***
Harriet Wylshere mourned in silence. She had believed in what she had been requested to do, but she still mourned a woman who had been a friend. She remembered how they had talked in the cottage in Stratford sub Castle; how they had reminisced about their lives. Yet their lives had turned out differently. One had stayed close to Avon Hill; the other had felt disillusionment and the need to move away. Their meetings in the years since had been fleeting: snatched moments in a café here, a shopping centre there; always hopeful they had not been seen, always aware of the consequences.
She had not visited her friend, Mavis Godwin, in her cottage for many years, but for once she had been instructed. It had not been a duty taken lightly. She remembered the fond welcome, tinged with memories of the years past and what had happened to cause her friend to isolate herself from the small community in Avon Hill. It was something she had considered, especially after witnessing the death of her friend’s husband.
She, Harriet Wylshere, believed, as did the others in the village, that the gods existed. Had not their village and its inhabitants been blessed with a good life, and whereas other areas nearby had suffered from failed crops and livestock that suffered from many ailments, theirs had always prospered. There were some, no doubt, who would say it was due to the soil in the valley of Avon Hill, and the surrounding hills that sheltered them from the harsher climate not more than three miles away, but she had seen other signs that made her believe. Signs that could not be explained by rational debate. Mavis, her friend, would talk about how she had found peace with her God, but Harriet had lived with her gods since childhood, and she knew that what her parents had told her, and what their parents had told them, was true.
Even at school, when the other children were in morning assembly giving praise to their God, she would silently be giving praise to hers. One of her friends had asked her what she was saying, but she would only reply that it was of little concern. And now Harriet’s grandchildren were following the same path, but although they were only young, they had iPads and laptops, and they were asking questions.
Harriet knew that the old ways would not last, as did the elders. That was why their vengeance, their offerings, had become more wicked. And why those who strayed needed to be made an example of, rather than being ostracised. That is why she had been in the kitchen of that little cottage in that small village enjoying her time there with her friend, knowing full well that she would need to kill her.
She remembered them discussing Mavis’s husband, and how the woman had reacted when she had received confirmation that he was dead. After tears had been shed by both women, they had walked out through the gate at the end of the back garden and into the field.
The rest of the time there had been a dream. She remembered standing by the water trough, both women looking up at the sky, at some cows at one end of the field. She remembered her friend talking fondly of her husband, and that he had been a good man when they had first married, but with time they had drifted apart, and how they had ceased to be husband and wife for the last ten years.
Harriet vaguely remembered the details of what had occurred. One minute they were calmly talking as friends; the next she had her friend’s head under the water in the trough. She knew that she had wanted to let her up, but she knew that she could not. She only knew that her dear friend was once very much alive, and then she was lifeless, her head beneath the water.
After that, she had a vague memory of walking back through the field, opening the gate, and walking through the garden and out of the front gate and to her car. The drive back to Avon Hill was a blur, although the accolades from the elders on her arrival she remembered.
‘Has it been dealt with?’ the senior elder, Dr Edmund Wylshere, her husband, asked.
She remembered that she had felt a great sadness, a tear rolling down her face.
‘It is a time for rejoicing, not sadness,’ he had said.
She could not believe what he said. She drove to her house, lay down on her bed and mourned for her friend.
***
Clare bounded into the office, Tremayne did not. The late night the previous evening had left both of them disturbed, but she had had Harry in between. Even Oldfield had had the benefit of his girlfriend, at least after she had complained for an hour about his arriving late. In the end, she had relented.
Tremayne, if he were willing to admit it, could only envy the two their luck. It was not that he believed in anything other than what was real and could be explained by logic, but the ongoing reference to paganism was disturbing. He was aware of the occasional deluded fools who believed it was the voices in their heads that made them kill and cause harm to others. But they had been individuals, and now there appeared to be a community, at least sixty to seventy persons. He knew there had to be a logical reason for their paranoia. If they were a group who wanted to dress up in robes and worship the sun and dance around Stonehenge at the summer solstice, that was one thing. Even he had been there the first year he had come to Salisbury, and all he could remember was the feeling of love in the air, not that he received any of it, and the fact that it had been blistering cold, and the heavens had opened and it had rained cats and dogs. It was his first month at Bemerton Road Police Station, and he had been a junior officer then, the same as Yarwood, and he well remembered his inspector’s reaction and his comments when he went into the office the next day spreading his germs.
Yarwood and Oldfield, he knew, were both competent and hardworking, even if lacking experience. Regardless, he worried for them both, even for himself. Gods or no gods, some people killed on their behalf, and even if he thought they were mad, they were dangerous, and the three of them were possible targets.
‘How’s your weapons training, Yarwood?’ Tremayne asked. It was just after seven in the morning, and the day had barely begun. The man was sitting upright in his chair, aiming to look alert, although Clare could see the bags under his eyes. Even with Harry at her side, she had spent a few hours awake, wondering what was going on and what to do. Harry had been adamant that she was foolish, and maybe she was, but a woman had been murdered, a woman who reminded her of her own mother.
‘Are you suggesting we arm ourselves?’ Clare asked.
