He heard a loud sigh on the other end of the line. ‘OK.’
‘I need the publisher’s address – it’s usually on one of the front pages.’
He could almost see Pam rolling her eyes. ‘I have seen a book before. Hang on.’
He could hear a few distant bangs and crashes as Pam made her search. He could also hear Michael chattering away to his sister,
playing some imaginary game, and he suddenly realised how much he missed the children. When this investigation was over, he’d
take a few days off. And then Christmas would creep up on them like some stalking beast and he’d become involved in his annual
struggle against youthful materialism; a struggle he usually lost.
He heard Pam’s voice. ‘I’ve found it. The publisher’s an outfit called Flowerdew Publications. Want the address?’
‘Please.’
She recited an address in London. Soho, Wesley
thought. Somehow he hadn’t associated Nanny Buchanan with such a worldly setting.
‘What year was it published?’ he asked, fearing that Flowerdew might have gone out of business or been swallowed by one of
its larger rivals in the meantime.
‘Ten years ago. It was all the rage when Michael was born. There was even a TV series but I don’t suppose you’d remember.’
‘Is there anything about Nanny Buchanan herself ? How old she is? Where she lives? Her experience?’
‘Oh yes. I’ll read it out to you.’ She cleared her throat. ‘“After training as a nurse, Enid Buchanan worked as a nanny to
numerous families, including many in the public eye. In her popular TV series, she shared the knowledge gained from her years
of experience with the nation’s young mothers and she is a great advocate of the need for calm and routine in a young child’s
life. She was made an OBE in 1995 and she now lives in a picturesque cottage on the Cornish coast”.’
It took Wesley a few seconds to take in the information. She’d worked for families in the public eye – he’d lay money that
the publishers didn’t mean the Cliptons, who’d been in the public eye for all the wrong reasons: that was something the nanny
had probably kept quiet about in the course of her long career. But the thing that made Wesley’s heart beat a little faster
was the fact that Nanny Buchanan lived in Cornwall. According to Gerry, James Dalcott had mentioned Looe to Fiona Verdun before
taking a day off. Was there a chance that he’d been planning to visit his old nanny? She’d been there, part of the Clipton
household at the time, so she must have seen and heard things that went on in that house that the
Cliptons wouldn’t want to be common knowledge amongst their neighbours.
He thanked Pam profusely and promised to be home at the arranged time before making a couple of calls. Five minutes later,
he was relieved to discover that Flowerdew Publications was still in business in the heart of Soho. Fortunately the editor
was working late and she was able to assure him that Nanny Buchanan was still alive and well and enjoying her retirement in
Looe in Cornwall. In fact she had a new book coming out in the spring –
Nanny’s Nursery Recipes.
The editor described the nanny as a spry old bird. Indestructible was one of the words she used. Wesley only hoped she was
right. Now it was confirmed, he knew it hadn’t been a coincidence that James had mentioned Looe to Fiona Verdun. If James
Dalcott’s murder was connected with the Clipton case and he had visited Enid Buchanan because she was a potential witness,
then she herself might well be in danger. And he needed to get to her before the killer did.
After the editor had passed on Miss Buchanan’s phone number she told him, with what sounded like admiration, that she was
away at the moment, visiting friends in Austria, and she was due back tomorrow. Wesley thanked her and ended the call, rather
relieved that Nanny Buchanan was safe in Austria for the time being. As soon as she returned, he would pay her a visit in
the hope she’d be able to shed some light on her former charge’s death.
He tried the number the editor had given him, just in case Miss Buchanan had decided to return early from her holiday or there
was a relative or friend looking after the house who could throw any light on recent events. But there was no reply. He’d
just have to be patient until she returned from her travels.
He wanted to share his new discovery with Gerry Heffernan but when he tried his number there was no reply. He examined his
watch: it was getting late and it was almost time to meet Nuala Johns. He felt a momentary thrill of danger, there for a split
second then swiftly suppressed. Then his mobile started to ring and when he took the phone from his pocket he saw that it
was Neil calling.
‘What are you up to?’ were the archaeologist’s first words. ‘I’ve just spoken to Pam and she said you wouldn’t be back till
late.’
‘I’ve got to meet someone.’
‘Who?’
