‘Go on,’ Wesley prompted gently.
She stared at her hands. ‘It took months of planning and more months before I plucked up the courage to do it. I
knew I had to be careful so I set up Chadleigh Holdings to buy the policies and I put the bank account in Brenda’s and Sandra’s
names. Then I opened an account in the name of Smith at a large bank in Exeter for the proceeds.’ She hesitated. ‘I bought
a policy from a woman in Stoke Beeching and . . . we met outside a café and I suggested that we go for a walk.’ She twisted
her wedding ring round and round. ‘I didn’t think I could go through with it. Her name was Gilda and she was an artist. She
kept talking – telling me about herself and . . . she was a nice woman. I . . .’
‘You killed her.’
‘I thought I wouldn’t be able to do it at first but then she went near the edge and I just reached out and pushed her. Just
one shove and it was all over.’ She looked up at Wesley, her eyes wide. ‘I collected nearly thirty thousand pounds. It was
so easy.’
‘And what about the others?’
‘I was only going to do it once but after I began renovating the house the money soon ran out and . . . well, the next time
wasn’t so bad. And it just got easier every time.’
‘Even though Marion Bowler and Sally Gilbert put up a fight?’
‘When you’ve done it once . . . once you’ve crossed that line, murder is easy, Inspector,’ she said, almost in a whisper.
‘I didn’t enjoy it, you know. I just regarded it as something that had to be done. I remember when I was a child and we had
a holiday on a farm. The farmer’s wife asked me if I wanted chicken for dinner and when I said yes she took one of the chickens
in the yard and wrung its neck. She said that if we wanted to eat chicken . . . well, it had to be done, didn’t it. A few
days later I asked if I could kill one.’ She stared down at her hands.
‘And did you?’
She nodded. ‘She told me how to do it. She said it’s best just to get on with it and not to think about what you’re doing.
She was right.’
‘So you never thought of your victims?’
A shadow crossed her face. ‘Sentimentality was one luxury I didn’t allow myself.’
Wesley glanced at Rachel, who was sitting stiffly upright, a look of disapproval on her face.
‘Surely the policies had to be transferred to you legally. How did you manage that?’
‘I used my old family solicitor. I told him I was using the policies as an investment, buying one a year, paying the premiums
and waiting for the big lump sum at the end – people do that, you know: it’s quite common. I told him I was using the name
Chadleigh Holdings for reasons of my own. He’s nearing retirement and he didn’t ask too many questions. And of course he could
never know that the policies were paying out rather sooner than expected.’ She smiled. ‘He even said he was glad I was using
what little money I had wisely. I suppose you could say I’d hit on the perfect crime, really – killing complete strangers
– and I thought that if I kept to one a year it wouldn’t arouse any suspicions. Most of the policies were from different insurance
companies and . . .’
‘But how did you persuade the people to go to the edge of the cliffs?’
‘Oh, that was easy. I just put them at their ease, got them talking. They all trusted me, you see.’
She leaned forward and Wesley looked at her: a pleasant-faced, motherly, middle-aged woman. He had no doubt that her last
statement was true. If he hadn’t known better he would have trusted her himself.
‘I really don’t advise you to say any more,’ the solicitor muttered half-heartedly. But Carole ignored him.
‘They were only too glad to go wherever I suggested. They thought they were coming into money and money’s one thing people
will do anything for, Inspector. Especially those who don’t have any.’
‘You planned two murders this month,’ Rachel snapped. ‘Why was that? Were you getting greedy?’
‘It wasn’t greed – I was going to do the second one to help
out my brother. Sebastian’s firm’s in difficulties, you see.’
‘How did Brenda and Sandra get involved?’ Wesley asked.
‘I didn’t want to put any of the accounts in my own name and they were only too happy to sign the cheques. I only had to tell
them it was for tax reasons and they accepted it. People do all sorts of little fiddles to reduce their tax bills, don’t they?’
‘What about Sally Gilbert’s necklace? Did you give it to Brenda or did she steal it?’
She thought for a moment. ‘The latter, I’m afraid. Brenda was light fingered . . . not that I was going to make a fuss. In
fact that necklace was my first mistake. The woman struggled and it came off somehow. I don’t know why but I put it in my
pocket and when I found it there later I didn’t get rid of it . . . I know I should have done, but I didn’t.’
‘Why did you plan to kill Brenda and Sandra?’
She shook her head, an expression of sorrow on her face. ‘I didn’t want to but they were becoming liabilities. Little Kayleigh
was a real chatterbox: she told me her mother had given her a gold locket to give to her teacher – she described it and I
suspected it was the one from Monks Island. I checked and found it wasn’t where I’d put it so I guessed what had happened:
Brenda’s light fingers again. Anyway, Kayleigh said her teacher’s name was Mrs Peterson.’ She looked up at Wesley. ‘And I
remembered you’d said that your wife was a teacher at Kayleigh’s school. I couldn’t take the risk that you would be able to
identify it so I had to ensure that Brenda wasn’t in a position to tell you where she got it.’
