Finishing his plate of spaghetti before it was too cold to be edible, Wesley scrolled down to the section on the trial. It
had proved to be quite sensational by the standards of the 1950s. Witness after witness took the stand, many of them people
George had treated professionally but hardly knew, and the facts stacked up against him. The lady captain of the golf club
gave a particularly vivid account of how Isabelle led her unsuspecting husband a merry dance with a variety of young men.
She’d been sexually voracious and there had been hints in court that there had been a dark, perhaps even a cruel, side to
her sexuality, although no details were given. To all appearances George Clipton was the cuckold, the betrayed husband driven
to the ultimate crime. The jury believed every word and the penalty for murder in those days was death. The judge had donned
his black cap and recited those grave words about being taken hence to a place of execution, ending with the words ‘May the
Lord have mercy on your soul’, which must have echoed in Clipton’s head as he went down the steps to the cells.
As Wesley searched for more material he found himself feeling rather sorry for George. Even if he had been guilty,
it seemed that he had acted in a moment of madness. It would surely have been a true crime of passion and there was no evidence
that he had planned his terrible act or that he was ever likely to be a danger to the public in general.
The account of George Clipton’s last moments made him feel a little sick. The condemned doctor had gone with the Governor
and the chaplain in a sad little procession to the execution chamber where the hangman was waiting. Then his feet and hands
were tied, the hood placed over his head and the rope around his neck. In his mind’s eye Wesley could see him there, helpless,
bound and waiting to be dispatched like a beast in an abattoir, his pounding heart reminding him of the life he would soon
forfeit to the all-consuming power of the law.
According to the website, George had claimed his innocence to the last. His last words before the lever was thrown and the
trapdoor opened up beneath his feet with a thunderous crash were ‘I didn’t do it.’
Wesley pushed his plate away and switched off the laptop. The story of George Clipton had disturbed him and he wasn’t sure
why.
‘You all right?’
He looked up and saw Pam standing in the doorway with a look of concern on her face.
‘Just looking something up, that’s all. Man hanged for strangling his unfaithful wife back in the 1950s.’ He paused. ‘All
the evidence points to James Dalcott being his son.’
She sat down heavily on the chair opposite. ‘You sure?’
‘Pretty sure. I’ll have to do more checking but …’
‘Surely it can’t have anything to do with his murder? I
mean, it was a long time ago. And why would anyone want to get revenge on the son? I presume he was the victim’s son as well
as the murderer’s. She wasn’t the wicked stepmother?’
‘Oh no. The victim was his mother all right. He was brought up by his father’s sister and it looks as though he was never
told about his real parents. I don’t think he had any idea about all this until quite recently when he started investigating
his family tree, then I suppose it all came out. Must have been a shock for him.’
‘I never imagined that genealogy could be a dangerous pastime,’ she said.
‘We don’t know whether it has anything to do with his death. In fact the more I think about it the less likely it is.’
The subject exhausted, he began to pack the dishwasher. When he had finished he turned and saw that Pam was watching him.
He caught her by the waist and gave her a kiss. She kissed him back and they stayed there for a few seconds, holding each
other close. Until the telephone rang.
‘Hope that’s not the incident room,’ Wesley said, squeezing her hand.
Pam broke away, grabbed the receiver and said a cautious ‘hello’. After a short conversation she handed it to Wesley, covering
the mouthpiece. ‘It’s Neil. He says it’s urgent.’
Wesley took it, giving Pam an apologetic smile, hoping that whatever his friend had to say wouldn’t add to his workload.
Somehow he knew that it wasn’t going to be a short conversation. Once Pam had retreated into the living
room he sat down and listened as Neil spoke in great detail about the geophysics results and the discovery of the third skeleton,
interrupting only to ask a couple of pertinent questions. But when Neil got onto the subject of his guided tour of Tailors
Court, the anatomical drawings hidden behind the panelling and the strange room in the attic, Wesley could tell from his voice
that something about that room had disturbed him – and Neil didn’t usually frighten easily.
When he promised to meet him at Tailors Court the next morning, Neil sounded relieved. Maybe he’d just wanted to share the
burden of his suspicions. But now they’d become Wesley’s problem.
