Jamie Gibson, an American, was the new owner of Wickersham Priory, the estate on which they were all working. Her project, both ambitious and expensive, was aimed at restoring the ten-acre gardens that had fallen into decay after decades of neglect.
As he turned to go, something on the flagstones caught his eye; a slight glint, nothing more. He stooped to look closer. It was a coin. A few feet away there was another, then a third. Picking them up, he examined them in the palm of his hand. One was a shilling, dated 1963. A sixpence was dated 1959, as was another shilling.
He turned to Jack, who was about to walk off. ‘Jack, how long would you say this place has been buried in that ivy?’
Jack thought for a moment. ‘I dunno,’ he said. ‘Bloody long time, by the looks of it. You’d know better than me—why?’
‘Just curious, that’s all.’
By eight o’clock the next morning Jack and his men had set up a battery-powered lighting rig with two floodlights clamped to a vertical rod mounted on a tripod. Over the wellhead they had constructed a makeshift pulley with a rope tied to the handle of a galvanized bucket.
Shortly after eight fifteen Kingston and Jamie joined them. The bucket, weighted with a rock, was lowered into the well. It was some time before it reached the bottom.
Huddled around the wellhead in the chill air, the small group watched silently as two of Jack’s men began pulling hand-over-hand on the pulley rope to bring the bucket up from the bottom of the well.
At last it broke the surface and they all peered over the stone ledge as it jerked and scraped its way up the last slimy ten feet—the sound echoing around the small space, misshapen shadows dancing against the white walls from the blaze of two halogen floodlights.
Sloshing water as it was lifted over the stone surround, the bucket was lowered to the floor. Jack walked over and up-ended its contents, splashing them on to the flagstones. On his haunches, he shoved the rock aside and examined the fragments of whitish material that had spilled out with the last ooze of well water and black sludge. ‘Looks like we got ourselves some animal bones, doctor,’ he said. ‘Rat—squirrel maybe.’
Kingston walked over and knelt by the upturned bucket, poking the skeletal remains with his finger. He glanced at Jack. ‘Can one of your chaps find a bag or a cloth that we can wrap these in?’
‘Sure. Why?’
‘Because this was no animal. It’s what’s left of a human hand.’
The next day, in response to Kingston’s phone call, Detective Chief Inspector Chadwick and Sergeant Eldridge from Taunton police arrived at Wickersham in an unmarked car. They were accompanied by a van with personnel from Avon and Somerset Constabulary Underwater Search Unit.
Sitting in the third row of the pews, Jamie, Kingston and the chief inspector watched as the well area was cordoned off with blue and white tape and the scene photographed with a 35mm still camera, then videotaped. Soon the underwater search diver was lowered into the well.
Three minutes passed. The diver had been submerged longer than any of them had anticipated. Conversation had ceased and all eyes were now on the steel hawser that dangled from a new pulley the police had rigged over the wellhead. Suddenly it jerked. He was on his way up.
Everyone watched with anticipation as the diver was lifted out. He snapped open his buoyancy vest and swung the scuba tank to the floor. Gripping his mask with both hands, he eased it up, resting it on the slick hood on his forehead, blinking his eyes to adjust to the floodlights. By the time he had removed the mouthpiece and tugged off his gloves there was a puddle of water at his feet. Those in the pews waited on his words.
‘Bloody dark down there,’he said. ‘Bloody cramped, too.’ Though his words were meant for Inspector Chadwick who was standing next to him, his voice echoed off the bare walls of the chapel for all to hear.
‘Anything interesting, Terry?’ Chadwick asked.
‘If you call bones interesting, sir,’ he said, peeling off his hood, waggling a finger in his ear and cocking his head to one side. ‘The doctor was right. There’s what’s left of a body down there. Mostly bones.’
‘No soft tissue, ligaments, clothing?’
‘Just a skeleton by the looks of it.’
An hour and a half later in the living room at Wickersham Priory Lawrence Kingston and Jamie sat discussing the grisly discovery. Between them on the coffee table was a disarray of china cups and saucers, a cosy-covered teapot, cake plates and crumpled napkins—the remains of their tea.
The DCI and sergeant had departed a couple of minutes earlier, having spent the best part of an hour asking questions about the events leading up to the discovery of the bones.