‘It could get dangerous.’
‘DI Tremayne’s right,’ Oldfield said.
‘Maybe, but I don’t want one,’ Clare replied. She had had the training, but had no desire to be forced into a situation of having to choose whether to shoot or not.
‘I’ll take a firearm,’ Oldfield said.
‘Fine, that’s decided, but if you get into trouble, don’t blame me,’ Tremayne said to Clare.
‘I won’t.’
***
Edmund Wylshere was in his surgery. It was midday, and so far he had dealt with a couple of cases of influenza, an elderly lady with varicose veins, a man recovering after prostate cancer surgery. He had to admit that life had treated him well, but his position in Avon Hill decreed that he needed to be visibly the most prosperous. He had been married young to Harriet, the daughter of a wealthy landowner, and the union had resulted in two children.
Whereas his manner in the surgery that day had been flawless, a nagging fear ate into him. He remembered his wife when she had returned from removing the threat of Mavis Godwin, even the concern from Charles Saunders that his son was known to the law. Wylshere had tried to explain that they were invulnerable as long as they made the necessary offerings. Saunders had agreed, and even if he had not, it did not matter, he could easily be dealt with. And his son, hiding out in Avon Hill, could be addressed at the same time, but Wylshere knew his wife was wavering.
There was a time when she was as ardent as he was, yet he had seen her when they had sacrificed Trevor Godwin, and after she had killed his wife.
Godwin had remained faithful to the gods, whereas his wife had not, but if she had married him, a doctor, instead of a worthless labourer, then she would not have deviated. He could see that s
acrifices would have to be made: Charles Saunders if necessary, his son a distinct possibility. It wouldn’t be the first time a minor had died, although in the past it had been the child of a local, a simpleton. Wylshere, as a doctor, knew that the inbreeding of a small group of people, invariably first or second cousins, would cause the occasional problem, which is why his father had consented to bring in fresh breeding stock from outside. Mavis Godwin had been a good candidate as she had grown up outside the area. Avon Hill wasn’t the only place that had kept the old ways, although it had clearly been the most successful. But there were others in the village who had not married outside, and after so many centuries, who was a cousin and who was not had become unclear.
Wylshere knew that statistically their rate of genetically-acquired defects was three times the average. He had made offerings, hoping that they would remedy the problem, but they had not.
Wylshere could see it clearly. Adam Saunders, a bright boy, and under normal circumstances a credit to the community, had been caught and interviewed by the police. If they pressured him, he would speak.
There was one certainty: Adam Saunders needed to be dealt with.
Chapter 19
The Reverend Harrison was laid to rest in the graveyard next to his cottage. Tremayne and Clare attended the service, although they kept their presence discreet. There were some that were suspicious of the police, had even been vocal the last time Clare had visited Mavis Godwin’s cottage after her death. A few felt that there had been no trouble in the village except for the occasional drunk, and then with the police presence came a murder and a suicide in a matter of days.
The funeral, a moving ceremony, was attended by no more than fifteen people: a few locals, a very elderly couple who were identified as Harrison’s parents, the two police officers and no one else. Tremayne was interested to see if anyone they didn’t know attended, but there was no one unexpected.
Clare had been moved to tears as the coffin was lowered into the ground.
‘What do we know about Avon Hill?’ Tremayne asked Clare as they drove back to the police station.
‘I’ve never been there.’
‘You’re always on that damn computer. Check it out, go to the council offices in the city, take a drive through the village.’
‘I could be recognised.’
‘What does it matter? Get Harry to take you to the local pub at the weekend.’
‘I could do that, I suppose. First off, I’ll need to check out who lives there.’
‘I’ll leave it to you. And what about Adam Saunders?’
‘No sign of him.’
‘We can always bring his father into the station.’
‘Why not?’ Clare said, although she was not sure if there was anything to be gained. The man was unlikely to say anything to inflame the situation, and the son had committed no crime.
***
Tremayne, frustrated that the investigation into the murder of Mavis Godwin was not moving forward, and his planned entry into Avon Hill was being thwarted, left early. At eight in the evening he headed off to the Deer’s Head. The pub, as usual, was busy with locals, a few tourists, and Harry Holchester behind the bar.
‘Yarwood’s fixated on the supernatural,’ Tremayne said to Harry as he was pulling a pint.
‘I’ve told her it’s nonsense, but she’s susceptible,’ Harry replied.
‘See if you can talk some sense into her, will you. She has potential. I wouldn’t want to see her career waylaid over this.’
‘I’ll work on her. Don’t worry about Clare. She’s just a little sensitive. It’ll wear off.’
Tremayne picked up his pub dinner, a meat pie and chips with salad, and went back to his seat in the corner of the pub. Clare came in after forty minutes and made a beeline for her man. She gave him a kiss on the mouth, much to the amusement of the patrons who gave a cheer. Tremayne could see that she enjoyed the attention.
‘What’s the latest, Yarwood?’ Tremayne asked after she had come over to sit next to him.
‘I’ve been checking out Avon Hill on the internet.’
‘And what did you find?’
