The Plague Maiden

Book 8: DI Wesley Peterson

by Kate Ellis

Genres: Police Procedurals

Synopsis

When a letter arrives at Tradmouth police station addressed to a DCI Norbert it causes quite a stir. For though DCI Norbert has long since moved on, the letter claims to have evidence that the man convicted of murdering the Rev. Shipbourne, Vicar of Belsham, during a robbery in 1991, is innocent. Despite having a full caseload, DI Wesley Peterson is forced to at least follow up on the claims. Meanwhile archaeologist Neil Watson is excavating a site in Pest Field. He discovers a mass grave that leads him to conclude that the site is one of an ancient medieval plague pit. But, more disturbing, is the discovery that the grave is home to a more recent resident…

Release date: January 20, 2011

Publisher: Little, Brown Book Group

Print pages: 368

Sample

September 1991

The intruder stood quite still and listened. But he heard nothing: no voices, no distant babble of a television or radio,
no creaking of boards on the floor above. It seemed that he was quite alone … except for the lingering, blood-scented presence
of death.


From time to time the noises of the country night pierced the deep silence; a screeching owl, a barking fox, the mournful
lowing of a discontented cow in a nearby field. The intruder shuddered. The sounds of the countryside were frighteningly unfamiliar,
not like traffic or the chatter of pub voices.


As he walked on tiptoe into the hallway he noticed that a door to his left was standing open to reveal a large shabby room,
bathed in the jaundiced light of a tall standard lamp. He hesitated on the threshold before creeping in, his heart beating
so strongly that he could hear the blood pounding in his ears. Stopping by the faded chintz sofa, he gazed for a few seconds
at the framed photograph on the mantelpiece – a pale image of a woman cradling a tiny baby. But after a quick glance around
he decided it was time to move on. He might have more luck upstairs.


The intruder climbed the stairs, and when he reached the landing a brief tour of inspection only confirmed what he already
suspected … that the house’s occupant was more interested in books than in material possessions. Every shelf and surface was
crammed with the things, all dull scholarly works with titles such as Theology Understood and Wessler’s Principles of Biochemistry. The intruder had assumed that a big house in a place like Belsham would provide rich pickings for the casual thief. But you could never judge a book by its cover.


In the main bedroom – a room furnished with almost monastic simplicity – he spotted a shabby leather wallet lying on the bedside
table and he pocketed it quickly before making his way back downstairs by torchlight. It wasn’t much but he supposed it was
better than nothing.


He crept back into the room where the French window stood ajar, its lock splintered where it had been forced open. But the
unexpected sight of a man’s corpse, lying half hidden behind the cluttered desk in the centre of the room, brought him to
a sudden halt.


As soon as he saw the staring eyes and the mess of battered skull beneath the blood-matted grey hair his hand went to his
mouth. The seeping blood had spread outwards and soaked into the patterned carpet, staining the dead man’s snowy-white clerical
collar a rusty red.


The intruder felt a wave of nausea rising in his gullet and he knew that he had to get out of that place of death before he
was sick. Although his legs felt unsteady, he took a deep breath and hurried past the mortal remains of the Reverend John
Shipborne, his eyes fixed ahead.


And as he stepped through the French windows, out into the still country night, he was quite unaware that he was being watched.

I thought little of it when William Verlan asked me to help one of his PhD students research the history of Belsham in the
middle of the fourteenth century. I’m used to visitors looking around the church, asking their questions, and I usually smile
sympathetically and hand them a guidebook.

But I can hardly fob Barnaby Poulson off with a potted history of the place, can I? He wants to dig deeper and uncover more
than the bare facts.

He tells me that he has discovered some old manuscripts in the archives at Exeter and he hopes they’ll yield valuable information
about Belsham’s past. His particular field of interest appears to be the Black Death of 1348.

I confess that I’m beginning to regard Poulson’s frequent visits to the church and his constant questions as a bit of a nuisance.

From a diary found among the Reverend John Shipborne’s personal effects

The jar of jam was taken from its clean white carrier bag and held at arm’s length. There must be no fingerprints – no clues
– and the damage to the seal must be undetectable. This job had to be done properly.


