Burial Mound

by Phillip Strang

  ‘When Clive’s body was found, and you and Inspector Tremayne started questioning us, mother took it on herself to research you and the inspector.’

  ‘As the investigation progressed, Harry and I fell in love. I was spending increasing amounts of time with him, sometimes at my place, sometimes upstairs at the pub. We were, barring our respective responsibilities, inseparable.’

  ‘Something changed?’

  ‘There were more deaths which led us to Avon Hill. A vicar at the church in Stratford sub Castle, not far from where I live, told us of strange events. We were there with him in the church when the door slammed, and an eerie feeling came over the building. Tremayne always scoffed at such nonsense, and so did I, at first.’

  ‘What made you change your mind?’

  ‘The old lady I mentioned. I was in the house when it was struck by lightning. It may have just been a freak occurrence, but it scared me, and then the vicar hanged himself in the church. It’s not been used since.’

  ‘Avon Hill?’

  ‘The clues kept pointing back to the village. The village at the end of the track like you see in horror movies. That was Avon Hill. It was an incestuous place, a core group of families from centuries past, people who had not travelled out of there apart from schooling and the occasional shopping trip. Each time we went there, we felt the enmity of the villagers. They would huddle in the pub, small groups talking in low voices when we were there. If we spoke of strange happenings and mysterious disappearances, they would talk to us in a roundabout manner. “Old wives’ tales”, “You don’t want to believe in that sort of thing”. But we did. Not in the supernatural or pagan gods, but in the mysterious. The old woman in the water trough, her husband had disappeared, never found. It was the vicar who told us some things; the woman some more, but she was mortally afraid.’

  ‘Do you believe?’

  ‘Did you ever watch a late-night horror movie? One so scary that for a few hours you were putting the light on in a room before you entered it, looking under the bed, just in case?’

  ‘I would have.’

  ‘That’s what it was like. You knew there was nothing that couldn’t be explained, but you were still frightened, unable to rationalise it. The mind can play powerful tricks on us.’

  ‘Harry?’

  Clare took a sip of her wine, finished her meal.

  ‘We were discussing our future together, getting married. I didn’t know for a long time that Harry’s family traced its ancestry back through Avon Hill.

  ‘There was enough evidence to investigate the area behind the church in Avon Hill. A wooded area and we believed there were bodies there. We brought in a full team of crime scene investigators and secured the area. It was at night when the trouble occurred. It started to snow heavily, the roads out of the village were impassable. Our phones weren’t working, and we had sent one of the uniforms in a car to try and get further assistance for us.’

  ‘You could have stayed in the pub or the church,’ Kim said.

  ‘We could, but the investigators had started finding bodies. The evidence against the village was damning. The rituals, gods or no gods, were malevolent, people had been killed, and more than one person was responsible. The pub was up the road, its lights on. And then a group of men started coming down the road. They had masks on; they were chanting. The investigators took off across the fields, one didn’t make it. It was Tremayne and me and two uniforms. As the men got closer, we could see the evil in their eyes.’

  ‘But why? This is the twenty-first century.’

  ‘The question to us wasn’t why. It was who. We had long suspected one of the villagers as being the leader, and old beliefs die hard. Most are harmless, but some are not.’

  ‘Devil worshippers?’

  ‘Not devils, ancient gods of England. Okay, you can make light of it, so can I now.’

  ‘Where does Harry come into this?’

  ‘The situation was grim. We knew that people had been killed before; we knew that deaths had occurred that night. We got into one of the police cars, the four of us, and drove through the mob. Unable to take the main road, we took a side road. We drove as far as we could and then on foot hurried up to Cuthbert’s Wood at the crest of the hill.

  ‘We were ahead of those following by a long way, and in the distance, we could see the car lights on a busy road down below. We set out through the wood, becoming hopelessly lost. By that time, those following had caught up with us. We were restrained, and the leader was driving them into a frenzy. We can only put it down to centuries of isolation, the impact of the twentieth and twenty-first centuries not able to overcome the beliefs of the past. Apart from that, they were all mad.’

