Chapter 47

Tremayne suggested the buffet lunch at the Punch Pub. Its facade of original full-length leadlight windows commands its location right beside the footpath. He’s waiting for me in the lounge, in an armchair beside a potted palm. He’s better looking than his online photo which froze him in a forced smile. His face is unlined and his brown hair is only greying at the temples. The dark suit and understated tie enhance his slim physique. He gets up from the chair and bends down as if to peck my cheek. I step back and put out my hand.

“Thank you for meeting me,” I say.

“Would you like an aperitif? Or shall we go straight through to the buffet?”

“I’m starving,” I say in my best Australian accent.

It’s a fantastic spread. I rein in each portion to match my appetite without my plate looking embarrassing.

When I return to our table, Tremayne curls his lips in amusement as if he thinks this is the perfect venue for his unrefined guest. The place is busy. There’s enough background noise to cover a private conversation about bribery and unnatural death.

“I’ve just had coffee with Calista,” I say, “so I have lots of things to discuss.”

He keeps his courtroom cool. “Really.”

“She told me about the ‘arrangement’ with her father.” I take a sip of my mineral water. “She’s grateful that I contacted her because now she knows the truth about her art-school ‘scholarship’. But she doesn’t know what happened to little Alex and it’s bothering her. Do you know what happened or did you just handle the bribe?”

He almost chokes on his mouthful. “You do have a way of cutting to the chase, Tiggy. It’s … captivating.”

“That sounds like a legal term.”

He pauses as if deciding how much to tell me. “It was Halloween,” he begins, reaching for his glass of wine. “Helena went upstairs to make adjustments to Electra’s costume. The newspapers say she left Alex alone in the courtyard but in fact she took Alex with her. When her back was turned, the boy went out onto the balcony. Electra saw he’d climbed the rail and she raced out but when she tried to lift him down, he slipped over the edge. Helena rushed downstairs. She was worried about broken bones but … he died in her arms.”

“A terrible accident.” And Electra’s interview made her remember? “So you covered it up and buried him in Woolley Wood.”

“Helena had to protect Electra from an investigation and an inquest. She was only eleven and already blaming herself. Alex’s mother hated her step-daughter and Helena was sure she’d claim Electra had pushed him off on purpose.”

It’s a good story but his willingness to tell it is bothering me.

“Helena rang me in a panic. Ambrose was in France and his wife in Australia. They’d left the children with Helena. She knew her way around Woolley Wood from her entomology studies so we came up with a plan. Faulks was a lowlife with a string of murders to his name. No-one would question another one. He’d even been in the area at the time. We got his agreement and paid for his daughter’s first-class tuition. When we drove out to Woolley Wood to bury Alex, we found the dog’s grave and … made use of it.”

“Why haven’t you told Calista? The truth would help her make peace with her good fortune in exchange for a child’s death.”

“For her own safety. The fewer people who know about it the better.”

“Why tell me?”

“So you’ll stop digging and forming the wrong conclusions. My ‘cease and desist’ warning is also a potent deterrent. Now you know what happened, you can have some compassion for Helena’s appalling dilemma and let it go.”

Hmmm. I’d agree with all this if it wasn’t for his one phrase: ‘Stop digging’. What would I find if I kept digging? And did Electra die a guilt-ridden death at twenty-five?

“What happened to Alex’s mother?” I ask.

“She was in Australia making arrangements for her elderly mother to go into a care home and couldn’t take Alex with her. She tried to fly back when everyone was looking for him, but something stopped her. I forget now. Then after his remains were found, she went for a walk along the coast near Sydney and got washed into the sea.”

This often happens to visitors unfamiliar with the treacherous coastline.

“What a tragic series of events,” I say, pausing before I continue. “And Blythe Clementine Templeton? I heard she disappeared too.”

That stops his smooth delivery. For a long minute we both say nothing.

“You know who she is, don’t you?” he says at last. “I warned Helena you’d be trouble but she insisted she needed a researcher of your calibre. For some reason.”

Interesting. It sounds like Helena didn’t tell him about her memory lapse. Unless he’s holding that back but I don’t think so.

“I know Blythe changed her name to Clemence Gagner,” I say, “adopted Lou-Lou and married Ambrose. No wonder you were able to contact her about the couple purchasing the chateau. Your sister?”