Wesley stared at her, shocked. Horrified that his casual remark about Pam’s job – a bit of idle, friendly conversation –
had led to Brenda Dilkes’s death.
‘Don’t worry, dear, it wasn’t your fault,’ she said, as though she had read his mind. Suddenly, with those words, she became
the motherly, sensible woman again; the type
of woman who would be at home at the Women’s Institute or helping with meals on wheels.
‘What about Sandra?’ he asked. He had to keep reminding himself that this woman was a killer.
Carole shook her head sadly. ‘I feel bad about Sandra . . . after all, we’d been at school together. But she kept questioning
me about Chadleigh Holdings. She kept asking if there was any chance of her and her husband buying and selling shares if there
was a profit in it. She’d told Peter all about it, you see, and she kept on and on about it every time I saw her. Sandra was
always short of money but then she had this windfall when Peter’s father died and she was looking for somewhere to invest
it. The silly girl should never have run off with Peter. She’d had everything and she threw it away.’ She hesitated. ‘Just
like I did once.’
‘So you decided to kill her?’ asked Rachel.
Carole Sanders sighed. ‘I was afraid that she was getting suspicious. She was even hinting that I should pay her to keep quiet
– not in so many words, of course: Sandra was more devious than that. She always was, even at school. The way she fooled everyone
when she ran away with Peter showed that. I made sure she and Brenda didn’t suffer.’
‘But they hardly deserved to die. None of them did.’
Carole sat expressionless and didn’t answer. Wesley turned off the tape and she suddenly looked up. ‘Tell Gerry I’m sorry.
He’s a nice man.’
Wesley nodded curtly and marched from the room with Rachel following behind.
They walked down the corridor in silence. Then Rachel spoke. ‘How could she have killed all those people in cold blood like
that?’
‘I suppose that after she’d psyched herself up to do the first, she made herself think of her victims as a means to an end.
She didn’t allow herself to think of them as people. If she had, surely she couldn’t have done it.’
‘I’ve never met such a cold bitch.’
‘I heard of another one the other day.’ Wesley smiled.
‘There was a lady called Mercy Iddacombe who killed her own daughter just to stop her warning anyone that a ship was going
to be wrecked and dozens of people murdered.’
‘How could anyone do something like that?’
‘They do say that after you’ve done it once, murder is easy . . . that was Carole Sanders’ excuse, anyway.’
When they reached the office they heard laughter coming from Heffernan’s lair. Bob Naseby was in there and they were sharing
a joke.
‘Are you going to tell him what she said?’ Rachel asked quietly.
Wesley thought for a moment. ‘Best leave well alone, eh?’
He reached his desk and opened the drawer. Rachel, standing behind him, spotted a small jewellery box inside. ‘Been spending
your hard-earned cash?’ she asked.
He picked up the box. ‘It’s for Pam,’ he said as he opened it. ‘Do you think she’ll like it? It’s to replace the one Kayleigh
gave her. What do you think?’
‘Lovely.’ She looked down unsmilingly at the small gold heart lying against the red velvet.
As she walked away, Steve Carstairs looked up from his computer screen and winked.
News came through on a quiet Monday afternoon three weeks later that Robin Carrington’s body had been found. He hadn’t made
it back to Devon: he had been found dead with multiple injuries, lying near his parked hire car in a country lane not far
from Dover, apparently the victim of a hit-and-run driver.
Perhaps he had been on his way to France: as far as anyone knew his wife, Harriet, was still over there, as yet undiscovered
by the French authorities. Harry Marchbank’s inspector at the Met told Wesley that Harry was taking some leave, and that he
had mentioned going on a short trip over to France. Wesley couldn’t help wondering whether Harry’s trip across the Channel
and Robin’s death were connected in any way. But perhaps he was letting his imagin ation run away with him.
Neil Watson’s only comment when Wesley had told him of Robin’s death was that he hoped he had had time to send the Smithers
of Connecticut their family tree. And he said no more on the subject until the day he and Wesley met at Chadleigh Hall’s small
and neglected chapel overlooking the sea to tie up loose ends and put Chadleigh Hall’s past to rest once and for all.
Neil arrived at the chapel first and found the door wide open. Curious to see inside, he entered without waiting for Wesley.
Dim light crept in through the arched windows,
filtered by the tall yew trees growing outside: rampant nature had taken over in the churchyard many years ago. As Neil’s
eyes adjusted to the gloom, he could see a dark figure standing by the tombs that lined the far wall.
‘Dr Watson. Glad you could make it. How many more are coming? Do you know?’
Dominic Kilburn walked slowly towards him but Neil ignored his outstretched hand. ‘A few. My mate from the police and . .
