Over to their left a man was tending one of the graves and they walked across to join him. Webb produced his warrant card and the man straightened.
‘Yes, sir. What can I do for you?’
‘I presume you keep a burial register here?’
‘That’s right, in the chapel up top.’
‘How far back do your records go?’
‘Well, now, let’s see.’ The man scratched his head. ‘I reckon the earliest we have here is for 1920. Before that, you’d need to go to the county archives.’
‘That’s well within our limit. We’d like to know the burial dates for some of the graves along the hedge down there.’
‘Right, sir, if you’ll come with me we’ll have a look-see.’ Wiping his hands down his trousers, he set off with them towards the small building at the top of the site. It was, Webb thought, an insignificant little chapel to have lent its name to the lane. But he remembered hearing that, years ago, the inhabitants of some cottages further along had objected to living in Cemetery Lane and the name had been changed.
Small, dusty and seldom used, the chapel housed a lawn-mower, and a hoe was propped against one wall. The man went ahead of them to the tiny vestry leading off it, where he produced his books of records.
‘Down by the hedge, you said.’ He glanced up at the framed plan of the cemetery which hung on the wall. ‘Left or right of the gate?’
‘Left.’
‘That’ll be Section B. What name was it, sir?’
Webb looked at Sheila. ‘Mrs Joan Wainwright. You might try 24th May 1951.’
The caretaker selected the appropriate book and turned over pages filled with copperplate handwriting. ‘Here we are, sir. Almost spot-on.’
Webb and Sheila bent quickly forward. There was only one entry for that week. It read: ‘Joan Elizabeth Wainwright of Lansdown Road, Erlesborough. Aged 38. Section B, grave space 323. Interr. Wed. May 23rd 1951 at 3.30p.m. Sgd. Rev. G. J. Dobson.’
Webb straightened. He was sure, now, that what he suspected was true, and a leaden weight had settled in his stomach. He thanked the caretaker and, taking Sheila’s arm, hurried her down the path. But almost at once she pulled back, bringing him to a halt.
‘Just a minute, David: I’d like to look at Mum and Dad’s graves while we’re here.’
Intent on pursuing his inquiries, Webb hesitated, irritated at the delay and ashamed of being so. Taking his assent for granted, Sheila had already branched off to the left, threading her way over the wet grass in the direction of two silver birches which were casting their shadows over a couple of graves at their feet.
Webb had attended the funerals of both his parents, but had visited neither grave since. Now, following his sister, he joined her as she stood looking down at the neatly kept plots and the summer flowers which grew there. And was aware of much the same feelings he’d experienced when they were alive — for his mother affection tempered with impatience, for his father exasperated resentment. Now, though, this latter was allied with a more immediate frustration. Even from the grave, Webb thought helplessly, his father was impeding his progress, muddying decisions which should have been clear-cut and unambiguous.
Sheila gave a small sigh and turned away, and he fell into step beside her, glad to leave behind his uncomfortable memories. Unconsciously his steps quickened and she gave a little skip to keep up with him.
‘David, is the fact that it was Joan Wainwright’s grave significant?’
‘No,’ he answered grimly, ‘that’s just an ironic twist. What matters is that the grave was filled in on the day Dick disappeared.’
She frowned. ‘I don’t understand.’
‘I’ve a feeling, Sheila, that Dick never left Erlesborough, and that what you saw that night was his murderer taking advantage of the new grave to bury his body on top of his sister’s. What’s more,’ he added, opening the gate for her, ‘I think that Billy Makepeace arrived at the same conclusion.’
CHAPTER 7
Chief Superintendent Phil Fleming sat behind his desk gazing into space and tugging at his lower lip. After a while he turned back to his subordinate.
‘It’s an extraordinary conclusion to jump to, Spider, and I’m blessed if I follow your reasoning. As a child your sister thought she saw a ghost, and on the basis of that, God knows how many years later, you want to dig up the grave of a respectable citizen because there might — only might, mark you — be an extra body in there with her. Surely you see how thin it is?’
