Kate Ellis was born and brought up in Liverpool and studied drama in Manchester. She has worked in teaching, marketing and accountancy and first enjoyed literary success as a winner of the North West Playwrights competition. Keenly interested in medieval history and ‘armchair’ archaeology, Kate lives in north Cheshire with her engineer husband, Roger, and their two sons.

Kate Ellis has been twice nominated for the CWA Short Story Dagger and her novel The Plague Maiden was nominated for the Theakston’s Old Peculier Crime Novel of the Year in 2005. The Merchant’s House, The Armada Boy, An Unhallowed Grave, The Funeral Boat, The Bone Garden, A Painted Doom, The Plague Maiden, The Skeleton Room, A Cursed Inheritance and The Marriage Hearse are also published by Piatkus.

For more information regarding Kate Ellis log on to her website: www.kateellis.co.uk

Also by Kate Ellis

The Merchant’s House

The Armada Boy

An Unhallowed Grave

The Funeral Boat

The Bone Garden

A Painted Doom

The Plague Maiden

The Skeleton Room

A Cursed Inheritance

The Marriage Hearse

COPYRIGHT

Published by Hachette Digital

ISBN: 978-0-748-12674-3

All characters and events in this publication, other than those clearly in the public domain, are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

Copyright © 1998 by Kate Ellis

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior permission in writing of the publisher.

Hachette Digital

Little, Brown Book Group

100 Victoria Embankment

London, EC4Y 0DY

www.hachette.co.uk

Acknowledgements

With thanks to Roger, Tom and Olly for their patience;
Ruth and Pat for their advice; and my parents,
David and Mona, for their encouragement.

31 August

The child flung his tricycle aside and toddled, laughing, towards the basking cat. The creature, sensing the impending assault on her dignity, stalked off with her tail disdainfully erect. She squeezed herself through the bars of the garden gate and headed towards some warm and inaccessible hiding place.

The child began to follow gleefully, but the wooden gate was shut fast, secured against his escape into the lane. He pressed his face against the bars of the gate and watched the cat stop to paw a butterfly, then disappear elegantly into the thick hedgerow opposite.

Then a great purring thing, a shiny black bulk, blocked his view of the lane as it stopped by the gate. The car door opened slowly and the driver climbed out, all the time watching the child, who stood and stared, mesmerised by the sight of the stranger. The driver opened the gate and, after looking round, stooped down to the child’s level, offering a hand that held something brightly coloured and desirable.

Elaine Berrisford pressed the mop into the bucket and began the final unwashed section of the stone floor. She would get it done while Jonathon was quiet, happy with the freedom of the cottage garden and his new tricycle.

She looked at the newly cleaned floor with satisfaction. At home this was her cleaner’s domain: Elaine had no time for housework – only in the holidays, only when she was at the cottage. In a week she would return to work and Jonathon would be back at nursery. The daily car journeys through ever-thickening traffic would begin again, relentless till the half-term break. The peace of Hedgerow Cottage would be exchanged for the large detached house on the busy main road into Manchester.

She looked at her watch. She would have an hour reading on the sunlounger while Jonathon played. Then maybe they’d drive down to the beach. Jonathon would like that. She remembered the delight on his face as he searched for shells in the gritty sand.

Elaine opened the bottom half of the back door, a stable type. It was kept closed in case that cat got in. She couldn’t stand cats, but Jonathon, obsessed with the creature, followed it round everywhere. She picked up her untouched paperback and went outside.

‘Jonathon.’

He must be hiding, playing a game.

‘Jonathon. Where are you?’

Perhaps he had crept back into the cottage.

‘Jonathon.’

The gate – it was shut and fastened, just as it should be; just as she had left it.

She searched with increasing agitation – first the garden, then the house. As her panic grew, so did the sounds. The birdsong, the hum of the insects and the distant throb of the combine harvester became almost deafening as they conspired to mask the only sound she wanted to hear – the sound of Jonathon’s voice.

