The Mechanical Devil

by Kate Ellis

  6 November 1531

  There is much talk in the district about your monk and the miracles he performs. My steward Peter’s mother was cured of the falling sickness through his intercession. I implore you to attend upon my brother Simeon, who is sick of the fever. He suffers much and is in need of your prayers and your monk’s good offices.

  Send word I beg you for I fear Simeon will soon be called to the presence of Our Lord where his many sins will be judged and I do not wish him to die unshriven.

  I wait upon your word.

  Letter from Sir Matthew to Oswald DeTorham

  6 November 1531

  Sir I am grieved to hear of your brother’s sickness and I will attend him without delay. My little monk is at your disposal and his intercessions will, I am sure, bring comfort to Simeon.

  I have feared for Simeon in the past and pray that my monk’s godly influence might close the door to Satan who would prey upon your brother’s weak soul if care is not taken. I fear there is one in your household who exerts an evil influence upon him. Yet I am loath to name him.

  18

  Neil had arranged to meet Canon Collins at a small pub in the cathedral close which had a glowing reputation for its real ale. The venue was the canon’s idea, which surprised Neil who’d always assumed that clergymen of a certain age went in for sherry.

  When Neil entered the pub he recognised Collins at once; not because he’d ever seen the man before but because he was the only person there who was wearing a clerical collar. The clergyman stood to greet him with a hearty handshake before Neil asked what he wanted to drink. His offer was accepted eagerly and when Neil returned from the bar with a pint of the guest ale for Collins and a half for himself, Collins raised his glass in thanks before taking a sip.

  ‘Dr Watson. I’m intrigued. How can I help you?’

  ‘As I told you on the phone I work for the County Archaeological Unit and at the moment I have a team from a local archaeology group conducting a survey of Lower Torworthy church. We’re looking for medieval graffiti.’

  ‘Sounds interesting.’

  ‘By graffiti I don’t mean naughty choirboys carving their initials on the pews. We’re looking for protective symbols and marks made by superstitious parishioners to ward off evil. For instance they used to carve the overlapping letters VV which stands for Virgin of Virgins to honour the Virgin Mary. Then there were daisy wheels and crosses and patterns of five dots. Sometimes, if we’re lucky, we find images of ships carved into the stone. We’ve already found one at Lower Torworthy. We’re looking for masons’ marks as well, which should tell us whether the same people worked on other churches in the area.’ He saw that the canon was watching him with a slight smile on his lips. ‘Sorry if I’m boring you. I tend to get carried away.’

  ‘Not at all. It’s good to see someone so enthusiastic about church architecture.’

  Neil took a photograph of the mechanical figure from his pocket and put it on the table in front of the canon. ‘This was found outside the boundary of the churchyard by workmen digging a ditch. It was sealed in a lead box – like a coffin. At first we thought it was a child’s burial but when it was opened we found —’

  ‘What is it? A statue?’

  ‘Yes and no. It’s an automaton. If you look carefully at the picture you can just make out the machinery where we’ve removed the flap at the side.’

  Collins pushed his glasses down his nose and peered at the photograph. ‘So I can. Good heavens. How old is it?’

  ‘Late fifteenth- or early sixteenth-century. We think it was buried to save it from destruction during the Reformation. I’ve heard rumours that someone was researching the subject while you were vicar of Lower Torworthy. Your successor said you’d be the person to ask.’

  Collins’s face lit up with recognition. ‘I remember helping a young man who was doing his doctorate back in the nineties. Now his name was somewhat unusual. A Northern saint as I recall.’ The canon screwed up his face in concentration. ‘Alcuin, that was it. Alcuin Garrard. It was tragic. A young man like that, so full of life.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘He fell and hit his head; one of those freak accidents you sometimes hear about. He was investigating some earthworks in a field – something to do with his research – when he tripped over and that was it. Dead.’ He shook his head as though he was despairing of the fragile nature of existence.

  ‘Earthworks?’ Neil’s archaeological curiosity was working overtime.

  ‘The site of a manor house I believe. It was destroyed by fire in the reign of Henry the Eighth.’

  ‘You’re talking about Manor Field?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘What exactly was Alcuin researching?’

  ‘That’s the interesting thing, Dr Watson. He’d come across some old documents that mentioned a mechanical monk. Apparently one of my sixteenth-century predecessors at Lower Torworthy fancied himself as a bit of an inventor and he made a machine with the help of a clockmaker from Exeter; a sort of robot I suppose. I viewed the story with scepticism but now you’ve told me about this find of yours…’

  ‘Do you know where Alcuin found his primary sources?’

