Coffin Island

Book 28: DI Wesley Peterson

by Kate Ellis

Genres: Historical Mysteries; Traditional Mysteries

Synopsis

The next gripping mystery featuring DI Wesley Peterson by the million-copy-bestselling author Kate Ellis.

Despite many years living in South Devon, DI Wesley Peterson has never visited the tiny island of St Rumon's. That is until erosion from a storm reveals three bodies buried outside the local churchyard.

Two are ancient skeletons, but one is far more recent, and Wesley realises he has uncovered a case of murder. But whose remains are they? And who killed them?

The island has only a small number of inhabitants. Yet one resident keeps cropping up in Wesley's investigation: the author and self-styled academic, Quentin Search.

Meanwhile Wesley's friend, archaeologist Neil Watson, becomes fascinated by the remains of the island's old priory. His discovery of a journal, written by sixteenth century cleric, reveals an eerie tale of strange rituals and disturbing deaths.

As Wesley begins to wonder whether the past might be repeating itself, another murder occurs . . . There is a calculated killer on the island - one whose grip is as deadly as the rising tide.

Release date: August 1, 2024

Publisher: Little, Brown Book Group

Print pages: 368

Sample

St Rumon’s Island, South Devon

The storm on Monday night was more violent than usual. It battered St Rumon’s Island relentlessly for several hours and the wild wind snatched the flagpole from the church tower and dislodged a couple of stone tiles from the roof of Coffin Hall before dying down in the early hours. However, the lighthouse, now automated, survived unscathed.

By ten o’clock on Tuesday morning, everything appeared to be more or less back to normal, as though the storm had never happened, and the sea was calm when the Reverend Charlotte Jennings, known to the worshippers in the five parishes under her care as the Reverend Charlie, crossed from the mainland in the little motorboat she’d been lent by a generous parishioner. In her former life in an inner-city Leeds parish she’d had nothing to do with boats, and at first the short journey had terrified her. After some expert instruction in handling the boat, her confidence had increased, but given the choice, she still preferred to walk to the island along the causeway that emerged at low tide.

The crossing took less than five minutes, and as Charlie headed for the jetty on the church side of the island, she noticed that the storm had brought a small section of cliff down onto the shingle beach below, exposing tree roots and fallen rocks. She cut the engine and let the boat drift while she shaded her eyes to peer at the damage. The stone wall marking the boundary of the churchyard lay a few yards away from the cliff edge, and she sent up a swift prayer of thanks that it seemed to be undamaged. She’d often feared that the erosion of that particular piece of coastline would worsen one day and send coffins and their sleeping occupants tumbling onto the shore and into the fierce waves.

She was about to resume her short journey when she spotted something flapping at the foot of the cliff: a piece of purple cloth caught by the breeze. She fired up the engine and steered the boat towards the island, and when she came as close as she dared, she dropped the anchor and removed her shoes to wade to the shore, hoisting her skirt out of reach of the lapping waves. As soon as she reached the beach, she scrambled towards the scrap of garish cloth, which stood out incongruously against the rock and earth dislodged by the storm.

She could see yellowing bones amongst the fallen mess – and two skulls: grinning death’s heads with bared teeth. Her fears that human remains would one day fall from the top of the cliff had been realised, but she needed to stay calm. This had to be reported and dealt with in a respectful, prayerful manner.

She was about to return to the boat when the breeze shifted the purple material to one side, revealing something beneath. She edged towards it. Surely nothing could be worse than the shattered bones and grinning skulls she’d already seen.

But she was wrong. The half-rotted face of the corpse wrapped in the purple floral shroud would be imprinted on her memory for years to come.

DCI Gerry Heffernan enjoyed the short voyage to the island on the deck of the police launch as the clouds scudded across the spring sky. The sea was a little choppy, but he stood on the prow in the sharp breeze like a ship’s figurehead, breathing in the salty air.

He turned to his colleague, who was sitting quietly with his eyes shut.

‘You all right, Wes?’