12 September

Neil Watson scraped away at the earth surrounding the white object. Archaeologists know bone when they see it. On a dig in an Anglo-Saxon cemetery they can become quite blasé about the stuff. But in the cellar of an Elizabethan merchant’s house …

Neil scraped away some more earth. The thing was taking shape. It looked ominously like a skull. He called his colleagues over and offered a silent prayer that it would turn out to be an animal bone, discarded from the kitchens. They were working to a deadline. They couldn’t afford the official delays that would follow the unexpected discovery of a body, however ancient.

Jane and Matt began work. The three said nothing, but they knew each other’s thoughts. The area of white bone increased: a ribcage; the skull; the limbs.

The tiny thing lay there exposed, clean and bleached. It was obviously human, but so small, Neil thought… a baby.

The three exchanged looks. It had to be reported. Neil went to the office to call the police.

19 September

As the young couple passed her, Dorothy Truscot glanced critically at the girl’s flimsy sandals.

‘Good morning,’ she said briskly. It was her custom to greet fellow walkers. The young couple – blond, bronzed and clad in denim shorts – looked slightly startled, grunted a greeting then walked on quickly in the other direction.

Dorothy strode onwards. Her own shoes were of the sturdy, sensible variety; shoes for country walking.

‘Rags … here, boy.’

The spaniel bounded towards her, eyes glowing with adoration, tail wagging like a windscreen wiper. Dorothy picked up a stick and threw it.

‘Fetch.’

She breathed deeply as the dog dashed away, sucking the fresh sea air into her lungs, and looked out towards the vast expanse of glistening sea. It was high here: a hundred yards away the green countryside tumbled down cliffs to unite with the sea. Calm today, the sea held a score of miniature boats; child’s playthings. It was only the oil tanker crawling across the horizon which brought a reminder of the outside world of dirt and commerce to this lovely patch of South Devon.

Rags returned with the stick, his exuberance tempered by the demands of nature. As he squatted to add his own personal bit of pollution, Dorothy looked round furtively and drew the plastic poop scoop out of her capacious handbag along with a small plastic bag to contain the offending article. Perhaps true inhabitants of the countryside were accustomed to a bit of muck on their boots and a few dubious smells, but Dorothy was a believer in leaving things as you would wish to find them.

Rags ran on up the path and Dorothy followed. The sun was warm for mid-September, and she regretted wearing her thick Aran jumper. But she climbed the path knowing that the seat – her and Sidney’s seat – would be waiting at the top of the slope. When she reached it, panting, she sat down heavily to get her breath back and turned, as she always did, to read the small brass plaque screwed to the back of the seat.

In loving memory of Sidney Truscot
who loved this place.

And he had. She smiled as she remembered how they had bought Dark Lane Cottage on their retirement: sold up and moved down to their holiday paradise. But then came the heart attack; the funeral; adaptation to a solitary country life so different to the Birmingham suburbs. She looked at the grassy ground. His ashes had been scattered here at his request. She felt near to him here.

‘Rags. What are you up to, you silly animal? What have you got there?’

Rags bounded up to his mistress and placed the trophy carefully at her feet – a woman’s shoe.

‘Rags, come here.’ He ran away gleefully. This time Dorothy followed. ‘Rags … Rags. What are you doing, boy? Come here.’

She spotted the wagging tail behind a clump of bushes at the side of the path.

‘Rags, come here now, this instant… Rags.’ He appeared bearing another gift, a shoe to match the first.

‘Where did you get that, you silly dog?’

She walked round the bush. Her heart began to beat faster with indignation. Perhaps somebody had left some litter there; fouled her lovely spot with a bin-bag full of old clothes.

Then she saw it. It looked unreal, like a grotesque life-size rag doll – a rag doll without a face. It lay half in the bush. Dorothy’s eyes were drawn to where the face had been, now a crusty brown mass heaving with buzzing flies. Her hand went to her mouth as if preparing to stop a scream or a stream of vomit.

The human body can do extraordinary things in extraordinary situations. If anybody had told Dorothy Truscot that at the age of sixty-five she could run the half-mile to Hutchins Farm without stopping to rest, she would not have believed them. But she managed it in what seemed like a remarkably short time, Rags following at her heels, enjoying the game.