  ‘What happened then?’ Kim asked.

  Clare realised that she was being unemotional as she told the story. As if it had happened to someone else; as though it was only fiction.

  ‘The mob chose me to die. They had knives. Tremayne was furiously trying to free himself, as were the uniforms. My time was up, I knew it.

  ‘And then one of the group told them to stop, to disobey the leader. It was Harry. He had been there all along. He was one of those who had indulged in murdering others. It was he who was going to save me. A fight broke out between those who wanted me to die and those who wanted me to live. The secret of the village had been revealed; there was no way that they could keep the outside world away from them forever. Avon Hill was hardly Brigadoon.’

  Kim smiled at the comparison of the violent Avon Hill with the fantasy sugary-sweet Scottish village.

  ‘Harry saved me, saved us. Outside of Cuthbert’s Wood, we were soon joined by other police and an ambulance. Harry had not come out. He was a murderer, that was known, and he would not be free again. Tremayne told me not to go back into the wood, but I had to. I had to understand. I found him in there sitting quietly. He got up to meet me, but a branch from a tree fell on him. He died there, the branch piercing his chest.’

  Kim’s earlier smile had been replaced by a tear.

  ‘That’s the story,’ Clare said. ‘I will never speak of it again.’ She ordered a brandy each for her and Kim; they both needed it.

  Chapter 27

  Anthony Langley’s disappearance from his hotel in Singapore was not altogether unexpected. Tremayne had thought that after laying out the investigation to Langley beside the hotel’s swimming pool, the man would react.

  The first that anyone was aware that he had gone was at a hearing into the exhumation of Veronica Langley; the opportunity for the police to put forward their case, the time for Langley’s lawyers to raise their objections.

  Langley’s non-attendance caused his lawyers to ask for an adjournment, which was granted. Tremayne could see them attempting to contact the man. His presence wasn’t vital, but it would have lent strength to their argument.

  Tremayne and Ong, noticing Langley’s no-show, had phoned the hotel, found out that he had checked out. Further investigation had shown that he had taken a flight to Thailand. From Bangkok, the man had headed north and disappeared. There was no case against him, but because he had been so determined to prevent his wife’s exhumation and had then left the country in haste, the police efforts to exhume the body intensified.

  Langley’s lawyers withdrew their services four days after the court appearance. With the money deposited in their trust fund by Langley exhausted, they had no intention of continuing.

  On the seventh day after Langley had left the country, the body of Veronica Langley was raised from her grave. Two days later, Pathology submitted their report. The effects of the extended period in Singapore Harbour and the body’s time in the ground meant that standard testing for DNA and poisons was not possible. Ong knew that already.

  Tremayne realised the remains that he viewed, barely human in appearance, would challenge the most competent pathologist, but the facilities and expertise in Singapore were first class.

  ‘What can you tell us that wasn’t known before?’ Tremayne a
sked the pathologist.

  ‘There’s no question that these are the remains of Veronica Langley. The cause of death was originally stated as suicide. That was based on no other extenuating circumstances.’

  ‘It was not known that her husband may be implicated in a murder in England,’ Tremayne said.

  ‘Precisely,’ the pathologist said. ‘Our initial examination of the body was thorough. However, advances in technology allow us to examine a body in more detail than would have been possible when the woman died.’

  ‘Are you saying that you’ve found proof of murder?’

  ‘That is not what I said, Inspector.’

  ‘My apologies. What have you found?’

  ‘Disregarding the new evidence, it must be remembered that the initial examination of the woman’s body was to ascertain the cause of death. There was no concern raised at that time that she may have died as a result of violence. The DNA testing was not as well advanced, either.’

  ‘This investigation is not a reflection on either you or your profession,’ Ong said. ‘It is only the facts that we need. Whether we have enough to change the woman’s cause of death from suicide to murder.’