  ‘He used some parish records from the cathedral archives… and I remember him saying he’d visited Princebury Hall. I believe it’s some kind of health spa nowadays but back then it was owned by a gentleman called Ralph Detoram – a bachelor of advanced years and the last of his family, I understand. Mr Detoram lived alone in that big house and he allowed Alcuin free range of his muniment room – I expect he was glad of the company, especially as Alcuin was taking such an interest in the history of his family. I had the impression they got on well.’ He thought for a moment. ‘Alcuin also found a couple of things in the vestry cupboard.’

  ‘Did he return them?’

  Collins sighed. ‘Do you know, I’m not sure he did. He took an old journal away with him if I remember correctly. It had been stuck at the back of the cupboard and forgotten. I’d always intended to have a good sort-out but I’m afraid I never got round to it.’ He consulted his watch. ‘I’m sorry but my wife’s expecting me back. We have people coming over for dinner this evening and she wants me to do some shopping. All hands on deck.’ He paused as if he’d just recalled something important. ‘Alcuin’s accident was in the local papers at the time and I kept the cuttings. I could dig them out for you if you think it would be any help.’

  ‘If it’s not too much trouble.’

  ‘Not at all.’

  They said their farewells at the pub door. There was just time for Neil to go back to Lower Torworthy and ask Oliver Grayling if he could take a look through the vestry cupboard to see whether Alcuin Garrard had returned the journal. After Canon Collins’s revelations he was impatient to follow the trail.

  When he reached the church the door was unlocked and he half expected to find his team of volunteers still at work. But they were nowhere to be seen; being Friday evening, they must have knocked off early.

  As he walked down the aisle he could hear raised voices coming from the vestry and when he drew closer he could tell the conversation wasn’t amicable. He stopped and listened.

  ‘There’s no more money. You’ve had everything.’ The voice was Oliver Grayling’s and he sounded close to tears.

  Neil pushed the vestry door open and the two men turned to face him. Grayling appeared to be in a state of agitation. The man he knew as John Davies, however, seemed completely calm.

  ‘Sorry to interrupt,’ Neil said.

  Without a word Davies marched out, brushing Neil’s arm as he headed for the door.

  ‘What was all that about?’ Neil asked once he’d heard the church door slam shut.

  Grayling turned his face away.

  ‘Who is that man and why’s he giving you a hard time?’

  Neil heard a motorbike starting up outside, the noise of the engine shattering the peace of the countryside.

  ‘I can’t tell you.
’

  ‘If he’s threatening you, you should tell the police.’

  Grayling’s eyes widened in panic. ‘No. Under no circumstance must the police be involved.’

  Neil sat down. There was a bunch of lilies in a cut-glass vase on the desk and their heady scent made him sneeze. He grabbed a tissue from the box by the vase and looked straight at Grayling.

  ‘You mentioned money. Have you been paying him to keep quiet about something, Oliver?’ he asked quietly. ‘What is it you’ve done?’

  ‘I’ve been to A and E.’

  Wesley pressed the phone to his ear and listened. Belinda Crillow had called him several times but he’d let it switch to voice mail until his conscience had finally forced him to answer.

  ‘I’m sorry to hear that. Are you all right?’

  ‘He’s been watching the house. I went outside to put something in the bin and he was waiting for me so I ran inside and locked the door. Then I fell against the mirror and it shattered. I cut myself.’

  ‘Did he touch you?’

  ‘I didn’t give him the chance. But if I hadn’t got away I dread to think what he’d have done.’

  ‘You’ve told DC Carter?’

  ‘He’s not interested. I need you to help me. Please.’

  Wesley took a deep breath, annoyed with Rob Carter who probably thought the job of reassuring a frightened woman was beneath him. ‘Sorry, I’m in the middle of a murder inquiry at the moment. But I’ll call the station and ask them to send someone round immediately.’

  ‘But…’

  Wesley ended the call and when he contacted Tradmouth Police Station the woman constable he spoke to said she’d call at Belinda Crillow’s address right away. She sounded efficient and, hopefully, she’d be more sympathetic than Rob. Job done.

  19

  Wesley had asked Rachel to trace the address of Jason Fitch’s alleged jealous lover, Gemma Whittingstill. There was a chance Sharon had given them her name out of revenge or to deflect suspicion from her husband and brother, but they needed to follow it up.

  Rachel suspected that if they dug deeply enough into Andrea Jameson’s past more skeletons could come rattling out of her cupboard. Wesley had also been wondering whether Gemma was the other woman Jason had taken to Princebury Hall – the one Xander Southwark had refused to name. Rachel would ask when she saw her. Maybe that warrant to search Southwark’s records wouldn’t be needed after all.

