The Bone Garden

Book 5: DI Wesley Peterson

by Kate Ellis

Genres: Police Procedurals

Synopsis

An excavation at the lost gardens of Earlsacre Hall is called to a halt when a skeleton is discovered under a 300-year-old stone plinth, a corpse that seems to have been buried alive. But DS Wesley has a more recent murder case to solve. A man has been found stabbed to death in a caravan at a popular holiday park and the only clue to his identity is a newspaper cutting about the restoration of Earlsacre. Does local solicitor Brian Willerby have the answer? He seems eager to talk to Wesley but before he can reveal his secret he is found dead during a "friendly" game of village cricket.

Release date: January 6, 2011

Publisher: Little, Brown Book Group

Print pages: 240

Sample

Near Bordeaux, France

The man stared at the shape lying beneath the faded cover on the ancient iron bed and took another sip of wine. Château des
Arbres, last year’s vintage: full bodied with a hint of oak, just as a claret should be. It tasted good. The fact that he
had been party to its creation – that he had tended the vines and had picked the plump grapes with his own hands – gave him
a glow of satisfaction. He rolled the wine around his mouth and swallowed. This year’s vintage would be even better, he thought.
But this time he wouldn’t be there for the grape picking. He would be gone well before the hectic days of the harvest.


He drained the dusty glass and listened to the sounds of the night: the low hum of the château’s generator in the outhouse
across the courtyard, the insistent noise of the crickets and the occasional screech of a hunting owl. Then he stood, walked
to the bed and looked down at the prone figure for a full minute before summoning the courage to touch the face. He brushed
the back of his rough, calloused hand against the cheek and found it to be as cool and lifeless as marble, despite the warmth
of the evening.


He looked around the sparsely furnished room with its whitewashed stone walls and its ill-made second-hand furniture. The
outhouse roughly converted into workers’ accommodation by the owners of the château had been his home for the past two years
and he had some good times there: he recalled the lazy summer evenings of wine and lovemaking and the drunken bonhomie of
the grape harvest. But now he was leaving the château for good. He picked up the hold-all that contained all his worldly possessions
and checked that he had everything he needed before stepping outside into the cobbled courtyard, shutting the flaking wooden door carefully
behind him. The inexhaustible crickets still chirruped in the warm, lavender-scented air, but otherwise all was silent – just
as he had hoped it would be.


A door creaked open near by: probably one of the other workers emerging from his room to head for the primitive lavatory in
the corner of the courtyard. The man pressed himself against the stone wall, hardly daring to breathe. But the velvet darkness
of the night shielded him and he watched, statue still, as the man he recognised as Jacques staggered across the cobbles,
too preoccupied with his bladder to look about him.


He relaxed as Jacques disappeared round the corner. Then he picked up his hold-all and scurried towards the great poplar-lined
drive that led away from the château, thinking of the lifeless figure on the bed and hoping desperately that it wouldn’t be
discovered until the morning.


Devon, England – A Year Later

The lost gardens of Earlsacre had been stripped of the weeds and briars that had choked them and hidden their form. The work
had begun two months before, and over the long midsummer weeks rude mechanical diggers and buzzing strimmers had intruded
into the gardens’ secret places and laid bare the walls and the gatehouse that had guarded them from the eyes of the world
for so many years.


Jacintha Hervey, poet in residence to the Earlsacre Project – as it was called in official circles – sat on the crumbling
terrace overlooking the gardens, pen poised, perched on the canvas stool that she had brought especially for the occasion,
and watched the workers below, hoping for inspiration.


A line about the awakening of Sleeping Beauty in her impenetrable castle flitted through Jacintha’s head but, other than that,
she could think of nothing to write. She chewed the end of her cheap ballpoint and stared down into what remained of the walled
garden, now a mess of holes and trenches as the archaeological team went about their work.


She watched as the crouching, soil-caked young diggers worked in their rectangular trenches, sometimes chatting, sometimes
silent and lost in their task. Surely their earnest activity would inspire a poem of some kind, even a few lines about the young uncovering
the old. But still no words came. Jacintha reached for her Thermos flask. It was time for an inspirational coffee … laced
with something stronger to get the creative juices flowing.


