The Chapel of Bones

Book 30: DI Wesley Peterson

by Kate Ellis

Genres: Historical Mysteries; Mystery

Synopsis

Million-copy bestselling author Kate Ellis returns with the brand new mystery in the DI Wesley Peterson crime series.

'A beguiling author who interweaves past and present' The Times

It is September and South Devon is returning to its usual calm after the summer tourists depart. Things are never too peaceful for DI Wesley Peterson and his team though, who receive a call about a mummified body that has been discovered in the wall of a house.

The body is identified as Dr Aleric Donnall, a professor researching mythical beasts, who was last seen over a decade ago. As Wesley tries to establish potential suspects for the murder, he asks his friend Dr Neil Watson to examine the ancient ruins in the grounds of Sycamore House. Neil's excavation uncovers the remains of a medieval chapel and a sacred well marked with strange carvings of creatures.

Wesley begins to investigate the whispers that a cult once resided in Sycamore House. Then, shockingly, a new murder occurs in a nearby village.

Could the two crimes be linked? And can Wesley establish the truth from the myth that surrounds this case, in order to catch a killer?

Release date: August 6, 2026

Publisher: Little, Brown Book Group

Print pages: 90000

Sample

Beasts. Large beasts, small beasts. Fierce beasts, gentle beasts. Beasts slithering on the ground, beasts flying in the air with mighty beating wings.

Dr Aleric Donnal’s heart rate increased as he turned the pages with great care. This was no ancient parchment work of art, only a facsimile borrowed from the archives, but the impact of the original was still unmistakable.

The monastic artist, some nameless brother lost to posterity, had clearly never seen an elephant or a lion in his life, and the result was faintly comic. It was the mythical beasts that really held the power: the griffin, the two-headed serpent sprung from gorgons’ blood, the fire-breathing dragon and the seductive siren; it was these that looked real and dangerous. The images had been created by a man whose experience of life and nature must have been limited, but as he was drawing these legendary creatures, his imagination must have soared. Donnal couldn’t help wondering if he’d ever encountered real wickedness in the course of his sheltered existence.

It was time to go. He put the book carefully into his briefcase, intending to return it later if he had time. In the meantime, he wanted to look at the strange carvings he’d been told about. It was something he couldn’t resist.

But as he left the cottage, closing the front door carefully behind him and giving it a little push to make sure it was locked, in his usual fastidious way, he suddenly felt reluctant to begin his journey. Maybe it was the thought of the malevolence the medieval artist had captured in some of the book’s illustrations. Or maybe he felt a tiny bat-squeak of fear. A small sense of danger. Even of evil.

‘Hang on. What’s that?’ Darren Wolsey, twenty-two years old and pleased to be working out in the fresh Devon air, flapped his hands, a signal for his colleague to silence his chainsaw.

‘It’s only some old stones. We’ve no time to be messing about,’ said George Watts, who was usually a man of few words. He was in his early forties and there was a determined look on his weather-beaten face. He was there to take down trees, not to bother about some long-forgotten garden feature.

But Darren was the gaffer’s son, so in the great scheme of things, it was his call. ‘It looks like a wall. Or at least a bit of one.’

‘Ignore it. We’re being paid to get rid of these trees, so let’s get on with it. Lady of the house says they’re blocking out her light.’ George tutted. ‘And we can’t have that, can we. And don’t forget we’ve got that other job booked over in Whiteley. Your dad won’t be pleased if we turn up late.’

Darren knew George was right. He looked at the stones that had emerged from the red soil once the tree roots had been torn up, and resigned himself to the inevitable.

George was about to restart the chainsaw when a high-pitched voice called out from a few yards away. ‘Tea?’

‘Thanks, Mrs J. You’re a life-saver,’ said Darren as the woman appeared through the trees. ‘Just what we needed.’

She approached cautiously, picking her way over the uneven earth. She was bearing a wooden tray with two bone-china mugs perched beside a plate filled with neatly arranged biscuits. She set the tray down on the ground as though she was offering food to some fearsome beast, then scurried away.

‘Nice of her to remember us, seeing as she’s got that builder in as well,’ said Darren.

George grunted something he couldn’t quite make out.

Once the tea was finished, they were about to put their ear defenders back in place and continue work when they heard a sound coming from the direction of the house. A loud, piercing scream; a shriek of sheer terror.

‘What the hell was that? Sounds like someone’s being murdered.’

‘Whatever it is, it’s none of our business,’ said George, firing up the chainsaw again. They’d wasted enough time already.

It was late September. Most of the summer tourists had departed, apart from those whose children had flown the nest or were too young to be tied by the school holidays; a largely law-abiding demographic.