.’
‘Good. I did wonder whether I should contact the press.’
Neil scowled. ‘And did you?’
‘I’ve been so busy planning the hotel opening it slipped my mind.’
‘Good.’
Kilburn shot him a look of disapproval.
‘Tell me, Mr Kilburn, are your family local?’
‘Yes. Devon born and bred,’ he answered smugly.
‘Do you know if you’re descended from a Jud Kilburn? He was hanged for wrecking and murder back in 1772.’
Kilburn’s face reddened. ‘I shouldn’t think so for one moment,’ he snapped. Neil guessed that he’d hit a raw nerve.
‘So have you any plans for this chapel?’ Neil asked, looking around.
‘I’m turning it into a gym.’
‘A what?’ Neil frowned with disapproval. He wasn’t known for his piety, quite the reverse, but even he would draw the line
at filling an elegant eighteenth-century chapel – even a disused one – with weights and rowing machines. ‘Won’t the tombs
get in the way? Or will you have people vaulting over them?’
Kilburn looked unsure whether to take him seriously. ‘I own this estate so I can do what I like,’ he said peevishly.
Before Neil could think of a cutting reply, he was interrupted by a familiar voice. ‘Has the vicar arrived from Millicombe
yet?’ Wesley Peterson walked into the chapel, looking around, noting the building’s pleasing proportions.
‘Not yet. But Mr Kilburn’s here . . . representing Kilburn Leisure,’ Neil added pointedly.
Wesley shook Kilburn’s hand. ‘Good of you to come, Mr Kilburn.’
‘The least I could do, seeing as she was found in my hotel.’
‘I hear you’re intending to market the room where the skeleton was found as “the haunted room”.’
‘Yes. That part of the building was to have been offices but now it’s a luxury suite. The marketing opportunity was too good
to miss.’
‘And the chair the skeleton was found on?’
‘A special feature of the room, of course. It’s polished up nicely, as a matter of fact.’ Kilburn said this matter-offactly,
the profit motive overcoming any question of bad taste.
He reached in his pocket and produced a handful of glossy vouchers. ‘We open on the second of September. I hope you’ll join
us for our introductory special offer – two main courses for the price of one in the restaurant. We’ve got ourselves a top
French chef. And there’s details of our special offer on health club membership too.’ He passed a leaflet to Neil, who looked
as though he would have discarded it at once had there been a bin handy.
‘I’m sorry you won’t be working on our wreck any more, Dr Watson.’ Kilburn didn’t sound particularly sorry.
‘It was a great experience but I’m afraid I’ve got other projects I need to be getting on with. But I’ve compiled a report
to be sent to the body that deals with historic wrecks and . . .’
‘Still no sign of the treasure?’
‘There never was any treasure.’
Dominic Kilburn looked at Neil as though he suspected him of lying, and there was a moment of tension between them, which
was broken only by the sound of a booming voice.
‘Vicar not here yet?’ They looked up and saw a large
figure blotting out the sunlight in the doorway.
‘Come in, Gerry, we’re just waiting for her.’
‘Her?’
Wesley and Neil exchanged a covert grin. Gerry Heffernan appeared to have recovered from his recent disappointment. Carole
Sanders’ name hadn’t been mentioned since her arrest. Perhaps the boss realised that he’d had a lucky escape.
‘And the Iddacombes from the lighthouse said they’d come, seeing as she’s family.’
‘Robin Carrington would have liked to have seen this,’ said Neil wistfully.
Wesley looked at him, wondering whether the fact that Carrington had committed murder had quite sunk in. For Neil it had seemed
incidental, less important than Carrington’s interest in the
Celestina
.
Gerry Heffernan pointed to the wooden box that lay at Neil’s feet. ‘Is that her, then?’
‘Yes. That’s Mary Anne. The vicar said we could put her near her husband.’
‘Yeah.’ Heffernan looked around the little church, dusty and unused; long since deconsecrated and in the middle of nowhere.
No faithful congregation except the occupants of the fine tombs lining the walls. It was a dead place: as dead as the old
Iddacombes who rested there.
Wesley began to walk around, examining the names carved on the tombs. He came to the grandest and stopped. ‘Here she is,’
he said quietly.
Gerry Heffernan walked over to join him. ‘Who?’
Wesley stood back and let the chief inspector read the name for himself.
‘Mercy Iddacombe. She lived to a ripe old age.’
Wesley said nothing. As he looked at the tomb, he thought of Carole Sanders. But she had been caught – Mercy hadn’t. Even
when her guilt had been revealed, nobody had believed it.
The Iddacombes turned up, suitably solemn in funeral
black, and when the vicar arrived the little party followed her outside to the small grave dug near the oak tree. Mary Anne’s
bones, which had sat for so long in that small dark room, would rest in earth at last.