As she sipped the reviving liquid she sensed that the calm, absorbed atmosphere in the garden had altered. The change was
subtle at first – urgent whispered words, a flurry of activity here and there. Then the archaeologists who had been working
in other parts of the gardens downed tools and converged on the walled garden, crowding around the centre. One of them produced
a tiny mobile phone from an inside pocket and began to talk into it urgently. Something was happening. Something had been
found. Jacintha stood up and strained to hear, but she was too far away to catch any telltale words.


A young man was running towards her. He was about to rush past, but she put out a hand to stop him and gave him her sweetest
smile.


‘Jake.’ Her eyes met his. ‘What’s going on? Have they found something exciting?’

Jake glanced towards the ruined house, torn between duty and potential pleasure. He eyed Jacintha’s ample curves appreciatively
and chose pleasure. ‘They’ve uncovered a human hand in the middle of the walled garden, buried underneath that stone plinth
we lifted this morning.’ Their eyes met again and Jake made no effort to move. ‘I’m going to tell Martin. We weren’t expecting
to find human remains on this dig so we’ll have to inform the authorities – he won’t be best pleased. We can’t afford a hold-up.’
Jake stood still, his eyes on Jacintha’s breasts, clearly visible beneath the thin cheesecloth of her white top.


‘Hadn’t you better go and tell him, then?’ Jacintha said with a sly smile. ‘And if you’re free at six o’clock tonight why
don’t you join me in the King’s Head. You look as if you could do with a drink.’


‘Why not?’ He gave her a knowing smile. She was at least twenty years his senior, but what did things like that matter nowadays?

Jake turned and ran towards the house, and Jacintha watched the back view of his tight faded jeans appreciatively. Then she
strolled down the steps towards the walled garden. The crowd had dispersed, leaving a solitary archaeology student squatting
on the brown earth, staring at the ground.


Jacintha approached slowly. ‘What’s everyone so excited about?’

The young man looked up at her. ‘Looks like we’ve found human remains – it’ll be another hold-up we can’t afford.’


Jacintha looked down at the ground. The bones stood out stark against the darkness of the soil. A skeletal hand protruded
from the earth, the bony fingers scratching, grasping, as though trying to escape.


‘It looks as if he’s trying to get out, doesn’t it? Clawing his way to the surface – just like he’s been buried alive.’

Jacintha turned away and shuddered. Then she took her notebook from her bag and began to scribble. Inspiration had come at
last.


Good gardens at Earlsacre but not as the mode now is. Walled garden with shell grotto and fine parterres and a curious sundial
at its centre. I liked not this garden, the place being somewhat cold. The other gardens fine with shady walks and arbours,
fruitful trees and odiferous herbs. The house is also fine in its way but the furnishings are not of the latest. The hospitality
of Sir Richard Lantrist is somewhat rough, as one might expect of one who has never known good society.


From Jacob Finsbury’s Account of His Travels around the Houses of England, 1703

Brain Willerby, partner in the firm of Blake, Willerby and Johns, Solicitors, sat staring at the file on his desk, his heart
pounding and his mouth dry.


He put his hand up to his balding head as though trying to run his fingers through some imaginary luxuriant mane. What was
the best course of action? What was the right thing to do? Should he involve the authorities? Or was he overreacting? Perhaps
there was some perfectly simple explanation. There must be. The alternative was unthinkable.


Willerby stared down at the file again. He needed proof, solid proof one way or the other. He stood up, walked over to the
window and looked down on Tradmouth’s bustling High Street. It was one of the advantages – or disadvantages – of having an
office on the first floor above the Morbay and District Building Society that distraction was always there on tap in idle
moments.


He spotted a young woman in the crowd. She was dark and slender and wore a tight Lycra top which displayed her assets to best
advantage. His eyes followed her down the street longingly until she disappeared into a shoe shop. He swallowed hard. Then
he noticed two policemen in shirtsleeves ambling through the crowd and an idea came to him. If he could speak to someone unofficially,
off the record … someone who would guide him as to the best course of action.


There was that detective sergeant he’d met at the police station when he had been called there to represent one of his less
salubrious clients. Brian had noticed him particularly; a young black man, a rare representative of the ethnic minorities
in the local force. And it wasn’t only the colour of his skin which had marked him out as different from his colleagues: he
had been well spoken, obviously well educated; an unassuming young man with a sympathetic manner. Brian wrinkled his brow
in an effort to remember the sergeant’s name. Patterson? No. Peterson. Wesley Peterson.


He picked up the phone and dialled the number of Tradmouth police station.

‘How can people be so gullible?’ Detective Constable Rachel Tracey said to nobody in particular.