The seasonal crime wave of holiday-let burglaries, pickpockets and drunken behaviour outside the riverside pubs appeared to be over for another year, only to be replaced by what was in DI Wesley Peterson’s opinion a crueller, nastier crime. In recent weeks there had been a spate of thefts targeting pedigree dogs, followed by demands for money: two thousand pounds for the animals’ safe return.

‘Still no progress on these dognappings?’ Wesley asked as he perched on the edge of DS Rachel Tracey’s desk. He noticed that the dark shadows beneath her eyes had almost vanished, and he put that down to her fourteen-month-old son, Freddie, sleeping through the night. As well as her demanding job as a detective sergeant, Rachel led a busy home life helping to run her husband’s farm. However, coming from a farming family herself, presumably she was used to the relentless lifestyle.

She looked up and shook her head. ‘Trouble is, we don’t hear what’s happened until the dogs have been returned safe and well. The owners are told “no police”, and they don’t dare take the risk in case anything nasty happens to their beloved pooch. By the time we get to know, the bastards are long gone, and let’s face it, the victims aren’t going to talk.’ She smiled. ‘Isn’t there an Agatha Christie book called Dumb Witness? That’s what we’ve got here. At least the dogs appear to have been well treated.’

‘That’s something, I suppose.’ Wesley had a dog himself – not that Sherlock, his rescue mutt of uncertain parentage, was likely to tempt the criminals – but he could imagine the owners’ pain. A dog was a member of the family – and to some people, their pet was everything.

He was about to return to his own desk when he heard the DCI’s voice calling for attention, and when he looked up, he saw him standing at the door of his glass-fronted office, hands on hips and shirt stretching dangerously over his abdomen.

‘Listen up, everyone,’ Gerry Heffernan shouted in his unmistakable Liverpool accent. ‘There’s been a call from a lady in Neston. Her builders just found a body in her house. Place is being renovated and he came across it when they knocked a wall down.’

‘Does it look recent, sir?’ DC Rob Carter had his hand up like a schoolboy asking to be excused. Wesley was pleased to see an eager look on his face. When Rob had first transferred to CID from uniform, he’d been bubbling with ambition and enthusiasm. But all that changed after the death of his partner, Harry, over a year ago, when he’d appeared to lose his appetite for the job – and for life. His recovery from grief had been slow, but recently Wesley had detected signs of the old Rob making a welcome return.

‘All I’ve been told is that a body’s been found.’ Gerry looked straight at Wesley. ‘Come on, Wes. I’ve asked a forensic team to go over there to seal off the site, and I suppose we should join them and find out what we’re dealing with.’

Wesley hooked his jacket off the back of his chair and followed the DCI out. He was determined to catch the individuals who’d caused such grief and worry to the dog owners of south Devon. But the discovery of a human body trumped the search for the dognappers. At least for the moment.

The builder, who went by the name of Chaz, appeared to be in a state of shock. When Wesley and Gerry arrived at Sycamore House, he was being fussed over by a woman who looked mildly upset but composed enough to carry on. Chaz himself was slumped in an armchair in the large, sparsely furnished drawing room while his hostess plied him with tea; hot and sweet for the shock. Wesley suspected the man was milking the situation for all it was worth as he watched him help himself to a chocolate biscuit.

Chaz was in his thirties, lean and muscular with a shaved head. He looked up painfully as the detectives entered the room, as though he was in the process of recovering from some great ordeal. Gerry decided they’d better have a word with the man before they found out what all the fuss was about.

The owner of the house, who introduced herself as Helen Jones, was in her forties but looked younger; slim with neatly bobbed blonde hair, she wore a pale cashmere sweater with her jeans and spotless trainers. She watched the builder protectively as though she feared he might become a victim of police brutality if she took her eyes off him for one moment.

Wesley took a seat opposite the man and gave him a sympathetic smile. Gerry, in contrast, stood, hands in pockets, looking expectantly at their hostess, hoping the offer of tea and biscuits would extend to police officers. Mrs Jones seemed to get the message and hurried out to fetch more cups.

‘Can you run through what happened?’ Wesley began.

Chaz hesitated. ‘It was terrible.’ He gave a dramatic shudder. He was well-spoken and Wesley wondered fleetingly whether he might be a drama graduate who’d decided to opt for a more secure profession. ‘I’ll probably have nightmares about it for weeks to come,’ he added, glaring at Wesley as though he held him personally responsible for the horrific experience he’d just endured.

‘Yes, it must have come as a terrible shock.’ Wesley glanced up at Gerry and waited, knowing the urge to fill a silence could be irresistible.