The jam was Huntings’ own brand, new and unopened, and when the carpet of crumbs had been brushed aside, the virgin jar was
placed on the table next to a slice of half-chewed toast and a cracked mug containing muddy dregs of coffee: the squalid remains
of a hasty breakfast.


The ancient fridge in the corner of the kitchen had been salvaged from a skip but it still worked after a fashion. The fridge
door was opened to reveal a trio of shrivelled vegetables, a bottle of milk and a packet of ham just past its sell-by date.
Beside the ham lay a small glass dish with a glass cover, an object more suited to a laboratory than a kitchen.


Hands encased in blue rubber gloves lifted the dish off its filthy wire shelf and carried it over to the table, where a white
carrier bag bearing the words ‘Hunt for good prices at Huntings’ was smoothed out, waiting.


It was time to get to work. Time to spread death.

‘It’s called Pest Field.’

‘Does anyone know why?’ Neil Watson looked around the field, his eyes drawn to the roofs of the new executive homes that peeped
over a hedge a few hundred yards away.


Dr William Verlan scratched his balding head and looked slightly embarrassed. He was a tall man with a neat moustache and
a trim, muscular build that suggested he kept himself in shape. He spoke with a soft American accent and his clothes looked
as though they’d been taken straight from the retailer’s shelves. But in spite of the immaculate appearance there were telltale
dark shadows beneath his eyes: he looked tired. ‘I’ve been taking a year’s sabbatical and I only got back from the States
on Saturday,’ he said defensively. ‘I didn’t hear about your dig until this morning. If I’d known about it I could have done
some research.’


Neil shuffled his feet impatiently. They were working to a deadline and he hadn’t come to hear excuses. ‘I read somewhere
that there was supposed to be a leper hospital around here.’


Verlan blushed. ‘I’ve heard that too but … ’

‘Well, a medieval leper hospital shouldn’t be too hard to find,’ said Neil, pulling his green wellington boot out of a cow
pat with a satisfying squelch. ‘If it’s an important site we might even be able to halt the wheels of commerce for a little
while.’ He grinned as though this prospect pleased him. Dr Neil Watson, field archaeologist for the County Archaeological
Unit, was only too aware of his own mildly anarchistic tendencies. ‘I’ll get the team up here later on to do a geophysics
survey. That should tell us if there’s any sort of building under here … with any luck.’


He shielded his eyes against the sun and studied the squat church tower protruding above the hedgerow not far from the new
executive homes. The old village of Belsham – a settlement that had once earned itself a mention in the Doomsday Book – was
being swallowed rapidly by the spreading suburbs of Neston.


He looked at Verlan, who was standing beside him looking rather nervous. He taught medieval history at Morbay University and
there was no harm in picking his brains.


‘What do you know about the church?’

‘It’s the parish church of St Alphage. Most of it dates from 1276 and the chancel was added in 1424.’

At least Verlan seemed to know his dates. ‘Worth a look?’

Verlan shrugged. Neil waited for some comment about the church, its architecture, its history or the quirky little features
that, in his experience, each ancient church could boast. But Verlan remained silent, his long, pale face unreadable. With
his inscrutable expression and his small, dark eyes he reminded Neil of a watchful lizard. But perhaps he was being unfair.
The man had only just got back from the States – perhaps he was still feeling the effects of jet lag.


‘Fancy showing me around?’

Verlan looked at his watch. ‘I haven’t time right now. I’m teaching in an hour. I seem to recall there are some interesting tombs in the tower but it was closed off years ago for safety reasons.’


‘So it’s dangerous?’

‘It was locked up in the early nineties and it’s not been opened since as far as I know.’

‘You lived in Belsham long, then?’ As Verlan was American somehow Neil had assumed he was a relative newcomer.

Verlan smiled. ‘Over twenty years now. My father was stationed over here during the Second World War and he used to talk about
how beautiful Devon was so when I had the chance to come over here to teach, I took it.’ He suddenly frowned. ‘When are you
starting to dig?’


‘As soon as we can. We’re working to a deadline so there’s no point in hanging about. Maybe you can show me the church some
other time, eh?’


‘Maybe.’ There was little enthusiasm in his voice.