‘I’m fine,’ DI Wesley Peterson said bravely. Unlike the DCI, who’d once served in the Merchant Navy and now filled his leisure time with outings on the thirty-foot yacht he’d restored after the death of his wife, Wesley wasn’t keen on boat trips, and he couldn’t wait to set foot on dry land.

‘Soon be there.’ There was a hint of sympathy in the DCI’s voice, as though he understood.

Over the years, Wesley had seen suspects underestimate Gerry, mistaking the overweight, scruffy man with the thick Liverpool accent for a fool. Wesley himself always dressed smartly and spoke with a public school accent – or dead posh, as Gerry put it – although he had similarly experienced suspects misjudging him because of the colour of his skin. Despite their apparent differences, even the chief super admitted they made a good team.

Once the launch docked at the jetty, Gerry leapt off the rocking boat first and held out his hand to steady Wesley, who grasped it gratefully as he stepped off. They wasted no time in making their way along the shore to the place where part of the cliff had tumbled onto the narrow strip of shingle. A couple of officers were there already, looking as though they were waiting for guidance.

‘No CSIs yet?’ Gerry said as they neared the site.

‘They’re on their way, sir,’ one of the uniformed constables said sheepishly, as though he was afraid the DCI would blame him personally for the delay.

It was Wesley who stepped forward, assessing the situation.

‘I always thought nylon sheets were the work of the devil,’ said Gerry as he joined Wesley gazing down at the corpse. ‘Especially purple ones.’

Wesley nodded in agreement. He was too young to remember the days when such bedding was ubiquitous, but he was an intelligent man with a good imagination.

‘Should we wait for the CSIs and the doctor, or shall we take a peek?’ said Gerry.

Wesley shook his head. ‘I don’t think we need to worry about disturbing a crime scene. The body obviously came down with those other bones when the cliff collapsed. They’ll have to be dealt with as well, but it looks as though they might have come from the churchyard.’

He glanced at the sheet, imagining what it contained. All they could see at the moment was a head that reminded him of an unwrapped Egyptian mummy: discoloured flesh, dusty brown hair still clinging to the skull and teeth bared in the semblance of a growl.

Gerry put on his crime-scene gloves and squatted down, flipping the sheet aside to expose part of the corpse’s left side. ‘The clothing’s pretty much intact, which should help with the ID – and there’s a ring,’ he said.

‘The sheet and the state of decomposition suggest that this isn’t a historic burial. But those others definitely look old.’ Wesley pointed to the yellowed bones nearby. The fall had separated skulls from femurs, pelvises from ribs. It was a tangled mess. ‘I think it might be best to get Neil to have a look at them.’

‘Good idea,’ said Gerry. He’d come to know Wesley’s old university friend well over the years, and he had to admit that Neil’s expertise had often come in useful when the services of a reliable forensic archaeologist were required.

‘He’s digging on the site of a new housing estate near Dukesbridge, so he’s not a million miles away. I’ll give him a call.’

Neil answered quickly and Wesley told him he needed someone to have a look at some old human remains. He asked him to get over to St Rumon’s Island as soon as he could. When he ended the call, he saw that Gerry had flicked the sheet back into place so they wouldn’t have to look at the corpse any longer.

‘Let’s wait for the team,’ the DCI said. ‘In the meantime, I’d like a word with the woman who called it in.’

‘The Reverend Charlie. I’ve heard my brother-in-law talk about her,’ Wesley said. His sister’s husband, Mark Fitzgerald, was the vicar of Belsham near Neston but he also had responsibility for several neighbouring parishes. ‘According to Mark, she’s quite a force of nature.’

‘With any luck she’ll be able to give us a name for our dead body.’

‘Not sure about that. As far as I know, she’s only been in the job six months. Besides, I don’t think this is a conventional interment. Sheet from the second half of the twentieth century. No coffin. I think we’ve got a suspicious death on our hands. Either that or it’s an illegal burial.’