“Yes. We all called her Clemmy as a child so Clemence was easy.”

“I don’t know why she couldn’t keep her own name.”

“They didn’t want Ambrose’s wife to make a fuss when he left her. She already suspected Blythe of having an affair with him. Blythe changed her name and moved to France to be with Ambrose. Then after Alex died, his mother stayed in Australia and drowned.”

He pauses to sip his wine, watching me intently as if he can see my mind working.

“When Alex was … murdered,” he say carefully, “they tried for a baby without success and adopted Lou-Lou. They gave her the Gagner surname to avoid any repercussions from being the step-sibling of an infamous murder victim. Loxton is not a common name and Alex Loxton is still well-known today.”

The schoolyard chant. It makes sense to protect her from that, even though Lou-Lou grew up in France.

“Thank you for the information,” I say.

“Please keep it to yourself.”

I say nothing more and enjoy my meal. He changes the subject and tells me about a trip he’s planning to South America to ‘catch some Southern Hemisphere sun’.

I decide I have room for dessert.

On the train back to Exeter, I review Tremayne’s storytelling. A very smooth patter from an accomplished court performer. All lies? Or half-truths with omissions?

And I’ve remembered where I’ve heard the name Clemence. The author of the book ‘Werewolf’ written in 1896. Clemence Housman. Electra based her play on the story. What an intriguing coincidence.

Rupert picks me up at the station. He’s already sent me a video of the painted finish in the shop and the offices. Henry is about to move his collectables in and he’s planning a little opening event.

We decide to go straight to Lympstone. Raider’s already on board after Baxter minded him for the day. In the car, I update Rupert and he questions my suspicions about how Alex Loxton died.

“They covered it up because they could,” he says. “Helena with her forensic knowledge and Tremayne knowing so many criminals.”

“He didn’t mention whether DCI Kisner was involved in the cover up. The three of them worked together on a lot of cases.”

“He’d be the one person they wouldn’t tell. It would compromise his position if he even looked the other way.”

“And we didn’t get to talk about the fluff from Milton Faulks’ coat that Helena found in the grave. She must have planted it when she was doing the extra examination of the remains. That’s a huge breach of ethics. Not to mention making the first forensic scientist who examined the remains look incompetent.”

If that colleague was sure the fluff hadn’t been there, it would have stoked up some professional resentment and doubts about the validity of the evidence. I wonder if Helena’s reputation was enough to quell any thoughts of making a complaint.

“But think what she’d already done,” Rupert says. “Lied to the police – and to her brother and his wife – and set in motion an enormous hunt for Alex across the county, involving hundreds of volunteers. I wonder how many innocent people were questioned because their van was seen in the area or their child was wearing a werewolf suit. I wonder how many lives were ruined because suspicion fell on them, even briefly.”

“And I can’t get my head around how they saw it through to the end. All that time they had to keep Alex’s body hidden before they could bury him. Then they had to be poised to identify Faulks as the culprit when the grave was found. While all the time eleven-year-old Electra knew her half-brother had died from the fall. She saw him drop onto the brick paving. How did they explain the whole abduction circus to her so she never told anyone?”

“Perhaps the fear of her step-mother’s rage was enough,” he says.

No wonder she had ‘confused memories’ about what happened to Alex. If the adult in your life tells you the opposite of what you saw with your own eyes, it’s the definition of ‘gaslighting’ and causes psychological trauma. This was exacerbated by all the newspaper reports that repeated Helena’s version of events. Electra was a victim too.

The pooch has fallen asleep after being run off his feet all day. Rupert carries him into the cottage and puts him on the end of my bed.

Then we pour some wine and he tells me about the plans for Henry’s little launch party.

“Tiggy, Tiggy, look at the news. It’s about Porkie-Paul. They found traces of blood on the knife even though he’d washed it!”

I find the press release.

Breaking: Blood of Murder Victim Found on Knife Belonging to Hostage

A knife found at the scene of the recent siege at a house in Holt Road, Exeter, has been identified as the weapon used to kill the property owner Ambrose Loxton (54) whose body was found in an upstairs bedroom four weeks ago. The knife had been cleaned but forensic testing has revealed microscopic traces of the victim’s blood. The owner of the knife and the hostage in the siege, Paul Pigford (20), has been charged with murder.