The Merchant's House Part 29

Wesley couldn't resist it just a quick read before he went to sleep. They had reached the part where Jennet had been taken on as a serving maid, but had decided to leave the next thrilling instalment for another night. But it was there, on the coffee table. Wesley gave in to temptation and carried the volume carefully upstairs. Pam turned over in bed; she was in that state between waking and sleeping.

'You're not bringing that dirty old book to bed with you, are you?' She turned away sleepily and closed her eyes.

Wesley undressed quietly and got into bed, turning his bedside light on. Pam hid her head under the duvet. He was tired, very tired, but the small brown book lying on the bedside table was more enticing than any amount of sleep. He picked it up, turning the pages delicately, carefully: he didn't want to damage such an ancient volume. He sat back against the padded headboard, making himself comfortable. This would take a long time. Pam shuffled further under the covers, as if to make a point.

Wesley began to read from where he and Neil had left off. He couldn't resist the temptation of discovering what had happened to Jennet, whether the master of the house had been considerate enough to commit his deeds to paper for future generations.

The master of the house had indeed been obliging; the journal had clearly been for his eyes alone. Wesley was growing accustomed to the handwriting and the style and he was able to read quickly as the account of John Banized's temptation unfolded. It was a familiar story, that of yielding to forbidden desire, well-known by policeman and clergyman in existence.

Adultery hadn't come easy to John Banized. His increasing helplessness as he faced the failings of his flesh, his seesawing emotions of pleasure and regret, were palpable. Wesley found himself wondering about Jennet's feelings on the matter. He turned the pages, unable to put the volume down as the story developed. He began to read about the subst.i.tution of the babies with unease. Had he not been dealing with a similar case, similar emotions, for the past few weeks?

He read on. Things were becoming more and more desperate, John Banized more and more helpless. He reached the part where Jennet wanted to take the child, her child. He could hardly leave the narrative at this point. He read on.

2 April 1624.

May the Lord forgive the deeds I am to write of. I am cursed for my sins. I have paid for my wrongdoings a hundredfold.

Last night I did discover Jennet with the child. She wore her cloak and had with her her belongings. She did say to me that she would go from the house and take Thomas with her. He was hers and no man could deny her. She did vow to declare the truth across the district if I would not pay her a handsome sum for the upkeep of the infant. I did offer her a sovereign, hoping to persuade her but she did take it and say it would suffice for the journey.

I was pleading with her, kneeling to her, as my wife did enter the chamber. She saw me, my face buried in Jennet's lap as in our days of l.u.s.t. She said she would speak to Jennet privily. I left them, praying that Elizabeth would move Jennet to reason.

When I returned to the chamber a good half hour later, a piteous sight did meet my eyes. I tremble now to recall. My wife stood, the babe in her arms. On the floor amid the rushes, Jennet lay, face downward. The leather belt which I had left upon the bed was fastened tight around her slender neck. I did lift Jennet in the hope that the spirit had not left her. But her face was blue and her tongue did protrude and her eyes did stare ... oh, I tremble to recall it ... her lovely face destroyed and showing all the corruption of our sin. My wife did not cry. I said to her 'What have you done?' She did say nought but sang softly to the child and rocked him in her arms.

I waited till the household was abed then I did bury Jennet in the cellar. I did throw the ring I gave her into the grave and some sweet herbs in memory of the pleasure we had shared. I read the prayers over her and begged the Lord to take her soul to Him. I could not have paid a higher price for my sin.

Wesley put the book down. The policeman in him realised he had just read an account of a murder, a statement of the despair and pain of a man and woman who lived four hundred years ago. No wonder the Banizeds kept the journal secret for so many years. Bill Boscople couldn't possibly have known its contents and would he have been so willing to give it away if he had?

But something else struck Wesley. Something about this account reminded him so much of the Sharon Carteret case. Four hundred years might divide them but human feelings didn't change.

He looked across at Pam. She was sleeping and he didn't want to wake her. He crept downstairs and picked up the phone. It was late, but in view of what he'd learned he had to get in touch with Gerry Heffernan. It would be worth dragging the inspector from his bed to prevent another tragedy.

Elaine Berrisford had never been in such a place before. She hugged her expensive camel coat closer to her. It was cold. She could hear dogs barking. Lights shone in the windows of the old buses and caravans; worn sheets and dirty torn material sufficed as curtains to give the occupants of the vehicles a modic.u.m of privacy. Voices carried in the dark: an argument in one old bus, a guitar being strummed in a caravan.

A baby cried. Elaine froze. But no, it was a young baby; it couldn't be him. She had left her car at the entrance to the muddy track that led to the site. She stood, watching, listening. He was somewhere here. Where was he?

