A Painted Doom

Book 6: DI Wesley Peterson

by Kate Ellis

Genres: Mystery

Synopsis

Teenager Lewis Hoxworthy discovers a disturbing painting in a medieval barn; a discovery which excites archaeologist Neil Watson who is excavating an ancient manor house nearby. But when former rock star Jonny Shellmer is found shot through the head in Lewis's father's field and Lewis himself goes missing after contacting a man on the internet, Detective Inspector Wesley Peterson and his boss, Gerry Heffernan face one of their most intriguing cases yet. It seems that the Devon village of Derenham is not only full of resident celebrities seeking the rural idyll, but also of secrets, ancient and modern.

Release date: January 6, 2011

Publisher: Piatkus

Print pages: 336

Sample

August 1966

The girl knew they were staring at her, glowering out of the gloom with hideous red eyes. Eyes that knew all her secrets …
even the worst secret of all. She put her hand to her face and felt the tears on her cheek.


Then, after a few long minutes of silence, she stood up slowly, stiffly, trying not to catch the watchers’ eyes. She looked
down and saw the old metal box still lying there on the straw: the box he had told her about; the box that had put the evil
thoughts into his mind. She pushed it away with her foot. She wanted nothing to do with it … ever. Thick golden needles of
straw had stuck to her flesh, leaving livid indentations behind. She brushed herself down with trembling hands, sobbing gently
and praying that nobody would hear her.


She heard a sound, distant at first, then closer: someone was outside calling her name. Recognising the voice, she froze,
not daring to move a muscle even when a large spider scampered over her bare, pale thigh, its eight fragile legs tickling
her flesh. She watched the creature scurry away and waited, quite still, with shallow, silent breaths, until she was sure
that she was alone.


She stumbled out into the sunshine and began to run towards the water’s edge. Down and down the steep path she ran; through
nettles, through soft cowpats, through overgrown thistles. Her feet were bare but she felt no sensation, no pain, no disgust. Down and down until the water appeared
before her; she kept her eyes focused on the river; on the moving, shifting ripples and the dazzling sparks of sunlight which
flashed and danced on the surface. As she moved forward she felt that the eyes were still on her, watching, knowing: those
devils’ eyes that had witnessed everything.


She reached the river. It was high tide; no time for fear or second thoughts on the drowned shingle beach. As she waded in,
the salt tears and mucus rolled down her face to mingle with the blue-green waters of the River Trad. She waded in farther,
the force of the river slowing her pace, until the waters reached her waist and the currents snatched at her legs, knocking
her off balance. As she sank beneath the surface, she felt a sudden, unexpected urge to fight, to struggle, to choose life
over the other option. She kicked against the current, taking greedy gasps of air as she surfaced. She didn’t want it to end
like this. But it was too late now.


It was almost over. And she knew that the demons were still watching her with greedy, mocking eyes, hungry for another lost
soul.


Right worshipful husband,

I recommend me to you, desiring heartily to hear of your welfare. All is well on your lands and yet I am much afeared that
your loyalty to the Earl will lead you into danger.

But I would write of matters that concern us here. Touching the marriage of your son, John, I heard while I was in Exeter
there is a goodly young woman whose mother is friend to a kinsman of his mother’s and she shall have two hundred pounds at
her marriage. I spoke with the maid’s kin and friends and have their good wills to have her married to John. I do hope that
they will not hear of his misdeeds or my plans will come to nought.

I heard talk in Exeter that Queen Margaret is in France awaiting a passage to our shores and that the Earl’s people are waiting
to rise up in Devonshire at her call.

I pray the Lord to keep you from all harm and our daughter, Elizabeth, sends greeting.

Your loving wifeMarjory

Written at Derenham this fourth day of March 1471

March 2001

Terry Hoxworthy parked his battered Land Rover with its rusty trailer in front of the old barn and gave his son Lewis, who
was slumped beside him in the passenger seat, a sharp nudge before climbing out.


Lewis Hoxworthy was fifteen years old with bright red hair and the plump, doughy figure of one who took too many hamburgers
and not enough exercise. Slowly, resentfully, he pushed the Land Rover door open, jumped down onto the rough damp earth and
complained about the cold.