  ‘The answer is not that positive. We have found skeletal trauma on the skull consistent with a heavy object. However, that could have been caused in the water with the current slamming the body up against rocks. Also, there are signs of skeletal trauma on the body, the eighth rib. I should caution you from drawing conclusions from these. The body had been in the water for a long time. It’s possible that the damage is the result of natural action.’

  ‘But it could be murder?’

  ‘It’s possible.’

  Two days later, Tremayne and Jean left the heat of Singapore for the inclement weather of Salisbury. Jean had enjoyed herself and was more determined than ever that she and Tremayne would wander the globe as latter-day Marco Polos. For Tremayne, he was disappointed that the cause of Veronica Langley’s death remained unknown, although, with what he knew of Langley, what experience told him, the man was capable of murder. He had either killed two people or one. The number wasn’t important; apprehending the man was.

  ***

  In Salisbury, the murder investigation ground slowly to a halt. Tremayne and Clare continued to go over the evidence, the possible suspects, but each time the clues led back to Anthony Langley. Clare had been down to Cornwall to meet the man’s wife. She was a happier woman without the presence of her husband.

  ‘I can’t believe him capable of murder,’ the young woman said.

  ‘You’re married to him. Have you ever seen signs of anger or violence?’ Clare asked. Without her husband present, Lady Langley preferred to be addressed as Sally. Clare thought the name suited her, and she could see why she had been successful as a model, and why a man such as Langley would have chosen her.

  ‘Sometimes he would be dismissive of me as if I wasn’t smart enough for him.’

  ‘You’re a smart woman, Sally.’

  ‘I was smart enough to marry a wealthy man. We both knew what our marriage was. He wanted me on his arm; I wanted a man who could provide for me. Love is for those who can afford it. I grew up on a council housing estate. It was a tough upbringing: a drunken father, a weak mother.’

  ‘It’s not an uncommon story.’

  ‘It probably isn’t. My sister, prettier than me, is stuck there, three children, an abusive husband. Regardless of what we say, we repeat the mistakes of our elders. My sister fell into the trap; I was determined not to. Modelling was my way out; Anthony, my salvation.’

  ‘No love?’

  ‘A different kind of love.’

  Clare could only reflect that with Harry it had been an intense romantic love, but she was getting older. She was ready to compromise the love that came from respect and closeness.

  If Anthony Langley came back, then Sally would have to deal with it. But she would, the same as Clare knew that she would deal with whatever life threw at her.

  ***

  Tremayne had finally been forced to admit to the pain in his knee. In Singapore, it had improved, but the underlying ache had remained. As expected, Jean had taken him to the doctor; Tremayne continuing to say it was a waste of time.

  The doctor had not agreed and tests had revealed that he was suffering from mild osteoarthritis, and that exercise coupled with rest would assist. Also, he took to wearing a compressive bandage on the knee. He had to admit that it all helped, apart from the nightly walk around the area. After a hard day at work, all he really wanted was good English home cooking, Jean by his side, a pint of beer down the pub.

  It was in the fourth week since Langley’s disappearance that Clare received a phone call from Sally, Lady Langley.

  ‘Can you come down? Bring your Inspector,’ Sally said.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘Anthony phoned. I don’t know where from.’

  ‘We can check.’

  ‘It was a Skype call.’

  ‘Probably not, then. Where are you?’

  ‘At the mansion. If he comes here, I don’t know what to do.’

  ‘Do you have somewhere else that you can go?’

  ‘I have a friend, but I don’t think I should be with him, not if Anthony’s returning.’

  Clare realised that Sally Langley needed a man in her life, whether it was Anthony or not, rich or poor.

  ‘Go now. Is he watching you?’

  ‘I wouldn’t know. I’m frightened to leave the house.’

  ‘We can’t be there for three hours.’ Clare phoned the police station nearest to the Langley mansion, asked them to station a patrol car at the premises.

  Tremayne had a doctor’s appointment which was cancelled at short notice, and Clare already had an overnight bag in her car, just in case. They called in at Tremayne’s house, Jean at the gate with a bag for her husband.