He thought for a moment and realised that Neil could solve a few potential problems. ‘A journalist called Nuala Johns.’
‘I met her at Tailors Court.’
‘If you’re free why don’t you come with me? I’m hoping she might have some more information on the history of Tailors Court.’
This was the bait and Neil fell for it. ‘What time are you meeting her?’
‘Seven at the White Horse near Neston Castle. How’s your research going?’
‘That’s what I was ringing to tell you. I’ve found out who was living in that Tradmouth town house at the end of the sixteenth
century – the one where your victim’s wife has a flat. I’ve had Annabel going through all the rent rolls and –’
‘Who was it?’
‘A Philip Tanner. Physician.’
‘That explains the anatomical drawings on the walls behind the panelling, I suppose.’
‘And there’s something else. Something very interesting.’
‘What’s that?’
‘I’ll tell you later. See you in the White Horse at seven.’
He rang off leaving Wesley staring at the receiver.
Pat Beswick wriggled her feet into a pair of fluffy slippers and took a sip of tea. It was just time for the local TV news.
She enjoyed the local news: it wasn’t all doom and gloom like the main news – wars and bombings and famines. Not that the
local version had been too cheerful recently what with that poor doctor being shot. You’d never think anything like that would
happen in a place like Tradington.
And then there’d been those bones at Tailors Court. She must have walked over them countless times – walked over graves. If
she’d known that they were lying there all those years ago, it would have given her nightmares.
She put her steaming mug of tea down on the table by the side of her chair and picked up the remote control. Sure enough the
local news headlines were on, read by that nice young presenter who reminded her so much of her great nephew. She listened
with rapt attention. The latest on the Tradington shooting – police were trying to trace an elderly person who’d been seen
nearby on the night of the murder. A doctor had been arrested for his part in a racket involving illegal organ donations at
a private clinic near Podbury. A row had blown up over a lap dancing club in the heart of Plymouth. Devon was certainly joining
the wicked world these days, she thought as she took a restorative sip of tea.
The newsreader had been replaced on the screen by a woman and Pat settled back into her chair as she introduced the next item.
‘During the Second World War hundreds of children
from London and other cities were evacuated here to Devon for safety. Most arrived by train and were billeted with families,
attending local schools.’
Pat sat forward and used the remote control to turn up the volume.
‘For most of these children, it was the first time they’d been away from their families and it must have been a bewildering
and often frightening experience. For many it was their first taste of country living, a true culture shock after the dirt
and noise of the big city. They had the freedom to explore the fields and farms and an opportunity to make new friends. So
it was for two little girls from London – Mabel and Pat who were evacuated to the village of Tradington near Neston.’
Pat put down her tea and sat quite still, straining to hear every syllable.
‘After all these years, Mabel decided to visit her old friend, Pat. And that’s where our story becomes a bit of a mystery.
Here’s Mabel’s daughter, Sandra, to explain.’
The camera panned round to a middle-aged woman with a worried frown on her face. ‘My mum left home for Devon on November 12th
and she caught a coach from London to Morbay. Now I know she was seen getting off at Morbay but I’ve not heard from her since.
I know she received a letter inviting her down from a friend called Pat who she was evacuated with, but unfortunately I don’t
have Pat’s address. I’m sure mum’s OK but I’m getting a bit concerned so if her or Pat are watching or if anyone knows …’
Pat flicked the TV off and stood up just as a dark figure appeared in the doorway. ‘What is it? What’s the matter?’
‘They’re onto us,’ Pat replied.
*
Wesley was relieved to see that Neil had reached the White Horse before him. In fact he was already sitting with Nuala Johns
who was wearing an expression of polite attention. As soon as she spotted Wesley Nuala turned away from Neil and watched him
as he wove his way through the tables towards her.
‘I thought you were never coming,’ she said, half accusing, half flirting. ‘What are you having to drink? And don’t say “not
while I’m on duty”. What’ll it be?’
‘Half of bitter, please.’
She looked disappointed. ‘Not a pint?’
‘I’m driving.’
She shrugged and made her way to the bar. Wesley sat down by Neil. ‘What’s new?’