Wesley Peterson looked up from his paperwork. ‘What do you mean?’

‘A report’s come in from Morbay. An old man told a tourist he’d lost his wallet and claimed he couldn’t get home to some faraway
place. The tourist lent him fifty quid which the man said he’d return by first-class post as soon as he got home. This was
ten days ago and the tourist hasn’t seen hide nor hair of the money since.’


Wesley shrugged. ‘The man might have lost the address.’

Rachel smiled as if she thought Wesley was being particularly naïve. ‘It sounds like a clever scam to me … playing on people’s
better natures.’


‘Any similar incidents been reported?’

‘Not yet. Give it time.’

At that point DC Steve Carstairs walked into the office and, ignoring Wesley, sat down and tried to look as though he was
working.


Rachel walked over to Wesley’s desk and leaned over his shoulder. He could smell her perfume, feel the warmth of her breath
on the back of his neck. ‘Now there’s someone who keeps his better nature well hidden,’ she whispered.


Wesley smiled and looked over at Steve, who rewarded him with a blank stare. But there were some things it was best to ignore, and Steve Carstairs was one of them.


The telephone on Wesley’s desk began to ring. He picked up the receiver and recited his name.

The voice on the other end of the line sounded nervous. ‘Sergeant Peterson. I don’t know if you remember me but we have met
at the station. My name’s Brian Willerby of Blake, Willerby and Johns, Solicitors.’


‘Hello, Mr Willerby. What can I do for you?’ Wesley racked his brains, wondering which of the constabulary’s not-so-valued
customers the solicitor was ringing to discuss.


‘I’d like your advice,’ Willerby began.

‘About one of your clients?’ His furtive tone had aroused Wesley’s curiosity.

‘Er, no. Actually it’s a personal matter. You see, I’m in rather a quandary about … In fact I’m very worried and I really
need to …’


Wesley heard a door open in the background and a muffled voice. Then Willerby’s voice again. ‘I’m sorry, Sergeant. Something’s
just come up. We’ll have to talk another time. Goodbye,’ the man concluded with businesslike confidence. Willerby obviously
hadn’t wanted whoever had entered his office to overhear their conversation.


Rachel looked across at him. ‘Everything all right, Wesley?’ she asked quietly.

‘I don’t know.’ He shrugged and returned to sorting through a pile of witness statements. It was probably nothing.

But he found he couldn’t concentrate on the paperwork and after a while he stood up and marched over to the inspector’s glass-fronted
office. After a token knock he let himself in.


Detective Inspector Gerry Heffernan sat at his desk, his sleeves rolled up to reveal a fine pair of nautical tattoos, relics
of his days in the merchant navy. He looked up at Wesley, grinned and scratched his head. ‘Hi, Wes. What can I do you for?
Everything all right out there, is it? No armed robberies? Serial killings?’


Wesley smiled at his boss. ‘Looks like we’ve hit a quiet time. All the local villains must be on holiday.’

‘So all’s quiet on the mean streets of Tradmouth.’ Gerry Heffernan sat back and his standard-issue inspector’s chair creaked
dangerously under his weight. ‘Let’s make the most of it, eh, ’cause I can’t see it lasting for long.’


‘It’s giving everyone a chance to catch up on their paperwork.’ Wesley paused for a moment. ‘But it could just be the calm before the storm.’


‘You know what you are, Wes? A born pessimist.’

Wesley grinned. ‘Actually, I wanted to ask you something.’

‘Fire away.’

‘Do you know a solicitor called Brian Willerby?’

‘I’ve met him a few times. Not a barrel of laughs,’ Heffernan said dismissively. There were some who didn’t appreciate the
inspector’s sense of humour: Willerby was probably one of them.


‘He rang me just now and said he wanted to discuss a personal matter; something he was very worried about. Then he was interrupted
by someone and he put the phone down. He sounded …’ Wesley searched for the word. ‘Furtive.’


‘I didn’t know you knew old Willerby.’

‘I don’t. That’s the point. I’ve only met him a couple of times and then only in the company of the villain he was representing.
I’ve no idea why he picked on me. I just wondered what you knew about him.’


‘Nothing much. He’s been a partner in Blake, Willerby and Johns ever since I can remember. Him and his wife come to divisional
dos from time to time.’ Heffernan thought for a moment. ‘That’s all, really. He’s just your average solicitor; turns up at
the station when a villain asks for his services. “Keeps himself to himself”, as the neighbours always say in a murder inquiry.
I’d file him under B for boring.’