His father raised his eyes to heaven. When he was Lewis’s age he’d have received a clip around the ear for the mildest dissent.
When Terry was young, a farmer’s son helped out on the farm and that was that. But Lewis had led a softer life, a life which
in times past would only have been enjoyed by the privileged sons of the aristocracy. He looked at the boy’s scowling face,
attempted an encouraging smile and wondered where he’d gone wrong.


‘Come on, Lew. We need to clear this place out. The people from the planning department are coming tomorrow.’

Lewis looked unimpressed.

‘And after they’ve been Mr Heygarth from the estate agent’s is coming round to value the place.’

Lewis looked at the ramshackle old building, doubtful that anyone would pay good money for it.

‘If we both pitch in, it won’t take long. Many hands make light work,’ Terry said with awkward jollity.

The boy pressed his lips together tightly and said nothing. He turned away from his father and placed an experimental toe
into the puddle that had spread itself across the doorway of the barn like a defensive moat, then he pulled it out again quickly
before the water could soak into the soft white leather of his new Nike trainer.


Terry jumped over the puddle and suggested nervously that Lewis might put some wood down to stop their feet getting wet. Lewis
gave him a look of contempt and shrugged his shoulders, but Terry forced himself to stay calm and resisted the urge to yell at the boy, demanding instant
obedience. Teenage years were difficult years, and parents had to tread carefully if good relationships were to be maintained
– or so his wife had read in one of her magazines.


After a few moments spent staring at the problem, Lewis relented a little and made a half-hearted attempt to create a makeshift
bridge from a couple of planks he had found propped up just inside the doorway: hardly the product of a great engineering
mind, but Terry reckoned it would probably do the job and made appropriate noises of praise. Praise was important.


Then things looked up. Lewis, having decided that further resistance was futile, began to help, and the pair worked quickly
with hardly a word exchanged between father and son. Half an hour later the first trailer-load of detritus from the barn was
ready to be whisked off for disposal.


Lewis turned down the chance to drive with his father to the local tip, choosing instead to stay at the old barn: he was unused
to the hard physical labour of hauling and carrying and he told his father that he needed a rest to get his breath back. Terry
Hoxworthy thought it best to say nothing.


As soon as the engine of Terry’s Land Rover was out of earshot, Lewis began to mooch around the barn, in search of anything
to relieve the paralysing boredom of an afternoon parted from his computer screen.


The ladder leading up to the hayloft caught his attention first. It would do no harm to explore, he told himself. Whatever
secrets the barn held, they could hardly rival the attractions of Death Horror III – the latest pirated computer game acquired from his mate Yossa at school – but he was stuck there so he might as well make
the best of it.


He climbed the ladder, testing each rung carefully before he trusted it with his weight. It was darker up in the loft, and the layer of ancient straw on the floor smelled musty in the damp March air. Normally the hay was stored up here, but
it had been cleared out in preparation for the anticipated sale.


At first sight the empty loft seemed as boring as the rest of the barn; nothing to be seen apart from a few sticks of broken
furniture and a thick layer of dusty, mildewed straw. A scattering of rusty nails and a corroded horseshoe had inexplicably
made their way up here at some time in the place’s long history and, strangest of all, a pair of woman’s low-heeled shoes
– size four or five – lay dusty and unclaimed on top of a pile of deeper straw by the left-hand wall. Perhaps a bit of what
his father called ‘hanky-panky’ had gone on in the barn at one time or another, and this thought set Lewis’s hormones racing
and his loins tingling for a few turbulent seconds. Girls were as yet uncharted territory for Lewis, but the barn would be
an ideal place for That Sort of Thing should the chance ever arise. He felt a first small pang of regret that his father was
having to sell the place.


The exposed rafters looked massive from Lewis’s elevated position: tree trunk thick, the cross-beams would have made a tempting
assault course for the adventurous. But Lewis wasn’t tempted. Climbing was for kids.


