lovely Rachel with you today?’
‘I thought I was just about capable of tackling this one on my own. Why do you ask?’
‘No reason,’ Neil said with a meaningful grin.
‘What’s the latest on the skeletons?’
‘We found two more this morning. They’re being lifted now. Again no sign of battle wounds.’ He shrugged. ‘It could be a plague
pit, I suppose. There’s certainly no trace of any building which seems to knock our leper hospital theory on the head.’
Wesley could see the diggers working in the trench at the other end of the field. Plastic boxes sat on the side of the pit,
waiting to receive the carefully excavated, recorded and labelled bones. A young woman sat on the edge, face intent and feet
dangling, sketching the bones and their relative position, while a young man near her was measuring and taking photographs.
‘Let’s go to the church,’ Neil said suddenly. ‘I’ve not seen it yet.’
Wesley’s brain suddenly made the connection. ‘Is it called St Alphage’s?’
Neil looked at him, surprised. ‘Yeah. How did you …?’
‘My future brother-in-law’s just been appointed as vicarsomewhere around here. I’m sure St Alphage’s is the name of his new church.’
Neil looked unimpressed. ‘Small world. We’ve got to call at a Mrs O’Donovan’s for the key.’
Wesley frowned as he tried to recall why the name seemed familiar. Then it came to him. A Mrs O’Donovan had cleaned for the
late Reverend Shipborne and she had found his body. If she had the church keys, then surely it was the same woman. He didn’t
know why he felt an inexplicable thrill of anticipation at the prospect of encountering someone directly connected with the
Shipborne case.
Neil ignored the other diggers as they made their way across the field and out of the gate. But Wesley looked over to where
they were working. Bones were being lifted carefully out of the trench and placed in their waiting boxes. If Neil’s theory
about a plague pit was correct, there would probably be enough human remains in there to keep Colin Bowman busy for weeks.
When they reached what had once been the village street, now just a section of the main road from Morbay to Neston with houses
either side, they had to stop and wait for a break in the stream of traffic. Things would get a lot worse once the new branch
of Huntings was built. But then presumably someone in the lofty ivory tower of the local planning department had considered
that possibility … or perhaps not.
Mrs O’Donovan lived in a small brick council house, banished to the outer edge of the village next to an electricity sub-station.
Her house had a neat look, with fresh green paintwork and a tiny, weed-free front garden. She had been the late vicar’s cleaner,
Wesley remembered, and presumably she still had some links with the church if she was entrusted with its key. He knocked on
the door.
‘Is she expecting us?’ Wesley asked.
Neil nodded. ‘I rang earlier. She said it was no problem.’
The door opened to reveal a plump woman in her sixties with untidy grey hair, bright blue eyes, apple cheeks and agenerous mouth. In her youth she would probably have resembled a buxom milkmaid, but time had given her a maternal appearance.
Everybody’s idea of the perfect granny. When she smiled it was dazzling.
‘You must be the archaeologist,’ she said, her accent pure Devon. She stared at Wesley for a few seconds, trying hard to hide
her suspicion but not quite succeeding. ‘And you’re not from round these parts?’ It was a question rather than a statement.
‘I’m a friend of Neil’s. We were at university together.’
The suspicion disappeared from Mrs O’Donovan’s eyes. After the initial few moments of uncertainty, Wesley seemed to have passed
some sort of test. ‘You’ll be wanting the key to the church. Now don’t go in the tower … it isn’t safe in there. And mind
you lock up after you and bring the key
‘I thought I was just about capable of tackling this one on my own. Why do you ask?’
‘No reason,’ Neil said with a meaningful grin.
‘What’s the latest on the skeletons?’
‘We found two more this morning. They’re being lifted now. Again no sign of battle wounds.’ He shrugged. ‘It could be a plague
pit, I suppose. There’s certainly no trace of any building which seems to knock our leper hospital theory on the head.’
Wesley could see the diggers working in the trench at the other end of the field. Plastic boxes sat on the side of the pit,
waiting to receive the carefully excavated, recorded and labelled bones. A young woman sat on the edge, face intent and feet
dangling, sketching the bones and their relative position, while a young man near her was measuring and taking photographs.
‘Let’s go to the church,’ Neil said suddenly. ‘I’ve not seen it yet.’
Wesley’s brain suddenly made the connection. ‘Is it called St Alphage’s?’
Neil looked at him, surprised. ‘Yeah. How did you …?’
‘My future brother-in-law’s just been appointed as vicarsomewhere around here. I’m sure St Alphage’s is the name of his new church.’
Neil looked unimpressed. ‘Small world. We’ve got to call at a Mrs O’Donovan’s for the key.’
Wesley frowned as he tried to recall why the name seemed familiar. Then it came to him. A Mrs O’Donovan had cleaned for the
late Reverend Shipborne and she had found his body. If she had the church keys, then surely it was the same woman. He didn’t
know why he felt an inexplicable thrill of anticipation at the prospect of encountering someone directly connected with the
Shipborne case.
Neil ignored the other diggers as they made their way across the field and out of the gate. But Wesley looked over to where
they were working. Bones were being lifted carefully out of the trench and placed in their waiting boxes. If Neil’s theory
about a plague pit was correct, there would probably be enough human remains in there to keep Colin Bowman busy for weeks.
When they reached what had once been the village street, now just a section of the main road from Morbay to Neston with houses
either side, they had to stop and wait for a break in the stream of traffic. Things would get a lot worse once the new branch
of Huntings was built. But then presumably someone in the lofty ivory tower of the local planning department had considered
that possibility … or perhaps not.
Mrs O’Donovan lived in a small brick council house, banished to the outer edge of the village next to an electricity sub-station.
Her house had a neat look, with fresh green paintwork and a tiny, weed-free front garden. She had been the late vicar’s cleaner,
Wesley remembered, and presumably she still had some links with the church if she was entrusted with its key. He knocked on
the door.
‘Is she expecting us?’ Wesley asked.
Neil nodded. ‘I rang earlier. She said it was no problem.’
The door opened to reveal a plump woman in her sixties with untidy grey hair, bright blue eyes, apple cheeks and agenerous mouth. In her youth she would probably have resembled a buxom milkmaid, but time had given her a maternal appearance.
Everybody’s idea of the perfect granny. When she smiled it was dazzling.
‘You must be the archaeologist,’ she said, her accent pure Devon. She stared at Wesley for a few seconds, trying hard to hide
her suspicion but not quite succeeding. ‘And you’re not from round these parts?’ It was a question rather than a statement.
‘I’m a friend of Neil’s. We were at university together.’
The suspicion disappeared from Mrs O’Donovan’s eyes. After the initial few moments of uncertainty, Wesley seemed to have passed
some sort of test. ‘You’ll be wanting the key to the church. Now don’t go in the tower … it isn’t safe in there. And mind
you lock up after you and bring the key
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