Page 29 of The Chapel of Bones

‘My sister knew Mrs Potter,’ he said. ‘She spoke well of her.’

‘Then I hope you find the person responsible,’ said Colin.

Wesley looked at Gerry. At that moment they had no idea who would want to murder Sue Potter. But they needed to find out sooner rather than later, before the killer struck again.

Sunday was a busy day at Belsham vicarage. Mark had a service to take at Belsham, as well as three more at the other churches under his care. Maritia needed to prepare for work the following day and get Dominic’s things ready for school. On top of this, she was feeling a little nauseous. It had been the same when she’d been expecting Dominic; quite normal.

The doorbell rang just as they were finishing their lunch of pizza followed by ice cream – full Sunday lunches were a thing of the past, tackled only with Maritia’s mother’s help when herparents came to stay. Interruptions were so common at the vicarage that Mark gave his wife a rueful look and stood up automatically. As vicar, he never knew when he’d be needed.

Maritia heard voices coming from the hall: a man and a woman. She hurried out to join her husband, leaving Dominic happily munching on an extra slice of pizza. She didn’t recognise the couple standing talking to Mark; they were in their sixties, respectable-looking and clearly worried.

‘This is Mr and Mrs Walton,’ Mark said by way of introduction. ‘They left a carrier bag in the church porch last night and they wanted to know whether it had been found.’ He gave Maritia a meaningful look.

They had discussed whether they should have told Wesley about the money, but Mark’s discovery of Sue Potter’s body had driven the matter from their minds. Now it looked as though the puzzle was about to be solved.

‘We thought it might have been an anonymous donation to our church restoration fund,’ said Maritia sweetly.

Linda Walton looked sheepish. ‘Er . . . I’m afraid not.’ She glanced at her husband. ‘Although we’d be glad to make a donation, of course. It was . . .’

‘Ransom money,’ said Mr Walton. He nodded to his wife. The dognappers had said no police, but they hadn’t said no clergy. ‘You see, our little dog’s been kidnapped, and whoever took her is demanding money to give her back. They told us to leave it in your church porch. That’s why . . .’

‘I see.’ Mark scratched his head. The situation was completely new to him and he wasn’t sure how to proceed. ‘Have you told the police?’

‘Our daughter’s a detective,’ Mrs Walton said with a hint of parental pride. ‘I felt I had to confide in her, but I told her not to tell any of her colleagues.’

‘Is it Trish?’ said Maritia. ‘My brother’s DI Peterson. He’s mentioned her.’

Linda Walton smiled. The two women had found common ground. ‘That’s right. Our Trish thinks very highly of him.’

‘What did she say about you leaving the money?’

Linda hesitated. ‘Not much. She’s only just got married and she’s been busy at work. But I know she wants Bella back as much as we do.’

Mark took a deep breath. ‘OK. This is what we’re going to do. If these people call again, say we’ll leave the money in the church porch as previously arranged. Then hopefully little Bella will be back home with you soon.’

Maritia frowned. ‘I don’t know . . .’

‘We’ll keep a discreet lookout, and once your dog’s safe, we’ll give the police a description of the people and their vehicle. The important thing is to get Bella back. Agreed?’

Maritia laid a warning hand on her husband’s arm. ‘I don’t want you putting yourself in any danger, Mark.’

The Waltons nodded in agreement. ‘That’s right. You mustn’t take any risks, Reverend.’

Mark gave the reassuring smile he usually reserved for mourners at a funeral. ‘Of course I won’t.’

20

Work started early on Monday morning, and Wesley yawned as he walked down the steep hill to work. He’d got to bed later than usual the previous night because Neil had called round at nine o’clock to give him an update on his new dig. He’d booked into a B&B nearby so he wouldn’t have to travel back and forth from Exeter every day, and as he wasn’t driving, they’d ended up sharing a bottle of wine, something Wesley was now beginning to regret.

But Neil’s visit hadn’t been entirely irrelevant as far as the investigation was concerned. While he was at Wesley’s house, he’d received a call from Annabel, who’d spoken to her former colleague, Ronald Hands. Hands was currently enjoying his retirement birdwatching in Norfolk, but he remembered writing in 2015 to Dr Donnal about an overdue book. The volume wasn’t particularly valuable in itself, but it had still been annoying to lose something that might prove to be of use to any future scholar’s research. He hadn’t received any reply from Donnal so had been forced to let the matter go. Wesley asked Neil to pass on the news that the book had been found. As soon as the police had finished with it, it would be returned to the archives where it belonged.

Wesley went over Neil’s news in his head during his walk to the station, which stood on the flat land near the waterfront. Aleric Donnal, they now knew, had been in no position to return the book he’d borrowed. By the time Dr Hands’s letter hadarrived at his old address in 2015, he had most likely been dead for a long time.

The atmosphere was subdued when he arrived in the CID office as the team trawled through the statements given by Sue Potter’s re-enactment colleagues. The consensus of opinion seemed to be that Sue had been well liked; a good-natured woman who dealt with the costumes efficiently and played the part of the ale wife to perfection. Everyone agreed that the idea of her having enemies – in the society, at any rate – was ludicrous. Her neighbours told a similar story, and her phone and financial records didn’t show anything out of the ordinary. Her death was a mystery to everyone who knew her.

But Wesley couldn’t get the unusual note she’d received out of his mind. They already knew that Aleric Donnal’s particular academic interest had been medieval bestiaries, and he wondered whether Sue had had dealings with Donnal in the past. Academics often moved around, so perhaps he’d worked in Manchester at some point in his career and had somehow come to know her there. But investigating that possibility would have to wait until the university admin staff responded to the messages that had been left over the weekend. And hopefully, the victim’s sister, Judith Peachy, would be able to tell them more once she arrived in Tradmouth.

Gerry emerged from his office, yawning. He looked as tired as Wesley felt.