‘Wonder what was worrying him.’

‘No doubt you’ll find out eventually.’

Wesley left Heffernan’s office, shutting the door quietly behind him. He looked around the main CID office. There was a subdued
holiday atmosphere and his colleagues seemed more relaxed than usual, enjoying the brief ebb in the normally relentless tide
of criminal activity.


But as Wesley sat down at his desk he felt a nagging unease. He remembered Brian Willerby’s nervous voice and his instincts
told him that something was wrong. And he kept wondering why Willerby had chosen to confide in him, a comparative stranger.
But no doubt, as Gerry Heffernan had said, he would find out eventually.


Neil Watson ran his fingers through his long brown hair and looked around the newly modernised room in what had once been
an old stable block. He noted the freshly painted walls, the brand-new office furniture and the stainless-steel sink in the corner
– perfect for washing the finds – and smiled with approval.


‘Not bad,’ he said to Jake Weston, who had been given the task of showing him round the Earlsacre Hall dig. ‘All the latest
computer equipment as well, I see. Most digs I’ve been on we’ve been lucky to get a glorified garden shed. Nice. How far behind
schedule are you?’


‘The grand opening is in five weeks and all the archaeological work has to be completed well before then so that the gardening
experts can move in and recreate the old gardens. The problem is that we’ve been short staffed and reliant on inexperienced
volunteers. We were well behind before this skeleton was found and now things are even worse.’


‘Skeleton?’

‘Yeah. It – or rather she – was buried in the middle of the walled garden underneath a stone plinth. The coroner accepted
my verdict that it was probably a few hundred years old and said we could carry on with the work, but it still slowed us down
for a day or so. I suggested we call in more professional help so the director agreed that I could see if anyone was available
from the County Archaeological Unit. An American foundation has put a lot of cash into the project.’


‘So we’ve arrived like the US cavalry … just in time to save the day,’ said Neil with satisfaction. ‘It’s worked out well,
as a matter of fact. We’re just finishing off a dig at Stoke Beeching: Anglo-Saxon farmstead with an en suite Viking burial,
no less. Two of my colleagues are tying things up there and they’ll be along here tomorrow.’


Jake looked relieved that his workload was about to be shared. ‘I’ll take you to meet Martin Samuels,’ he said, making for
the door.


‘Who’s he?’

‘The trust director.’

‘What’s he like?’

‘Enthusiastic,’ said Jake simply. ‘This whole project was his idea. He raised the money to buy the place from the last owner,
set up a trust, even got lottery cash for turning it into an arts centre when it’s all restored. It’s very much his baby.’


Neil followed Jake out of the stone building and they began to walk towards the house, passing through what remained of an
ancient gatehouse that led into a large walled garden. The walls had been rebuilt or repointed very recently: the mortar between the rough stones looked fresh. A new-looking doorway set into the wall
to their left stood open to reveal another garden where figures in hard hats were working industriously with spades and wheelbarrows.


Neil stopped and looked around. The walled garden had been partially excavated, and he recognised the decorative cobbled paths
running around its edge as late sixteenth century in style. A network of gravel pathways had been exposed, weaving between
rectangles of rutted earth which, in happier days, would have been decorative parterres full of fragrant beauty.


Neil noticed that a large stone plinth was carefully propped against one of the garden walls. The holes at its centre suggested
that something had been secured there in days gone by; probably a sundial or some other focal point at the garden’s heart
that had been the last word in horticultural fashion in some bygone century.


‘You should have seen this place when we first started work,’ said Jake. ‘The whole area had been grassed over in the nineteenth
century so you wouldn’t have known this lot was underneath. The entire garden had gone to rack and ruin – self-set trees,
weeds, brambles, the lot – and we had to clear it all before we could assess it, but when we saw the geophysics results we
knew we had found something pretty spectacular in historical garden terms. You could see the layout clearly on the print-out;
typical Renaissance walled garden.’


‘Tell me about this skeleton that was found,’ said Neil.

‘Just there, slap bang in the middle of the garden.’ Jake pointed to the plinth. ‘That great lump of stone was over it. It
had probably held a sundial and it didn’t look as if it had been moved for years, if not centuries.’ He turned to Neil, his
blue eyes twinkling like those of one about to tell a particularly terrifying ghost story. ‘And the curious thing is that
the skeleton looked as if it was clawing its way out. A pathologist had a look at it and said that the poor woman had probably
been buried alive then had that great slab plonked on top of her. What a way to go, eh?’


