Page 8 of The Chapel of Bones

Wesley returned to his desk and picked up his phone. Gerry had told him not to let the discovery of what appeared to be archaeological remains distract him from the investigation, but a call to Neil wouldn’t take long. Then he’d have done his bit to save some potentially interesting relics from being turned into garden ornaments.

Neil answered after three rings. ‘Hi, Wes. How are you doing?’

‘Fine. You?’ Since the events on Dartmoor the previous month, Wesley felt a new protectiveness towards his friend.

‘I’m OK. Got to carry on, haven’t you?’ Neil answered breezily. ‘Is this a social call?’

‘Not exactly. I’ve come across something you might be interested in. Some tree surgeons were working at a house near Neston and they turned up a wall that looks medieval. They also found some stone carvings – maybe gargoyles, or grotesques.’

‘What about the owners?’

Wesley hesitated. ‘It’s a Mrs Jones, but you might have to ask her nicely because she’s just had a bit of a shock. Her builders found human remains hidden inside a wall in one of her downstairs rooms.’

‘You mean a skeleton? Archaeological?’ Wesley could hear a note of excitement in his friend’s voice.

‘Afraid not. Look, I’ll give you the address, then it’ll be up to you.’

‘Fair enough,’ was the reply.

6

The letter found with the dead man had given them an address for Aleric Donnal, and as luck would have it, it happened to be in Tradmouth, a short walk from the police station. Wesley had been about to delegate the job of visiting the address to one of the team, but just at that moment, Gerry emerged from his office, a keen look in his eyes. Wesley recognised that look of old: the boss felt restless and was longing to escape the confines of the station. He would have liked to go to Fontescue Hall to find out whether Timothy Fontescue-Burns had any connection with the family there. But that would have to wait.

A few minutes later, he was heading away from the river with Gerry huffing and puffing by his side as they climbed one of the town’s steep, narrow streets. Once the main road into Tradmouth in the days when goods to and from the port were transported by creatures with four legs rather than four wheels, Harbour Steps was now inaccessible to vehicles, and the series of wide, shallow steps in place of a roadway made the climb less daunting.

It was a picturesque, much-photographed thoroughfare lined with pastel cottages, most boasting colourful window boxes. Number 32, the address found on Aleric Donnal’s body, was no exception. Wesley stepped forward, raised the dolphin-shaped knocker and let it fall.

The door was opened by a dark-haired young woman in T-shirt and jeans carrying a toddler on her hip. When they produced their ID, she looked a little alarmed. Perhaps evenguilty. In Wesley’s experience, people often reacted like that when the police came calling.

Gerry gave him a nudge. Wesley was used to the boss leaving the talking to him.

‘I’m sorry to bother you, madam, but we’re making enquiries about an Aleric Donnal. I believe he lived at this address?’ He made the statement sound like a question.

The woman shook her head. ‘There’s nobody of that name here.’

‘How long have you lived here?’

‘Only a year. We’re renting the place. I can give you the letting agency’s number if you like.’

Wesley smiled encouragingly. ‘Thank you. That would be a great help.’

The woman disappeared into the shadows of the house and returned a couple of minutes later with a number scribbled on a page torn out of a notebook. She was also carrying something else. A letter.

‘When you mentioned that name, it took me a while to remember why it seemed familiar. When me and my husband moved in, we found this in a cupboard. Judging by the postmark, it’s been there for years. We meant to hand it in to the letting agency, but with . . .’ she gestured towards the child, a little girl, who was trying to wriggle out of her mother’s arms, ‘we completely forgot. I thought it was for a previous tenant and they might have a forwarding address. Can you pass it on?’

Wesley wrote the details of the agency in his notebook but omitted to tell her that Dr Donnal no longer needed a forwarding address. She seemed the cheerful sort, and somehow it felt inappropriate to raise the subject of suspicious death.

‘We’ll take care of the letter for you, love,’ said Gerry, almost snatching it from her hand in his eagerness. ‘Thanks for your help. I can see you’ve got your hands full, so we’ll leave you to it.’

Wesley called the station to ask someone to contact the agency, and as they walked back, Gerry studied the envelope: long, white and official-looking with a typed address. Sent second class in February 2015. Around the time Timothy Fontescue-Burns was enjoying his alternative lifestyle in Sycamore House. Wesley knew the DCI would find it difficult to contain his curiosity until they reached the station, so he took charge of it, dropping it into an evidence bag to put it out of temptation’s reach.

The first thing they did on their return was head straight for Gerry’s office, where they donned crime-scene gloves and slit the envelope open neatly with a letter knife, a rarely used part of the DCI’s office equipment.

Gerry turned the envelope upside down, and out fluttered a typewritten letter. It appeared to be from the county archives, the address being an office in Exeter Cathedral Close. He passed it to Wesley, who read it with a puzzled frown.

Dear Dr Donnal,

I have recently taken up my position here, and after an audit of our records, it has been brought to my notice that you have failed to return a volume you borrowed on 6 May 2011,Beasts of the Middle Ages. It was due back on 27 May 2011, but we have no record of it being returned. As far as I am aware, this is the first time any volume borrowed by yourself has not been returned promptly, so perhaps it is merely an oversight on your part.