Webb said heavily, ‘It fits too well to be coincidence, sir.’ He paused. ‘If you remember, I mentioned at the start of the case that I knew the people concerned. You asked me to go ahead, but the deeper I get into it, the more personally I seem to be involved. In the circumstances, I wonder if you might reconsider? I’d be much happier handing over to DI Crombie. He’s a competent officer and—’
‘Don’t sing Crombie’s praises to me, Chief Inspector,’ Fleming cut in sharply, ‘I’m well aware of them. But as I said at the outset, you’re uniquely placed in this case, and it’s no time to be squeamish. Good God, man, you must have come across cases before that you’re less than comfortable with, but that’s no reason to throw your hand in.’ He paused, eyeing Webb with his head on one side in what the Chief Inspector thought of as his sparrow mode.
‘Mind you, should a genuine conflict of interest develop you can see me again, but having requested an exhumation order you must at least see that through.’
Webb relaxed slightly. So he had got his way on that point.
‘Which,’ Fleming continued, pulling his phone towards him, ‘you will appreciate is a vote of confidence in your assessment of the situation. I hope I don’t regret it.’
*
Once put in motion, the formalities were completed quickly and after an early lunch Webb and Jackson returned to Erlesborough, the Coroner’s Warrant for Exhumation in Webb’s pocket.
‘We’ll call in and see the vicar first,’ he said, as they approached the outskirts of the town. ‘Old Dobson, of course, is long dead.’
But though the incumbent had changed several times since Webb’s boyhood, the vicarage of St Gabriel’s, on the opposite side of the church to the school, looked exactly as he remembered it, a steeply gabled house in Cotswold stone. A child’s tricycle was abandoned on the lawn. He pushed open the gate and walked up the path, Jackson at his heels.
The woman who opened the door was in her thirties, and a small boy — no doubt the owner of the trike — clung to her skirt.
‘DCI Webb, ma’am, Shillingham CID. Is the vicar at home? I’m afraid I don’t know his name?’
‘Morris, Ted Morris. Yes, he’s working on his sermon. Is it about Mr Makepeace?’ she added, as they stepped into the hall.
‘In a way,’ Webb said vaguely.
The Reverend Ted Morris looked disconcertingly young to Webb as he rose from his desk and came forward holding out his hand. Obviously his mental image of parsons was out of date.
‘Yes, Chief Inspector: how can I help you?’
‘I’m afraid, sir, we have a rather distressing duty to perform.’ He extracted the warrant from his pocket and handed it over.
The vicar read it, his brow creasing. ‘Dear me. I haven’t been involved in an exhumation before, but I suppose we can be thankful it’s not a recent burial.’
Which sentiment Jackson silently endorsed, though as much for the sake of the diggers as of the deceased’s family.
Morris handed back the document. ‘I don’t see the connection, though. Surely you’re working on Mr Makepeace’s death?’
Webb smiled. ‘The police, like the Almighty, work in mysterious ways. But yes, I’d be grateful for anything you can tell me about him. You’d have known him well?’ Despairing of an early return to his sermon, Ted Morris waved him to a chair. ‘He was my Vicar’s Warden. When I first came to the parish he was extremely kind, both to me and my wife. I’ll always be grateful for that.’
‘Was he a popular ma
n, would you say?’
Morris considered. ‘Not exactly popular. Respected, yes, but he’d a sharp tongue and was inclined to be opinionated. He occasionally got people’s backs up.’
‘Were you aware of any more serious ill-feeling?’
‘I believe there was some feud he’d been involved in, but the other man died shortly before I came here. Nothing else, as far as I know.’
‘Then was he particularly friendly with anyone?’
The vicar shrugged. ‘He belonged to the Farmers’ Club, but I don’t know who he met there. And I believe Gus Lang, our organist, had an occasional drink with him.’ Tom Vernon had mentioned that. It would be worth following up.
‘Could you give us the names and addresses of those he came into contact with at the church — sidesmen and so on?’
The vicar rose, detached a sheet of paper from a notice-board hanging on his wall, and handed it to Webb. It was a list of church officials, giving addresses and phone numbers. Webb nodded his thanks and passed it to Jackson.
‘You can keep it,’ Morris said, as the sergeant resignedly began to copy out the names, ‘I’ll get another.’
