The Fifth Grave, page 11
part #1 of DCI Jacob Series
“And when I heard about this death, I couldn’t help but think that one of us has killed again.”
“Someone in the Lucus?”
Magalos closed his eyes and savoured the smoke. “Yes, Dullovius. Someone in the Lucus.”
Lucus. Sacred grove. Dullovius hadn’t heard that word for a quarter of a century, but then he hadn’t spoken with Magalos for all that time, either. Now, his mind whirred with the possibility. If someone in the Grove really was killing again it meant trouble for everyone.
“If someone has broken the oath, then they must be punished. This puts us all in danger.”
Magalos dragged on his cigarette. The tip glowed, and illuminated the centre of his face, tinting it flame-red for a few seconds. For a moment, Dullovius thought he was looking at the devil himself.
“But who?”
The older man drummed his fingers on the arm of his chair. “That is for you to find out, Dullovius.”
“He or she, that is the question.”
Magalos dragged on the cigarette. “A question you will answer.”
“And what then?”
A long, pregnant pause and another long inhalation of the smoke. The dull bronze pendulum in the grandfather clock’s wooden belly gently punctuated the awkward silence as Dullovius awaited the reply.
“You know what.”
CHAPTER 14
Jacob drove through slushy piles of black snow as he made the short journey out to the Grovely Manor Wellness Retreat. The lack of traffic in this isolated place often meant he was able to go well over eighty miles an hour on some of the straights, but the weather conditions demanded a more measured approach.
After a short drive, he signalled left. Yesterday’s cold front was closing in as Jacob drove around the northern side of the chalk ridge on his way to the retreat. The wellbeing centre had been in the news in the past for its treatment of various famous actors and musicians as well as providing a venue for creative writing courses, but when he signalled right and pulled off onto its private approach road there wasn’t even a sign, just a tasteful wrought iron gate, unlocked and open.
He cruised into the property, blowing up a cloud of fallen oak and chestnut leaves behind the car as he followed the twisting drive around to the main building. The day was still clearing, with patches of blue in the sky to the west, and he wondered if all this talk of the New Year’s Eve storm was the usual panic over nothing.
He turned the final bend on the private drive and reached the retreat. The main house was a mid-nineteenth century Grade II listed former vicarage set on twelve acres of formal gardens and ancient woodland. The period property was finished off with a large outdoor heated swimming pool and gymnasium.
Jacob killed the engine and emerged into an icy wind. He pulled his collar up and closed the car door as he scanned the large house for the main entrance. Classy yet homely, it was a study of freshly painted sash windows and crumbling Victorian brickwork covered in trellises ready for when May brought the wisteria into bloom. He looked up at the impressive building for a moment and noted how quiet this place was.
A middle-aged man with ruddy cheeks approached from an archway formed in a line of pleached hornbeams. Behind him, Jacob saw what looked like an impressive formal garden, largely shut down for the winter months. He wore a mud-streaked body warmer and a tweed flat cap and was holding a pair of oiled shears. The man narrowed his eyes as he studied the imposing stranger standing in front of the house.
“I’m not sure we’re expecting any new guests today,” he said.
Jacob returned a polite smile to the man and produced his warrant card. “I’m not here to check in. I’m trying to find the owner, Lucinda Beecham.”
Somewhere beyond the garden in a frost-bitten field, a hefty Hereford cow was lowing. Jacob turned and saw its breath pluming into the air above its head.
“She’s in the house.”
“Thanks.” Jacob indicated over the man’s shoulder. “Is that a formal garden through there?”
“It is. Laid mostly to lawn but some rose beds and a small fountain.”
“The box hedge parterre is very impressive.”
The gardener raised an eyebrow. “You know gardens?”
Before he could reply, they heard a woman’s voice calling from the portico entrance across the other side of the gravel drive.
“Who is it, Ted?”
“Police.”
The woman’s brow furrowed as she walked over to them. She was slim and in her forties with her hair up in a low knotted ponytail. A pair of cat-eye tortoiseshell glasses were perched on a slim, aquiline nose and she wore skinny jeans and a bronze jumper covered by a flour-speckled blue and white striped apron.
“The police?”
Jacob recognised her face from her acting work but followed the usual protocol and produced his warrant card a second time. “Are you Lucinda Beecham?”
“I am, yes.”
“I’m Detective Chief Inspector Jacob from Wiltshire CID. I was hoping to have a few words with you.”
“Gosh, I wasn’t going that fast, was I?”
“I’m sorry?”
“I came home a bit sharpish last night in the Merc.”
Jacob gave the ghost of a smile. “It’s not about a speeding fine, no. But I would like five minutes of your time if you have it.”
“Goodness, what for?”
He slipped the black ID wallet back in his pocket and smiled. “Just some routine questions. Is there somewhere we can speak privately?”
She exchanged a quick look with Ted.
“I know when I’m not wanted,” the gardener said, and padded back through the hornbeam arch on his way into the formal gardens.
She wiped floury hands on the apron. “Please come in. The kitchen’s a tip because I’m just making lunch for everyone, so we’ll go in here.”