‘Which pathologist was this?’ Neil asked, trying to sound casual.

‘I think his name was Bowman. Nice chap. Very chatty. You wouldn’t think someone’d be so cheerful in that line of work.’

‘I know him. He’s helped me out a few times when human remains have turned up unexpectedly.’

‘Well, let’s hope we don’t need his services again.’

‘Too right,’ said Neil with some feeling.


They had arrived at the house. In its day it had been a desirable country mansion; not large, but probably home to generations
of comfortably off Devon gentry. But now it was a shell. The outer walls stood solid, stripped of the ivy that had covered
them and the rendering that had hidden the sturdy stone construction. The ivy had been replaced by scaffolding and the roof
was a skeletal framework of new timbers.


‘Martin’s restoring it,’ said Jake as Neil studied the building. ‘It’s being done up and turned into an arts centre.’

‘Interested in the arts, is he?’

‘Oh, yes. We’ve even got a poet in residence who floats round the place watching us dig and writing bad poems about it. She’s
quite a lady is Jacintha,’ Jake said with a significant grin. Neil suspected there was a story there somewhere. ‘You’ll enjoy
it here, Neil. Never a dull moment.’


‘So how did this Martin Samuels come to buy the place?’

‘He’s always had a passion for old gardens. The owners of this house had abandoned the place for something more modern years
ago and put tenants in. Martin visited it back in the 1980s, saw what was left of the gardens and got quite excited. When
the tenants moved out in 1986 the place went to pieces and the house was badly damaged in a fire. Eventually Martin set up
a trust and raised the money to buy the estate from the family who owned it. He’s very single-minded – a man with a mission.’


‘How did he manage to raise the money?’

‘Donations from locals, various heritage charities, the lottery – and an American foundation has been extremely generous.
Funding’s not a problem at the moment but time is. That’s why we’re glad to see you here,’ Jake added as they passed under
an archway and walked up a wide flight of stone steps leading on to a high raised terrace in front of the hall. From here
Neil had a good view down into the walled garden below.


‘I’ve not done much garden archaeology,’ he said modestly. ‘It should be an interesting experience. How long have you been
working for the trust?’


Before Jake had a chance to reply a man emerged from the once impressive main doorway of Earlsacre Hall. He was probably in
his early sixties, tall, with steel-grey hair which peeped out from beneath the hard hat he was wearing. There was something
in his upright bearing which suggested that he might once have been a military man.


‘Martin, this is Neil Watson from the County Archaeological Unit. He’s come to give us a hand. Two of his colleagues will
be arriving tomorrow.’


Martin Samuels’ eyes lit up and he shook Neil’s hand heartily. ‘Splendid. You’ve arrived in the nick of time. Jake’s been
our only archaeological expert, along with a couple of postgraduate archaeology students, and they’ve had to organise a horde
of volunteers with little or no experience of a dig, so things have fallen behind. Perhaps you and your colleagues could tackle
the area around the gatehouse that leads to the walled garden – there’s also the area near the centre of the wall on the east
side of the garden where there’s evidence from old paintings that there was a grotto or summerhouse of some kind built against
the wall. Our volunteers have cleared the vegetation for you so …’


‘That sounds fine. I’ll have a look at the geophysics results right away to get an idea of what’s down there,’ said Neil.
Martin Samuels’ passion for the project was infectious.


Neil turned to go. The secrets of the gatehouse and the grotto awaited him and he would lose no time in getting started.

‘I hope you’re not superstitious, Neil,’ said Martin unexpectedly. Neil turned round, curious. ‘A few people who’ve worked
here have been put off by some strange stories attached to this place. The walled garden has a reputation with the locals
for being haunted, apparently.’


Neil shrugged. ‘Doesn’t bother me. I don’t believe in that sort of rubbish.’

‘It never used to bother me either,’ said Martin with a secretive smile. ‘Until I came here. And then we discovered that skeleton
that had been buried alive …’ He didn’t finish the sentence.


Neil made no comment. He considered himself immune to ghost stories. And he had work to do.

He and Jake took their leave of Martin Samuels with no further mention of the supernatural. They had begun to walk back to
the walled garden in amicable silence when they saw a plump, dark-haired. . .