The sun had just emerged from behind a large grey cloud, and Wesley shielded his eyes, scanning the mainland for the arrival of the team. Sure enough, a couple of patrol cars and a van had drawn up on the strip of concrete behind the sandy beach thoughtfully provided by the Heritage Trust to serve as a car park.

‘Here’s the cavalry,’ said Gerry. ‘Let’s go and have a word with the Reverend Charlie. I take it she’s at the church.’

‘That’s where she said she’d be.’

‘Do we know much about this island then?’ Gerry asked as they made their way along the shore towards a set of stone steps leading up to the top of the cliff, fortunately still intact after the storm. ‘Strange, but I’ve lived in south Devon for years and I’ve never been here before.’

‘The inhabitants must be very law-abiding,’ said Wesley with a smile.

‘Well, it’s about fifteen miles from Tradmouth, and it isn’t as famous as Monk’s Island five miles further up the coast, with its posh art deco hotel, so tourists probably give it a miss. Also, it’s only accessible via a causeway at low tide, so the rest of the time you have to get here by boat. No picturesque sea tractor like Monk’s Island.’

‘I looked at the Ordnance Survey map before we set out. I know it’s called St Rumon’s Island, but when I spoke to Neil just now, he said the locals sometimes call it Coffin Island.’

Gerry raised his eyebrows. ‘You’re joking?’

‘I’m not. I noticed on the map that it’s shaped a bit like a coffin; I’m guessing that’s the reason for the alternative name.’

‘Is there much here?’ Gerry asked, looking round.

‘The map shows a church, a pub, the ruins of a priory, a large house, ten cottages and an unmanned lighthouse. I’ve done a bit of research.’

‘Good. What did you find out?’

‘The pub’s called the Hanging Monk, and only four of the cottages are occupied all year round. The rest, including the former lighthouse keeper’s accommodation, are used as holiday lets. As for the big house, it’s owned by an author called Quentin Search – he’s quite well known, I believe. The church, St Rumon’s, used to belong to the priory and is still used by people from the village of Midton, just across the water. I looked up St Rumon. He’s a Devon saint.’

‘You have done your homework.’

‘I was a Boy Scout in my younger days,’ said Wesley with a self-effacing grin. ‘I like to be prepared. Seriously, I can’t claim all the credit. When we got the call to come here, I asked Ellie in the CID office to find out all she could about the place.’

‘That was quick.’

‘She’s good,’ Wesley said, appreciating their recent recruit’s efficiency. ‘Also when I spoke to Neil, he told me he’d been contacted by an amateur archaeology group from Millicombe. They asked for his advice because they want to investigate the site of the priory. Apparently all that’s left of it above ground is the church, a few ruined walls, parts of the pub, and the house where the prior used to live before the place was shut down by Henry VIII.’

‘Is Neil going to be digging here?’

‘No. He’s tied up at Dukesbridge, so he’ll have to leave St Rumon’s Island to the archaeological society. He thinks it might prove to be more interesting than the Dukesbridge dig, but the developers are paying, and money talks.’ Wesley checked his watch. ‘He said he’d be here soon to have a look at those bones, though.’

‘There’s never an archaeologist around when you want one.’

They climbed the steps, Wesley leading the way, and once at the top they found themselves at the edge of a churchyard filled with lichen-covered headstones. The number of graves suggested that there had once been a thriving community on the island. But life must have been tough for the fisherfolk who used to live there, particularly in the winter months.

It was promising to be a pleasant spring day, and it was hard to believe the previous night had witnessed a violent storm. However, as they walked, Wesley saw that the weather had left its mark in the form of fallen branches and a flagpole blown down into the churchyard. The church itself, a sizeable stone building with a stubby tower, appeared undamaged, but it must have survived many storms over the centuries and witnessed many a maritime disaster on the rocks beyond. He could see telltale signs that it had once been considerably larger; scars of demolition had been left on the ancient stones where sections of the building had been removed, possibly by the islanders in need of building materials.

