of the previous dig before deciding what course of action to take. But he
had a problem – rather a large one – because the records of the 1980s dig appeared to be missing. It was always possible that
someone had put them in the wrong place, of course,but it still struck Neil as strange.
He forgot his troubles for a while and settled down with a juicy set of aerial photographs, taken a few years ago during a
rare drought, in which the outline of a high status house and its outlying buildings could be seen quite clearly. To Neil
it looked like a typical early medieval house with great hall, solar wing and kitchens. There were many such houses dotted
around the country but those that still stood had usually been extended and improved over the centuries, so that it took a
leap of imagination to envisage their original form with their central hearth and privacy only for the lord and lady, if they
were lucky.
He stared at the dark outline against the parched green of the field. The outbuildings – the business end of the medieval
house – were quite clearly visible along with various enclosures for the estate’s animals. But there was one shape that rather
intrigued Neil – a small round circle near the main house.
Then he smiled to himself. He knew what it was – in fact he’d dealt with one before, a few years ago, around the time Wesley
was working in London as a detective sergeant in the Met’s Arts and Antique Squad. If he wasn’t mistaken it was a dovecot.
But the intensity of the mark in the grass was puzzling.
He launched into another search for the records of the old dig. But there was still no sign of them. It was a bit of a mystery
and yet he was sure it was one he could easily solve. The world of archaeology was a fairly small one.
*
Jon Bright might have dismissed the threats from the Pure Sons of the West as posturing nonsense but now the situation had
changed. A woman had been burned to death and the matter had suddenly become deadly serious. And, because of this, Gerry Heffernan
decided that a few words of warning were called for.
He decided to take Rachel along with him because she had the knack of putting people at their ease, as well as an excellent
ear for lies and evasions.
Gerry was rather surprised to discover that the Brights lived in a tastefully converted barn just outside the village of Stokeworthy.
Somehow his imagination had conjured up a neo-Georgian mansion with a forest of pillars and a brace of BMW 4x4s parked on
a sweeping gravel drive. But instead the drive was stone flagged and a bright-red Mini Cooper was stationed outside the detached
garage.
For a moment Gerry thought the woman who answered the door, holding a sink plunger like a sceptre, was the cleaner, but when
they identified themselves she introduced herself as Sheryl Bright. She was in her forties, still attractive, with mousy brown
hair pulled back into a pony tail. Her jeans emphasised her long, slender legs but a large checked shirt concealed the rest
of her figure.
She looked rather surprised to see them on her doorstep. Gerry, who always favoured the element of surprise, hadn’t warned
her of their visit. But she didn’t look particularly worried, and he thought this was rather strange. If he lived in an isolated
property and someone had threatened to burn him alive, he’dbe in a locked room with a bottle of something strong, a phone and a shotgun, if one was available.
‘Sorry about all this,’ the woman said, as she led them to the drawing room. She turned, waved the sink plunger vaguely and
gave the chief inspector a lopsided smile. ‘Don’t suppose you’re any good at unblocking sinks?’
‘I’ll try anything once, love.’ He gave her his widest grin. ‘But first I’d like a chat. Your husband said you’ve been getting
death threats.’ He tilted his head to one side. ‘You didn’t think to contact us at all?’
She rolled her eyes. ‘Oh,
had a problem – rather a large one – because the records of the 1980s dig appeared to be missing. It was always possible that
someone had put them in the wrong place, of course,but it still struck Neil as strange.
He forgot his troubles for a while and settled down with a juicy set of aerial photographs, taken a few years ago during a
rare drought, in which the outline of a high status house and its outlying buildings could be seen quite clearly. To Neil
it looked like a typical early medieval house with great hall, solar wing and kitchens. There were many such houses dotted
around the country but those that still stood had usually been extended and improved over the centuries, so that it took a
leap of imagination to envisage their original form with their central hearth and privacy only for the lord and lady, if they
were lucky.
He stared at the dark outline against the parched green of the field. The outbuildings – the business end of the medieval
house – were quite clearly visible along with various enclosures for the estate’s animals. But there was one shape that rather
intrigued Neil – a small round circle near the main house.
Then he smiled to himself. He knew what it was – in fact he’d dealt with one before, a few years ago, around the time Wesley
was working in London as a detective sergeant in the Met’s Arts and Antique Squad. If he wasn’t mistaken it was a dovecot.
But the intensity of the mark in the grass was puzzling.
He launched into another search for the records of the old dig. But there was still no sign of them. It was a bit of a mystery
and yet he was sure it was one he could easily solve. The world of archaeology was a fairly small one.
*
Jon Bright might have dismissed the threats from the Pure Sons of the West as posturing nonsense but now the situation had
changed. A woman had been burned to death and the matter had suddenly become deadly serious. And, because of this, Gerry Heffernan
decided that a few words of warning were called for.
He decided to take Rachel along with him because she had the knack of putting people at their ease, as well as an excellent
ear for lies and evasions.
Gerry was rather surprised to discover that the Brights lived in a tastefully converted barn just outside the village of Stokeworthy.
Somehow his imagination had conjured up a neo-Georgian mansion with a forest of pillars and a brace of BMW 4x4s parked on
a sweeping gravel drive. But instead the drive was stone flagged and a bright-red Mini Cooper was stationed outside the detached
garage.
For a moment Gerry thought the woman who answered the door, holding a sink plunger like a sceptre, was the cleaner, but when
they identified themselves she introduced herself as Sheryl Bright. She was in her forties, still attractive, with mousy brown
hair pulled back into a pony tail. Her jeans emphasised her long, slender legs but a large checked shirt concealed the rest
of her figure.
She looked rather surprised to see them on her doorstep. Gerry, who always favoured the element of surprise, hadn’t warned
her of their visit. But she didn’t look particularly worried, and he thought this was rather strange. If he lived in an isolated
property and someone had threatened to burn him alive, he’dbe in a locked room with a bottle of something strong, a phone and a shotgun, if one was available.
‘Sorry about all this,’ the woman said, as she led them to the drawing room. She turned, waved the sink plunger vaguely and
gave the chief inspector a lopsided smile. ‘Don’t suppose you’re any good at unblocking sinks?’
‘I’ll try anything once, love.’ He gave her his widest grin. ‘But first I’d like a chat. Your husband said you’ve been getting
death threats.’ He tilted his head to one side. ‘You didn’t think to contact us at all?’
She rolled her eyes. ‘Oh,
Similar Books