Chapter 1

The Periwinkle is now restored to a goodly condition but Master Cornworthy, the shipwright, doth tell me that the Starfish is in need of a new mizzen mast. She must be ready to sail for the Newfoundland by March.

Elizabeth is sick of a morning and thinks herself with child. I rejoice if this be so. We have awaited the Lord’s blessing full ten years this Michaelmas.

Elizabeth hath taken in a new maidservant to help in her time of sickness. The girl’s name is Jennet and she is most comely.

Extract from the journal of John Banized,
Merchant of Tradmouth, 15 February 1623

The streets that led from Wesley Peterson’s newly acquired house, perched above the town, down to the crazy huddle of buildings that clung to the riverbank were hill-steep, narrow and winding; not built for cars. Wesley felt it would be easier to walk to his new place of work. He told himself that this was a good thing: he would become fit. In London he had never walked; had never really had the time. Downhill was easy; the return journey up those cobbled streets would be the real test of endurance.

It wasn’t long before he reached the heart of the town; an ancient heart of timber-framed and whitewashed plaster, interspersed with examples of later architecture; over-confident Victorian and self-effacing modern. The town centre was crowded with people on their way to work and cars pushing ambitiously through the narrow streets. Wesley’s pace slowed to a stroll.

To his left, between two shops of Victorian vintage, was a gap, like a missing tooth, filled by a wire fence. In London he would have passed by without a second look, but here in Tradmouth things were different. He stopped and stared at the exposed site: the small mounds of brickwork; the intriguing holes dotted here and there; the skeletal layout of a building revealing itself on the brown earth. A dig was in progress, unmistakable. Wesley was on familiar territory.

Three dusty figures behind the wire screen bent over the ground with trowels, brushes and concentration. One of them he recognised.

‘Neil!’

A young man in torn muddy jeans and with a mess of brown hair looked up. When he saw Wesley he grinned.

‘Wes! Good God, man, what are you doing here? You look a bit smart. What are you selling?’ He abandoned the tools of his trade and hurried to admit Wesley to the site via a wire gate set in the fence.

Wesley looked around. ‘What’s this, then?’

‘You tell me,’ Neil said, throwing out a good-natured challenge.

Wesley noted the features of the site and thought for a moment. ‘House? Sixteenth … seventeenth-century? Courtyard? Bit like that one we worked on in Neston, remember? Outhouses, by the look of it. Situated in the centre of an old seaport. Merchant’s house?’

‘Spot on. Demolished at the turn of the century … shops built on it. Now they’ve knocked down the shops to build flats, so here we are. Got six weeks before the concrete’s poured in. Usual story. How’s life in the police force, then? I thought you were pounding the beat in London.’

Wesley smiled. ‘I gave up the beat years ago… joined CID. Now I’ve got a transfer to Tradmouth. We’ve always liked the place and it’s near Pam’s mum.’

‘Great. How’s Pam?’ asked Neil quietly. ‘Any kids yet?’

Wesley shook his head and looked at his watch. ‘Look, Neil, I'm late. I'll have to go …’

‘If you’re doing nothing tonight come down the Tradmouth Arms about eight thirty. We’re always in there. It’d be nice to see Pam again.’

‘Yeah, that’d be good.’

‘And I’ll tell you all about this place. We had a bit of excitement about a week back. Should interest you in your line of work …’

Wesley, intrigued, would have questioned Neil further, but time’s winged chariot, in the shape of a passing patrol car, reminded him that he had to make a quick exit if he was to make a favourable impression. The first day in a new job is invariably the worst.

Sergeant Bob Naseby looked longingly at the steaming mug of tea behind the counter, hidden discreetly from public view. When he had dealt with Miss Beesby’s lost budgerigar he promised himself five minutes’ peace before he started on his paperwork.