As they walked Wesley halted every now and then to read the inscriptions on the headstones beside the path. Some were illegible, weathered by time, but amongst the few he could read were memorials to drowned sailors. The previous inhabitants of St Rumon’s Island had made themselves responsible for burying dead strangers who had come to grief on the sea; their act of Christian charity.

Gerry led the way to the church porch, where they found the weathered oak door unlocked. The interior of the building surprised the two detectives. They had expected it to be bleak and neglected, but instead the aisle was carpeted in red and the old pews and brass memorials were gleaming. Sunlight streamed in through stained-glass windows, casting colourful patterns on the scene, and there was a faint whiff of wax polish in the air.

The Reverend Charlie was standing with a group of people of varying ages. Wesley counted nine in all. She was a small, stocky woman wearing a knee-length skirt and a bright red jumper with a dog collar peeping from the neck. Her brown hair was curly and untamed and there was a benign but determined look on her round freckled face.

She detached herself from the group and walked over, her hand outstretched in greeting. ‘You’ll be the police.’

‘Is it that obvious?’ said Gerry.

She laughed. ‘No. I was expecting you.’ She studied Wesley for a few seconds. ‘You wouldn’t be Mark Fitzgerald’s brother-in-law, would you?’

‘Guilty as charged.’ It was hardly surprising the local clergy knew each other’s business – and the fact that the vicar of Belsham’s wife, Maritia, a doctor of Caribbean descent, had a brother who was a DI in Tradmouth CID was probably common knowledge.

She gave him a beaming smile. ‘Mark told me you used to be an archaeologist back in the day.’

‘I studied the subject at university. Archaeology has a lot in common with detective work. Piecing together the clues.’

‘Which goes to prove what I’ve always thought – nothing is ever wasted,’ said Charlie. ‘Millicombe Archaeological Society are keen to do some digging here. They’re interested in what’s left of our priory.’

‘Yes, they contacted a friend of mine, Neil Watson. He’s got some fancy title now, but he’s what used to be known as the county archaeologist.’

‘Well, if he wants to come here, he’s welcome to have access to the church whenever he likes,’ she said as though she meant it. She turned to look at the assembled group, who were listening in with interest. ‘Let me introduce you to my champing guests and their colleagues. They’re all bell-ringers.’

‘Champing?’ Gerry sounded puzzled.

‘Short for church camping. It’s very popular. Matt and Julia are champing here in the church and the others are renting a couple of holiday cottages on the island. They’re all from up north, apart from Jack, who’s local.’

‘Up north?’ said Gerry eagerly, as though he was hoping to find some fellow Liverpudlians.

‘North Cheshire. They arrived yesterday to tackle five peals on our bells.’

‘Peals?’ He frowned.

‘A peal involves ringing for three hours non-stop. I’m told it’s something only expert ringers do, but I’m a little vague about the details. We have eight bells here in good condition, so I was delighted when Matt contacted me.’ She lowered her voice. ‘We have a few faithful ringers who come over from the mainland to ring for our Sunday-morning service. They do their best, bless them, but they’re hardly experts. Jack is the only one who rings locally – by locally, I mean at St Luke’s, Cranton, just along the coast.’ She nodded towards one of the ringers, a lanky man in his fifties with thinning hair. ‘I’m looking forward to hearing some really impressive ringing sounding out over the island again. Although not everyone approves.’

‘I wouldn’t have thought the bells would disturb many people round here,’ said Wesley.

Charlie looked as though she was trying to come up with the most tactful way to answer. ‘There is one person on the island who doesn’t approve of the church making itself known.’

‘Really?’

‘I think I’ve said enough, Inspector. I’ve only been here for six months, and you learn which battles to fight and which to leave well alone.’

‘So you don’t know anything about the burial you came across?’

‘There haven’t been any burials in this churchyard for decades, as far as I know. And besides, burials nowadays are all in decent wooden coffins – or those lovely willow baskets that have become popular lately. I’ve never seen anyone buried in a purple floral shroud.’