At the end of the loft, by the great gable end, was a large filthy wooden panel leaning against the wall. The bottom jutted
out slightly to form a lean-to hiding-place normally hidden from view behind bales of hay – an undiscovered, secret place.
Lewis approached it slowly, and when he reached the narrow triangular entrance he bent to look inside.


He fumbled in his pocket for the torch on his key-ring – a cheap plastic affair that he’d bought last year while staying with
his aunt in Cornwall – and pressed the switch, which sent a weak beam of light out into the darkness.


A rusty metal box lay on the floor at the farthest end: it looked interesting, mysterious, and Lewis resolved to crawl in and retrieve it. Then the feeble beam swept over the wooden partition and he heard himself gasp. Perhaps he had been playing
too many computer games, or watching too many of those horror films his mates got out of the video shop in Tradmouth. Perhaps
his eyes were playing tricks.


He shone the light on the wood again, holding his hand as steady as he could. He could just make out the naked writhing figures
being dragged by monstrous apparitions towards unspeakable torment. The beam settled on the face of a plump naked woman who
anticipated her fate with the lost, despairing eyes of the damned. Then it shifted to her tormentor, a twisted, red-faced
creature holding some instrument of exquisite torture aloft as it anticipated with evil delight the agony of another victim.


Lewis’s heart pounded and his hands began to shake. All the electronic visions of horror he had witnessed on the flickering
screen didn’t compare with this dimly lit scene of abject terror. He grabbed the old metal box and backed out quickly, desperate
to get away; to put as much distance as he could between him and that portrait of untamed evil.


He climbed down the ladder, almost missing his footing in his haste, and ran outside. A fine misty rain was falling in horizontal
gossamer sheets across the rolling hills, but Lewis had no intention of returning to the barn to take shelter. He tucked the
box inside the Adidas coat he had been given last Christmas and waited for his father outside, striding to and fro to keep
warm.


Lewis Hoxworthy’s mind was still filled with the horrors he had seen inside the barn when he heard the sound of a shot echoing
in the dank, misty air.


The next day Paul Heygarth – of Heygarth and Proudfoot, estate agents – halted his car at the junction of two narrow country
lanes and looked at his watch before checking that the road was clear. Ten-thirty. The appointment with Mr Hoxworthy to give
a valuation on his barn was at 11.15, so he’d just have time to call at the Old Vicarage on the edge of the village of Derenham to check that everything had been left as it should be.


Paul set off again, steering the BMW with one hand as he dialled the number of the office. The firm’s surveyor, Jim Flowers,
was out on a job, so Nicola was on her own. Paul felt he should inform her of his whereabouts in case anything urgent cropped
up. Not that anything urgent ever had – and Nicola had his mobile number in case of emergencies – but Paul Heygarth liked
to be prepared for every eventuality. And to feel that he was indispensable.


It never occurred to Paul that Nicola might resent not being trusted to hold the mighty fort of Heygarth and Proudfoot for
an hour while he and Jim Flowers were out. It would never have crossed his mind that Nicola had any feelings on the matter
whatsoever.


The gates of the Old Vicarage appeared on his right, guarded by a pretty thatched cottage which had once served as a lodge
but now, in more egalitarian times, had severed its connections with the big house and reinvented itself as a holiday home.
He swung the car into the drive without indicating and drove too fast down the narrow roadway. The Old Vicarage wouldn’t come
into view until he was almost at the front door, shrouded as it was by trees and mature evergreen shrubs. The winding drive
was lined with thick, healthy-looking laurel bushes that could have hidden a couple of commando units in their shiny green
foliage.


Suddenly the building emerged before him. The Old Vicarage had been home to the vicars of All Saints, Derenham, during the
eighteenth and nineteenth centuries. But back in the 1960s the place had been considered far too grand for Derenham’s parish
priest, so he had been moved to humbler and more practical accommodation nearer the church.


The name, however, had stuck, which was particularly fortuitous, given the current housing market. The Old Vicarage conjured
images of solidity, of status; of old maids cycling to church and peasants doffing their caps to the lord of the manor. The Old Vicarage was exactly the sort of place that attracted those who wished to buy into the rural
idyll – if only at weekends. Just the sort of place to pull in the punters from London with their well-laden wallets. With
their fat City bonuses, times might have been very good indeed for Paul Heygarth – if it hadn’t been for his problems.