  ‘If Gemma works she should be home by now,’ said Rachel as she climbed out of the driving seat. Trish Walton didn’t reply; she was already making for the front door of Gemma Whittingstill’s isolated cottage.

  ‘Think she lives alone?’ Rachel asked as she caught up with her friend.

  ‘There’s no record of anybody else living at this address. Bit cut off, isn’t it?’

  Trish was right. The narrow lane leading to the cottage had vegetation sprouting from the tarmac; a sign that it was rarely used.

  A set of wooden gates separated the lane from the cottage garden and beyond the gates a newish blue Vauxhall Astra was parked in front of a detached garage. Rachel knew that anyone living here would need a car if they wanted to maintain any contact with the outside world.

  The cottage itself was freshly painted and looked well kept. There were fashionable white louvred shutters at the windows and the front door was a tasteful sage green.

  ‘Nice little hideaway,’ said Trish. ‘Think we’ll find Jason Fitch lying low here?’

  ‘Certainly looks like a love nest to me. But that’s not his car.’

  They’d already established that a white Porsche SUV was registered in Fitch’s name. Besides, the Astra was hardly his style.

  The woman who answered the doorbell was slender with shoulder-length dark hair and immaculate make-up. Her pencil skirt, cream silk blouse and high heels suggested she’d recently arrived home from work.

  ‘Ms Whittingstill?’ Rachel said, displaying her ID to the astonished woman. ‘We’d like a word about Jason Fitch.’

  ‘He’s not here. I haven’t seen him for a few days.’

  Somehow Rachel hadn’t expected Gemma Whittingstill to be so smart and well spoken. When she asked if they could come in, Gemma hesitated for a moment, barring their way. Then she relented and showed them into a living room decorated in a style that, in Rachel’s opinion, wasn’t in keeping with the cottage. Everything was beige, apart from the garish abstract wallpaper on the fireplace wall. The fireplace itself had been removed and replaced by a square recess which held three fat candles.

  Rachel sat down on the low sofa and took out her notebook. ‘I believe you’ve known Mr Fitch for a while.’

  ‘We’re close.’

  ‘Are?’ Trish picked up on the use of the present tense.

  ‘He told me he couldn’t see me for a couple of weeks because things were difficult at home but he’ll be back.’

  ‘You’ve heard about Andrea Jameson?’

  ‘It was on the news.’

  ‘We think she died last Friday and Mr Fitch’s movements are unaccounted for between three and seven thirty on that day. Did he come here?’

  She hesitated. ‘I was at work so if he came here I didn’t know about it.’

  Rachel suspected she’d been tempted to lie but was wise enough to know that her story could be checked.

  ‘I believe you threatened Mr Fitch’s wife.’

  She shook her head vigorously. ‘It was the other way round. She got her thug of a brother to come round here, which scared the hell out of me. But Jason promised everything would be fine if we just took a break and let things calm down.’ She shuddered.

  ‘When was this?’

  She thought for a moment. ‘A week last Sunday.’

  ‘Did you ever meet Andrea Jameson?’

  ‘No. I knew Jason had a brief fling with her but…’

  ‘You weren’t aware that he was planning to go away with her last weekend?’

  ‘That can’t be true. It was over between them ages ago. Someone’s been lying to you.’

  Rachel and Trish exchanged a look. It was obvious the woman had no idea about the booking at Princebury Hall. If she’d found out, Rachel wondered how she would have reacted.

  ‘Somebody shot Andrea Jameson. We think it was a targeted attack.’

  ‘Don’t look at me,’ Gemma said indignantly. ‘I’ve never handled a gun in my life.’ She raised her hand, as though she’d suddenly had a brilliant idea. ‘Sharon’s brother’s ex-army and I’m sure he’d be able to get hold of a gun. I wouldn’t put anything past him.’ She gave a smug nod as though she was satisfied she’d just solved their case for them. ‘His name’s Kyle Ball and Sharon uses him as her personal attack dog. If she got it into her head that Jason was still seeing Andrea…’

  ‘We’ve been told you were jealous of Andrea.’

  ‘Why should I be jealous of her? Jason ditched her ages ago. He said she’d just been a bit of fun.’

  ‘We need to speak to Jason but he seems to have vanished into thin air.’

  ‘Jason wouldn’t shoot Andrea. It wouldn’t make sense. Even if she was pestering him to get back with her he would have told her where to go.’

  ‘Unless he had a reason to get rid of her you don’t know about,’ said Trish.