The tactic worked. ‘Helen decided she wanted the wall between the kitchen and the small dining room next door knocked through. Lots of people do that these days. It’s not a supporting wall, so it wasn’t a difficult job.’ Chaz took a deep breath. ‘Until I started work and found this . . . cavity in the wall, as though someone had plastered over an alcove really badly. I didn’t think it would be a problem, but when I ripped away the plasterboard, I saw . . . a face. It looked like a zombie from a horror film.’ He shuddered again. ‘I’ll never forget it as long as I live. It’ll be seared on my brain for ever. Then Helen came in and let out a terrible scream.’

Chaz composed himself by taking a sip of tea and helping himself to another chocolate biscuit.

‘Can you show us where it is?’

The builder looked at Gerry as though he’d just asked him to face a man-eating tiger armed only with a cheese sandwich. ‘Sorry, I’m not going back in that room while that thing’s still there. Not if you offered me a million pounds.’

At that moment, Mrs Jones returned with the tea tray. ‘A van’s just arrived. I think it’s your crime-scene people. I suppose they’ll want tea.’ There was a note of resignation in her voice.

‘Wouldn’t be at all surprised, love,’ said Gerry. ‘But not till they’ve finished what they have to do. Mustn’t tempt them away from their work. Can you show us what Chaz here found?’

Helen Jones was obviously made of sterner stuff than her builder. She didn’t hesitate. After placing the tray on the coffee table, she led the way into the adjoining room. Wesley noticed the DCI glance regretfully over his shoulder as they followed her. His tea was bound to be cold by the time he got back.

The dining room window overlooked the gravel drive and Wesley could see the white-overalled CSIs unpacking their gear. There was just time to find out what they were dealing with before the inevitable invasion.

The room was empty of furniture and the shabby carpet had been lifted in preparation for the renovation. A section of wall had already been removed, giving a view into the modern kitchen beyond. But in the far corner the demolition work had come to an abrupt halt and they could see something in the hole that had been bashed into the wall there.

What they saw made Wesley catch his breath, and he heard Gerry swear softly behind him. Chaz had been right. The half-rotted face staring out at them did look like something out of a horror film.

It turned out that Helen Jones had persuaded her husband, Ralph, a London businessman, to agree to make her lifetime dream of moving to the West Country a reality, while keeping a pied-à-terre in the capital. Ralph had just acquired business interests in the area in the form of an IT company in Plymouth, but at first he’d been reluctant to begin a house search, claiming he was too busy for distractions. It had been Helen who’d found Sycamore House, which had lain empty for several years following the death of the previous owner. There had been some legal dispute about inheritance that had taken a long time to untangle before the place could be sold on, and it had been in a neglected state, ripe for renovation. A scruffy home-made plaque by the front door had borne a Latin name, Casa Mirabilis, but Helen had decided to rename the place after the two sycamores flanking the entrance to the drive. Sycamore House seemed far more dignified and suitable.

The condition of the house didn’t bother her and she was staying in one of the four spacious bedrooms, making the excuse that she wanted to supervise the builders and get a feel for her new home so she could put her own stamp on it once the essential structural work was finished. Ralph, however, had different priorities and had booked into the Marina Hotel in Tradmouth, guaranteeing himself some luxury while the renovations were taking place.

Wesley wondered fleetingly whether Chaz, the muscular builder, was the reason Helen had opted to stay in the house rather than enjoying the comforts of a four-star hotel but he dismissed the thought, telling himself that his career as a detective had given him a suspicious mind.

Once she’d shown Wesley and Gerry into the dining room, she told them that she needed to return to the traumatised builder, who was demanding more refreshment to help him recover from his shock.

‘You must have had a shock yourself,’ said Wesley.

Helen took a deep breath. ‘That’s true, but someone’s got to keep calm and carry on,’ she said bravely. ‘Keeping busy and making the tea helps to take my mind off it, I suppose. Better get on.’

As she left, the CSIs arrived, and Wesley and Gerry watched as they carefully removed the rest of the wall. Jenny, one of the forensic team, had already checked with Chaz, who’d assured her that it was safe to dismantle the sealed-off alcove. He’d added that he couldn’t lend a hand because he’d been so upset by what he’d seen, muttering something she couldn’t quite make out but which sounded very much like compensation. She told the detectives that she’d tried her best to appear understanding, but Wesley suspected sympathy had been in short supply.

‘He should have your job,’ he whispered to her as she walked past.

She rolled her eyes and smiled. ‘Yes, I’ve had to deal with some nasty sights in my time.’

‘Anything to report on this one?’