Paul stopped the car and jerked up the handbrake. He sat there for a few minutes, reluctant to exchange the sealed, heated
comfort of the BMW for the chill, damp air outside.


He looked in his driving mirror to check his appearance, and the pasty face of a man who took too many business lunches and
far too little exercise looked back at him. There was no client to meet but he did this swift sartorial inspection out of
habit, just as he checked his receding hairline and the balding crown of his head in the bathroom mirror each morning, wishing
that he could turn back the tide of time.


Taking the key to the Old Vicarage from his inside pocket, he climbed out of the car. The sudden rush of cold air made him
sneeze as the door shut with a satisfyingly expensive clunk. He wore a smart dark suit with a striped shirt and bright blue
silk tie, but no overcoat: he wasn’t one to spend any more time than was necessary out of doors. He fastened a button on his
suit jacket and hurried towards the house.


Before the Old Vicarage had been used to house the local clergy and their dull and blameless families, it was rumoured that
the house had had an interesting history. According to Heygarth and Proudfoot’s brochure, there was a chance that parts of
the place might date back to the fifteenth century, and that it might once have been home to the Merrivale family, who had
links with the Earls of Devon and who, way back in the fifteenth century, had been loyal supporters of the House of Lancaster
in the Wars of the Roses. Of course, the house had been knocked about, extended and modernised in the last couple of centuries
so that no trace of that far-off age remained.


And there was the uncomfortable possibility that the Merrivales’ home could have been somewhere else entirely. At the other
side of the village some archaeologists were digging up a field next door to his colleague Jim Flowers’ house. According to
Jim, the workmen digging the foundations for the proposed new village hall had discovered the remains of a large building
as well as a human skull grinning up at them from the soil. The experts seemed to think that the building was the Merrivales’
old manor house, but there was no need to dwell on the facts. Who was to say that those archaeologists weren’t digging up
some boring old outbuildings?


The Old Vicarage was a far more suitable abode for the Merrivales of old: and there was nothing like a bit of history for
pushing the price up, Paul thought with a smile of satisfaction. Knights of old, mad monks, visits by Queen Elizabeth I: they
were all grist to the property mill. The punters loved a bit of romance. Paul reckoned he could easily push the price of the
Old Vicarage over the million mark the way the market was going. And a quick sale would put an end to all his troubles.


As he reached the front door something caught his eye; a flash of shiny yellow to his left, screened by the ubiquitous laurels.
He walked towards it slowly, and when he rounded the bushes he saw it. A shiny yellow sports car. He stared at it for a few
seconds then turned and walked back to the front door, pausing to listen for any telltale sounds. But he heard nothing except
birdsong and the distant hum of farm machinery.


Paul unlocked the great oak front door and marched straight into the hallway – oak panelled and deceptively spacious, with
radiator and telephone point – where he stood for a few moments in the expensively carpeted silence. He stared at the closed
drawing-room door, then turned the great ring of black iron which served as a handle and pushed. The door opened a little
but there was something behind it, blocking the way. He pushed again, harder this time, but whatever it was wouldn’t budge.


He took a deep breath before deciding to try the other way into the room, via the kitchen and the dining room.

As he walked slowly across the lush ruby-red hall carpet towards the back of the house, he felt a sudden chill in the air.
Paul Heygarth was an unimaginative soul – never one to succumb to tales of hauntings, even in properties with strange grisly
pasts – but standing there in the entrance hall of Derenham’s Old Vicarage he had an uneasy, creeping feeling that he was
in the presence of death.


Terry Hoxworthy greeted his visitors with a shotgun over his arm.

Neil Watson looked at his companion, a short young man wearing a thick grey anorak which had fallen open to reveal a tie crawling
with Disney cartoon characters. ‘Er … are you sure this is okay, Mark?’ he whispered out of the corner of his mouth.