Wesley drove down the steep main road into Tradmouth, in second gear all the way. When he reached the waterfront he turned and drove along the Embankment, getting as near as he could to the inspector's house. Tradmouth was quiet just a few fishermen on the quayside preparing to set sail in the moonlit night. He walked the last few yards to Heffernan's house. The lapping of the river and the bobbing of the boats in the moonlight created an atmosphere of serenity; not a night to be considering death and its consequences.

Heffernan was ready. Wesley turned the car round and they headed down the empty country roads to Neston. They reached the lane leading to the site. Her car was there, the Golf GTi: Wesley recognised it from his visit to Hedgerow Cottage. He had admired it then, wondered if he could afford one. This time his mind was on less material matters.

He parked behind the Golf, blocking it in. He hoped they were in time.

Pressed up against the side of a caravan, Elaine had watched and listened, certain that the darkness would conceal her presence. She watched as a young man in a threadbare jumper and woolly hat knocked on the door of the caravan opposite. The door opened and in the rectangle of light she saw him, the man she was looking for. Her heart began to pound. The woolly-hatted youth didn't go in. Manners was handing him something; the youth was going away; the caravan door was closing. She would wait a few minutes; wait till there was n.o.body about.

She stood stiffly against the metal wall. Jonathon, she thought, Jonathon was only a few yards away. He would be so pleased to see her, to see his mummy. They would go back to the cottage. He would sleep in her bed. She would watch him tomorrow as he played with all the new toys she had bought him.

She had eliminated one of the obstacles that stood between her and her son. When Sharon had met her on the cliff path, she thought she'd be able to reason with her. But Sharon had rejected her pathetic pleas; had even asked for more money for Jonathon's upkeep. Then they had argued. Sharon had said, 'He's mine, he can never be yours. He's not even your husband's. I did it with Chris, he's Chris's kid, you've no right to him.' Then she'd turned away, smiling, smug.

The branch had just been lying there on the ground, thick, solid. Elaine had eliminated that smile, that gloating face, for good kept eliminating it, blotting it out. Sharon hadn't been expecting it, had turned her back. It had been so easy.

She had got rid of the branch, thrown it over the cliff, and run back to the cottage. Alan had been there, had seen her clothes splashed with blood. She had had to tell him the truth. He had been so calm. He had burned the clothes in the garden incinerator, moved Sharon's body to a place where it might not be found for a few days, then held Elaine while she wept.

At one time she had thought she might lose Jonathon for good; that Manners would take him somewhere so she couldn't trace him. But now she was near him, would soon touch him, hold him in her arms. He would probably be asleep. She would carry him to the car and he would wake up the next morning, with his mother's loving eyes watching him. She imagined the expression of joy on his little face.

She felt in her pocket. It was still there. The site was quiet. It was time. She emerged from the shadows and walked slowly to Chris Manners' caravan. She knocked softly on the door, not wanting to wake Jonathon.

A shuffling from inside, then the door was opened; opened wide. He expected his visitor to be friend rather than foe. When he saw Elaine his expression changed to one of panic. He tried to close the door but he had opened it too wide. She was inside. He tried to push her out but she stood firm.

'I've come for Jonathon.'

'The kid's mine. Now get out.'

'Where is he?' She tried to push past Chris to get to the bedroom beyond.

He blocked her way. 'You heard me, you stupid b.i.t.c.h. Get out. I can keep him they said.'

He gave her a push that sent her sprawling to the floor. Jonathon was beyond that flimsy door. Tm not going without Jonathon.'

'I told you, I'm his real dad. I'm keeping him. And his name's Daniel. Now p.i.s.s off before I get the police.'

He stood, blocking the door to Jonathon. She could tell by the expression on his face that he had no intention of giving way. But a father's love could never be as great as a mother's never. She felt in her pocket; it was still there, comforting. If all else failed ...

'Didn't you hear me? p.i.s.s off. Do you think I'd let you have him when your husband killed his mum?'

She was on her knees, all artifice gone. She uttered a primal sob. 'I'm his mum.' Tears streamed down her face.

Chris couldn't stand this. He turned his back.

He hadn't expected the sudden lunge, knocking him off balance. Then the sharp pain in his shoulder. He lay stunned and saw the knife flash as it began its downward journey again.

What occurred next seemed to happen in slow motion. His body tensed, expecting the blow. But instead of finding its target, the knife seemed to fly out of Elaine Berrisford's hand. Chris curled up, shielding his head with his arms. He expected pain but none came. Daniel, he thought, what was going to happen to Daniel? The woman was mad. There was no way he'd let her touch his son.