‘Adult male. Fully clothed. Body in a fairly good state of preservation; signs of mummification. I’m sure you’ll be relieved to know that it’s likely he was put in there after death. No indications that he was alive when the work was done; no sign that he was clawing at the plasterboard or anything like that.’

‘Thank God for that,’ said Gerry. ‘Can’t think of anything worse than being walled up alive.’

Wesley shuddered. He’d suffered from claustrophobia since childhood, and in his view, being unable to escape from a confined space was the stuff of nightmares.

‘Wesley, Gerry, delighted to see you.’

They recognised the voice at once. The pathologist, Dr Colin Bowman, seemed to treat every encounter as a jolly social occasion, even when a decaying corpse was present.

‘What have you got for me today?’ He rubbed his hands together as though he was anticipating a treat.

‘Mummified corpse hidden inside a wall,’ said Gerry.

‘Really?’ Colin sounded slightly amused. ‘How very Gothic. I suppose I’d better take a look.’

Gerry led the way over to the corner of the room, where the CSIs had just finished ripping out the plasterboard, revealing the body in its full horror for the first time. They stood aside to let Colin see the focus of their attention.

‘Oh my,’ he said, suddenly serious, before opening his case and starting a preliminary examination with great care.

A few minutes later, he packed his instruments away and delivered his verdict.

‘Won’t be able to tell you much until I get him on the table. All I can say at the moment is that he’s male, probably around five foot nine. As for the cause of death, that’ll remain a mystery until I make a more thorough examination.’

‘Any idea of his age?’

‘Not young, certainly. Possibly late middle age. He appears to have a good head of grey hair.’

‘Any idea how long he’s been in there?’

Colin considered the question for a few moments. ‘The clothing looks fairly modern. By modern, I mean late twentieth century or maybe even more recent; certainly not Victorian, so he wasn’t put there when the house was built. As far as I can tell, he’s wearing twill trousers, a shirt and a sweater, but the latter has served as moth larvae’s dinner. At first glance the clothes appear to be good quality. Not that I’m any sort of fashion expert, of course,’ he added with a smile.

‘So we have a well-dressed middle-aged man,’ said Wesley. ‘The type who’d probably be missed.’

Gerry called over to Jenny. ‘Have you found anything else in that cavity, love?’

The CSI produced a couple of evidence bags. ‘There was a sheet of paper by his feet. Looks like some kind of list. And a letter. Might have dropped out of his pocket.’

Gerry’s face lit up as though he’d just struck gold. Wesley was already wearing crime-scene gloves, so he took the sheet of yellowing paper from the evidence bag that Jenny handed him and unfolded it carefully. There were words neatly printed on the lined page, which looked as though it had been torn out of a notebook. Bonnacon. Ape. Griffin. It did indeed appear to be some kind of list, albeit a short one.

When he showed it to Gerry, the reaction was a shrug. ‘Any idea what it means?’

‘I recognise ape and griffin, of course, and I think a bonnacon is some kind of legendary bull. It looks like a list of animals, real and mythological.’

‘Let’s have a shufti at the other bag,’ Gerry said impatiently.

Wesley unfolded the letter with great care. It had been typed on thin paper with an old-fashioned typewriter, with each letter e raised above its neighbours.

‘What does it say?’ Gerry asked, straining to peer over Wesley’s shoulder.

‘It’s addressed to a Dr Aleric Donnal. Address, Harbour Steps in Tradmouth. The letterhead just says “Tradmouth Second-Hand Books”. No address.’ Wesley began to read aloud. ‘ “Dear Aleric, I am pleased to inform you that the book you asked me to find is now available. If you would drop into the shop before you set off for pastures new, I will be pleased to discuss remuneration. As for the other matter, you’re welcome to call at the house any time. Yours, Ethelred.” ’

‘Doctor?’ Gerry frowned. ‘A medical man?’

‘Or an academic. It shouldn’t be hard to find out.’

‘Aleric and Ethelred. They’d stand out in the school playground,’ said Gerry, shaking his head.

‘Depends on the school,’ said Wesley with a grin.

‘I suppose all the kids at your posh alma mater had names like that.’

Wesley’s ambitious parents, both doctors originally from Trinidad, had made sacrifices to give their offspring the best education available, and Gerry, the son of a Liverpool docker, sometimes couldn’t resist the temptation to tease him gently about his public school background.

‘I admit there were a few Tarquins and Augustuses – or should that be Augusti?’

Gerry grunted and ignored the question. ‘Any date on that letter?’

‘Sadly not.’

‘What’s “the other matter”, I wonder?’

‘Unfortunately the letter doesn’t tell us that. Or what is meant by “pastures new”.’

‘Pity.’