Neil Watson stared at the mellow stone tower, resolving to investigate it himself if he got the chance. But time was tight
and the next branch of Huntings supermarkets would be built on this site in due course, whatever his team discovered beneath
the earth.


Verlan turned and began to walk towards the gate that led out onto the main road. Neil watched him go, thinking his behaviour
had been a little odd. Perhaps William Verlan didn’t like hanging around old churches, which would be unusual for someone
who claimed to be interested in medieval history. Or maybe there was some other reason. From the expression on Verlan’s face
it was clear that something was worrying him.


The West Morbay branch of Huntings stood on the sprawling outskirts of the ever-expanding resort town, in the unlovely scrubland
where the town was nibbling at the country as the sea nibbles at a beach when the tide flows in; relentless and unstoppable,
even by the toughest-minded official in the local planning department.


Unlike its neighbouring DIY superstore – a monolithic construction in grey corrugated iron – Huntings had at least tried to
ensure that their store didn’t offend the eye. Its architect had taken his inspiration from a picture of a Roman villa in
his daughter’s school history book and had considered the style so pleasing that every branch of Huntings had ended up with
neatly pitched roofs and elegant columns that would have gained the approval of any Roman matron with an eye for contemporary
architecture.


Inside the supermarket Keith Sturgeon, the branch manager, sat in his office at the back of the building. Or offstage, as
he liked to think of it.


He held a small mirror in his left hand and smoothed down his wiry hair with his right, frowning at the silver hairs that
were encroaching on the brown. It was nearly time to go onto the shop floor. Keith used his office as an actor uses his dressing
room, somewhere to prepare for his public appearance. It was here he ensured that his appearance was immaculate, that no hair
was out of place and that the flower – newly plucked each morning from the reduced bunches of flowers that, having reached
their sell- by date, stood in green plastic buckets by the supermarket entrance – stood pertly to attention in his buttonhole.


He stood up and performed a final check on his appearance in the full-length mirror near the door. It was time to go down
and show his face to his staff, like a general riding before his troops prior to a battle. Then he would tour the aisles and
greet his public. The personal touch was important, especially in a supermarket. He looked at his watch. Ten o’clock. It never
occurred to Keith that his staff were aware that he did his grand tour at the same time every morning and were fully prepared
for his inspection. The thought of introducing the element of surprise and varying the time to keep them on their toes never
crossed his mind.


He glanced back at the monstrous stainless-steel creation sitting proudly on his desk. The Manager of the Year award … the highlight of his career. But that had been twenty years ago and that early promise hadn’t transformed itself into
the promotion he had expected … and at one time craved. Now he had to be satisfied with his wife bringing home the lion’s
share of the household income. Her golden career, uninterrupted by childbearing, had flourished while his had stagnated. But
there was nothing else to do but carry on.


There was a knock on the office door and Keith uttered what he considered to be an authoritative ‘Come in’. The door opened
and a young Asian woman entered the room. Her glossy, raven-black hair was swept back into a neat ponytail, and the only thing
that stopped her from being a stunning beauty was an over-large nose. She wore a businesslike navy blue suit and held a pile
of open letters in her left hand.


Keith straightened his back. ‘Come in, Sunita. I was just going down on the floor. Is that the post?’

‘Yes. It gets later every morning. There’s nothing urgent. Shall I leave them on your desk?’

‘Thank you, Sunita.’

She placed the letters on the desk, keeping back one unopened envelope. ‘This one’s marked strictly private so I didn’t open
it.’ Their fingers touched as she handed the letter over and Sunita withdrew her hand quickly.


Keith examined his watch. Five to ten. Just time to see what the long envelope with the neatly hand-printed address contained.
He tore it open while Sunita hovered in the doorway, curious. She watched as he read the letter inside and saw his face turn
deathly pale.


He looked up at her with panic in his eyes, and as he slumped down in his chair the flower fell from his buttonhole onto the
carpet.


Detective Sergeant Rachel Tracey leaned forward and her blouse gaped open, revealing a glimpse of the scanty white lace bra
beneath. Detective Chief Inspector Gerry Heffernan scratched his tousled head and stared for a few seconds before averting his eyes, feeling a little embarrassed by
his fleetingly impure thoughts. He was getting too old for that sort of thing, he told himself firmly; and besides, it wasn’t
good for his blood pressure.


