The Wren Enigma (Vance And Shepherd Mysteries Book 6)

Book summary

Dr. Amelia Evans becomes entangled in a dangerous mystery when her friend is murdered in a historic church, revealing a secret tied to the Philosophers’ Stone. As she faces threats from rogue Freemasons and unexpected allies, her quest to solve the enigma could lead to glory—or devastating consequences.

THE WREN ENIGMA is a gripping crime mystery in John Broughton's Vance and Shepherd Mysteries series.

Excerpt from The Wren Enigma (Vance And Shepherd Mysteries Book 6)

St Martin-in-the-Fields, Trafalgar Square, London 2024 AD

Beryl French, volunteer worker, surprised herself with the calm authority with which she took control of the nightmare scenario.

“Move away, no, farther back! This is a crime scene! Nobody is to leave the premises until the police have arrived. Vanessa, call 999 and tell the operator a murder has been committed here.” Beryl had no authority except common sense to act on. It seemed to her the best thing was to freeze the visitors as if in a tableau. For all she knew, the killer was still in their midst. She was more than a little relieved when a deep authoritative male voice issued orders, “DS Simmons, have the public take seats in the cafeteria and arrange constables to take statements.”

Satisfied, the police officer gazed around the expectant faces and said, “Now, who’s in charge here?”

“Well, nobody, really,” said a plump, middle-aged woman with a pleasant smile fixed like a mask over her anxiety, “The vicar is probably upstairs preparing for evensong and down here we’re all either volunteers or visitors. I’m Beryl French, in charge of the brass rubbing department. Other ladies organise the tea, coffee and cakes over there in the Café in the Crypt. Others run the little shop and gallery.”

“DCI Vance, Madam,” he said, flashing his warrant card, “thank you for keeping people away from the crime scene. Not everyone is so quick-thinking in this kind of situation. Now, while our forensics people and the medical officer get to work, perhaps you and I could have a quiet word over there,” he indicated a corner where a square column stood between the exit and the wall, providing a semi-private space.

“Miss French—”

“Mrs, actually, I’ve been married for eighteen years and have two children.”

“Ah, sorry, Mrs French, is there anything you can tell me that might shed light on this killing?”

“Let me see, it would have been about ten past seven when it happened. I know that,” she said hurriedly, “because the ladies had finished serving the last pots of tea. They close at seven o’clock, but there’s always a little latitude. The first visitors were leaving. Now, over here at the brass rubbing, we continue till later. Many people like Ms Walker work slowly and precisely.”

“Walker? So, you know her name? Is she a regular, then?”

“Not at all, but she made a regular booking in the name of Alice Walker from South Shields. Anyway, whoever shot her did it at ten past seven.”

Vance looked impressed, “How can you be so sure?”

“I’d noticed the people going from the café and then I heard what sounded like a heavy book falling on the floor or a chair overturning. I was doing the daily accounts just around the corner, so Ms Walker was out of sight. I left what I was doing, just to make sure everything was alright over there…I mean, she might have dropped something or hurt herself. It’s Tuesday and we weren’t exactly rushed off our feet with rubbings. We had a couple in the morning, two children, who wanted to do unicorns at the feet of knights. Sorry! I don’t suppose that’s important, but that’s when I saw her, slumped over her work—and, oh, the blood from her poor head all over her paper.”

“Think carefully, Mrs French, when you came around the column and saw the victim slumped there, did you see anyone else? Maybe hurrying away?”

“I remember distinctly spinning around and looking in all directions, which was when I heard a young woman in a red coat scream and a little girl cry out for her mummy, but no, nothing suspicious. I assume that most of those due to leave the café had already left, presumably the killer, too. Of course, people were soon alerted and gathered around out of curiosity, which was when I shooed them away from the body.”

She looked for encouragement from the reassuring detective chief inspector. She appraised him and admired a man in his mid-fifties, with shrewd eyes, broad forehead and greying temples, all indicating astuteness. He had a small, sharp nose, which suggested refinement and a strong jawline. All told, she was appreciating something close to her ideal of a senior policeman, although she had never had anything to do with such an exalted being. He was praising her again for her smart response in an emergency. But she still had an ace up her sleeve.

“There’s one more thing, DCI Vance—”

He arched an eyebrow and his piercing grey eyes bored into hers. “Yes?”

“When Mrs Walker came just after lunch, she was with a friend—a woman about her age. I noticed her among the onlookers after the commotion. I remember because she was sobbing into a handkerchief. She went back to sit at one of the tables, probably to finish her mug of tea.”

“Can you describe her?” he asked eagerly.

“I can do better than that, Inspector, I can take you to her.”

Without awaiting confirmation, Beryl French set off, half-turning to make sure that he was following. For his part, Vance gestured to his colleague and close friend, DCI Shepherd, who understood and closed in on them on a diagonal. She ignored French and whispered, “What is it, Jacob?”

“This lady volunteer spotted the victim with a pal. She’s taking me for a word. I’d like you to question her; you know, the female touch.”

“No problem.”

Beryl French strolled right up to a woman in her early forties, bent her face close to hers and whispered a few words.