Colin Bowman had been listening to their conversation while he packed his instruments away. Now Gerry turned to him.

‘Well, Colin, I hope you’re going to give me an accurate time of death.’

The doctor shook his head, a wide grin on his lips. ‘You were always one for a joke, Gerry.’

‘A rough estimate?’ said Wesley hopefully.

‘Impossible, I’m afraid. Post-mortem tomorrow morning. Nine-thirty.’

‘That’ll do nicely,’ said Gerry.

Sycamore House was a Victorian villa built in the Gothic style that was fashionable in the nineteenth century. It was set in more than three acres of land, and a sizeable proportion of the grounds was given over to woodland. Wesley suspected that when she’d bought the place, Helen had imagined herself floating among the trees collecting fuel for her new wood burner; living the rural dream.

Shortly after the sensitive builder had given his statement to uniform, he’d driven away fast in his van. It was time for Wesley and Gerry to take their leave too. There was nothing much else they could do there apart from allow the CSIs to carry on with their mysterious work and hope that their efforts produced something useful that would help them solve the puzzle of the man in the wall.

As Wesley drove slowly towards the gates, doing his best to avoid the potholes in the drive, a figure appeared in front of the car. Wesley slammed on the brakes and wound the window down.

The young man rushed forward. ‘What’s going on? We heard this terrible scream and then all these police cars and vans started arriving. Is everyone OK? Only I was going to take the tea mugs back to the house for the lady, but when I saw . . .’

He looked genuinely worried, and Wesley took pity on him. ‘If you mean Mrs Jones, she’s fine. She just had a bit of a shock, that’s all. And you are?’

‘Darren. I’m a surgeon.’

Wesley and Gerry looked at each other.

‘Been doing a spot of gardening between operations, have we?’ said Gerry, leaning across Wesley to speak to the man.

Darren’s cheeks turned red. ‘Tree surgeon. We operate on trees.’

‘You must need a strong stomach for all that sap.’

Darren seemed unsure how to take Gerry’s witticism. ‘Er . . . it’s more a head for heights really.’

Wesley opened the car door and climbed out, sensing there was something Darren wanted to tell them.

‘You’ve been working here in the garden, I take it?’

‘That’s right. With George.’

‘And where is he?’

‘Gone into the woods for a pee.’ Darren shuffled his feet nervously. ‘We’re taking down some leylandii – bloody nuisance, those things are. I wanted to tell Mrs Jones we’ve found something.’

‘What have you found?’ Gerry said as he emerged from the car.

Darren suddenly looked unsure of himself, as though he regretted starting the conversation. ‘It’s a wall. Looks old. And there’s some carved stone things. Weird statues or something. George said to ignore it, but I thought Mrs Jones ought to know. It’s in her garden, so . . .’

The mention of carved stone caught Wesley’s attention. He’d studied archaeology at Exeter University and still took an interest in the subject whenever the opportunity presented itself. He’d once told Gerry that archaeology and detective work had a lot in common. Gerry had looked sceptical, but Wesley believed the statement was accurate. Both professions involved removing layers of dirt until the truth was finally revealed.

‘Mind if I take a look?’

‘Come on, Wes, we haven’t got time for that.’

‘That’s what George said,’ said Darren. ‘But I thought somebody ought to see it. In case it’s got something to do with . . . what happened in the house.’

‘Now why should you think that?’ said Gerry, arms folded.

Darren shrugged as though he couldn’t think of an answer, and Wesley suspected that he just wanted to tell someone in authority what he’d found; someone who might not dismiss it as a pointless distraction.

Wesley turned to the DCI. ‘That body looks as though it’s been there for years. Another few minutes won’t do any harm.’

‘Body?’ Darren’s eyes widened in alarm.

‘Nothing for you to worry about,’ said Wesley quickly.

Gerry looked at his watch. ‘OK. You go, but don’t be too long.’

The DCI waited by the car, arms folded impatiently, while Wesley followed Darren down a narrow path branching off the drive. It was uneven and littered with exposed tree roots. He seized the opportunity to ask Darren a question as they walked. ‘I believe the house stood empty for a while. Any idea who lived here before?’ As the Joneses had only just moved in, the obvious place to start their investigation was by tracing the property’s previous owners.

‘Dunno. But whoever they were, they really let things get out of hand. We’ve already been here for a few days seeing to the trees.’

They reached an area that appeared to have been cleared of vegetation. Large leylandii lay chopped up on the ground, ready for the chipper that stood nearby. A wiry man with close-cropped hair, an array of tattoos on his bare torso and a world-weary expression emerged from the nearby trees smoking a roll-up.

‘Who’s this?’ he said with a hint of aggression as . . .