Page 9 of The Chapel of Bones

I understand this is a facsimile of a medieval book currently kept at Oxford University, but even so, we would like it returned as soon as possible. Please contact me if there is any problem.

Yours sincerely,

R. J. Hands, Senior Archivist

Wesley stared at the letter for a while, taking it in, as Gerry looked over his shoulder.

‘Looks like the naughty boy hasn’t been returning his library books,’ said the DCI.

‘He’d borrowed a facsimile of a medieval book and failed to return it. Maybe that was because he was dead. If that’s the case, it gives us a rough window for the date of his death: between the sixth of May and the twenty-seventh, when it was due to be returned.’ Wesley thought for a moment. ‘This R. J. Hands. I wonder if Neil’s fiancée, Annabel, knows him.’

Gerry shook his head. ‘I still can’t get my head round the idea of your mate having a fiancée, let alone that posh Annabel. Didn’t she hobnob with the royals at one time?’ He snorted. ‘She’s certainly come down in the world if she’s got engaged to Neil.’

‘They’ve known each other a long time. Pam’s hopeful it’ll work out,’ Wesley said, feeling he ought to defend his old friend.

‘Has anyone managed to find out which university gave Donnal his doctorate, and what he was doing in Devon?’

‘They’re still working on it.’ The team’s trawl through missing persons reports had yielded nothing either. They’d also had no luck with the letting agency because the firm that dealt with the house on Harbour Steps had been taken over some years ago and all out-of-date records had been destroyed. When asked what they would have done with any property left on the premises by a previous occupant, the answer had been vague. The place was let furnished, but any personal items would have been disposed of if not claimed. It looked as though it wasn’t destined to be their lucky day.

There was a knock, and DC Ellie Taylor poked her head round Gerry’s office door.

‘There’s been a report of another dognapping, sir. The ransom was paid and the dog returned safe and sound.’

‘So it’s too late for us to do anything about it again.’

‘That’s right, sir. Same as before. Strict instructions. No police. The owners are an elderly couple and they said they didn’t want to risk reporting it until they knew their dog was safe.’ She stepped a little further into the office, her eyes on the DCI as though she was edging up to a savage beast. ‘Two thousand in cash again, left in the porch of Whiteley church this time.’

‘They seem to choose a different local church each time,’ Wesley observed. ‘Which suggests they’re familiar with the area. We’ve already put out warnings about a spate of dog thefts and told people to keep an eye on their pets. Do you think we should ask the press office to tell people not to pay up?’

‘Maybe, Wes, but would it make any difference? If an owner thought their beloved pooch’s life was in danger, would they really take that risk?’ Gerry sighed. ‘Better send uniform over to take a statement from the owners, but I suspect it’s another case of locking the stable door after the horse has bolted.’

‘It’s a nasty crime,’ said Wesley. ‘Taking advantage of people’s love for their animals.’

‘Not as nasty as murder. And we’ve got one of those to clear up.’ Gerry stood up stiffly, his hand in the small of his back. ‘Have you heard that Paul’s put in for a transfer? There’s a sergeant’s post coming vacant in Morbay.’

‘Good. He deserves promotion. And I expect he and Trish could do with the extra money.’

DC Paul Johnson and his colleague DC Trish Walton had recently married after what had seemed like a very long engagement. Wesley had left unsaid his opinion that it wasn’t necessarily a good thing for a married couple to work together day in, day out. But Paul was a reliable, if rather unimaginative, detective and they’d be sorry to lose him from the team. Wesley also wondered how he would feel about moving away from CIDback into uniform. However, that was Paul’s business, his and Trish’s.

‘Let’s get home and make a fresh start in the morning.’ As Gerry moved over to the coat stand and reached for the aged anorak he described as an old friend, he winced.

‘You’re in pain, Gerry. I thought you were having a bit of trouble keeping up when we walked to Harbour Steps earlier. You should really see someone about that back.’

‘Don’t you start,’ Gerry snapped. He normally saved sharp words for villains down in the interview room, so Wesley was taken aback. ‘No time, Wes,’ he went on, softening his tone. ‘It’ll be better after a night’s rest. Don’t you worry about me. Get off home. Tomorrow morning we need to get chapter and verse on this Timothy Fontescue-Burns and his merry band. Because it’s possible that one or more of them committed a very nasty murder.’

7

The following morning DS Rachel Tracey was reading through the coroner’s report on the death of Timothy Fontescue-Burns that Rob had found and printed out. The inquest verdict was death by misadventure and there were no suspicious circumstances. Fontescue-Burns had been a habitual drug user, a university dropout who’d lacked for no material comfort during his pampered upbringing. He had been an only child, whose father had been killed when the private plane he was aboard had crashed in the Alps on the way home from a skiing trip. Timothy’s mother had attended his inquest but had been too upset to give evidence.

Timothy had purchased Sycamore House in May 2011, the same month that Aleric Donnal had borrowed a copy ofBeasts of the Middle Agesfrom the county archives. He had opened up the house to like-minded people, none of whom appeared to have paid employment. When he died, the individuals who were living there at the time hung on for a while until the lawyers became involved in tracing his rightful heirs. And eventually the commune members were scattered to the four winds.

Rachel had formed a mental picture of Timothy Fontescue-Burns: a spoiled brat who looked down on his social inferiors and blew all the advantages life had given him. She suspected she wouldn’t have liked him, in the unlikely event that their paths had ever crossed.

‘I’ve been going through the police report on Timothy Fontescue-Burns’s death, Sarge.’

Rob Carter’s voice interrupted her thoughts. She looked up and saw the young man standing by her desk, waving a sheaf of papers. ‘Makes interesting reading, especially the people who were living at Sycamore House at the time.’

‘Did they make statements?’