‘Thank you.’ Webb moved from the general to the particular. ‘Mr Morris, were you at home on Monday evening?’
‘No, I was taking a confirmation class.’
‘And your wife?’
Morris looked surprised. ‘She was in, yes.’
‘Did she take any phone-calls for you?’
Morris smiled ruefully. ‘There are always phone-calls, Chief Inspector.’
‘Can you remember offhand who they were from?’
‘Some, yes. Billy Makepeace, for one. I was sorry to have missed him, especially in the circumstances.’
Webb let his breath out in a long sigh. ‘What time would that have been?’
‘I’m not sure. Just a minute, I’ll ask my wife.’ He went to the door, opened it and called ‘Val!’ and, as his wife appeared, ‘Can you remember what time Billy phoned on Monday?’
‘It was while I was bathing Luke. About a quarter to eight.’
Immediately, no doubt, after he’d tried Sheila.
‘He didn’t leave a message, Mrs Morris? Ask your husband to phone back, or anything?’
‘No, though he sounded put out Ted wasn’t here. And he didn’t put the phone down immediately; it was as if he was wondering what to do. Then he just said, “All right, Val, thanks,” and hung up.’
There was a crash and a yell in the distance, and with a muttered apology she hurried away.
‘About the exhumation,’ her husband said, ‘when will it take place?’
‘Four o’clock tomorrow morning.’ Seeing the man’s eyes widen, Webb added, ‘We try to arrange it before it gets light and there are people about. You don’t have to be there yourself, sir. The superintendent of the cemetery will attend, and various police officers, though if you’d like to come you will, of course, be welcome.’
Ted Morris bit his lip. ‘I think perhaps I’ll give it a miss,’ he said. ‘It’s not as though I knew Mrs Wainwright personally.’
Webb nodded. ‘Is her husband still alive, do you know?’
‘Would that be Sam Wainwright, of Lansdown Road?’
‘That’s the one.’
‘I’m sorry, I hadn’t made the connection. I didn’t know he’d been married before. Yes, Sam’s still alive. He’s not a regular worshipper, but he puts in an appearance at Christmas and Easter.’ He paused. ‘Did his first wife die young?’
‘Thirty-eight.’
He shook his head sadly. ‘And there’s some doubt about the cause? A bit belated, isn’t it?’
Webb had no intention of revealing his real interest in the grave. ‘Things sometimes crop up years later,’ he said evasively.
‘Well, I hope you’ll go easy on him; he’s an elderly man, you know.’
‘We’ll break it as gently as we can.’ Webb stood up. ‘Thanks for your help, Mr Morris.’ He glanced at the open reference books on the desk. ‘I hope we didn’t drive away your muse.’
*
‘Joan’s grave?’ Sam Wainwright repeated unbelievingly. ‘But...why?’
‘We want to satisfy ourselves there’s no irregularity,’ Webb said soothingly.
‘What does irregularity matter, after all this time? Leave her be.’
‘Mr Wainwright, we wouldn’t be doing this if we hadn’t good reason. I promise you that as soon as we’ve satisfied ourselves she’ll be buried again with all due reverence, and everything will be as before.’
The old man looked at him shrewdly. ‘You’re young Davy Webb, aren’t you? I heard from my nephews you were sniffing around.’
‘Now, Sam,’ said his wife, glancing at Webb apologetically. She was a large woman in her seventies, with a pleasant face and homely manner. Webb reckoned Sam’s second marriage had been a happy one. He turned to her.
‘Did you know the first Mrs Wainwright, ma’am?’
She flushed to find herself the centre of attention. ‘Not well, but I’d met her. My first husband was killed in the war, leaving me with two little girls. When we met in the street, Mrs Wainwright—’ she said the name diffidently — ‘made a fuss of them, not having any of her own.’ She smiled reminiscently. ‘Funny to think they’re both grandmothers now.’
Her husband moved impatiently. ‘It’s Makepeace’s death that concerns you, Webb.’
‘Yes indeed,’ Webb said easily, glad of the lead-in. ‘Were you involved in the family feud, sir?’