‘This has just arrived in this morning’s post, sir. It’s addressed to a Chief Inspector Norbert. Do you know …?’

‘Someone’s a bit out of date. The poor sod had my job many moons ago … before your time.’ He frowned. ‘Open it and read it
to me, will you.’


Heffernan, a large, untidy man with a prominent Liverpool accent, leaned back in his sagging black leather chair with his
hands behind his head in an attitude commonly reserved for sunbathing.


Rachel brushed a strand of fine fair hair off her face, opened the envelope neatly and cleared her throat. ‘It says “Dear
Mr Norbert”’ … She hesitated.


‘Go on.’

‘“Dear Mr Norbert, I wish to inform you that there has been a great miscarriage of justice.”’

Gerry Heffernan snorted, opened his eyes and raised them heavenwards. ‘Which innocent man are we supposed to have banged up
this time?’


Rachel assumed the question was rhetorical and continued to read. ‘“I would urge you to look again into the case of Chris
Hobson. I know he is innocent but I had a very good reason for not coming forward at the time. When I saw him on the television
… “’


‘Television? What was he on? Crimewatch?’


Rachel smiled. ‘No, sir. He was on that series … Nick, it’s called … a fly-on-the-wall documentary about life inside a prison. My mum watches it,’ she added, slightly disapproving.


‘So they’re giving villains their own TV shows now, are they?’ Heffernan shook his head in disbelief at the topsyturvy nature
of the modern world. ‘What else does it say?’


Rachel read on. ‘“When I saw him on television I felt I should write to you. I know it’s a long time ago but I beg you to look into Chris’s case again.”’ She looked up. ‘That’s all.’

She handed the letter to Heffernan, who took it by the corner, as if it were something contaminated, dirty. ‘It’s signed “J.
Powell (Mrs)” … address in Morbay – the posh end,’ she added.


Heffernan placed it on the desk in front of him and stared at it for a while before speaking. ‘Probably a crank,’ he murmured
as he pushed it to one side.


Rachel looked sceptical. ‘Cranks don’t usually provide their name and address.’

‘I suppose we’ll have to follow it up … send a couple of uniforms round. No hurry.’

‘How much do you know about the case, sir?’

Heffernan sat forward and thought for a few moments. ‘It must have been about twelve years ago … I was a DS in Morbay at the
time so I wasn’t involved. A vicar was murdered in the course of a burglary and Chris Hobson was arrested. Witnesses had seen
him in the village around the time of the murder and the stolen goods were found in his flat. It was an open-and-shut case
as far as I can remember.’ He sat back and gave a long sigh. ‘No use rocking the boat just because someone wants to start
a “Chris Hobson is innocent” campaign. If he was that innocent why didn’t this Mrs Powell come forward before? Why wait all
this time? Forget it, eh.’


Rachel nodded. Perhaps the boss was right: sleeping murderers should be allowed to slumber on undisturbed … especially if
the only justification for waking them was some vague letter.


‘Did this Chris Hobson have a history of violence?’ she asked, just out of curiosity.

Heffernan shrugged. ‘Can’t remember. Probably. Even if he didn’t, there’s always a first time. Anything else to report?’

‘Inspector Peterson and Steve have brought Lee Tepple in for those thefts from boats in the marina.’

Heffernan grinned. ‘Lee Tepple? That figures. Has he been charged?’

‘Yes. And apparently he’s asked for thirty similar cases to be taken into consideration.’

‘Our Lee was never afraid of hard work.’

Rachel smiled and left the boss to his paperwork, picking up Mrs J. Powell’s letter on the way out. She had just sat down
at her desk when a young man strolled into the CID office, walking between the desks with his hands thrust into his trouser
pockets, a faraway look in his intelligent brown eyes. Detective Inspector Wesley Peterson stopped by the window and stared
out at the view over the river, as though deep in thought.


‘I believe congratulations are in order, sir.’

Wesley looked round, puzzled.

‘Lee Tepple. Should do our clear-up rate no end of good.’

‘I told him confession was good for the soul and he seemed to take my word for it. Anything new?’

‘Nothing much. Except this.’ Rachel picked the letter up off her neatly ordered desk. ‘I’ve just shown it to the boss. It
arrived this morning.’