He followed her into a reception room and took a seat on one of three cream leather sofas forming a horseshoe around an impressive fireplace. It had been lit some time ago and now a good blaze was in the firebox.
She turned to him. “I’ve just made a fresh pot of coffee, would you like some?”
“Thank you.”
A pocket of sap exploded inside one of the logs and sent a shower of sparks pluming up into the chimney.
“Apple wood?” Jacob asked as she poured the coffee.
Lucinda looked surprised. “I’m impressed, Chief Inspector.”
Jacob said nothing. He took a sip of the coffee and set his cup down on the table beside his seat.
“It’s a very impressive home – I take it you do live here?”
She nodded and drank some coffee. “We’ve recently finished a very extensive renovation programme. High-spec roll top baths, silk Isfahan rugs, Farrow & Ball paper… the works. I even replaced the butler’s sink in the kitchen.”
“I saw that as we walked through,” he said. “I thought they were called Belfast sinks.”
She shifted in her chair and sipped more coffee. “Technically it’s a butler’s sink.”
“You learn something every day.”
“We have a very special place here,” she said quietly. “As you’ve already seen, the grounds are absolutely perfect for a retreat and the feeling of peace and isolation is entirely genuine – the house is totally surrounded by substantial woodland.” She paused and drank some coffee. “But I’m sure you didn’t come here to talk about sinks.”
“No,” he said quietly. “It’s concerning the incidents up in the woods not far from here.”
“I’d heard about them,” she said. “Some remains yesterday and then another man killed last night.”
“We believe he was murdered this morning.”
“How awful. What was his name?”
“I’m afraid we haven’t spoken with his next of kin yet so that’s classified.”
“Of course – but so close to the retreat,” she said. “It’s frightening.”
He took some more coffee and lowered his voice. “You have paying guests here, is that right?”
“Yes, most come for a few days and others for weeks or even months. We offer whatever they need.”
“Do your guests stay at the house?”
“Some do, but others prefer our luxury lodges out in the woods. It’s a wild and wonderful place and perfect to escape from the modern world. We have oak, ash, chestnut, redwood and banks of ferns. In the summer wild orchids line the paths between the lodges and the main house. It’s divine.”
“But is it self-catering?”
She smiled. “Food and drink are provided here at the main house. Guests wander over from their lodges at set mealtimes if they want to eat here, or they’re welcome to bring their own food and eat privately in the lodges. We’re a local family and always try and buy locally and seasonally and only the very highest quality.”
“But you don’t just offer a retreat – you also run residential courses, is that right?”
“Yes. We offer one-on-one tutorials on creative writing, painting and a number of other things in various venues around the estate, including a beautiful summerhouse down by the lake.”
“I can see. Maybe a few days here might be good for me.”
She laughed. “We’re all booked up months in advance – sorry.” She looked up at the tall man’s sharp blue eyes when a loud snapping sound in the fire made her jump. “Silly,” she said. “It’s just the sap again.”
He smiled. “Tell me more about the business.”
“We like to keep our guest list quite small at any one time. It keeps things more exclusive and our maximum capacity here is six guests in the lodge retreats.”
“What about the residential courses?”
“We offer creative writing and painting courses here but only during the summer. At this time of year the business is focussed exclusively on our guests in the lodges.”
And how many of the six lodges are being used at the moment?”
“Three.”
“And what are the guests’ names?”
She twisted her mouth and took another sip of coffee. “Is it strictly necessary that I give you their names?”
“Not at this time, but it would help me.”
She hesitated. “You do understand that some of the people who come to Grovely Manor are very famous, household names?”
“So I’ve heard.”
“There’s Bryony Moran, the romance writer. She’s in Lodge 1. We have Simon Wickham, a Harley Street consultant in Lodge 5 and Richard Everett, the TV presenter in Lodge 6. I’m not telling you why any of them are here as I don’t see why it should be relevant.”
“It might be, but we’ll cross that bridge when we come to it. Tell me, when they’re checked into the retreat can they just come and go or are they supposed to stay on site?”
“It’s not a prison, Chief Inspector. They can do as they please, but most stay on site for the duration of their stays. These are serious people, often very wealthy and famous and they don’t come to a place like this unless they’re serious about getting away from the world.”
“And what about staff members?”
“You’ve already met Ted, and there are a few others. It’s a skeleton crew, really. With only six lodges there’s not very much work to do until the summer when I often hire additional staff on a more casual basis.”
“I’ll need all of their names and addresses.”
“Of course. I’ll write you a list now.”
Jacob watched Ted pushing a wheelbarrow full of logs through the garden while she wrote the short list. When she handed it to him, he looked down at the five names. “Anyone else?”
She shook her head.
“Did you see or hear anything unusual up in the woods this morning between seven and eight?”
She frowned and shook her head. “No, sorry.”
“It’s just that if anyone was on the top floor of your house they would have a very direct view of the track where the murder happened.”
“There wouldn’t have been anyone up there this morning, sorry again.”
“Where were you at that time?”
She stopped to think. “Well, I took a breakfast over to Richard in Lodge 6 at seven. He’s an old friend of mine from my TV days, and he arrived out of nowhere after a blazing row with his wife earlier this morning. I think he’s left her for good this time.”