‘You remember when we checked on who Eric Langley had been friendly with, who had visited him?’
‘We didn’t find anything suspicious.’
‘Not then, but I’ve been researching. One of his visitors was Dr Wylshere.’
‘I know the man, even been to his surgery once or twice.’
‘Wylshere is an old name for Wiltshire.’
‘What are you getting at, Yarwood?’
‘I checked his family history. His ancestry stretches back for centuries.’
‘And?’
‘They originally came from Avon Hill.’
‘Do you suspect him?’
‘Not in itself, but it’s the first confirmed tie-in between Eric Langley and Avon Hill.’
‘Any luck with Mavis Godwin, even her husband?’
‘Not yet, but what is interesting is that Mavis Godwin was friends with Wylshere’s wife.’
‘How did you find that out?’
‘It wasn’t easy. We know that a woman killed Mavis Godwin.’
‘Are you suggesting Wylshere’s wife?’
‘There’s more.’
‘Get to the point, Yarwood.’
‘After Mavis Godwin died, we investigated her movements. She apparently had no friends, at least of any substance. Yet one of our uniforms found out that she used to meet a woman in a café in Fisherton Street, not more than a three-minute drive from here.’
‘What’s the significance?’
‘I called into the café on the way here.’
‘So who is the woman?’
‘The waitress remembered Mavis Godwin and the other woman. She told me that her name was Harriet.’
‘And now you’re going to tell me that Wylshere’s wife is also named Harriet.’
‘Exactly. It’s not a common name.’
‘Could she have killed her?’
‘I found a newspaper clipping about Wylshere and his wife. Harriet Wylshere is a tall, muscular sort of woman.’
‘Strong enough to kill Mavis Godwin.’
‘Exactly. We need to call her into the station.’
‘Where does she live?’
‘Not far from Avon Hill.’
‘We’ll discuss this in the morning. It’s good policing on your part.’
‘Shall I call her in?’ Clare asked. Tremayne could see that she was pleased with herself. He knew they needed to discuss their strategy from here on in. If Harriet Wylshere murdered Mavis Godwin, her friend, then why? It made no sense for one woman to kill another. Neither of them were known to the police, and on the face of it, the murder had been committed without undue haste. Apart from the muddy footprints next to the water trough, there was certainly no sign of anger or fighting.
***
‘What about Charles Saunders?’ Oldfield asked. It was early in the office again.
‘If we interview him again, what do we hope to achieve?’ Tremayne asked. The night before at the Deer’s Head he had kept his beer consumption to a minimum. The pieces were starting to come together, and he needed a clear head.
‘Not a lot,’ Clare said. ‘If he wants to keep quiet, there’s not a lot we can do.’
‘What’s his background? Is he friendly with Wylshere? What about his relationship to Mavis Godwin and Eric Langley, and why can’t we find a cause of death for that man?’
‘You’ll need to ask our crime scene examiner,’ Oldfield said. He was feeling increasingly comfortable in the department, more willing to express his views. He could see that the DI was feeling the pressure and that he was starting to look old, and he had to admit that the hours they were working were starting to get to him as well. He knew that his girlfriend was complaining that he preferred sleep more than her.
Oldfield agreed with her deduction, although he was distracted by his sergeant. He was the same age as her, and he had to adm
it that a degree-educated police officer excited him more than a shop assistant. He knew that one day he would need to do the right thing and sever the relationship with his girlfriend, although the substitute that he wanted was not available.
Jim Hughes, the crime scene examiner, arrived in the office after Tremayne had phoned him. Tremayne still felt that the man was too young to hold the position, but then everyone was young to him, even Superintendent Moulton.
‘Hughes, I need a cause of death for Eric Langley, not some mumbo jumbo,’ Tremayne said. He was not in a mood for levity.
‘As I’ve said, his case is unique. If he had been a smoker, then maybe I could offer conjecture, but as it is, I’m not able to give you a satisfactory explanation.’
‘Now look here, Hughes. You’re here because you’re the chief scientific man in the station and you can’t tell me what killed him?’
‘I resent your tone,’ Hughes responded. ‘The man was burnt beyond recognition. You saw the body. You tell me what else I can do.’
‘Check again. Someone killed this man. Don’t give me this spontaneous human combustion nonsense again. We’ve a tie-in between one of the visitors and a village not far from here, and also a tie-in with those two to the death of Mavis Godwin. These are more than coincidences, they’re fact.’
‘That’s maybe, but I can’t give you a cause of death, other than he was burnt to a cinder. What do you want me to do? Make it up so you can pin his murder on someone.’
‘Don’t talk rubbish, but we’re going to start questioning people soon. People who may well have killed Mavis Godwin, and I need the ammo to fire if I’m going to place the maximum pressure. Besides, what do you know about Dr Edmund Wylshere?’
‘Wylshere? Is he a suspect?’
‘He concerns us,’ Tremayne admitted.
‘I know the man,’ Hughes said.
‘What can you tell us about him?’
‘A competent doctor.’
‘No skeletons in the cupboard, scurrilous rumours?’
The DI Tremayne Thriller Box Set Page 13