Satisfied with the sergeant’s assurances that the entire force would be on constant lookout for little Joey, Miss Beesby left. But no sooner had the station door swung shut than it opened again and a tall, smartly dressed young man entered and walked confidently up to the counter. Bob Naseby hadn’t seen him before; he would have remembered. The dark brown face was pleasant and the eyes intelligent. If Bob had to hazard a guess he’d put the newcomer down as a new doctor at the local hospital.

‘Morning, sir. Can I help you?’

‘Detective Sergeant Peterson. I’ve been told to report to Detective Inspector Heffernan.’

‘Oh, yes. We’ve been expecting you. Transfer from London, isn’t it?’

‘Word gets round.’

‘It does in a place like this. You’ll find it a bit different from what you’re used to.’

‘I hope so.’

‘What is it they call us up there? Turnip heads?’

Wesley Peterson smiled but said nothing.

Bob picked up the phone and dialled. The new man had to be an improvement on his predecessor, who had recently shaken the dust of Tradmouth off his boots and headed for the Met’s bright lights. And the Chief Constable would be delighted. He was forever sending memos about attracting more ethnic minorities into the force. The acquisition of DS Peterson would do his statistics no end of good.

‘Hello, Rachel? I’ve a DS Peterson here to see DI Heffernan. Can you come and fetch him? Thanks, my luvver.’

Wesley smiled to himself at the use of this Devon endearment which could have caused considerable misunderstanding in London.

Bob put the phone down. ‘Someone’ll be along in a minute … show you round.’ He put out the large hand that had delivered so many wicket-taking balls for the police cricket team. ‘Bob Naseby, by the way.’

‘Wesley Peterson.’

‘Know this area at all, do you?’

‘Yes. I used to be at uni… used to live in Exeter.’

The door at the side of the counter opened and a young woman stepped out. She had straight blond hair, wore a crisp linen suit and sensibly flat shoes; pretty in a practical sort of way.

‘DS Peterson? I’m Rachel Tracey… Detective Constable.’ She looked him up and down appraisingly. ‘A call’s just come through. Suspicious death. Little Tradmouth Head.’

Bob’s face clouded. ‘Not the kid?’

‘I don’t know yet. The inspector’s not here. I’ve just rung him and he said to pick him up.’ She turned to Wesley. ‘You’d better come along with me.’

She set off with bustling determination. Wesley followed. DC Rachel Tracey was a woman who knew exactly where she was going.

‘You can’t park by his house,’ she added as they got into the police car. ‘I’ll get as close as I can, then we’ll have to walk.’

She parked on double yellow lines in a narrow street leading to the harbour. Then Wesley followed her at a frantic pace through a dark, restaurant-lined cobbled street which opened out onto a picturesque quayside with castle walls at the far end and a startling view over the river to a hill-hung town on the opposite bank. Seagulls yelled their hearts out overhead, drowning the gentle chug-chug of the nearby car ferry, and the air was heavy with the scent of seaweed.

‘He lives here.’ She pointed to a row of waterfront houses of indeterminate age, probably very old; the kind of dwellings favoured by retired sea captains in the last century. The end house was smaller than the rest, almost a cottage. She opened the rusting white front gate, marched up to the door and knocked loudly.

An upstairs window was flung open and a tousled head appeared. ‘That you, Rach? I’ll be down in a sec’ The accent was more reminiscent of the Mersey than the West Country. The head disappeared before Wesley had a chance to get a proper look at his new boss.

Then he emerged out of the front door, a big untidy bear of a man with curly hair and a well-worn anorak: more like an off-duty local fisherman than a detective inspector, Wesley thought. He shook Wesley’s hand firmly and listened to Rachel’s report on the situation as they walked to the car.

‘So we don’t know if it’s Jonathon Berrisford or not.’

‘They didn’t say … just a body. SOCOs are up there now, and Dr Bowman.’

‘Has the super been told?’

‘He’s over at Morbay… at a meeting. They’ve been trying to get in touch with him.’

‘And Stan Jenkins?’

‘He’s in Bristol. Someone reckons Jonathon Berrisford’s living next door.’

‘Let’s hope he is, then.’

Heffernan turned to Wesley. ‘It’s all happening, Sergeant… body on your first day.’

