Page 12 of The Chapel of Bones

‘Er . . . this is Darren Wolsey. We met yesterday. At Sycamore House,’ he added, as though he didn’t expect Wesley to remember.

‘Of course. What can I do for you, Darren?’

‘You know a body was found in the house?’

‘Yes.’ It was something he could hardly forget.

‘Well, I talked to my grandad. Do you remember I mentioned him?’

‘Yes, of course.’ Wesley wished he’d come to the point, but he knew he needed to be patient and let Darren say whatever he had to say in his own time.

‘Well, Grandad used to be a builder before he retired, and when I saw him last night, he told me he’d done some work inside that house years ago.’

‘When was this exactly?’ He had a feeling that what Darren had just told him might be important.

‘Not sure. About ten years ago, I think. Maybe fifteen.’

‘I’d like to speak to him if that’s possible.’

‘Thought you would. You’ll catch him at the Duke’s Arms in Dukesbridge high street. Spends most of his days there, he does. Bit of a fixture.’

‘Did you tell him about the body?’ It suddenly occurred to Wesley that if Darren’s grandfather had the means and opportunity to seal up a wall, he could well be a suspect. Maybe it would be best to tread carefully.

‘No. He’s not as young as he was and I didn’t want to give him a heart attack. You’ll go gently, won’t you?’ Darren suddenly sounded worried.

‘You can rely on us,’ Wesley said, hoping his words were reassuring.

When he ended the call, he saw Gerry watching him impatiently.

‘Don’t keep it to yourself, Wes. What was all that about?’

As soon as Wesley relayed the news, Gerry’s eyes lit up. ‘Pursuing our enquiries on licensed premises. Maybe our luck’s about to change.’

9

Ever since Wesley had told him about the stone wall and the carvings in the garden at Sycamore House, Neil had been impatient to get over there and have a look for himself. He was currently supervising an excavation on the site of an eighteenth-century woollen mill outside Exeter before a housing developer moved in. The digging was more or less over, with only the paperwork left to complete, so he reckoned it would do no harm to leave Dave, his second in command, in charge. Which meant he was free to drive over to Neston and satisfy his curiosity.

When he arrived at Sycamore House, he found a police presence still in place. He approached the bored-looking constable who was strolling up and down by the front door and asked him whether the owner was at home. When the officer replied in the affirmative, Neil rang the doorbell. Fifteen minutes later, the lady of the house was leading him through the extensive garden to the place where the tree surgeons had been working the previous day.

The householder, Helen Jones, seemed delighted by his visit. ‘I’ve always been interested in archaeology,’ she said breathlessly as they walked. ‘I lovedTime Team. Never missed an episode.’

Neil made approving noises, suspecting he’d found a supportive ally. ‘Does that mean you’d have no objection to an excavation in your garden if it does turn out to be something interesting?’

Helen almost clapped her hands with glee. ‘Oh, that would be wonderful. To tell you the truth, Dr Watson . . .’

‘Neil, please.’

‘And I’m Helen. To tell you the truth, Neil, I’d be thrilled. After finding that . . . thing in the house, it’s good to have a distraction.’

‘I heard about the discovery.’

‘I’m just glad it’s been taken away, that’s all. But when you’re dead, you’re dead, and you can’t let that sort of thing interfere with your plans, can you?’

Neil nodded, impatient to see the reason for his visit.

When they reached the spot where the offending trees had been ripped up by the roots to reveal the stones underneath, his heart began to pound. He’d almost convinced himself that he’d find a Victorian garden feature, but now all his instincts told him that this was something far more exciting.

He squatted down to examine the stones. It had always been a joke in archaeological circles that one stone was a stone, two stones were a feature, three stones were a wall, four stones a building and five a palace. There were more than five stones here, all in a line, but Neil doubted if a palace on the outskirts of the small Devon town of Neston, just eight miles from the ancient port of Tradmouth, would have gone unnoticed by local historians.