by Kate Ellis
By Kate Ellis
A High Mortality of Doves
Wesley Peterson series:
The Merchant’s House
The Armada Boy
An Unhallowed Grave
The Funeral Boat
The Bone Garden
A Painted Doom
The Skeleton Room
The Plague Maiden
A Cursed Inheritance
The Marriage Hearse
The Shining Skull
The Blood Pit
A Perfect Death
The Flesh Tailor
The Jackal Man
The Cadaver Game
The Shadow Collector
The Shroud Maker
The Death Season
The House of Eyes
The Mermaid’s Scream
The Mechanical Devil
Joe Plantagenet series:
Seeking the Dead
Playing With Bones
COPYRIGHT
Published by Piatkus
978-0-3494-1314-3
All characters and events in this publication, other than those clearly in the public domain, are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Copyright © 2018 by Kate Ellis
The moral right of the author has been asserted.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior permission in writing of the publisher.
The publisher is not responsible for websites (or their content) that are not owned by the publisher.
PIATKUS
Little, Brown Book Group
Carmelite House
50 Victoria Embankment
London, EC4Y 0DZ
www.littlebrown.co.uk
www.hachette.co.uk
The Mechanical Devil
Table of Contents
By Kate Ellis
COPYRIGHT
Dedication
Extract from draft PhD thesis written by Alcuin Garrard
Extract from draft PhD thesis written by Alcuin Garrard
Extract from draft PhD thesis written by Alcuin Garrard
10
11
12
Extract from draft PhD thesis written by Alcuin Garrard
13
14
Extract from draft PhD thesis written by Alcuin Garrard
15
16
17
Letter from Oswald DeTorham to Sir Matthew
Letter from Sir Matthew to Oswald DeTorham
18
19
20
21
Letter from Oswald DeTorham to his cousin Henry Dyce
Letter from Henry Dyce to Oswald DeTorham
22
23
24
Extract from draft PhD thesis written by Alcuin Garrard
25
26
Extract from draft PhD thesis written by Alcuin Garrard
27
28
Extract from draft PhD thesis written by Alcuin Garrard
29
30
Letter from Thomas Chetham to Henry Dyce
31
32
33
Letter from Oswald DeTorham to Sir Matthew
Letter from Oswald DeTorham to Henry Dyce
34
35
36
Extract from draft PhD thesis written by Alcuin Garrard
37
38
39
Extract from draft PhD thesis written by Alcuin Garrard
40
41
Extract from draft PhD thesis written by Alcuin Garrard
42
Extract from the will of Oswald DeTorham
43
44
Author note
For Eloise, who loves books.
And many thanks to Paul Whitcombe,
who allowed his name to be used for a good cause.
1
The car was red, the colour of fresh blood. Andrea clutched the steering wheel tightly as she peered at the road ahead, focusing on the tarmac; hardly aware of the rolling fields either side dotted with sheep, living beings against the vast expanse of Dartmoor.
Andrea had never picked up a hitch-hiker before, always heeding the urban myths about serial killers and knife-wielding madmen. But that was before she’d seen the girl standing at the side of the road, sticking her thumb out hopefully; too vulnerable and young to leave in the middle of nowhere at the mercy of God knows what… or who.
‘Where did you say you were going?’
‘I didn’t,’ the girl said. ‘I’ll tell you when to drop me off.’
Andrea took her eyes off the road for a moment to glance at her passenger. ‘Everything OK?’
‘I’m fine.’ The girl’s reply was dismissive, as though her mind was on something else. She was in her late teens with pouting lips, straight blonde hair and jeans too tight for comfort and she clutched the strap of the rucksack she’d flung at her feet in the footwell as though it contained something precious.
They reached a village; a small place with a cluster of cottages, an ancient stone church and a single thatched pub with whitewashed walls. According to the sign exhorting motorists to drive carefully, the place was called Lower Torworthy and its church tower stood stark against the pale-grey sky.