Satisfied that the vicar couldn’t provide them with any helpful information, Wesley and Gerry turned their attention to the bell-ringers, who were standing round awkwardly in the chancel. The northern group had only arrived the previous day, but even so, during an inquiry into a death that might be suspicious, everyone had to be interviewed and eliminated.

Wesley studied the ringers: an athletic-looking pair in their forties who looked as though they might be in charge, a fresh-faced young couple who were holding hands, and a tubby man with faded red hair flanked by two strapping teenage boys, probably his sons judging from the family likeness. The man Charlie had pointed out as Jack, the only local ringer, stood a little apart from the others next to a woman of around his own age. Neither of them looked as though they quite belonged.

‘When did you all arrive on the island?’ he began.

‘Late yesterday,’ the man in charge said. He was tall, with a shaved head and a concerned expression. ‘I’m Matt Evans, by the way, tower captain of St Olaf’s in north Cheshire, and this is my wife, Julia – Julia Partridge. This outing to Devon was my brainchild. It was me who contacted the Reverend Charlie.’ His words sounded like a confession. ‘The prospect of ringing five peals on an island appealed to our band, so here we are.’

‘You’re actually sleeping here in the church?’ said Wesley pleasantly, wanting to put the man at his ease. ‘It was pretty stormy last night.’

‘Matt and I are the only ones staying here,’ said Julia. She was slim, with long ash-blonde hair and tight denim jeans. ‘It’s surprisingly cosy.’ She looked at the others. ‘Eddie and Ruth are renting one of the cottages on the island, and Simon and his two lads are renting another.’ She smiled at her husband. ‘Matt and I thought champing would be fun.’

Matt nodded enthusiastically, and Simon’s teenage sons looked a little envious, as though they wished their father had opted for more adventurous accommodation. From the keen expressions on their faces, Wesley guessed that they were enjoying the excitement of being involved, however tentatively, in a police investigation.

It was time for the others to introduce themselves properly. There was Eddie Culpepper, a tall man in his twenties with dark wavy hair, his small, pretty fiancée, Ruth Selby, together with Simon Good and his two student sons, James and Andrew. They were all fellow ringers from Matt’s tower in north Cheshire, and it was clear the seven knew each other well.

The last to make his introductions was the local man, Jack Beattie, who was there with his wife. Maggie Beattie was blonde, with the prematurely lined features of someone who spent too much time on sunbeds. She wore a short leather skirt and looked a little out of place amongst the keen visiting ringers in their jeans and matching sky-blue polo shirts with the words St Olaf’s Ringers printed on the back. The Beatties were both in their fifties and lived in Cranton on the mainland. Jack, as Charlie had mentioned, was a regular ringer at his local church, although he seemed eager to point out that Maggie had never touched a bell rope in her life.

He was the more chatty of the pair, and he revealed that when someone from the northern group had dropped out because of illness, Matt Evans had put out an appeal to local towers via the bell-ringers’ grapevine for someone to make up the numbers. Maggie had decided to come along to keep her husband company amongst the northern strangers. The Beatties seemed to be an unremarkable couple, but Wesley kept an open mind as usual.

‘We’re planning to attempt our first peal today,’ said Matt. ‘We’re aiming for five in all – one a day. Norwich today. Bristol tomorrow. Then London and maybe Glasgow the day after, finishing off with Cambridge if all goes well.’ He saw that Wesley and Gerry were looking puzzled at the mention of these geographically diverse cities. ‘They’re different methods. An interesting variety of changes. Completing a peal is the ringers’ equivalent to running a marathon,’ he added by way of explanation, before changing the subject. ‘So what exactly is going on here?’

‘The recent storm caused a landslip, which brought some bones down from the graveyard. But it also brought down a burial that appears to be recent; an unexplained death.’ Wesley deliberately didn’t use the word ‘murder’. ‘I take it none of you know anything about it?’

The ringers shook their heads as expected. Gerry thanked them all for their time and wished them luck with their peals before turning to go. But Wesley made no move to follow. ‘Has anyone been to the pub here?’

