‘Well, have you found out anything useful?’
‘I’ve talked to the relatives of three people on our list and I think we might be on to something. They all confirmed that
the victims went out without saying where they were going and that they seemed excited about something; as if they had a secret.
The wife of one of them remembered that he got an official-looking letter a few days before his death and the envelope was
identical to the one Sally Gilbert received. The relatives of the others weren’t aware of any letters but that doesn’t mean
that the victims didn’t receive one.’
‘What was in those letters?’
‘The victims never showed them to anyone and they were never found among their possessions.’
‘And never found on the bodies?’
Wesley shook his head. ‘The murderer must have ensured that he got them back somehow. Perhaps he told them to bring the letter
to the meeting to confirm the person’s identity and then asked them to hand it over?’
‘But why?’
Wesley shrugged. He didn’t have an answer.
‘Were the victims linked in any way?’
‘Not that I can see.’
Heffernan leaned back and closed his eyes. After a few seconds he opened them wide. ‘I saw a film once – can’t remember what
it was called. These soldiers left one of their comrades to die in the desert. Anyway, he survived and later on he went round
getting his revenge. He bumped them all off one by one.’
Wesley smiled. ‘One of the victims was a young woman of twenty-three. I hardly think . . .’
‘Then there was another thing I saw on the telly. Someone was hanged and this relative of theirs went round bumping off members
of the jury who found him guilty. What do you think?’
Wesley had to hand it to his boss, this idea fitted better: twelve unconnected people being brought together at random to
wreak society’s revenge on wrongdoers. ‘It’s worth checking if any of them had been on jury service. If we find they were
all on the same case . . .’
‘And the case might have been heard in July . . .’ Gerry Heffernan grinned. At last they were getting somewhere.
‘Or it may all be coincidence and Trevor Gilbert may have bumped off his wife after all. But I’ll have that jury-duty idea
checked out. You never know. Do you still have the key to Robin Carrington’s cottage?’
Heffernan looked up, surprised at the change of subject. ‘Why?’
‘Carrington’s asked me to bring him his computer and some papers he was working on. And he has a book that he wants to give
to Neil.’
‘So you’re running errands for our villains now, are you?
Is that what they call modern policing?’
‘I have to go up there anyway. I’ve got to call in at Chadleigh Hall and give the builders the go-ahead to resume work on
that room.’
Heffernan opened his drawer and threw Wesley a bunch of keys. ‘There you are. Don’t let Carrington take advantage of your
good nature.’
Wesley put the keys in his pocket and turned to go. With any luck he’d find Neil at the cove. And the drive would give him
a chance to think.
Wesley Peterson turned the key in the front-door lock of Old Coastguard Cottage and stepped into the hallway. He shut the
door behind him and listened, frozen to the spot. There was something about the thick, hostile silence of the empty house
that made him uncomfortable, as though the house itself resented his intrusion.
He walked towards the living-room door and had an uneasy sensation that he was being watched.
But he was unprepared for the thing that swooped down on him, aiming for his face, silent apart from a rush of air and a soft
beating of wings. The shock brought him to his knees, his arms shielding his head.
Then there was silence. No further attack; no sound. After a few seconds he summoned the courage to uncover his face. He looked
up and saw, in the corner, a small bird staring at him with shiny jet eyes. The swift had fallen down the chimney and was
slumped on the ground, terrified and exhausted.
Wesley stood up and moved towards the creature, creeping softly. ‘You gave me a shock,’ he whispered as he picked it up gently,
aware of the little body trembling in his hands as he carried it over to the front door. He opened the door, released it into
the air and watched as it wheeled away, no worse for its ordeal. Then he turned his attention to the cottage, feeling foolish
that the tiny harmless creature had made him so afraid.
If Robin Carrington had any link with Sally Gilbert, surely there would be some clue here. He decided to begin upstairs and
work his way down. The place had already undergone a search and nothing had been found, so Wesley concentrated on the hidden
places: the back of the huge, glowering Victorian wardrobes; the abundance of loose floorboards. But there was nothing there
and nothing downstairs either. He gathered Robin Carrington’s papers and put them into a carrier bag, then he zipped the laptop
into its case.
