Page 14 of The Chapel of Bones

‘Did you find anything unusual?’

The man took a sip of the pint Gerry had bought him. ‘Might have done.’

Gerry leaned forward, putting his face close to Pete’s. ‘Well?’

Wesley, feeling that patience and tact were required, put his hand on Gerry’s arm.

There was a long silence before Pete spoke. ‘This hippy bloke wanted to make a cloakroom downstairs, so he asked me to knock through the cupboard next to the front door. That’s all. I fitted a proper door, plastered it up all neatly and did the tiling, then a mate of mine put a toilet and basin in so the hippies had something to piss in,’ he added with a smirk.

‘You never did any work in the dining room – small room next to the kitchen?’

‘No, just the hall.’ He took another drink. ‘Look, he said I could keep it. I didn’t steal it and that’s God’s honest truth.’

‘What are you talking about?’

‘The briefcase. Found it in the cupboard. He said it didn’t belong to him and I could do what I liked with it.’

‘Who did?’

‘That posh hippy bloke. There were some funny smells in that place, I can tell you. Drugs,’ he added sagely. ‘I heard he died of them.’

‘Did you look inside the briefcase?’

Pete’s expression was wary, as though he feared he was about to be accused of theft.

‘It’s OK,’ Wesley said reassuringly. ‘If I was given something like that, the first thing I’d do is find out what was in it.’

‘Yeah. I opened it, but there was nothing inside except this book with weird pictures.’

‘Have you still got it?’ Wesley asked, holding his breath while he waited for the answer.

‘Dunno. It was a long time ago.’ Pete took another sip from his pint while he considered. ‘I might have shoved it in the loft with all the other junk. Tell you what, I’ll have a look and let you know.’ He grinned, showing a row of crooked yellow teeth. ‘Never thought I’d be helping the police with their enquiries at my age.’ He raised his glass. ‘Cheers.’

‘What do you think about this briefcase then?’ Wesley asked when they were back in the car.

‘It might not have belonged to our dead man,’ Gerry replied.

‘He said it contained a book with weird pictures. It could be the book Aleric Donnal borrowed from the archives.Beasts of the Middle Ages.’

‘We’ll have to wait and see. Fingers crossed he’s kept it. But I wouldn’t be surprised if he chucked it in the bin if he thought it wasn’t worth anything. It’s time we found out more about this Timothy Fontescue-Burns. I got Ellie to call ahead, so the lord of the manor is expecting us at Fontescue Hall. Don’t forget to tug your forelock when you meet him.’

Wesley smiled to himself and they drove on in silence. When he’d looked up Fontescue Hall online the previous evening, he’d discovered that the original building on the site dated to the Middle Ages. But sadly, in his opinion, the Fontescue family over the centuries had been wealthy enough to follow fashion and put a classical facade over the original structure, while extensive alterations had virtually obliterated all traces of the old hall, which was now only visible in a couple of internal courtyards in the staff quarters, classical architecture being considered too good for the servants.

The drive was lengthy enough to impress any visitor, a symbol of the Fontescues’ status in the area, even though the family had never been rewarded with any form of title. Wesley drove smoothly towards the house, keeping to the ten-mile-per-hour speed limit. They were there on police business, so they ignored the signs to the car park and he brought the car to a halt in front of the house. It wasn’t open to visitors that day, so they’d have the place to themselves.

Gerry marched straight to a magnificent front door set behind a row of classical columns and knocked three times.

‘Wonder if a snooty butler will tell us to use the tradesmen’s entrance. If he does, I’m going to pull rank,’ Gerry said with some glee.

Wesley suppressed another smile. Gerry didn’t often allow the chip on his shoulder to show, but this was one of those times. ‘I’ll do the talking if you like,’ he offered.

As Gerry grunted a reply Wesley couldn’t quite make out, the huge door opened slowly with a painful creak. The man standing there was wearing jeans and a sweatshirt. He was in his mid to late thirties with a shock of fair hair and an open face. ‘Hi. Sorry about the noise. This door’s not used much and I’ve been meaning to oil the hinges. You’re the policemen? I had a call earlier saying you were on your way. Come in, come in.’ He held out his hand. ‘Miles Fontescue.’

Wesley shot Gerry a glance as they shook the man’s hand and introduced themselves. The DCI had made assumptions, relied on stereotypes, which wasn’t like him at all.

They were led through a series of lavishly furnished staterooms, past red silken ropes designed to keep visitors from coming into contact with the valuable objects on display. Eventually they climbed some back stairs to the quarters where the family actually lived. Here things were a lot more homely: shabby sofas and battered Victorian sideboards cheek by jowl with IKEA bookcases and threadbare rugs. The flowers in a Chinese vase on the windowsill were on their last legs, and there were used cups and dirty plates on a side table.

‘Excuse the mess,’ said Miles as he invited them to sit. ‘My wife’s away and I haven’t got round to clearing up.’