  The trip down to Cornwall took longer than expected; close to four hours, an accident on the M5 motorway near to Burnham-on-Sea in Somerset.

  As they drove, Tremayne checked with immigration. Anthony Langley had landed at London’s Heathrow Airport at 8.45 that morning. It was 6.20 p.m. when the two arrived at the front door of the impressive mansion. The patrol car was parked outside the building, one officer in the vehicle, the other in the mansion with Sally Langley.

  ‘Am I glad to see you,’ Sally said. ‘Sergeant York and Constable Jones have made sure that I’m safe.’

  ‘You’ve taken another lover?’ Clare asked.

  ‘He’s a good man,’ Sally said.

  ‘He’s a target, so are you,’ Tremayne said. ‘Your husband is in the country. He arrived this morning. Time enough to have made it to Cornwall.’

  ‘Will he come here?’

  ‘It seems logical. A migrating bird always returns to the same place. This is his home; this is where he’ll want to be.’

  ‘He’ll not want to be arrested.’

  ‘That’s a hurdle we’ll cross when we come to it.’

  Outside Sergeant York got out of the patrol car. He walked around the grounds, checking. It was going to be a cold night, the probability there’d be a frost on the ground in the morning. All those in the house knew that Langley would reappear at some stage.

  Tremayne phoned Ong in Singapore to tell him about the developments. Ong updated him that the investigation into the death of Veronica Langley was to be put on the backburner. With no sign of her husband, no further evidence, then the case was cold.

  Tremayne understood the actions being taken in Singapore; he had seen murderers go free over the years due to no evidence; some had even gone on to murder others. It was the legal system that he believed in; the system that sometimes got it wrong. The system that could still see Anthony Langley walk free.

  As Sally prepared a meal for all those at the mansion, the local police officers as well, it was Sergeant York who came bursting into the kitchen. ‘Where is Inspector Tremayne?’ he asked.

  ‘In the other room.’ />
  Tremayne and Clare, on hearing the voice of the sergeant, came into the kitchen.

  ‘In the shed, around the back.’

  Sally ceased what she was doing and dashed out; Clare in hot pursuit. Tremayne, not as nimble, kept up as best he could.

  ‘Sally, stop. You don’t know what you’re walking into,’ Clare shouted.

  ‘She’ll not come to any harm, Sergeant,’ Sergeant York said. He was standing by the door of the shed. He grabbed hold of Sally as she tried to enter. ‘It’s better if you don’t.’

  Clare, appreciative of the sergeant’s strong arms, entered the shed. A lawnmower was to one side. On the shelves were jars of nuts and bolts, a wheelbarrow was upended against a far wall. On a wooden chair sat Anthony Langley. His head was resting on a wooden bench, his legs were askew.

  Tremayne entered, quickly accessed the situation, and left.

  ‘I’m afraid your husband is dead,’ he said to Sally.

  The woman burst into tears, desperate to see her husband. It was Clare who grabbed her the second time, the woman not resisting as she had before. Clare led her back to the main house.

  ‘You’ve called an ambulance?’ Tremayne asked.

  ‘And our crime scene team,’ Sergeant York said.

  ‘Good job. Messy business, though.’

  ‘Suicide?’

  ‘The cuts on his wrists, I’d say so.’

  It was another ninety minutes before Tremayne re-entered the shed. This time he was kitted out in coveralls, overshoes and nitrile gloves. The senior crime scene investigator handed over a letter written in Langley’s hand. It was enclosed in a clear plastic bag; it was readable with difficulty without removing it.

  Tremayne took the letter to the mansion. Clare and Sally Langley sat close to one another; Clare giving support to Sally who was very emotional. ‘I did love him, you know.’

  Clare knew that she had in her own way. And as the letter was read, it was clear that Anthony Langley had reciprocated her love.

  Tremayne cleared his throat, trying, as always, to hide his emotions.