‘The Hanging Monk,’ Matt said quickly. ‘We went there last night after we arrived. All of us apart from Jack and Maggie, that is.’

‘We might go again tonight,’ said Eddie Culpepper. ‘Celebrate our first peal . . . if we manage to get it.’

Matt suddenly looked worried. ‘It is OK for us to go ahead with our ringing, isn’t it? We’ve come a long way.’

The DCI said he didn’t see why not, and Wesley noticed an expression of sheer relief on Matt Evans’ face. None of the group seemed concerned with anything other than achieving their bell-ringing goals. Wesley knew true passion when he saw it. Only Maggie Beattie didn’t appear to share the general enthusiasm. Wesley saw her glance in the direction of the door, as though she longed to be somewhere else, and he couldn’t help wondering why she’d decided to come.

As they walked outside into the spring sunshine, Gerry checked his phone. ‘Better get down to the beach. Colin and the CSI team have arrived.’

May 1573

This is a true and perfect account of the strange and terrible occurrences I have witnessed since my arrival in this parish. I feel compelled to make a record, for many would give no credence to my words, but God will be witness to the truth of them.

The name of this place is St Rumon’s Island, but I have heard the islanders call it Coffin Island. I was informed by the bishop who sent me here that the name refers only to the island’s shape. Yet I suspect it is thus named because a coffin is the only means of escape from this dreadful place. I knew nothing of the island before I arrived to take up the post of vicar three weeks since, but now I freely acknowledge that being banished here to this wild place must be punishment for some sin I cannot in all honesty remember.

Nearby, across a narrow stretch of water, is the parish of Midton, a village filled, so I am told, with honest folk. But at full tide the island is cut off from the mainland, and some say this makes it a kingdom apart. It is home to some seventy souls, most of whom make their living from the sea. I heard before I came here that the folk of the island know little of the law, which made me fear that I would be preaching to the air were it not for our queen’s insistence that all should attend church on Sundays or pay the penalty of a fine. And yet they seem just as other folk, good and bad, so I must not be swift to judge.

I have visited some inhabitants of my new parish but they do not invite me into their homes, as though they are concealing fearful sins and fear my judgement. I must gain their trust and convince them that I am not only their vicar but also their friend.

The church itself is large, as it once formed part of the priory that was here before our queen’s father, King Henry, destroyed such establishments. It is said the monks still haunt the island, mourning their lost home. I myself have seen no evidence of such unquiet spirits, but fisherfolk are prey to superstition. I have always believed that people can be won over to the word of God with patience and the assurance of His love.

It is the man regarded as lord of this island, one Elias Anselmo, who causes me the most concern. I am told the manor house once served as the prior’s quarters, but its present incumbent is reputed to be a wicked man whose chief delight is consorting with the Devil. I fear that with such an adversary, my work will not be easy.

Yesterday I summoned the courage to call at the house, hoping that I would be received there as custom dictates. When I knocked at the door, a sullen man I took for a servant informed me that Master Anselmo was not at home. Later I discovered this to be a falsehood, for I saw him looking from an upstairs window: a cadaverous figure with long grey hair who bore a strong resemblance to the man I had taken for his servant, as though they might be brothers. I consider it my duty to try again, to attempt to acquaint myself with the only other gentleman of learning on this island. Yet I fear my efforts might be in vain.

When I walk about the island in the day, I come across men and women going about their business, mending their nets and tending to their small strips of land. There are sheep here too, scrawny beasts quite unlike the fat livestock I have seen on other Devonshire farmland. There is an inn that was once the priory’s guest house, but I have not yet ventured inside. It is called the Hanging Monk, and the host, Cuthbert Sellars, seems a good man who attends church each week with his family. His eldest daughter appears to care for her siblings, as I understand her mother is in poor health. As for the priory itself, it lies in ruins, and the local people use the stone for their own houses, so that with each passing year there is less and less of the once fine building left above the ground.
. . .