Mark Telston, Assistant Planning Officer, ignored Neil’s apparent cowardice and approached the farmer with a confident outstretched
hand. ‘Pleased to meet you, Mr Hoxworthy. I’d like to introduce Neil Watson from the County Archaeological Unit. He’s in charge
of the excavation that’s going on near the church, on the site of the proposed new village hall. They’ve discovered the remains
of a large medieval building up there. Have you heard about it?’ he asked brightly.


Terry Hoxworthy nodded, his face expressionless. ‘I thought Neil’s department should be aware of your application for planning
permission. There was an archaeological excavation on your land in the 1950s, I believe.’ He looked at the farmer for confirmation.


Hoxworthy shifted the shotgun a little, and Neil noticed a pale, shiny scar across the palm of his right hand. He averted
his eyes. It was rude to stare.


‘Aye. That were when my dad had the farm. Bit before my time. He were interested in history, all that sort of thing. Used to buy a load of rubbish at auctions and say it was antiques.’
He looked Neil up and down suspiciously, noting the long straggly hair and tattered old jeans. ‘What’s it got to do with my
barn?’


Neil glanced at Mark and then at the shotgun. He had an uneasy feeling that it was his turn to speak. He shifted his weight
from foot to foot. He was used to dealing with academic matters, and facing a potentially irate member of the public like
this really wasn’t his sort of thing.


‘The thing is, Mr Hoxworthy,’ he began, trying to sound enthusiastic, ‘it’s very possible that your barn here is of considerable
historical interest. The excavation in the 1950s found evidence of medieval field systems and various written records mention
a fifteenth-century tithe barn connected with Derenham church. It’s just possible that your barn may be, er …’ His voice trailed
off. From the glazed look that had come into Hoxworthy’s eyes, he suspected that either he was getting too technical or that
he was saying things the man didn’t want to hear.


‘So what’s that got to do with me selling it?’

To Neil’s relief it was Mark who spoke. ‘Well, if it does turn out to be a medieval tithe barn, it means you can’t just do
what you like with it. It may be appropriate to list it, and that means that all sorts of planning restrictions come into
force, I’m afraid.’ Mark Telston tried his best to look apologetic, but Neil thought he could detect a hint of triumph in
his voice.


‘So you’re saying I can’t do what I like with my own barn?’ The shotgun shifted again. Neil took a step back as if to emphasise
that he was only there in an advisory capacity.


‘Not necessarily, Mr Hoxworthy. It might turn out that your barn was built much later than we suspect. It’s just that with
your application for planning permission to convert the barn into a luxury dwelling we have to be sure. Now if Neil here could
just have a quick look at the barn …’


‘Okay, okay,’ said the farmer impatiently. ‘But don’t be long ’cause I’ve got an estate agent coming to value the place soon.
Bloody bureaucrats,’ he added under his breath, scratching his head. Neil was beginning to feel sorry for the man.


After a few seconds Hoxworthy spoke again, more quietly this time, with an undercurrent of desperation. ‘I’ve got to sell
this place. I ain’t got no choice. Do you know how far the income from this farm has dropped in the past few years?’


He looked at Neil challengingly, having selected him as potentially the most sympathetic of the pair. ‘Bloody politicians
are always on at us farmers to diversify, to think of new ways to make a bit extra. I do like they say. I try to sell one
of me old barns for conversion and this is what happens … bloody red tape tying me up again. It never bloody stops. If it’s
not Brussels playing silly buggers it’s inspectors with their rules and regulations about BSE and …’ He shook his head. Then he looked Neil in the eye. ‘Do you think I want to sell this barn? Do you think I want a load of
yuppies living at the end of the bloody lane complaining every time my cock crows or the slurry doesn’t smell of French perfume.
Do you?’


‘I’m sorry. I, er, see your point, Mr Hoxworthy, but …’

‘You’re only doing your job. That’s what they always say.’

Neil, who had never considered himself a natural member of the forces of oppression, feared that he was being cast as the
lowest form of obstructive petty bureaucrat, and he could think of no reply that would convince the farmer otherwise.


