Page 65 of The Chapel of Bones

‘Nothing important,’ he said unconvincingly, stuffing the folded bag into one of his pockets.

‘Won’t you stay? There’s a bottle of wine I’ve really been wanting to open.’

Neil felt his cheeks reddening. ‘Very kind of you, but I need to get back.’

Once he’d gathered up as many of the tiles as he could carry, he hurried downstairs. He had the feeling that he’d just had a narrow escape. But the contents of the chest had definitely been worth the risk. Now he had to let Wesley know what he’d found.

Thomas de Fontescue, his confession

the 15th day of September 1493

I am near death and my dear brother attends upon me. He was ever the best of us, a good soul who dedicated his life to God and Our Lady as a holy monk. Brother Anselm, as he is now known, was also a loyal servant to our good King Henry, carrying messages to Brittany during His Grace’s years of exile. I have always trusted my brother with my life – and with knowledge of my darkest deeds, knowing he would keep my confidence.

I am a murderer. I killed a man out of envy and lust – two of the deadliest sins – for which I fear I shall pay dearly in the next life. Sir Simon Garnet was a loyal follower of King Edward and then of his brother, King Richard, who was later slain by our good King Henry at Bosworth Field. For this I held him as an enemy to the Lancastrian cause. Yet this is not the reason I committed my deadly sin.

In the year 1484, the year before King Henry’s forces landed at Milford Haven to challenge the usurper Richard, Garnet was away from his estate attending to business in Neston, for he had much interest in the cloth trade in that town. I too was in Neston, but when I saw him there, I made no acknowledgement of his presence. Instead, to my great shame, I rode swiftly to his house, where I was received by his wife. Mistress Isabella Garnet was a great beauty, with flaxen hair and a fair countenance. I once sought her hand in marriage, but she refused me, a rejection that filled me with anger and resentment.

I can only think that Satan was whispering in my ear, and I obeyed, for I was suddenly unable to contain my desire for her. I murmured her name and reached for her hand, but she responded only with horror, saying she had always despised me in spite of my wealth and that she had a great affection for her husband.

I tried to kiss her, to stop her lips with mine, but she fought like a lioness, saying again that I repelled her and she could never love me. To hear these barbed words emerge from those beloved lips hurt me as though a knife had been thrust into my heart. Before I knew it, my hands were around her slender neck , squeezing the life from her in my fury. She had rejected my advances and my devotion and I lost all control of myself. My violent passion lasted only a moment, but she had fallen lifeless to the floor. I had killed my beloved. I was a murderer, and now, if I were not to pay the penalty for my grave crime, I must consider what to do next.

There were no servants about, and all was silence until I heard distant hoofbeats. The master of the house had returned, and I knew I must make haste to escape.

39

On the way to Lofton Hall, Wesley kept thinking of the call he’d just received from Neil. A possible murder weapon.

Gerry wanted to know why it hadn’t been found when the place was searched, and Wesley explained that the chest had been in the attic at the time and the weapon had been well hidden beneath a number of old tiles. However, he thought the boss had a point. The search team obviously hadn’t been as thorough as they should have been.

He’d sent someone over to Sycamore House to relieve Neil of the responsibility and take the knife to the lab. Hopefully, if it did turn out to be the weapon that killed Aleric Donnal, it would yield some clues.

When they arrived at Lofton Hall, Wesley stood in front of the house for a few moments, taking in the architectural features. Dating back to the fifteenth century, it was a low stone building with mullion windows filled with old leaded glass and an arched oak front door studded with iron. The medieval manor house near an ancient church had once been the hub of the village, but now it was a museum piece, preserved by the Heritage Trust for future generations.

Gerry nudged his elbow. There was no time to waste and they needed to get a move on.

Penny Worksop was expecting them, and she met them in the main hall, a gloomy space decorated with antlers and heraldic shields and a minstrels’ gallery to one end. Wesley estimated that she was in her fifties. Her brown hair was pinned up in anuntidy bun, and she had a pleasant, open face. She wore a long black skirt, a cheesecloth top and a pair of reading glasses on a chain around her neck.

‘You’ll be the officers from Tradmouth? Your station rang to say you were on your way.’

‘Sorry we couldn’t come yesterday,’ said Gerry. ‘Something cropped up.’ He didn’t elaborate.

Penny gave a gracious nod. ‘We might be interrupted by visitors if we stay in the house, so it’s probably best if we speak in the cottage.’

She led them through the house to a back door. When they reached the stable yard, she made for a door at the end. The cottage had probably once housed a senior member of the hall’s outdoor staff – a head gardener or coachman perhaps. The living room was compact but comfortable and bathed in the sunlight filtering through the diamond-latticed panes. She invited them to sit and offered tea. Both men accepted gratefully.

‘Of course I’m keen to help in any way I can,’ she said once they were settled with steaming mugs. Gerry swooped on the offered plate of chocolate biscuits and helped himself to two. ‘I remember Dr Donnal. He’d just come back from France and was researching at Morbay University. He seemed a nice man. Unworldly, if you know what I mean. Not the type to get himself murdered, I wouldn’t have thought.’

Wesley could see an expression of satisfaction on Gerry’s face. It looked as though they’d found the ideal type of witness. Someone sensible and keen to talk, who might be able to throw welcome light into the shadows of Aleric Donnal’s life.

‘I heard that a body had been discovered at a house outside Neston,’ she continued, ‘but the news didn’t give any more information. When the name was released, I was away having a short break in Spain, so it came as quite a shock when yourofficer told me it was Dr Donnal.’ She tilted her head to one side as though she was waiting for them to tell her more.

Wesley glanced at Gerry. It would probably do no harm to fill her in on a few details. ‘His body was found behind a wall. Somebody, presumably his killer, placed him in an alcove, which was then sealed up and plastered over.’

She stared at them in horror. ‘He was walled up? Not alive, I hope?’

‘No,’ Wesley reassured her. ‘According to our pathologist, he was certainly dead.’

She shook her head in disbelief. ‘But I can’t for the life of me think why someone would want to kill him. He was a rather unassuming academic. Hardly the kind to make enemies.’