He examined the book Robin had promised to lend to Neil,
An Account of the Dreadful and Wicked Crimes of the Wreckers of Chadleigh
. Wesley would have liked to have read it himself but he had enough dreadful and wicked crimes of the present day to think
about. No doubt Neil would give him the edited highlights over a pint one day in the future.
Wesley left the house, careful to lock the door behind him: you couldn’t be too careful, not even in an isolated spot – the
modern thief was more mobile than his historical counterparts. He looked at his watch. It was one o’clock: lunch-time. He
had spotted Neil’s distinctive yellow Mini in the carpark of the Wreckers along the lane.
Sure enough he found Neil in the pub, perched on an ancient wooden pew near the unlit fire. Matt sat by him, swallowing his
beer like a thirsty man. Wesley went to the bar and ordered something non-alcoholic: he was on duty.
‘How’s it going?’ Wesley asked as he sat down.
‘Okay. It’ll be good to get back in a nice muddy trench, though.’
‘You can say that again,’ mumbled Matt.
Wesley delved in the carrier bag by his feet and brought out the book. ‘I’ve got something that’ll interest you. You remember
Robin Carrington?’
‘How could I forget him? It’s not every day that you have lunch with a murderer. He said he’d lend me a book about the Chadleigh
wreckers. Is that it?’
Wesley handed it over and Neil opened the book carefully. ‘Great,’ was his only comment as he flicked through the pages. It
wasn’t long before he gave in to temptation and began to read. Wesley strolled to the bar to give Matt a hand with the next
round of drinks, fearing that it would be some time before he could get any sense out of Neil.
Neil barely looked up as Matt put the beer in front of him. He was away with the wreckers.
Matt looked at Wesley. ‘Have you found out who murdered that woman yet? The one we fished out of the sea?’
‘We’re still working on it, I’m afraid. Following up leads,’ Wesley replied apologetically. ‘I presume Neil’s told you all
about the skeleton at Chadleigh Hall?’
Matt nodded.
‘We’re allowing the builders back to clear out the room and I wondered if you and Neil would like to come over.’
‘The owners of the
Celestina
lived at Chadleigh Hall.’
‘That’s why I thought you’d be interested.’
Matt looked at Neil. ‘Well, I wasn’t intending to dive this afternoon so I’m up for it. What about you?’
Neil looked up from the book and nodded. ‘Okay,’ he muttered before returning to the narrative. Whatever was in the book,
Wesley thought, it must be fascinating.
They ate lunch. The Wreckers didn’t go in for anything fancy but they did a good plate of fish and chips. Wesley ate hungrily.
The sea air had given him an appetite.
When they arrived at Chadleigh Hall, Wesley brought the car to a halt in front of the building alongside a large silver Mercedes,
as shiny as a new bullet. Dominic Kilburn was there, which was good: Wesley wanted a word with him.
The three men made their way to the room that had once been Miss Snowman’s study. The small chamber was still cordoned off
with police tape – just in case the bones had been found to be those of Alexandra Stanes or the Iddacombes had revealed some
sinister wartime incident that would necessitate a murder inquiry being set in motion.
But all the Iddacombes had given him were vague mentions of nebulous stories told by some young nanny many years ago: legends
that had faded with time but which had had their origin in truth. No smoke without fire. Wesley removed the tape and stepped
into the room, then he heard a voice behind him.
‘I thought I saw you arrive.’ Dominic Kilburn was standing in the doorway. He wore a smart grey suit and a look of irritation
on his face, as though he was expecting trouble. He looked at Neil and Matt with something approaching distaste. ‘What are
these two doing here? Shouldn’t they be down at the cove?’
‘They’ve come to give me a hand. I’ve got some good news for you, Mr Kilburn: we’re now fairly satisfied that the skeleton’s
old so there’s no need for us to launch an investigation. You can carry on in here now. But I’ve asked Neil and Matt to be
here when your men clear out the room; just to have a last look and make sure we haven’t missed anything. I’m assuming you
can spare somebody. It won’t take long.’
Kilburn grunted. ‘I suppose so. I’ll get Ian and Marty to give you a hand: they’re the ones who caused all the trouble in
the first place.’
