicle. He had been involved with the death of one stranger, so why not more? But as to a motive, Wesley hadn’t any ideas
as yet, and he still wasn’t certain that the deaths were linked.

Carrington looked pathetically pleased to see him, like a man shipwrecked on a desert island coming face to face with another
human being. He held out his hand. Wesley shook it. A man is innocent until proved guilty.

‘Have you something you want to tell me?’ Wesley began. ‘Would you rather go to the interview room or . . .?’

‘No. It’s nothing . . . I mean it’s nothing about the case. I believe you’re a friend of Neil’s – the archaeologist working
on the shipwreck.’

‘That’s right.’

‘In fact I met your wife the other day.’

‘She told me.’

There was an awkward silence, as though Carrington had just realised that social pleasantries might be inappropriate.

He gave an apologetic smile. ‘It’s just that I promised to let Neil see a book I’d found in a second-hand shop. It’s about
the Chadleigh wreckers and it mentions the captain of the
Celestina
. Is my stuff still at the cottage?’

‘Yes. Is the book called
An Account of the Dreadful and Wicked Crimes of the Wreckers of Chadleigh
?’

‘You’ve seen it?’

‘I spotted it when we were having a look round. I thought Neil might be interested and I meant to ask you about it.’

‘I’d be grateful if you would give it to Neil. I would have done it myself but . . .’ He gave a weary smile. ‘I don’t get
out much these days. Am I allowed my papers and my laptop? I’ve almost completed the family tree I was doing for my clients
in the States and . . .’

‘I don’t see why not. Next time I’m near the cottage I’ll get them for you.’

Carrington looked him in the eye. ‘You’re very kind, Inspector. Thank you.’

Wesley turned and knocked on the door for the sergeant to let him out. Then he turned back. There was one last question he
wanted to ask.

‘What exactly were the dreadful and wicked crimes of the wreckers of Chadleigh?’

‘Murder; robbery; rape. You name it, they did it.’

But before he could elaborate, the door swung open and Wesley was glad to step outside; out of the closed, narrow world Robin
Carrington would be inhabiting for some time to come.

Steve Carstairs looked up as Wesley entered the office. Then he glanced across at Trish Walton. He’d let her do the talking.

Trish stood up. ‘Sir, have you got a moment?’

Wesley strolled over to Trish’s desk. ‘What is it?’

‘Steve and I have dug out all the files on Marion Bowler and I’ve been
looking for more information on those other deaths you asked about; the next of kin and so on. I’ve got the files together
and made a list of all the names and addresses for you.’

‘That’s brilliant, Trish. Thanks.’ He turned to Steve. Better not leave him out. ‘Thanks, Steve.’

Steve blushed and buried his head in his paperwork as Wesley strode into Gerry Heffernan’s lair, holding the files that Trish
had placed in his hands. Heffernan looked up.

‘What did Carrington want? Confessed to all our unsolved crimes, has he?’

‘He just wanted to tell me about a book he promised to let Neil have, that’s all.’

‘No mention of the Sally Gilbert case?’

‘None at all. But don’t worry, I’m still following up this other lead: those deaths in July each year.’

‘So you reckon we’ve got a serial killer who goes around shoving people off cliffs, do you?’

When Heffernan put it like that, it seemed unlikely. ‘I
think it’s worth looking into. Have you rung Carole to see how she is?’

‘I thought I’d leave it. I can’t help thinking about that poor little kid – Kayleigh, isn’t it? Wasn’t she in Pam’s class?’

Wesley nodded. ‘What’ll happen to her? Has she any grandparents she can stay with or . . .’

‘I suppose Social Services’ll sort all that out.’

Wesley put Trish’s files down on Heffernan’s desk, keen to change the subject: the thought of little Kayleigh’s situation
depressed him. ‘Trish and Steve have been digging out the details of the July deaths. I’d like to visit some of the relatives
and ask a few questions. I might be barking up the wrong tree but . . .’

‘If you’ve got a hunch, Wes, go for it. Let me know how you get on.’

‘So what’s the latest? Has Sebastian Wilde been charged?’

‘Charged and released on bail. I didn’t mention it to Carole.’

‘She’s bound to know by now.’

‘It’s not been her day, has it? Her brother having his collar felt and her cleaner topping herself.’

A faraway look appeared in Heffernan’s eyes, as though he imagined himself as the knight in shining armour slaying those unpleasant
dragons for his lady.

Wesley looked at his watch. ‘I’ll have a look through these files and make some phone calls. Then I’ll get home and see how
Pam is.’

‘You do that, Wes,’ said the chief inspector, his mind on other things.

The next morning Wesley left Pam sleeping, confident that he had been forgiven for the incident of the necklace. They had
made love the night before and had lain, warm in each other’s arms, until Michael had decided that enough was enough and had
started to cry. Pam had got up to see to him
and Wesley had fallen asleep and had stayed that way until he woke refreshed at seven. He had decided not to mention Brenda
Dilkes’s death to Pam, knowing that the thought of little Kayleigh being alone, left to the mercies of officialdom and the
care system, would upset her. He would break the news in his own time.

At half past eight he arrived at the office, prepared for a day that would be busy, even if it didn’t turn out to be particularly
productive.