That night he lay awake with all Neil’s revelations buzzing round in his head.
It wasn’t only the new skeleton that concerned him, but the strange room in the attic at Tailors Court.
He really wanted to see it for himself.
First thing the next morning Wesley called Gerry Heffernan to say he’d be in late. Another body had been found at Tailors
Court. And something else – something Neil felt might be suspicious. He was going down there to see it for himself before
he made any decisions about which course of action to take.
What he didn’t mention to Gerry, because he didn’t want to worry him, was that if those skeletons, and whatever was in the
attic room, turned out to be less than seventy years old, they might have a massive case on their hands. Something of a scale
that would probably require outside help. Wesley sent up a silent prayer that the bones were centuries old and of more interest
to Neil than to
Tradmouth CID. But he had an uneasy feeling that this time, his prayers might not be answered.
Gerry ended the conversation by reminding him that he was due to appear on TV that evening – live on the local news programme.
Evonne Arlis would be sitting beside him as the token grieving friend to add emotional weight to the appeal for potential
witnesses. Wesley curbed a desire to say how much he was dreading it. And he doubted if it would yield any useful results
either.
The winter sun was making a feeble effort to shine as he left the house and set off down the main road to Neston. Before reaching
the town, he turned off onto a minor road, following a signpost to Tradington. He’d been able to avoid the early-morning Neston
rush hour but he still encountered a number of cars and had to carry out the awkward rural ritual of reversing into a passing
place several times.
The gates to Tailors Court stood on a winding country lane off the Tradington road and as Wesley steered his way up the drive,
he saw that Neil’s archaeological team had arrived early and were unloading various items of geophysics equipment out of an
assortment of battered vehicles. The search for bodies was still continuing, and Wesley contemplated the prospect with a sinking
heart.
He spotted Neil’s car parked near the house and pulled up beside it.
As he slammed the car door Neil appeared, seemingly out of nowhere, looking uncharacteristically worried.
‘Colin Bowman said to leave the bones
in situ
and he’ll come as soon as he can,’ Neil said as they began to walk towards the scene of the activity. ‘I didn’t like to leave
them there – always like to lift them as soon as possible, as
you know – but …’ He paused. ‘I keep thinking about those cut marks on the first two skeletons. I think this new one’s the
same. It’s a man, by the way. Middle-aged.’
‘Anything to date the burial?’
‘A few small pieces of pottery … Tudor green. And there’s some seventeenth- and eighteenth-century stuff in the soil above.
No sign of recent ground disturbance. And that knife blade we found near the first burials – the expert I showed it to says
it’s definitely old; probably sixteenth century.’
Wesley smiled. Things were looking up. ‘So if we keep our fingers crossed very tightly, the burials might turn out to be sixteenth
century too?’
Neil studied his fingernails and picked at a grubby cuticle. ‘If I were a betting man – and in view of the state of the teeth
– I’d say they were old.’
‘Thank God for that. We’ve got enough on our plate with this shooting. Now what about this attic room you told me about?’
Neil gave his friend a rueful smile. ‘I’ll have to use my charms with the Persimmons. I had the awful feeling yesterday that
I’d outstayed my welcome.’
‘Heaven forbid,’ Wesley said under his breath. Neil’s enthusiasm for the past could be a little much for some people.
He followed Neil to the front of Tailors Court and when Jill Persimmon answered the door she stood on the threshold, barring
the way.
‘What is it this time?’ she asked.
Before she could say anything, Neil got in first. ‘This is DI Wesley Peterson. He’s here about the skeletons.’
‘Sorry to bother you, Mrs Persimmon,’ Wesley said as
he shook the woman’s hand. ‘More routine investigations, I’m afraid.’
‘I thought the skeletons were old.’ She gave Neil a puzzled frown. ‘I didn’t think you needed to involve the police again.’
‘As I said, it’s just routine,’ said Wesley smoothly, sneaking a look at Neil. ‘Dr Watson’s told me about the attic room he
found and I’d be very grateful if I could have a quick look.’
Jill hesitated for a moment. ‘Why?’