Wesley took the letter from her and read it carefully.

‘What’s it all about?’ he asked as he returned it to her.

‘Back in the early nineties Belsham vicarage was burgled and the vicar was murdered. The thief got away with some valuables
and they turned up at Chris Hobson’s flat. He denied it, of course, but he was seen near the murder scene. Open-and-shut case.
He got life.’


‘So who’s this DCI Norbert the letter’s addressed to?’

‘He was before my time. I presume he was in charge of the case.’

‘And this Mrs J. Powell wants him to reopen it after all this time? Strange.’

‘The boss thinks it’s a crank.’

Wesley smiled. That was Gerry Heffernan’s verdict on anyone who threatened to disturb his status quo. ‘And what do you think?’

‘Why would you want the opinion of a humble detective sergeant?’

Their eyes met. ‘You know I always value your opinion. What do you think?’

Rachel considered for a moment. ‘If I was in charge I’d follow it up, just to cover myself. These miscarriage-of-justice cases
can get nasty for the police if we don’t watch our backs. If there does turn out to be new evidence and we just ignored it
… ’


Wesley nodded. Rachel was right. ‘I’ll have a word with the boss, then I’m taking an early lunch.’

‘Going anywhere nice?’

‘It’s Pam’s antenatal class and I promised I’d look after Michael, that’s all.’

Rachel looked away. ‘Good job we’re not busy.’

Wesley sensed the reproach in her voice. ‘I couldn’t do it if we were,’ he said, wondering why he felt so defensive. He had
just cleared up the marina thefts. He deserved an hour off for lunch.


Rachel stared down at her hands, regretting her sharpness. But the thought of Pam, Wesley’s wife, always seemed to have that
effect on her. It was something she hadn’t yet managed to control. And she prided herself on being a controlled person.


‘I’ll have a word with the boss about that letter if you like.’ He held out his hand and she gave him the letter.

‘Thanks.’ Her lips twitched upwards into a brief smile. She was glad that the responsibility had been taken out of her hands.
As Wesley walked away DC Steve Carstairs swaggered into the office, caught her eye and winked. She ignored him. As far as
she was concerned Steve could piss off. Young and good looking though he was, he was a sexist, racist pain in the arse.


Wesley pushed open the half-glazed door to Gerry Heffernan’s lair. The older man looked up and grinned. ‘Wes, come in. Nice work getting Lee Tepple for those thefts. Has his place been searched yet?’


‘Oh yes. His garage was like Aladdin’s cave. The stuff’s being brought in now.’

‘Well, if you find my CD player … It was nicked from the Rosie May six weeks ago. I went through the motions of reporting it but I didn’t hold out much hope of getting it back.’ The chief
inspector looked quite indignant that any thief had had the audacity to trespass on board his precious boat.


‘When the stuff’s brought in you can come down and see if it’s there. Rachel showed me the letter … about that vicar’s murder.’

‘Did she now?’ Heffernan began to rearrange the pile of neglected papers on his desk.

‘I presume this Chief Inspector Norbert was in charge of the case. Do you know him?’

Gerry Heffernan frowned, trying to recall times past. ‘I didn’t know him well. He was DCI here before he retired about seven
years ago. I presume he must have dealt with the Shipborne case.’


‘Shipborne?’

‘The Reverend John Shipborne. Blameless and well-liked vicar of St Alphage’s, Belsham, before he ended up as a crime statistic.’
He muttered something disapproving that Wesley couldn’t quite make out. ‘Murdered for an old silver cup. If Hobson had asked
nicely the Reverend Shipborne would probably have given him the bloody thing.’


‘Was Hobson regarded as dangerous at the time?’

‘I can’t remember him being one of our most wanted, let’s just put it like that. But I wasn’t involved in the case so I can’t
remember the details.’


‘Perhaps we should have a word with ex-DCI Norbert, then.’

‘That’d be difficult unless you’re thinking of holding a seance. He’s dead. Keeled over two weeks after he retired, poor sod.’

Wesley’s mouth formed an ‘o’ and he stood there for a few seconds, lost for words. Then he looked Heffernan in the eye. ‘I’m
willing to have a look at the case file, just to make sure everything was done by the book.’