He was rescued from an embarrassed guilty silence by Mark’s timely intervention: he had clearly had more practice in these
situations. ‘If Neil could just have a look at your barn …’


‘Do what the hell you like,’ Terry Hoxworthy said before marching off towards the house.


Mark Telston watched him go with some amusement. Neil didn’t feel like laughing.

He said nothing to Mark as he conducted the preliminary survey of the barn which, as he had predicted, didn’t take very long.
Keen to examine the construction of the roof, he climbed up to the hayloft while the assistant planning officer waited below
with his feet firmly on the ground.


It was a few minutes later when Mark heard a gasp followed by an ominous silence. He put a tentative foot on the rickety ladder
and called Neil’s name. When there was no reply he climbed up slowly and called again.


Again the only answer was a brooding silence. Mark climbed farther up so that he could just see into the hayloft. He called
Neil’s name again, looking around. His heart started to beat faster and his mouth felt dry. Either the archaeologist had an
infantile sense of humour or something was wrong.


Standing there on the ladder, his hands gripping tightly until the knuckles were bone white, he scanned the loft, registering
the condition of the place, the evidence of neglect … and the fact that Neil Watson was nowhere to be seen.


Paul Heygarth stared at the door which led from the rather grand dining room to the drawing room. It was shut, as all the
doors should be. The owners, Colonel and Mrs Porter, had been quite particular on that point. Whoever showed potential buyers
around had to make sure all the doors were shut. As the house wasn’t alarmed, Paul thought this was probably a minor eccentricity
on the part of the elderly couple – unless they knew something that he didn’t. As the vendors – as he habitually thought of
the colonel and his good lady – were away settling into their new property in the south of France, he supposed that if all
the doors were left wide open they wouldn’t have been any the wiser, but he had half-heartedly acceded to their wishes. They
were going to pay him handsomely when the place was sold. And he needed the money. Needed it soon.


He looked at his watch. There was plenty of time before his appointment at Mr Hoxworthy’s barn. He opened the door and stepped
into the drawing room, his feet sinking into the thick Persian carpet. The room was gloomy – north facing – and it seemed
smaller than he remembered.


From his vantage point by the dining-room door he couldn’t see the thing blocking the other doorway as a floppy dark red sofa
of huge proportions was obscuring his view. He walked around the edge of the room, his estate agent’s eye taking in every
detail of the décor, which might push the asking price up a few hundred pounds.


When he saw the shape on the floor he stopped and stared. If Paul Heygarth had been a religious man, and if he had known the
identity of the patron saint of estate agents, he might have sent up a swift prayer beseeching that the unfortunate soul lying
on the carpet before him be taken up bodily into the next world and vanish from mortal sight without a trace.


There was nothing like a violent death on the premises for bringing down the value of a property.

My well beloved wife,

I beseech you not to concern yourself overmuch with my welfare. I have orders from the Earl of Devonshire to ride speedily
to Tradmouth to raise men for Queen Margaret’s cause. So fear not, good wife, I shall be with you at Derenham presently.

As to the other matter, my son John was ever a wilful and disobedient child (having inherited the nature of my first wife,
his mother). I think it best to advance the cause of this young woman of Exeter as marriage will steady the lad.

Is there no young man suitable as husband for Elizabeth? She is a good girl and will have two hundred and fifty pounds in
money at her marriage. Look to the matter if you will, and find her a young man with a good fortune. As to Edmund, he does
well in the Earl’s household and will soon have need of a good wife. But all this we will talk of on my return.

Your loving and faithful husband

Richard

Written at London this twenty-fifth day of March 1471

Nicola Tarnley sat at her desk in the front office of Heygarth and Proudfoot typing house details into her flickering computer. The office was empty for once; that was good. It meant she could get on with some of her paperwork instead of being
charming to well-heeled house-hunters and sympathetic to the sheepish young local couples who watched the area’s mounting
house prices with a mixture of open-mouthed disbelief and resentful bitterness. But just as Nicola was anticipating half an
hour of peace, the telephone on her desk began to ring.


She picked it up. ‘Heygarth a