‘If you’re busy we can find our own way,’ said Neil, taking a step towards the door.
‘Well, I am expecting a call.’ She went over to the dresser, took a key from a hook and handed it to Neil. ‘Just leave it
there when you’ve finished,’ she said and disappeared off to the room she was using as a temporary office.
‘No problem,’ Neil whispered smugly. As he took the stairs two at a time Wesley followed him, noting the exposed beams and
the pristine white plasterwork, and when they eventually found themselves in a shabby bedroom, probably untouched since the
1940s, Neil made straight for the far corner and removed a section of dusty panelling.
‘Someone’s been interested in anatomy,’ Wesley said, staring at the newly revealed pictures. ‘Funny place to draw them.’
‘Mmm,’ said Neil. ‘But when were they drawn?’
‘They look quite fresh.’
‘They’ve been protected by the panelling. They could be any age.’
Neil replaced the section of panelling carefully before
leading Wesley to the bedroom containing the staircase door.
‘The room’s up here,’ he said, his words almost lost behind the creaking of the hinges.
He climbed the stairs and Wesley followed cautiously. The treads looked rickety and he was taking no chances.
Neil unlocked the first door and led Wesley through the bare, cobweb-festooned attic, lighting the way with a torch he’d just
taken from one of his combat jacket’s many pockets. When they reached the end, he turned the key in a plain oak door and opened
it with a dramatic flourish and a horror-film creak.
‘What do you make of this then?’ he asked as he stepped inside the room and flashed the torch around the walls. Somehow Wesley’s
presence had taken the edge off the bad feelings he’d experienced there on his first visit.
Wesley took the torch from Neil and walked around slowly, taking everything in. Then he stopped and stared at the rusted instruments
hanging on the wall before examining them more closely, touching what looked like a saw tentatively with his forefinger then
wiping the contaminated digit on his trousers. ‘My dad took me to a medical museum in one of the big London teaching hospitals
once and they had old surgical instruments on display,’ he said quietly. ‘They looked very similar to those, only in much
better condition, of course.’
‘You reckon this might have been some sort of hospital?’
Wesley grimaced before turning to face Neil. ‘I doubt it. Not all the way up here. Are you thinking what I’m thinking about
the cuts on the bones?’
Before Neil had a chance to reply he heard a voice behind him. ‘What’s going on?’
Both men swung round. Tony Persimmon was standing in the doorway. Even in the torchlight Wesley could tell that he didn’t
look pleased.
Wesley stepped forward and showed his warrant card. In his experience people like the Persimmons weren’t inclined to argue
with the forces of law and order. The aggression vanished from the man’s face but he stood his ground. ‘What are you looking
for?’
‘Dr Watson told me about this room and, in view of the bodies found outside in your grounds, I’m just wondering whether to
get it sealed off or …’ It was always best to start with the worst-case scenario and work down.
Persimmon suddenly looked worried. ‘We’ve only just moved in. Even if something happened here years ago it has nothing to
do with us. ’
‘We’re well aware of that. But I’ll take some samples for our lab.’ He took an evidence bag out of his pocket and picked up
a fragment of the rotted cloth on the table with the plastic, careful not to contaminate any potential evidence. Then he looked
at Persimmon and gave him a businesslike smile. ‘Maybe we could talk downstairs? I’d like you to tell me everything you know
about the history of the house.’
Wesley thought that Persimmon looked a little relieved as he led the way downstairs. But if it turned out that some dreadful
crime had been committed up there in that strange room, the Persimmons were going to have to get used to a bit of police intrusion.
‘So that’s three bodies down at Tailors Court.’ Gerry Heffernan slumped back in his seat. It wasn’t as sturdy as his executive
leather swivel chair back in his own office at
Tradmouth and it groaned ominously under his weight. Gerry looked alarmed and straightened himself up, searching for the most
comfortable position. Wesley knew that he found it hard to think when he wasn’t relaxed.
‘Three skeletons,’ Wesley corrected. ‘But Neil thinks they could be centuries old.’
Gerry grunted. ‘Well, if he’s right, it’ll save us a lot of work.’