Wesley looked Kilburn in the eye. ‘But they weren’t the first people to find it, were they, Mr Kilburn? Your father and Peter
Bracewell found it back in 1964 when you were doing some building work for the girls’ school. They must have told you about
it.’
Kilburn stood silently, studying his feet.
‘Well, Mr Kilburn?’
‘I remember my dad saying something about finding a skeleton but I didn’t take much notice. He said he’d just blocked up the
hole again and kept quiet about it ’cause he didn’t want the job dragging on. Before I started all this work I asked him about
it but he’s not all there now – he wouldn’t say anything and I thought he might have been having me on all those years ago.’
‘Why didn’t you ask Peter Bracewell about it when your father first told you?’
‘By the time Dad had told me, Pete had buggered off. Rumour had it he’d run off with some girl and I never saw him again.
Let’s put it this way, I didn’t know if my dad was joking when he told me about it . . . trying to scare me with stupid ghost
stories. But when a skeleton actually turned up I wasn’t surprised.’
‘Why didn’t you tell us all this when it was discovered? It would have saved us a lot of trouble.’
‘Because I didn’t want Dad bothered. I thought he might get into trouble for not reporting it and . . . well, I just thought
it best to say nothing.’
Wesley understood. He might have done the same himself. ‘How’s your son?’
‘I think he’s learned his lesson. I’ve got him working in my office where I can keep an eye on him.’ He looked at Neil. ‘Sorry
if that makes things awkward, Dr Watson. I know he was helping you out.’
‘That’s quite all right,’ Neil said quickly. Oliver Kilburn and his crony Jason Wilde had never been the most reliable of
volunteers and they weren’t missed.
‘I don’t suppose you’ve found anything on the wreck yet?’ The old confidence was creeping back into Kilburn’s voice.
‘No gold, if that’s what you mean. We brought up another nice cannon yesterday and more pottery.’
This wasn’t what Kilburn wanted to hear. He turned to go. ‘I’ll leave you to it, then. I’ll go and tell Ian and Marty that
they’re needed.’
‘There goes a disappointed man,’ said Neil quietly when Kilburn had disappeared from sight. Matt nodded solemnly in agreement.
‘What do you mean?’ Wesley asked.
‘He was hoping for rich pickings from the wreck. Gold and jewels.’
‘The locals might have got them if they plundered the wreck.’
Neil shook his head. ‘Nah. There was never anything like that on board. Just a load of old iron. Mind you, it was reputed
to be carrying crates of gold coins and jewels at the time and the insurance claim mentioned a valuable cargo. I think someone
was working a scam. Either the owner fiddling the insurance or some of the crew or the men who loaded the ship substituting
iron bars for the gold. Whichever it is, at least we’ve got an interesting story.’
‘And you’re sure there’s nothing down there?’
‘Do you know, Wes, I’ve never come across anything you could describe as treasure in the whole course of my long and distinguished
archaeological career,’ said Neil with a grin. ‘And the wreck of the
Celestina
is, sadly, no exception.’
Before Wesley could reply, Ian and Marty appeared at the door. Ian scratched his backside and Marty looked wary, as if they
were about to be accused of something.
Wesley decided that it would be up to him to take charge. ‘We’ve got the go-ahead to clear out the room where the skeleton
was found.’ He tried to sound cheerful about it. ‘This is Neil and Matt. They’re archaeologists and they just want to see
if anything interesting turns up. Let’s make a start, eh.’
Marty and Ian looked at each other and said nothing. Then they entered the jagged doorway to the small chamber and began work.
‘What do you want doing with this chair?’ Marty asked.
‘That’s up to Mr Kilburn.’
‘Better take it outside to the skip,’ Ian muttered. Wesley had the feeling that the two men would rather be elsewhere.
‘No,’ said Neil quickly. ‘It’s probably an antique. Just bring it out of the room and ask Mr Kilburn what he wants to do with
it.’
They worked quietly, carrying the chair between them: it was a great solid oak thing, heavier that it looked. Wesley, Neil
and Matt crammed into the small room. Neil had brought a torch and he swung it round, lighting up the thick
layer of cobwebs and filth on the walls and floor.
Marty and Ian were hovering in the entrance, whispering together conspiratorially. Then the whispering stopped and Ian looked
sheepish. ‘Can I have a word?’ he said.