‘I don’t think we’re giving you enough to do if you can find time for cases that were dead and buried years ago.’

‘It’s got me curious, that’s all.’

Heffernan scratched his head. Wesley Peterson, archaeology graduate and son of two doctors from Trinidad, possessed an intellectual
curiosity that Heffernan found incomprehensible. The Heffernan family motto – so Gerry always claimed – was ‘Why make work
for yourself?’


‘Stan Jenkins used to be Norbert’s sergeant around that time. He’ll tell you all about it if you’re really that interested.’

‘I know Stan’s retired now but do you think he’d mind if I had a word with him?’

‘Mind? I should think he’ll be delighted. Last time I saw him was in the supermarket. He was pushing the trolley,’ he added
significantly. ‘You never met Mrs Jenkins, did you?’


‘No. Why? What’s she like?’

‘If Stan Jenkins’s missus was put in charge of the prison system crime’d be wiped out in a year and we’d all be out of a job.
I don’t know why you’re so keen to follow this up. These nutters crawl out of the woodwork from time to time.’


Wesley knew that only too well but there was something about the letter. It was literate. Controlled. As if the sender was
an educated person who’d thought about the implications of what they were saying. ‘Perhaps we should pay Mrs J. Powell a visit
sooner rather than later.’


Heffernan shrugged his shoulders as though he were shrugging off all responsibility. ‘Go ahead if it keeps you happy, Wes.
But remember it’s probably not our problem.’ He looked at his watch. ‘Shouldn’t you be off?’


There was a sudden panic in Wesley’s eyes. Stan Jenkins wouldn’t be the only one in the doghouse if he wasn’t home in fifteen
minutes.


He hurried out of Tradmouth police station and half walked, half ran up the steep narrow streets towards his home. Proving
the guilt or otherwise of Chris Hobson would have to wait for a while.


Neil Watson watched as the small mechanical digger took the top layer of turf and soil off his carefully marked-out trench.
The digger’s arm did the job surprisingly gently, scraping up the earth delicately and depositing it on the spoil heap to
the side. When Neil judged that the machine could go no deeper without disturbing what was below, he raised his hand and the
driver cut the engine.


The geophysics team had already been over the field with their impressive array of bleeping machines. Neil knew that these
expensive playthings for the technically minded were often useful but today they had found nothing conclusive. No outline
of a building; nothing that might resemble a leper hospital, however small. But as usual the guardians of the strange instruments
had hedged their bets and talked about interesting anomalies that were worth investigating. And as Huntings were footing the
bill, Neil thought he might as well give them their money’s worth. He strolled over to the human diggers, who were watching
patiently, leaning on their spades, and told them it was time to start work.


Neil began to dig, thrusting his spade into the rich Devon earth and watching the ground closely in case anything interesting
turned up in the upper layers of reddish soil. But he was so engrossed in what he was doing, so busy anticipating what he
might discover, that he failed to notice a dark, hooded figure half hidden behind the thick trunk of one of the trees that
edged the undulating field. The watcher observed the diggers intently for a full half-hour before slipping away silently into
the churchyard near by.


William Verlan tells me that there used to be a leper hospital somewhere in the village, possibly near the school. But I was
more concerned about the plague pit Barnaby mentioned. Pest Field near the church appears as Pestilence Field on some old
tithe maps and he suspects there could be a connection.

I saw Verlan in the village and he said Barnaby’s research seems to be progressing well. I sense Verlan has no liking for
me and I sometimes wonder if he knows the truth … but of course that’s not possible.

Barnaby hasn’t visited for a few days. He rang last night to say that he’s made some exciting discoveries. But what is exciting
to Barnaby might not be exciting to the rest of us.

From a diary found among the Reverend John Shipborne’s personal effects

Gerry Heffernan noticed as soon as Wesley walked in that he didn’t seem his usual calm self. He had the harassed look of a
father who had just been called upon to baby-sit a lively toddler for an hour or so. Who said motherhood was an easy job?


‘Pam okay?’

‘She’s had a few twinges. The baby’s not due for another six weeks but she’s seen the doctor, just to be on the safe side. Rachel’s just told me there’s been a call about a threat
to a supermarket.?