He looked up, prepared to fight back. But there was no need. Elaine Berrisford was standing, sobbing, held between two men. He recognised them, the inspector and the sergeant, but what the h.e.l.l were they doing here? He didn't care too much. He'd never been glad to see the police but now he was.

Another face appeared at the door. Donna had come over to see what all the commotion had been about. Heffernan was pleased to see her. She could stay with the kid while they got Chris to hospital. Chris put his hand to his sore shoulder and felt something warm and sticky. He was bleeding. Someone was saying the ambulance wouldn't be long.

Chris heard the inspector's words. 'Elaine Berrisford, I'm arresting you for the murder of Sharon Carteret. You don't have to say anything but ...' At this point Chris lost consciousness. He was unaware of the paramedics lifting him onto the stretcher.

Pam took a bite of toast. She had woken early and, puzzled by her husband's absence, had decided to make herself some breakfast. She wondered where Wesley was; he usually left a note.

There were things to do, a box of books and record sheets to sort and put in the car. Paperwork, paperwork: like a relentless tide, it never stopped flowing. She had just finished preparing for the day and was about to put the kettle on when she heard Wesley's key in the door. He came into the kitchen. He looked tired.

'Where have you been? Were you called out? I didn't hear the phone.'

'No. I rang the boss. That diary, the old one; I read it and it was just like history repeating itself, just like the case we've been working on. I had an idea so I got in touch with the boss. It turned out I was right. We made an arrest last night and we've been questioning her all night.'

'Her?'

'The mother of that missing kid. Don't ask me now. It's a long story.'

'Go on, tell me. I've got half an hour before I have to set off.' Pam's curiosity was aroused.

'No. Another time.' Normally he would have recounted the facts in glorious detail if she asked. She looked at her husband enquiringly.

Wesley turned away and put the boiling water in the teapot. Maybe later he'd feel like telling her. But something told him the time wasn't right; the case was too close to home. Heffernan had asked him how far Pam would go to get a child of her own and he had answered 'As far as it takes'. Elaine Berrisford had gone as far as it took, and further; the same with Elizabeth Banized four hundred years before. It was best to say nothing for the moment. Pam was noticeably more relaxed. He didn't want to spoil things now by raising the subject again.

Pam watched him as he got himself some cornflakes. It was nearly time to set off for school. The kids would be waiting.

Bob Naseby wondered where he had seen the young couple before. Then he remembered. They were the Australians who had found that handbag. The pair of them looked sheepish as they came through the swing doors into the station foyer.

It was the girl who spoke first. 'Can we see Inspector Heffernan?' The accent was certainly antipodean. Naseby wondered if they had seen the Test match, England versus Australia, earlier in the year. But then not everyone shared Bob's pa.s.sions. He rang the inspector's office.

A few minutes later, Rachel appeared. She would scarcely have admitted it to herself, but she had often found herself thinking about the male half of the Australian pair. She felt and quickly suppressed a twinge of disappointment that he was still accompanied by that hard-faced Julie.

'Do you remember us?' He grinned disarmingly. He really was rather attractive, thought Rachel unprofessionally. She nodded.

'We're here to pay that money back.' He drew some ten-pound notes from the pocket of his jeans. 'Thirty pounds. We've been working in a cafe in Morbay and we want to be off up north later this week, if that's okay with your lot.'

Rachel summoned the inspector. She knew he always liked to have the last word. He was in a remarkably good mood.

'We've got someone for the murder,' he told the pair chattily. 'And the money'll come in useful 'cause the murdered girl's got a little kid. I'll make sure his dad gets it.' He completed the sentence in his head: and hope he doesn't blow it all on the favourite in the 4.30 at Newton Abbot.

He shook hands with Dave and Julie and told them they were free to go and stood with Rachel, smiling benevolently, as they disappeared through the swing doors out into the street.

Rachel yawned. She was tired, having sat in on the interview with Elaine Berrisford the previous night. After the doctor had given her a sedative, Elaine had fallen asleep in her cell; Rachel had to carry on.

'Get over to Neston, will you, Rach. See how Chris Manners is. They let him out of hospital this morning; seems he wasn't badly hurt. Give Chris the money, will you, and see if Stan Jenkins wants to go with you. He might like to see the kid's okay.'

He returned to his office and sat back in his imitation leather executive swivel chair, contemplating life. He decided he would treat himself to a sail that afternoon, weather and tides permitting.

He summoned Wesley into his presence and studied his sergeant as he sat down. 'Credit where credit's due, Wes. You did a b.l.o.o.d.y good job last night. What's all this about a journal?'

Wesley explained patiently. 'It just seemed to fit in. Elizabeth Banized murdered the real mother of her child when she threatened to take him back. It got me thinking there's nothing that the mother of any species won't do to keep its young.'