‘I hope it’s not Jonathon, sir.’ Rachel’s mask of efficiency slipped for a split second.

‘So do I, Rach. So do I.’

Rachel Tracey was a good driver. Her father, a farmer, had taught her to drive a Land Rover at the age of twelve, and she had passed her test on her seventeenth birthday. Wesley closed his eyes as she swept confidently down the narrow lanes which were walled with hedgerows that made the fields beyond invisible. The bends were blind and the roads single-track, but when they met a vehicle it would invariably back up to let them pass. Such is the influence of the law.

They parked in the small carpark thoughtfully provided by the National Trust for visitors to Little Tradmouth Head. In high summer they would have had difficulty getting a space, but in mid-September the only vehicles parked there were those belonging to the SOCOs and Dr Bowman’s brand-new Range Rover which stood, gleaming, in their midst.

It was a long, steep walk, and Wesley regretted that his shoes were more suited to driving round London than walking through the countryside. He made a mental note to buy himself something more substantial. He spotted the fluttering blue-and-white tapes, like the bunting of some grim village fête, ahead of them on the path. White-overalled figures went about their work with professional preoccupation while flashing cameras recorded the scene.

A tall, thin, balding man approached them, grinning like a genial host at a party.

‘Gerry Heffernan. Haven’t seen you in ages. Margaret’s been asking after you, you know. How are you? How’s the diet?’

‘Non-existent, Colin. You know me – too fond of my grub. This is my new sergeant, Wesley Peterson. Replacement for you know who.’

‘Nice to meet you, Sergeant. You won’t mind if I don’t shake hands. Rubber gloves – occupational hazard.’

The inspector surveyed the scene. ‘So what have we got, Colin? Is it the kid?’

‘No, thank God. It’s a woman. Early twenties. About five foot seven. Fully clothed. No sign of sexual assault that I can see but you never know. Fair hair… face bashed in. Your lot have found bloodstains and disturbed ground near the path, and they reckon she was moved into the bushes after death to conceal the body. I’d go along with that.’

‘Time of death?’

‘Couple of days ago, I’d say.’

‘How soon can you do the PM?’

‘First thing tomorrow. Report by tomorrow evening?’

‘Fair enough.’

Heffernan turned his attention to a spotty young uniformed PC who was hovering nervously outside the taped-off area, studying Wesley with undisguised curiosity.

‘Morning, Johnson. Any sign of a weapon?’

‘Not yet, sir. Nothing obvious.’

‘Who found her?’

‘Lady by the name of Mrs Truscot, sir. Walking her dog. Gave her a bit of a turn.’

‘I’m not surprised. Where is she now?’

‘Up at Hutchins Farm. That’s where she rang from.’

Heffernan grinned at his new sergeant.

‘I’m going to be generous seeing as you’re new. Go and interview this Mrs Truscot, will you? Hutchins Farm’s over there; you can just see the chimneys. If Cissy Hutchins is there, which she will be if anything interesting’s going on, you’ll get a cup of tea, and she bakes the best scones in Devon. Off you go. You can take PC Johnson here as your native guide. I imagine he’s partial to a home-made scone or two. And organise a house-to-house, will you?’ He looked round. ‘Or should it be cottage-to-cottage? It shouldn’t take long. And see if anyone’s been working in the fields in the last couple of days – they might have noticed something. And try to find out who walks here regularly.’

‘Right you are, guv.’

Johnson smiled to himself. He’d never heard the inspector being addressed as ‘guv’ before. But rumour had it the new bloke was from London. You had to make allowances.

‘Hedgerow Cottage is just down the lane.’ Rachel Tracey looked concerned. ‘We don’t want to go barging in, do we? If Mrs Berrisford saw two policemen at the door she might think …’

‘Good thinking, Rach. You do Hedgerow Cottage … and go easy, eh?’

As the photographers packed up, Wesley followed Johnson up the steep path towards the culinary pleasures of Hutchins Farm, wondering what it was about Hedgerow Cottage that made his new colleagues so nervous.