Stephen Booth - The Corpse Bridge

A sheet of blue plastic had been secured over the back wall of the chapel, as if repair work was under way. But when Burns lifted a corner of the sheet, they could see that it was concealing the graffiti that had been sprayed on the stone wall in red paint. It was clearly something you wouldn’t want your paying visitors to see.

‘Why is it that people who spray graffiti never know how to spell “Fascists”?’ commented Fry.

Burns dropped the plastic back into place. ‘They always know how to spell that other word, though,’ she said.

‘And the letter?’

‘Come through into the office for a few minutes,’ said Burns.

Inside the abbey every room had huge Georgian sash windows with wooden shutters. Here in the east wing, all the window frames were rotten. Cooper reckoned it wouldn’t take more than a few seconds with a jemmy to remove the panes of glass or wrench out the catch. What on earth did the insurance companies have to say about an arrangement like this?

In places there were bare floorboards and cracked plaster on the ceiling. The heads of various species of antelope and impala mounted on wooden plaques stared at each other from the walls.

One room they passed through was enormous, two storeys high, with furniture including a grand piano and a full-sized billiards table. A large fireplace was dominated by an almost life-sized family portrait and a couple of red sofas had been roped off to keep the public away. Cooper shook his head at the sight. Did the earl and his family sit here of an evening, gathered in this huge, draughty room that must be impossible to heat properly, perched uncomfortably on those ancient sofas, looked down on by mounted antelope heads, staring at the glass cases with their collections of stuffed animals?

‘There are bullet holes in the wall here,’ said Cooper when they reached the offices.

‘Friendly fire,’ said Burns.

‘What?’

‘There was a detachment of American soldiers billeted in this part of the abbey during the Second World War. I gather some of them were a bit trigger happy.’

‘It looks as though they used the impala for target practice.’

‘I think that’s right.’

Cooper recalled visiting Newstead Abbey in Nottinghamshire once and being told by the guide about Lord Byron’s habit of enjoying indoor pistol practice, resulting in bullet holes in the walls and doors. That must have been in the early nineteenth century. Nothing much changed, really.

‘If you leave via the main entrance of the abbey, you should take a look in the old nursery on your way out,’ said Burns. ‘Just follow the signs.’

‘Did you keep the anonymous letter?’ asked Cooper.

Burns reached into a drawer and produced a tattered envelope. ‘Yes. I thought you might want it.’

Cooper winced, thinking of all the fingerprints and extraneous trace substances now contaminating the evidence. Fry produced a pair of gloves and a plastic bag. She extracted the letter and they both read it. Like the address on the envelope, the message was produced on a laser printer, and it was very short.

Our dead are never dead to us, until we’ve forgotten them. Remember: Death will have his day!

‘A quotation, I suppose,’ said Fry. ‘What is it from?’

‘We never really troubled to find out,’ said Burns. ‘It didn’t seem important at the time.’

‘Come on, Ben, you’re the literary one.’

But Cooper was frowning over the message. ‘It sounds like a quotation,’ he said. ‘But I think it’s a bit of a hotch- potch.’

‘“Death will have his day” sounds familiar,’ said Fry. ‘It’s got to be either Shakespeare or the Bible.’

‘Possibly.’

‘Or am I thinking of “Every dog will have his day”?’

Cooper handed her the letter and she slid it back into its envelope. He wondered what she was really doing here, if she was trying to help. She certainly wasn’t helping very much so far.

‘It doesn’t necessarily seem like a threat anyway,’ said Fry. ‘It’s just a quotation. It could mean anything. What do you think, Ben?’

‘Well, it wouldn’t stand up in court,’ he said. ‘Not on its own.’

‘It’s addressed to “Earl Manby and family, Knowle Abbey”. They’ve even used the postcode. First-class stamp, but the postmark is unreadable of course. I can’t remember the last time I was able to read a postmark.’

‘Do you have any idea what it means, Miss Burns?’ asked Cooper.

She shook her head. ‘It’s too vague. We didn’t take the letter seriously — we almost threw it away in the office, but for some reason I left it in a tray and it stayed there.’

‘And that was about three weeks ago?’

‘Yes. The vandalism is more recent. One of the staff found it on Friday morning, fortunately before the first visitors arrived.’

‘I think there was a report of an intruder in the grounds.’

‘Yes, we’ve had a few incidents in the past. They’re usually harmless, of course. Just the curious or drunk. Usually, they get too close to the buildings and trigger a security light, then they disappear as fast as they can. We do get poachers now and then. There’s a herd of roe deer in the park. But this one seemed different. A bit more disturbing. One of the security team spotted him and said he was dressed in dark clothing and just seemed to be watching from a safe distance in the trees, where he was out of range of the sensors. He’d gone when they went to look for him.’

‘Do you know of any reason why the earl or any of the members of his family should be targeted in this way?’ asked Cooper.

Burns shrugged. ‘It’s just general envy, isn’t it? Some people get very bitter.’

Cooper glanced at Fry. ‘I suppose so.’

‘But I’m aware that we have to take a few precautions. In case there’s anybody who decides to take their grievance further.’

‘Absolutely.’

‘You said the graffiti was found on Friday morning,’ said Fry.

‘Yes?’

‘What was going on here at Knowle Abbey on Halloween night?’

‘Ah, take a look for yourself.’

Burns took a leaflet from a pile on her desk. ‘We have to find any opportunity to put on special events and get people in. We’re starting to prepare for our Christmas events now.’

Fry took the leaflet, scanned it quickly and passed it to Cooper. On a spooky background of ghosts and bats flying across the moon, it read:

Knowle at Halloween. Thursday 31 October. Explore Knowle Abbey’s dark and spooky interior. Definitely not for the faint-hearted! Gather in the restaurant for a spooky themed meal or a glass of Dutch courage before departing up to the abbey by timed ticket. The restaurant will be open from 6pm for pre- and post-performance suppers and refreshments. Please note that due to low light levels and time constraints, this event is not suitable for visitors with limited mobility. Tickets £20 per person. Must be booked in advance.

‘Twenty pounds?’ said Fry flatly. ‘How many people did you get coming along for that price?’

‘Oh, a few dozen.’

‘So you had strangers wandering around the abbey in the dark all evening from 7 p.m.?’ said Cooper.

‘Not wandering around exactly, Sergeant. All the groups were accompanied by a guide.’

‘Even so…’

‘I’m afraid it’s not exactly difficult to get into the abbey grounds at night, if you’re determined to do so,’ said Burns. ‘Of course, we have security. And alarms.’

‘But if all you want to do is creep up to the chapel and daub some graffiti on the wall, while the public are trooping in and out of the abbey for some Halloween event…’

‘Yes. Anybody could have managed it.’

‘“Explore Knowle Abbey’s dark and spooky interior”,’ quoted Fry. ‘I take it that means…’