“I see, and you were there for a whole hour?”
“I’m sorry?”
“You took him breakfast at seven, but stayed till eight?”
“As a matter of fact I stayed until closer to nine. I often spend time chatting to the guests, but only if they want to, of course. As I said, Richard and I go back a long way.”
Jacob got up to leave. “Thanks for your time, Miss Beecham. I have to say that I’m a fan of some of your television work.”
She looked embarrassed. “That’s kind, but it’s a part of my life that’s over now.”
“Any particular reason?”
She sighed. “It’s a very different life from what it looks like. I much prefer being back here at home, helping people.”
Jacob set his coffee cup down and slipped his notebook away. “Thank you for your time.”
*
Anna Mazurek pulled up in the farmyard and cut the engine. The property was typical of every other farm she had ever visited in the area, with a well-kept main house and a jumble of mud-covered corrugated outbuildings dotted here and there, slowly turning to rust.
Before she or Innes had got out of the car, a stocky man with a tweed walking hat walked across the yard.
“Here we go,” Anna said, opening her door.
“This is private land,” he said loudly.
“Mr Freeth?”
“Aye, that’s me. Who are you?”
She showed her ID. “I’m Detective Sergeant Mazurek and this is DC Innes.”
“Sergeant who?”
“Mazurek,” she said slowly.
He raised his eyebrows. “Coppers, eh?”
An astute observation, she thought.
“Could we have a word, sir?”
“If it’s about those idiots lamping on my land I showed ’em the shotgun and they ain’t been back since.” He jabbed a fat sausage finger at them. “No thanks to you useless buggers, who I called three times and who did sod all.”
Anna and Innes exchanged a glance.
“This is about something quite different.”
“Ah, I see,” he said, crowing. “So now you want my help!”
“We’re trying to confirm the whereabouts of one of your workers.”
“Who’s that then?”
“Dean Cooper.”
He smiled. “Oh yes? What’s old Deano been up to then?”
“Can you confirm if he was in work this morning?”
“He was in work on time as usual.”
“And what’s his job?”
“He’s a farm labourer,” he said, slowing his words. “He labours on my farm.”
Anna held in her frustration. “And was he here the whole time?”
“You might find this hard to believe, but in the farming community we don’t hold hands when we work so he wasn’t in my line of sight for every minute.”
“What did he do today?” Innes asked.
“Why?”
“Because a man was murdered earlier this morning and we’re trying to rule people out of our enquiries.”
“Murdered?” he asked. “Bloody hell.”
“So what was he doing?”
“Er… the usual stuff. I had him repairing the gear box in the bale processor and after that I sent him out on one of the quads to check the fencing.”
Anna and Innes caught each other’s eye. The senior officer said, “When exactly was that?”
He sighed, clearly running out of patience. “Between seven and eight, Your Honour.”
Anna’s response was calm and collected.
“Do you mind if we take a look at the quad Mr Cooper took out this morning?”
He hesitated, thinking it through. “Not at all, it’s right there in the shed.”
They followed his pointing arm and saw the quad parked up in between a stack of tarpaulin-covered hay bales and a pile of brand new, untouched hay tarps. “Be my guest.”
Wandering over, Anna pulled out her phone and started snapping pictures of the quad and close-ups of all the tyres. “This should get Mia started,” she muttered.
They strolled back over to the farmer and smiled.
“Thanks for your time, Mr Freeth.”
As they walked over to the car, he called out to them with a cheery wave.
“Make sure to keep in touch.”
CHAPTER 15
As Jacob stepped into the office and closed the door behind him, the look on Marcus Kent’s stony face telegraphed the imminent conversation that was rapidly racing towards him. Judgeing by the colour on the Chief Super’s cheeks, he had obviously been fuming for some time and when he finally smacked his phone receiver down in the plastic cradle and looked over at Jacob, he saw just how tight the man’s jaw was clenched.
“Another bloody murder in the same woods?”
“Unfortunately yes, sir.”
“How could this have happened?”
“It was a blow to the back of the head,” said Jacob, unable to resist the temptation.
“Not the cause of death, man! What I meant was how the bloody hell did you let another brutal murder happen on our patch just one day after the discovery of the remains?”
“Clearly there’s a link.”
“You think?”
“Well…”
“Victim details.”
“Kieran Messenger. Forty years old. Local man. He worked as a forester alongside Adam Dawes for the Forestry Commission under the ranger Neil Talbot.”
“Next of kin?”
“His wife, Lorna Messenger. Pregnant.”
“Christ all bloody mighty.”
“I’m going around there this afternoon.”
Kent cursed loudly as he tossed his pen on the desk, rose from his chair and padded over to the window. “It’s all over the internet now, predictably,” he said in a concerned tone. “And I’ve just had the Chief Constable on the phone. Some of the American news networks are running it too. They’ve picked up on the whole witch ghost thing. Soon the whole bloody world will be watching us. They’re calling it the Witch Hunt Murders, for pity’s sake. One internet site is claiming they were both killed by the ghosts of the women murdered for being witches. This is getting out of control.”