‘I was just sharing a few pieces of historical information with the lovely Nuala. She’s done rather well finding out about
old Simon Garchard’s body snatching – Devon’s very own Burke and now I reckon I might have found his Hare. At Garchard’s trial
a Philip Tanner gave the damning evidence. He said he’d seen Garchard with the maidservant, Annet Raine. Garchard denied it.
He said that even though he’d dug up bodies to dissect, he’d never actually killed anybody. He claimed that Tanner had talked
about wanting to get hold of a fresh corpse but the jury thought he was just trying to shift the blame.’
‘What do we know about Tanner?’
‘He was described as Garchard’s apprentice at the trial and after Garchard was hanged, he set up shop in Tradmouth. He’s described
in various documents as a physician but there’s no mention of him having attended any of the universities that trained physicians
at the time.’
‘So both he and Garchard were enthusiastic amateurs rather than professional doctors.’
‘Looks that way.’
‘So we can assume that Simon Garchard drew those pictures at Tailors Court – possibly from life if he was dissecting the bodies
from the churchyard.’
‘And don’t forget Annet Raine’s murder. Apparently her half-dissected corpse was found in an outhouse by another servant who
raised the alarm.’ He wrinkled his nose. ‘Garchard denied all knowledge and said he carried out all his autopsies in the attic
but Tanner said he’d seen him carrying the body in there. His evidence hanged his master.’
‘So it was his word against Garchard’s?’
‘Not quite. There was another witness who –’
Before Neil had time to continue, Nuala returned. She was carrying Wesley’s drink and she put it down in front of him with
a flourish.
Before he could thank her she started to speak. ‘Neil’s been telling me about Philip Tanner. I’m thinking of writing an article
about him – even a book.’ She sat down, a look of triumph on her face. ‘The murderer’s apprentice. Think that’s a good title?’
‘Brilliant,’ said Neil. ‘Body snatching. Murder. Can’t go wrong.’
She turned to Wesley. ‘What do you think, Inspector? Reckon it’ll be a best seller?’
‘It wouldn’t surprise me,’ Wesley answered quickly. ‘What did you want to see me about?’
He saw Nuala give Neil a swift glance as though she wanted to be rid of him. ‘I’d found out about Philip Tanner but your friend
here’s beaten me to it.’ She gave a disappointed pout in Neil’s direction.
‘Neil was just telling me about Philip Tanner giving evidence at Garchard’s trial. And did you say there was another witness,
Neil?’
‘Yes. Another maidservant called Elizabeth Ryde. She confirmed Tanner’s story.’
‘That’s that, then,’ Nuala said, downing the last of her pint. ‘Garchard got his just deserts.’ She touched Wesley’s arm.
‘Got anything for me on the child’s bones yet? I believe Rachel Tracey’s been interrogating my gran.’
‘And you think you’re entitled to first pickings, eh?’
‘I didn’t say that,’ she snapped.
Wesley raised his hands in mock surrender. Nuala was an ambitious woman and she resented the police getting the juicy story
before she did. Part of him admired her for it, and part of him hated the cold calculation behind it.
‘If you ask your gran nicely I’m sure she’ll tell you.’
‘That’s the point. Now she’s clammed up. She says it’s a police matter.’
Wesley said nothing. He hadn’t seen Rachel since her chat with Mary. Now he suddenly wanted to know what, if anything, the
former land girl had revealed.
He made a great show of looking at his watch. ‘I’m sorry, Nuala, I have to go. I’m sure you and Neil have a lot to talk about
… Simon Garchard and all that.’ He smiled at Neil who suddenly looked a little fearful, as though his friend was leaving him
alone with a man-eating tiger.
Gerry had told him he’d be needed in the incident room to deal with the aftermath of Sandra Ackerley’s TV appearance so he
hurried back to Neston Police Station, his collar up against the fine drizzle that had just started to fall. He was glad to
get away from Nuala. He found her
presence disturbing … and maybe, although he was reluctant to acknowledge it, even a little exciting. When he reached the
incident room he put her firmly out of his mind and looked around for Rachel.
She was nowhere to be seen but he learned from Gerry that she’d rushed to the TV station to make sure Sandra Ackerley was
OK. She hadn’t had time to share what she’d learned from Mary Haynes but she’d promised to have a full report on Gerry’s desk
first thing in the morning.