The old man made a sound of disgust. ‘No, I didn’t hold with it — grown men behaving like fools. I told Dick straight, he could leave me out of it.’
‘So you were on friendly terms with Mr Makepeace?’
‘I’d not exactly say friendly, but we passed the time of day.’
‘Where were you on Monday evening, sir?’ Webb asked innocently.
‘Monday? That was our whist night. We play every fortnight.’ He stirred, remembering the purpose of the visit. ‘Anyway, like I said, you find who killed old Makepeace and leave us alone. No call that I can see to go digging up respectable folks that died long since.’
His wife put her plump, speckled hand over his. ‘They’ll treat her right, love, never you fret. She won’t come to any harm.’
The old man was silent, staring down at the carpet with rheumy eyes, the unexpected visit bringing back to mind the woman he had loved and lost half a lifetime ago.
Webb stood up, nodding to Jackson. ‘We’ll let you know when everything’s over,’ he said.
*
‘Will you need me at the exhumation, Guv?’ Jackson inquired diffidently.
‘No, Ken, you get your night’s sleep. I’ll stay at my sister’s again. Did you get on to the undertakers?’
‘Yep. Same firm, so there should be no problem about identifying the coffin. All this fuss,’ he added, ‘and it’s not even the woman we’re interested in.’
‘We have to play it by the book.’
‘Let’s just hope you’re right, and the bloke is in there with her.’ Otherwise, he thought to himself, there’ll be hell to pay, from the relatives if not the Chief Super.
Webb made no comment. His own thoughts, as so often in this case, were ambivalent. A second body would vindicate his request for exhumation; on the other hand, its discovery would be what, at a subconscious level, he had been dreading for the last forty years. And instead of investigating one death, which was proving sticky enough, he would be called on to solve two.
Rousing himself from his brooding, he said, ‘Pass that church list to Dawson at the briefing, Ken. He and Cummings can make a start on it tomorrow. Cross off the organist, though, I’ll see him myself. What we want is people’s reactions to Makepeace, a note of anyone he’s known to have upset recently — in fact, anything that might be of interest. General gossip, really.’
He glanced at his watch. ‘And talking of the briefing, it’s time we were on our way there.’
They arrived at Silver Street to find Larry Vernon pacing the lobby.
‘What the hell’s going on?’ he burst out, as Webb came through the swing-doors. ‘I hear you’ve been to my uncle with some wild story of digging up Aunt Joan.’
Aware of turning heads, Webb took his elbow and steered him firmly towards an interview room. ‘Please, Mr Vernon, keep your voice down. We don’t want the whole town to know about it.’
‘I’ll bet you don’t! I never heard of such a crackpot idea! God, do you know how long she’s been dead?’
‘To the day. And also that your father disappeared the day after her funeral.’
‘Meaning what?’ demanded Vernon belligerently. ‘You can hardly blame her for that!’
‘Have you told your mother about the disinterment?’ Webb asked quietly.
Vernon looked at him suspiciously. ‘Not yet. I phoned her, but she was out.’
‘It might be kinder to wait till it’s over. It wouldn’t be very pleasant for her to lie awake thinking of her sister-in-law’s grave being opened.’ Even if she didn’t realize it was her husband’s body they were looking for.
Larry Vernon opened his mouth, presumably to assert his right to tell his mother anything he chose. Then, belatedly, he saw the sense of Webb’s words, and nodded grudgingly. ‘You could be right.’
‘Good,’ Webb said pleasantly. ‘Your uncle will, of course, be given a full report of our findings.’
‘I can’t think what started you on this wild-goose chase,’ Vernon began again. ‘I’d have thought you’d got your work cut out tracking down Makepeace’s killer without bothering with someone who’s been dead for years.’
‘I’ll explain later,’ Webb said, ‘but you’ll have to excuse me now; I’m due at a meeting upstairs.’
And before Larry Vernon had the chance to say more, he was shepherded politely but firmly out of the door.
*
After the briefing, having checked with Sheila that he could again spend the night at The Old Farmhouse, Webb called on the church organist, Gus Lang.
David Webb 10 - Three, Three, the Rivals Page 9