Page 4 of The Chapel of Bones

‘I suppose all the kids at your posh alma mater had names like that.’

Wesley’s ambitious parents, both doctors originally from Trinidad, had made sacrifices to give their offspring the best education available, and Gerry, the son of a Liverpool docker, sometimes couldn’t resist the temptation to tease him gently about his public school background.

‘I admit there were a few Tarquins and Augustuses – or should that be Augusti?’

Gerry grunted and ignored the question. ‘Any date on that letter?’

‘Sadly not.’

‘What’s “the other matter”, I wonder?’

‘Unfortunately the letter doesn’t tell us that. Or what is meant by “pastures new”.’

‘Pity.’

Colin Bowman had been listening to their conversation while he packed his instruments away. Now Gerry turned to him.

‘Well, Colin, I hope you’re going to give me an accurate time of death.’

The doctor shook his head, a wide grin on his lips. ‘You were always one for a joke, Gerry.’

‘A rough estimate?’ said Wesley hopefully.

‘Impossible, I’m afraid. Post-mortem tomorrow morning. Nine-thirty.’

‘That’ll do nicely,’ said Gerry.

4

Sycamore House was a Victorian villa built in the Gothic style that was fashionable in the nineteenth century. It was set in more than three acres of land, and a sizeable proportion of the grounds was given over to woodland. Wesley suspected that when she’d bought the place, Helen had imagined herself floating among the trees collecting fuel for her new wood burner; living the rural dream.

Shortly after the sensitive builder had given his statement to uniform, he’d driven away fast in his van. It was time for Wesley and Gerry to take their leave too. There was nothing much else they could do there apart from allow the CSIs to carry on with their mysterious work and hope that their efforts produced something useful that would help them solve the puzzle of the man in the wall.

As Wesley drove slowly towards the gates, doing his best to avoid the potholes in the drive, a figure appeared in front of the car. Wesley slammed on the brakes and wound the window down.

The young man rushed forward. ‘What’s going on? We heard this terrible scream and then all these police cars and vans started arriving. Is everyone OK? Only I was going to take the tea mugs back to the house for the lady, but when I saw . . .’

He looked genuinely worried, and Wesley took pity on him. ‘If you mean Mrs Jones, she’s fine. She just had a bit of a shock, that’s all. And you are?’

‘Darren. I’m a surgeon.’

Wesley and Gerry looked at each other.

‘Been doing a spot of gardening between operations, have we?’ said Gerry, leaning across Wesley to speak to the man.

Darren’s cheeks turned red. ‘Tree surgeon. We operate on trees.’

‘You must need a strong stomach for all that sap.’

Darren seemed unsure how to take Gerry’s witticism. ‘Er . . . it’s more a head for heights really.’

Wesley opened the car door and climbed out, sensing there was something Darren wanted to tell them.

‘You’ve been working here in the garden, I take it?’

‘That’s right. With George.’

‘And where is he?’