'Kipling the female of the species is deadlier than the male.' Heffernan looked pleased with himself for remembering a literary quote. They usually went out of his head at the appropriate moment. 'Good thinking. You'll be after my job next. I'll have to watch meself,' he added mischievously.

'What'll happen to the kid, sir? Are they going to let him stay with Manners?'

'It's all up to Social Services. There'll be reports and what have you. I reckon there's a good chance, if our friend Manners can get his act together. It might be just what he needs, a bit of responsibility. Do you fancy coming sailing this afternoon, Wes? Thought I might give the Rosie May a quick run ...'

Wesley, feeling queasy already, made his excuses and left.

Rachel made a cup of tea. The caravan kitchen was cramped and none too clean, but she thought she'd better show willing. She looked across at Chris Manners, who was sitting mournfully with his arm in a sling. Then found a cloth and started wiping surfaces. She was a good person to have around in a crisis.

Stan Jenkins sat opposite Chris, watching the child, who sat beside his dad reading a book that produced alarming electronic noises when a set of b.u.t.tons was pressed. He had bought it for the boy, thinking he'd better not come empty-handed. Chris had been quite welcoming once Stan had explained his involvement in the case. The atmosphere when Rachel handed round the chipped mugs full of steaming tea was positively cosy.

'I'm just so glad to see him alive,' Stan said, shaking his head in disbelief. 'I had a case once when a child went missing and he was found dead in a river. I'll never forget his parents' faces. I've got to admit I feared the worst for Jonathon ... sorry, Daniel.' There was emotion in his voice. 'I've got three kids of my own. They're nearly grown up now but you can't help thinking ...'

He fell silent and reached across and stroked the boy's hair. The fair roots were just visible. In a few weeks his piebald hair would look strange, but it would grow out. Everything would be normal again; all crises pa.s.s. Daniel looked up at Stan earnestly, took hold of his finger firmly and placed it on one of the electronic b.u.t.tons. A sound like a police car siren sprung from the brightly coloured page. Daniel, delighted, took Stan's finger again and repeated the action.

Rachel watched as Stan put his arms around the child and gave him a hug. The boy responded with a giggle and crawled along the seat on all fours back to his father's knee.

As they left, she saw Stan's eyes fill with tears. 'I'm getting too involved,' he said, avoiding her gaze. 'I'm thinking of taking early retirement. It doesn't do to get involved, Constable. Remember that.'

'But it means you're human, sir,' said Rachel quietly. 'We're all human.'

Chris, watching from the window of the caravan, took his son's hand and waved it at the departing police car.

Rachel had driven only a few yards when she saw a familiar figure approaching one of the caravans. She stopped the car.

'Excuse me, sir. I've just seen someone I want a word with. I won't be a minute.' She fumbled frantically to undo her seat belt. She had to get to him before he disappeared. She stumbled out of the car and walked quickly she didn't want to run towards the young man knocking on the door of a dilapidated caravan. He heard her and swung round, surprised. He looked a little guilty; she put that down to her profession.

'h.e.l.lo, er, Constable. Er, I was just calling on some old friends. They put us up for a few days when we first came down here. I haven't seen them for a while.' Dave's Australian accent, Rachel thought, was very attractive; it put her in mind of sun-drenched beaches and wide open s.p.a.ces.

'Where's your girlfriend?'

He looked sheepish. Sheepish, Rachel thought, but very good-looking. 'Er, we've decided to split. She's off up north and I fancied staying down here for a bit, getting more casual work. I was hoping these friends could maybe put me up for a while. The hostel's a bit, er ...'

She thought quickly. 'If you're wanting somewhere to stay, there's a flat in the old barn at my parents' place. They've got a farm just outside Tradmouth. We rent it out to holidaymakers in the summer but in winter it's mostly lying empty. If you want me to ask ...'

Dave's face lit up with an open smile, showing an array of well-maintained teeth. 'That's great. Thanks.'

She wrote down the address and handed it to him. 'Call round this evening. I'm off duty. I'll probably be there.'

She smiled shyly. As Rachel returned to the police car Donna opened the caravan door. She looked at Dave, not seeming in the least surprised to see him. 'Come in,' she said. 'Sludge is still in bed you know what he's like. Was that that policewoman you were talking to?'

'Yeah. She said she might know of somewhere to stay. She's quite nice.'

'Pigs are pigs,' Donna announced dismissively. 'Where's Jules?'

He explained.

'We're off up north ourselves some time. Thought we'd try Glas...o...b..ry maybe.'

'When are you going?'

Donna shrugged. 'Dunno. Soon maybe. You got to keep moving on, haven't you?'

Dave nodded. Donna was right. You've got to move on. And that policewoman really did seem quite nice ...

Epilogue.