‘Drop me here.’ The girl’s words sounded like an order rather than a request.
‘Are you sure?’
‘I said so, didn’t I?’
Andrea pursed her lips in disapproval; so much for gratitude. She stopped the car just beyond the pub and switched off the engine.
Without a word of thanks the girl climbed out, hoisted the rucksack on to her shoulder and slammed the car door behind her.
‘Rude little bitch,’ Andrea muttered to herself, craning her neck to watch the girl striding confidently down the road past the church. When she saw her stop by an old-fashioned red telephone box she started up the engine again and set off slowly.
She glanced in the rear-view mirror and saw a car following her: a large white SUV looming far too close and blocking her view of the road behind. The thing looked threatening, like some predatory shark closing in on her sleek Mercedes SLK. Experiencing a moment of panic, she spotted a parking place ahead and signalled to turn in, hoping to lose her pursuer. As she pulled into a little lay-by the white car sped past and she relaxed.
Andrea turned off the engine. The lay-by afforded a magnificent view over Dartmoor. From there she could see undulating fields sloping downwards into a valley and the wooded land beyond rearing up to meet the sky. She looked at her watch. She wasn’t due at Princebury Hall until seven and if she arrived too early she’d be killing time. She picked up the brochure lying on the passenger seat and thumbed through it with a smile of anticipation. Then, after ten minutes, she decided to stretch her legs so she climbed out of the car and stood by the metal gate in the drystone wall admiring the vista and enjoying the unexpected moment of solitude. It had rained earlier that day; she could smell the moist earth and for a brief time the tangled complications of her life receded. She gazed into the field, wondering about the section of stone wall at the far end protruding from the ground like a skeletal arm waving from the grave. Andrea was never normally curious about such things but the wall looked old and there was an archway in its centre; the remains of an old doorway perhaps.
‘Lovely, isn’t it.’
Startled, she swung round to see a lean middle-aged man with receding hair and a dark beard looking at her earnestly. In his walking boots and outdoor attire, to Andrea he might as well have been
a member of an alien species.
‘Yes, it is,’ she answered politely and made a show of looking at her watch because she had no wish to continue a conversation with this intrusive stranger. He seemed to take the hint and let himself into the field, clanging the gate behind him.
The roar of a motorcycle passing on the road shattered the peace of the moor as she watched the stranger pick his way over the uneven grass towards the ruined wall. She was about to return to the car when a loud crack sent birds fluttering upwards, crying in alarm.
She turned in time to see the stranger in the field fall to the ground like a rag doll dropped by a petulant child and for a few seconds she stood paralysed with shock. It was clear the stranger needed help but before she could unfasten the gate a second shot rang out and she felt a blow to her chest that sent her staggering backwards.
Then the green world turned black.
Extract from draft PhD thesis written by Alcuin Garrard
July 1995
The importance of Sir Matthew’s meticulously kept parish records cannot be overemphasised. Having been discovered in the archives of Exeter Cathedral, where fortunately they escaped the bombing of the city during the Second World War, they provide us with a valuable insight into the life of a small Devon parish before Henry VIII’s decision to deny the authority of the Pope caused political and social turmoil throughout the land.
There is evidence that Devon, geographically distant from the ‘powers that be’ in London, was largely resistant to the changes in church practice demanded by the authorities and Sir Matthew’s records (incidentally, the title ‘sir’ was used routinely by priests in those days) give us a vivid picture of how events almost 300 miles away in London caused dramatic upheavals to the comforting rituals of village life.
His account of his parishioners’ joys and woes are compassionate and sympathetic and his interest in science shines through his words, especially his attempts to harness it for the benefit of his flock.
However, various contemporary documents suggest that the apparently benign priest started a chain of events that was ultimately to release a force of evil beyond his control.
2
‘She’s been missing for a week now.’