“Would you like to come with me, Madam,” DCI Shepherd urged, “best if we find a quiet corner.” Her startling sapphire blue eyes smiled at the woman, whose own eyes were red-rimmed from crying. Well-used to setting witnesses at their ease, Shepherd guided the woman over to the same area Vance had used to question Mrs French. As for him, he bought his obliging witness a cup of tea, although as an employee, she need not have paid, she still appreciated the gesture. He excused himself and wandered over to greet another colleague who was also a friend, Chief Medical Examiner, Francis Tremethyk, a genial Cornishman with a thick West Country accent.

“Hello me-dear,” Jacob teased, beating him to his catchphrase. “What have you got for me?”

“Only the obvious, I’m afraid. Death by a single bullet to the occipital. Judging by the size of the entry wound, fired from close range and possibly with a sound suppressor in place.”

“That tallies,” Vance said laconically, “Time of death?”

Both men glanced at their watches. “About thirty-five minutes ago.”

“Thanks, doc. That fits with our evidence so far. Now, I must leave you to pursue my inquiries as we say over at the Yard.”

“I don’t believe you’ve ever said that in your life, dear boy. I’ll get my report to you as soon as I’ve pursued mine.”

With a smile on his face, Vance sauntered over to his colleague and her witness, taking in the scene of the crime from every possible angle on his way. When he joined Shepherd, she said, “This is DCI Vance.”

“Two DCIs, well, I am honoured.”

Vance looked at her reproachfully, “We have a murder at peak tourist time in the centre of London. I hardly think it’s a matter for flippancy Ms – er–”

“Evans, Detective Chief Inspector, Doctor Amelia Evans. My apologies. I hardly meant to be flippant. That’s an old friend of mine over there as I was saying to your colleague. Please put my words down to shock.”

“Would you mind repeating what you have told DCI Shepherd? I appreciate it must be stressful for you, but even the slightest detail brought to mind might be important.”

“Not at all. We’ve been friends since university, Nottingham to be exact, back in the late ‘90s. I studied history and philosophy and Alice read medicine, she specialised in psychiatry.”

“I thought you were the doctor?”

“Yes, but a Doctor of Philosophy, specialising in seventeenth- and eighteenth-century philosophy. It’s one of the reasons I came to London with Alice. It’s a long story and I don’t know if it’s helpful.”

“Let us be the judge of that, Dr Evans. Psychiatry, you say, so we could be looking for an unbalanced patient with a grudge.”

Evans looked shocked, wiped an eye with a sleeve, her chin trembled and eyes filled again. She managed, “I doubt that very much, Inspector, Alice was much loved by her patients—”

“We have to keep an open mind. Why was she interested in brass rubbing of all things?”

“It goes back to our student days. Just across from the campus at Nottingham is Wollaton Park with the village of the same name. The church of Wollaton St Leonard contains two splendid fifteenth-century brass effigies of Sir Richard Willoughby and his wife, Lady Anne. Alice got permission from the vicar and equipped herself with butcher’s paper and heelball and made two splendid rubbings, which she had framed and hung in her living room. They make quite an impact.” She paused and looked at the DCI who nodded encouragement. “Which was why when we came to London—”

“From?

“South Shields. We took the direct train from Newcastle Central to King’s Cross this morning. We snatched a sandwich and a beer then came straight here. You see, I’m working on a paper about Sir Christopher Wren and his associates, so Alice jumped at the chance of adding another rubbing to the two in her lounge.”

“So, there was no particular significance to the rubbing?”

“No, just one she liked. These are all replicas, of course, to prevent damage, but Alice had seen a catalogue of brasses published by the Victoria and Albert Museum, which considers this one of Sir Robert De Bures to be the finest military brass in existence. He died in 1331. I told her it was a big job because it’s life-size, but she wasn’t deterred. Well, it suited me. I left her to it all afternoon while I went off to the British Library.” She dug in her pocket and pulled out a current Reader Pass. Vance gave it a cursory glance and passed it to Shepherd, who immediately handed it back to Evans.

“Tell me, Dr Evans, did Dr Walker mention any problems of late. Was there anyone who might have wanted to harm her?”

“Good Lord, no. She was excited about our break in London and didn’t seem to have a care in the world. She was weighing up how best to transport her rubbing back up north or whether to have it framed here in London, since we were planning to stay for a fortnight, there was a chance a framer would oblige her.”

“I see, and where are you staying?”

“We were sharing a room—to save on expenses—” she added hastily, “at the Harlingford Hotel.”

“That’s convenient for the British Library,” Shepherd’s oval face broke into a pleasant smile.

“Yes, and quite reasonable, too. I expect I’ll have to inform them about – about Alice.”

“I’ll come with you to do the explaining,” Shepherd offered.

“Oh, yes, please.”

“We’ll also inform her next of kin.” Shepherd’s face had taken on a peculiar faraway expression as she stared across at the opposite wall. “That’s odd,” she murmured. “Excuse me a moment.” Vance and Evans both gazed at her with curiosity.

She wandered across to Dr Sabrina Markham, Head of Forensics and pointed at the same area of wall.

Vance took advantage of being alone with the witness, “Do you know what Alice was planning to do with her time while you were busy researching Wren in these days?”

“Not exactly, she did mention seeing places out of the centre, like Greenwich, Kingston and some of the hidden gems she’d found on some Internet sites.”

“Mmm, I see.”

But what he was actually seeing was his colleague pointing at a wall.