disdainful look. ‘Not a re-enactment – a visualisation. It will be my next work after Feast of Life
Revisited. Richard’s ancestor used to keep a jester whose journal was found in the family archives. Alfred’s allowed me to
read it.’
‘Alfred’s my father,’ said Richard by way of explanation.
Orford ignored him. ‘The jester was called John Tandy but he was commonly known as Silly John. When I learned about his life
the concept suddenly came to me.’
‘What concept?’ Neil asked, curious now.
‘A hunt. But we’ll have no objection from the animal rights lobby.’
‘Why’s that?’
‘We hunt human beings, that’s why.’
Neil glanced at Richard Catton and he was surprised to see that he looked worried.
*
It was the height of the tourist season, so the craft workshops in the converted barn on the outskirts of the village of Stoke
Raphael were open for business all weekend.
When Trish had returned to the incident room and told DCI Heffernan what she’d learned from Steven Bowles, he’d announced
that as it was a pleasant day and he needed some fresh air, he’d come with her to the workshops to see if they could find
anyone who knew Tessa Trencham. She forced herself to smile. The DCI’s blunt approach didn’t go down well with everyone, especially
those of a nervous, criminal or artistic disposition.
He asked her whether she’d managed to contact Sylvia Cartland and Carl Heckerty, the individuals who’d provided Morbay Properties
with Tessa’s references, and she had to tell him that she’d had no luck as yet. But she’d keep trying.
She drove them out to Stoke Raphael. The roads were packed with tourists, all wanting a Saturday afternoon out in the resort
of Morbay, and when they reached Stoke Raphael all the available parking spaces had already been taken by visitors who had
come to gaze at the village’s attractions: the thousand year old yew tree in the churchyard; the picturesque pubs and the
waterfront. When Trish eventually managed to park, a wooden fingerpost directed them to the Craft Centre by way of the riverside
path.
‘Lovely day,’ said Gerry, turning his face towards the sun.
‘Not for Tessa Trencham,’ Trish said softly.
‘The poor woman’s in a better place, Trish.’
‘You believe that, sir?’
‘Don’t you?’
Trish didn’t reply. Questions of life and death seemedtoo overwhelming just at that moment. She changed the subject to something more comfortable and mundane.
‘We haven’t been able to trace any next of kin.’
‘It’s early days.’
‘Didn’t Dr Bowman say she’d had a child?’
‘It could have been adopted. Or died. There was certainly no sign of a child in that house.’
‘We don’t really know anything about her life, do we?’
It was Gerry’s turn to fall silent. They walked on, and as they rounded a bend the Craft Centre came into view. The agricultural
origins of the building could be seen if you looked carefully but the old barn had been so comprehensively modernised that
any farm hand who’d worked there back in the days of its original purpose would hardly have recognised it. Today the place
was crowded with visitors in shorts and bright summer dresses flocking around the huge arched entrance. Whining children armed
with ice creams were being dragged along by overheated parents and sullen men were being coaxed towards the shopping experience
by their eager wives. Trish knew that similar scenes would be playing out at every shopping centre in the land, but in these
normally tranquil rural surroundings, they seemed a little out of place.
‘I think we’ve chosen a bad time,’ Gerry observed. But, undeterred, he edged his way past the crowd and soon they were inside
the building where small shops lined the walls, each with its own workshop space at the rear so that the public could see
the items for sale being created.
‘This place must be a gold mine in high season,’
Revisited. Richard’s ancestor used to keep a jester whose journal was found in the family archives. Alfred’s allowed me to
read it.’
‘Alfred’s my father,’ said Richard by way of explanation.
Orford ignored him. ‘The jester was called John Tandy but he was commonly known as Silly John. When I learned about his life
the concept suddenly came to me.’
‘What concept?’ Neil asked, curious now.
‘A hunt. But we’ll have no objection from the animal rights lobby.’
‘Why’s that?’
‘We hunt human beings, that’s why.’
Neil glanced at Richard Catton and he was surprised to see that he looked worried.
*
It was the height of the tourist season, so the craft workshops in the converted barn on the outskirts of the village of Stoke
Raphael were open for business all weekend.
When Trish had returned to the incident room and told DCI Heffernan what she’d learned from Steven Bowles, he’d announced
that as it was a pleasant day and he needed some fresh air, he’d come with her to the workshops to see if they could find
anyone who knew Tessa Trencham. She forced herself to smile. The DCI’s blunt approach didn’t go down well with everyone, especially
those of a nervous, criminal or artistic disposition.
He asked her whether she’d managed to contact Sylvia Cartland and Carl Heckerty, the individuals who’d provided Morbay Properties
with Tessa’s references, and she had to tell him that she’d had no luck as yet. But she’d keep trying.
She drove them out to Stoke Raphael. The roads were packed with tourists, all wanting a Saturday afternoon out in the resort
of Morbay, and when they reached Stoke Raphael all the available parking spaces had already been taken by visitors who had
come to gaze at the village’s attractions: the thousand year old yew tree in the churchyard; the picturesque pubs and the
waterfront. When Trish eventually managed to park, a wooden fingerpost directed them to the Craft Centre by way of the riverside
path.
‘Lovely day,’ said Gerry, turning his face towards the sun.
‘Not for Tessa Trencham,’ Trish said softly.
‘The poor woman’s in a better place, Trish.’
‘You believe that, sir?’
‘Don’t you?’
Trish didn’t reply. Questions of life and death seemedtoo overwhelming just at that moment. She changed the subject to something more comfortable and mundane.
‘We haven’t been able to trace any next of kin.’
‘It’s early days.’
‘Didn’t Dr Bowman say she’d had a child?’
‘It could have been adopted. Or died. There was certainly no sign of a child in that house.’
‘We don’t really know anything about her life, do we?’
It was Gerry’s turn to fall silent. They walked on, and as they rounded a bend the Craft Centre came into view. The agricultural
origins of the building could be seen if you looked carefully but the old barn had been so comprehensively modernised that
any farm hand who’d worked there back in the days of its original purpose would hardly have recognised it. Today the place
was crowded with visitors in shorts and bright summer dresses flocking around the huge arched entrance. Whining children armed
with ice creams were being dragged along by overheated parents and sullen men were being coaxed towards the shopping experience
by their eager wives. Trish knew that similar scenes would be playing out at every shopping centre in the land, but in these
normally tranquil rural surroundings, they seemed a little out of place.
‘I think we’ve chosen a bad time,’ Gerry observed. But, undeterred, he edged his way past the crowd and soon they were inside
the building where small shops lined the walls, each with its own workshop space at the rear so that the public could see
the items for sale being created.
‘This place must be a gold mine in high season,’
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