DI Wesley Peterson watched the chief superintendent’s face and saw concern there. CS Noreen Fitton was a tall angular woman wearing a uniform so crisp it might have been taken from the packet that morning. She looked formidable but Wesley had always found her a reasonable boss.
‘How old is she?’
‘Seventeen – turns eighteen next week. She was in the sixth form at Widedales School but she refused to go back at the start of this term.’ She rolled her eyes and Wesley guessed she found the idea of a girl with such privileges throwing it all away exasperating.
DCI Gerry Heffernan was slumped in the seat beside him, a frown of concentration on his chubby face. ‘If there’s one thing I know about teenage girls it’s that they can’t resist sharing the ins and outs of their lives with their mates,’ he said. ‘Has anyone had a word with them?’
‘Uniform spoke to some of them but they weren’t much help.’
Gerry sighed. ‘Is there any reason to believe she’s in danger?’
CS Fitton shook her head, her severe bob undisturbed by the movement. ‘She was attending a residential drama course near Neston. Her father hoped it would help her decide what she wanted to do with her life. He wanted her to go to university but…’ Her words trailed off and she took a deep breath. ‘Anyway, a week ago she packed her bags and left without a word and nobody’s seen or heard from her since.’ She paused. ‘And she’s not answering her phone.’
‘We can track her phone if necessary,’ said Wesley.
‘It’s switched off.’
‘What about her financial transactions?’
‘She hasn’t accessed her bank account either.’
Wesley and Gerry exchanged looks.
‘Want me to set things in motion?’ Wesley asked.
For a few moments the chief super stared at the neat pile of papers on her desk. Something was worrying her and Wesley suspected that she hadn’t yet told them the whole story.
‘If you don’t mind me asking, ma’am, why is this being dealt with at such a high level? Am I right in thinking this isn’t an ordinary missing persons inquiry?’
Noreen Fitton sighed. ‘You are, Wesley. Jocasta Ovorard’s father is Jeremy Ovorard, who happens to be a junior minister in the Home Office. He wants us to treat this as a priority. TV appeal, the lot.’
Wesley saw her point. Jeremy Ovorard was a ubiquitous presence on the region’s media, supporting local charities and discussing the problems of the area. He was charming and popular – and his seat was regarded as safe so long as he was the incumbent.
‘She’s probably gone off with some unsuitable lad,’ said Gerry.
‘You may well be right, Gerry, but her father insists this is out of character which worries me. If she doesn’t turn up in the next twenty-four hours I think we should make a TV appeal.’
‘Will you be doing it, ma’am?’ Gerry asked hopefully.
There was an awkward silence before she answered. ‘I was thinking more of you, Wesley.’
Gerry grinned. ‘Well, he is better-looking than me and he speaks proper.’
The chief super’s face turned uncharacteristically red. ‘Er… I think if a black officer makes the appeal it’ll reassure the public that the police service is representative of the community we serve. That’s so important in this day and age, wouldn’t you agree?’
‘I’m sure he’ll be chuffed to do it, ma’am,’ Gerry said with a hint of mischief.
Wesley did his best to keep his expression neutral, even though he felt like groaning. He hated the glare of publicity; and being used to make his superiors look virtuous.
‘Mr Ovorard’s coming in to see me first thing tomorrow,’ the chief super continued. ‘He’s beside himself with worry. So is his wife.’
The mention of the wife sounded like an afterthought and Wesley wondered whether this meant she didn’t share her husband’s concern. If this was the case, did she know something he didn’t about their daughter’s whereabouts?
‘I’ll set the ball rolling, ma’am,’ Wesley said. ‘If you’ve got the missing girl’s details…’
Without a word the chief super passed him a sheet of paper.
‘Jocasta’s father describes her as a “free spirit”.’
‘An awkward little madam, then,’ said Gerry.
Fitton smiled. When she did that she looked quite human, Wesley thought.
‘She’s a missing daughter, Gerry. You have a daughter of your own so you can imagine how that feels.’
