Free The Shadow Collector by Kate Ellis Page B

land. If the murderer had parked a vehicle at the end of Lilith
     Benley’s winding drive, it wouldn’t have been visible from the cottage – and if he’d skirted round her fields, he could easily
     have gained access to the field where the body had been found by climbing the gate.
    ‘Maybe once we’ve seen Joe Jessop, we should have another word with Lilith Benley,’ said Gerry as they walked to the car.
    ‘She’s already told us she didn’t see anything. Wouldn’t that be construed as harassment?’
    ‘If she didn’t want the police to harass her, she shouldn’t have murdered those two lasses,’ said Gerry righteously.
    Wesley said nothing.
    The sun was peeping half-heartedly through the clouds as Neil watched his colleagues working in the trench. From the wooded
     spur of land that had been named Princes Bower during the Civil War – after King Charles I’s nephew, Prince Maurice, who had
     laid siege to the town – there was a spectacular view of Tradmouth Castle and the wide expanse of sea beyond. But his mind
     was on the excavation as he walked around the edge of the trench examining the contents of the finds trays; a motley collection
     of musket balls, coins and clay pipes, mundane souvenirs of extraordinary times. The members of the public who had participated
     in the dig so enthusiastically all summer had long departed, back to their day jobs and colleges, leaving the professionals
     to tie up the loose ends before returning the site to nature and the occasional adventurous walker.
    The fortifications at Princes Bower had been built by the Royalist army that had taken Tradmouth in 1643 after amonth-long siege. Three years later they’d served as a refuge for around a thousand occupying Royalist soldiers who’d fled
     the town when Tradmouth was retaken by General Fairfax. Because of the site’s inaccessibility and the fact that it was on
     protected National Trust land, it was a well-preserved reminder of the time England had torn itself apart. Brother against
     brother. Son against father.
    With few exceptions, the citizens of Tradmouth back then had supported Parliament’s cause against King Charles I who had demanded
     exorbitant fines and taxes from the port to support his unpopular regime. Nobody likes the taxman. Some things never change.
    The carving in the garden at Mercy Hall, the image of the hanging woman and the date 1643, had aroused Neil’s curiosity so
     he’d done some research of his own. In 1643 Mercy Hall had been a notable house overlooking the town, elevated above the bustle
     of the quayside and the narrow, stinking streets. It had been home to the Hadness family who has prospered from Tradmouth’s
     burgeoning trade with Newfoundland. He’d also found an account of Alison Hadness’s trial for witchcraft. When he visited the
     Hall again, he’d tell Harriet Mumford all about it. But in the meantime he had a job to do.
    Yielding to temptation, he took his trowel from his pocket and grabbed a kneeling mat before climbing into Dave’s trench where
     his colleague greeted him with a nod and a grin.
    He worked for an hour or so, scraping away the earth, and he had just uncovered a trio of musket balls when he heard a female
     voice calling his name. He looked up and saw Harriet Mumford standing a few feet away on the edge of the trench, wrapped up
     warm against the cool breezeblowing in from the English Channel with a red woolly hat hiding her long, silky hair.
    Neil straightened himself up, suddenly aware of his unkempt appearance … and hoping she wasn’t there to bring him bad news.
    A strand of hair escaped from her hat and she pushed it back with an ungloved hand. ‘I thought I’d better come and tell you.
     The builders have been removing that panelling and …’
    ‘I thought they were going to wait till I was there.’ They’d disobeyed his instructions and he felt a pang of irritation.
    ‘The Conservation Officer came and said it was OK,’ she said.