from round here and …’
Dilys Fielding looked slightly disappointed at the mention of a wife. ‘Do you like it here?’
‘Yes.’
She sat forward as though she were about to share a confidence. ‘I’d love to get out of this place and move to somewhere with
a bit more life.’
‘Why don’t you?’
‘Because my husband loves it here. He used to live in Manchester and couldn’t wait to get out into the country. You always
want what you don’t have, I suppose,’ she added philosophically.
‘You could be right,’ said Wesley. He sensed that the woman wanted to talk so he stood still, waiting, hoping that he could
steer the conversation back to the dead man.
‘You must be mad leaving London,’ she said with a flirtatious smile. ‘I’d love to be in the middle of everything.’
Wesley shook his head. ‘It’s not all it’s cracked up to be, you know. Dr Johnson said that when a man is tired of London he
is tired of life, but I can’t say I agree with him.’
She looked Wesley in the eye. ‘You should try clearing up after a load of holidaymakers in this place. Anywhere looks good
if the only excitement you get is cleaning communal loos all day and taking a trip to the wholesalers in Plymouth to stock
up the site shop.’ There was bitterness in her voice. Dilys Fielding was a woman who was not content with her lot.
‘Well, you’ve got some excitement now, I’m afraid.’
Dilys looked at him with half-closed eyes. ‘Does this mean you’re going to be around here a lot?’ she asked hopefully.
‘It’s possible.’
‘You’ll have to tell me all about London, then.’ Her voice was mildly suggestive. ‘Perhaps when you’re not doing whatever
it is you do, I could take you to the Trawlerman’s Arms down in Bloxham. They serve good crab sandwiches. Locally caught …
the crab, I mean, not the sandwiches.’ She smiled at him coquettishly.
Wesley, sensing he was being selected to provide a little excitement in this particular bored lady’s life, decided that rapid
retreat was the best course of action.
‘Wes,’ a voice called loudly from the neighbouring room. ‘Have you finished in there or what?’ Gerry Heffernan sounded impatient.
‘Thank you, Mrs Fielding.’
‘Oh, Dilys, please.’
‘I really must get on.’
‘Sergeant,’ she called as Wesley was about to leave the room. ‘I’ve just remembered something.’
Wesley took a deep breath and turned round. ‘What is it?’
‘John Jones. He came into the site shop a couple of days ago when I was serving. I remember because he bought a bottle of
wine … only the cheap stuff, mind. He asked me about a place. Had I heard ofit; was it open to the public yet? It was a place that’s been in all the local papers and even some of the nationals. Those
lost gardens … oh, what are they called?’
‘Earlsacre?’ suggested Wesley tentatively.
‘That’s right. Earlsacre. He asked about Earlsacre.’
Chapter 4
In 1685 the eighteen-year-old Richard Lantrist, younger son of Sir John Lantrist of Earlsacre Hall, joined Charles II’s illegitimate
son, the Duke of Monmouth, in his attempt to seize the throne of England from King James II. Lantrist, like many men of the
West Country, was a fervent supporter of the Protestant faith and feared than the King’s Catholic inclinations might lead
the country back to Rome. Lantrist fought bravely at the Battle of Sedgemoor in which many Devonshire men were killed. He
was captured and, although he escaped the gruesome death sentence for treason so frequently and enthusiastically handed down
by the dreaded Judge Jeffreys, he was one of almost a hundred and fifty men from Devon who were sent as slaves to the West
Indies. Fourteen years later Richard Lantrist managed to return to Earlsacre, where he found that his father and elder brother
had died and that the estate was now his. He married the daughter of a neighbouring landowner and lived an uneventful
Dilys Fielding looked slightly disappointed at the mention of a wife. ‘Do you like it here?’
‘Yes.’
She sat forward as though she were about to share a confidence. ‘I’d love to get out of this place and move to somewhere with
a bit more life.’
‘Why don’t you?’
‘Because my husband loves it here. He used to live in Manchester and couldn’t wait to get out into the country. You always
want what you don’t have, I suppose,’ she added philosophically.
‘You could be right,’ said Wesley. He sensed that the woman wanted to talk so he stood still, waiting, hoping that he could
steer the conversation back to the dead man.
‘You must be mad leaving London,’ she said with a flirtatious smile. ‘I’d love to be in the middle of everything.’
Wesley shook his head. ‘It’s not all it’s cracked up to be, you know. Dr Johnson said that when a man is tired of London he
is tired of life, but I can’t say I agree with him.’
She looked Wesley in the eye. ‘You should try clearing up after a load of holidaymakers in this place. Anywhere looks good
if the only excitement you get is cleaning communal loos all day and taking a trip to the wholesalers in Plymouth to stock
up the site shop.’ There was bitterness in her voice. Dilys Fielding was a woman who was not content with her lot.
‘Well, you’ve got some excitement now, I’m afraid.’
Dilys looked at him with half-closed eyes. ‘Does this mean you’re going to be around here a lot?’ she asked hopefully.
‘It’s possible.’
‘You’ll have to tell me all about London, then.’ Her voice was mildly suggestive. ‘Perhaps when you’re not doing whatever
it is you do, I could take you to the Trawlerman’s Arms down in Bloxham. They serve good crab sandwiches. Locally caught …
the crab, I mean, not the sandwiches.’ She smiled at him coquettishly.
Wesley, sensing he was being selected to provide a little excitement in this particular bored lady’s life, decided that rapid
retreat was the best course of action.
‘Wes,’ a voice called loudly from the neighbouring room. ‘Have you finished in there or what?’ Gerry Heffernan sounded impatient.
‘Thank you, Mrs Fielding.’
‘Oh, Dilys, please.’
‘I really must get on.’
‘Sergeant,’ she called as Wesley was about to leave the room. ‘I’ve just remembered something.’
Wesley took a deep breath and turned round. ‘What is it?’
‘John Jones. He came into the site shop a couple of days ago when I was serving. I remember because he bought a bottle of
wine … only the cheap stuff, mind. He asked me about a place. Had I heard ofit; was it open to the public yet? It was a place that’s been in all the local papers and even some of the nationals. Those
lost gardens … oh, what are they called?’
‘Earlsacre?’ suggested Wesley tentatively.
‘That’s right. Earlsacre. He asked about Earlsacre.’
Chapter 4
In 1685 the eighteen-year-old Richard Lantrist, younger son of Sir John Lantrist of Earlsacre Hall, joined Charles II’s illegitimate
son, the Duke of Monmouth, in his attempt to seize the throne of England from King James II. Lantrist, like many men of the
West Country, was a fervent supporter of the Protestant faith and feared than the King’s Catholic inclinations might lead
the country back to Rome. Lantrist fought bravely at the Battle of Sedgemoor in which many Devonshire men were killed. He
was captured and, although he escaped the gruesome death sentence for treason so frequently and enthusiastically handed down
by the dreaded Judge Jeffreys, he was one of almost a hundred and fifty men from Devon who were sent as slaves to the West
Indies. Fourteen years later Richard Lantrist managed to return to Earlsacre, where he found that his father and elder brother
had died and that the estate was now his. He married the daughter of a neighbouring landowner and lived an uneventful