Blood on the Shrine

by Chris O'Donoghue

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  His name was Marcel, an odd-job man, simple, but steady and apparently without curiosity. Wolfgang knew that the gendarmerie would be on the lookout for him but whether the hamlet was too remote, or somehow they had missed it, for several days no one came seeking him. Gradually he relaxed in Marcel’s company. The man was a good, neat worker and knew what he was doing. After a day busying themselves on the boat, they would make their way to the bar-tabac where the owner would happily supply them with a meal and Wolfgang started to feel secure. After a few days the boat had gone from white to black and Marcel, showing surprising artistic talent, had painted the legend, Cormorant on the transom. When the project was completed, Wolfgang paid him off, giving him a little more than he’d asked for but not so much as to appear suspiciously over-generous.

  -0-

  As had become his custom, Wolfgang made his way to the hamlet that evening to have a meal. He had just stepped off the sandy path between the reeds, relieved to be walking on the easier Tarmac of the road. He had his head down, concentrating on dragging his foot but when he looked up he saw the unmistakeable shape of a police Citroën parked outside the bar. His stomach lurched and he stumbled, just saving himself from falling. Turning on his heel, he made his way back to the boat as quickly as he was able.

  Wolfgang spent nerve-racking minutes with the engine ticking over until the tide lifted the boat off the bottom. To save time he cut the mooring line with his knife then clambered back into the wheelhouse. He banged the gear lever into reverse and opened the throttle wide; the propeller churned up mud and silt, causing whirlpools and eddies on the surface of the water. The boat sat vibrating then suddenly came unstuck from the mud and slowly started to move out of the berth. As it speeded up he turned the craft round and headed into the Channel. Again he’d made a lucky escape. Setting a course for England he studied the chart. He needed somewhere on the south coast, preferably towards the east, where he could hole up. Then he would be in a better position to plan the liberation of his brother, Ludwig, who was in prison on a murder charge. He needed to steer clear of the area around Compass Point and Nottery Quay, where, even with the changes to the boat, she might still be recognised. With his finger he traced the coastline, further along to the west, and was drawn to the river Ouse at Newhaven. He hoped that he would be able to find a small boatyard where he could pay cash, no questions would be asked and, most importantly, the boat would not be recognised. With the decision made, he plotted the course and swung the helm heading north-west by west.

  -0-

  ‘Describe this man to me.’ Inspecteur Guillaume Bruissement stood in the doorway to the bar, his bulk filling the frame and his luxuriant moustache bristling as he spoke. Marcel was just about to open his mouth when Bruissement held up his finger. ‘No, let me tell you. A little man, probably speaking good, but accented French. He has a withered leg, with an iron brace which makes walking difficult. Am I right?’

  The man nodded, dumbfounded. ‘But how did you know?’

  ‘He’s wanted for murder – not for one but for three.’ Marcel looked about to pass out. ‘His brother, his accomplice, is in custody in England, but we have been seeking Wolfgang Müller for several days now. We thought the trail had gone cold but it looks like we’ve caught up with him.’ He looked towards the patron. ‘So he comes in here for his meals? Were you not suspicious?’

  The barman looked down and mumbled, ‘He seemed so pleasant. Always polite - and generous.’

  ‘Pfff! It was just an act. Where is he now?’

  ‘Probably on his boat.’

  ‘When did you last see him?’

  ‘He came for a meal yesterday. I was expecting him again this evening.’

  Bruissement turned to Marcel. ‘And you. When did you see him?’

  ‘We finished painting earlier today. He paid me off this afternoon and I came here. He said he would join me later.’

  ‘You’d better show me where this boat is – and quickly. I don’t want him to give us the slip again.’

  Marcel led the way out of the bar and along the village street. They hurried between the houses then, at the end of the Tarmac, on to the sandy path between the reeds, Bruissement following with two gendarmes close behind. After a few minutes they reached the edge of the land where the water gently lapped. Marcel stopped and threw up his hands. ‘He’s gone!’

  ‘What?!’

  ‘He was here. I swear it!’ He crouched and held up a length of rope, its cut end frayed. ‘Look!’

  The Inspecteur snatched it from him, his face contorted with anger. ‘I don’t believe it!’ he bellowed. ‘He’s done it again!’

  -0-

  Since then, Wolfgang had indeed found a quiet boatyard, tucked away upriver from Newhaven. It was the sort of establishment that had never seen better times, with rotting hulks sitting in the mud, piles of split and mouldering timber lying around and tangles of rope and chain, ready to trip the unwary. But it suited Wolfgang perfectly. The owner, Paddy Dickens, was more than happy to accept ready cash, giving him a snug berth for his boat and not enquiring why he needed it. Nor did he ask why the little man with the withered leg and unnaturally precise way of speaking was apparently happy to spend long periods hunkered down in his black boat, then disappear for several days before returning and doing the same again.

  -0-

  What Wolfgang had been doing was getting himself in a fit state to prepare to spring his brother from gaol. He knew that his disability would make it much more likely that he would be recognised and apprehended. He’d contracted polio as a boy which had left him with a withered leg, much weaker and shorter than the other, which necessitated wearing a built-up boot and caused him trouble when walking, especially over uneven or rough surfaces. He was aware that it was too late for the treatment that Jonas Salk had developed in the States but he was determined to discover anything that would help with his mobility. Money was not a problem – his late parents had left him well-provided for so he decided to seek help in the best possible area - Harley Street.

  The first thing he did when the boat was secured at its berth was to rummage around in the stern locker and find a tin of leftover black paint and a brush. Then, carefully leaning over the transom, he obliterated Marcel’s handiwork, rendering the boat nameless and thus less recognisable. This anonymity was further enhanced by the berth he had secured. It was simply an indentation in the soft, loamy soil of the bank. So after a very few ebbs and flows of the tide, the sides of the boat had become streaked with mud and thus less black and more subfusc. Wolfgang also realised that his name, Müller, would immediately mark him out, so he needed a new identity. He reckoned that his French was pretty good – he’d had no problems in the bar-tabac – so perhaps pretending to be French might be the answer. If necessary he could explain his accent by saying that he came from the Alsace, which bordered Germany. As for a name, Müller translated into French as meunier, so he would become Monsieur Meunier. Also, he would make sure that the leg iron he wore would be concealed as far as possible. He bought a stout stick to give him something to lean on and help with walking. The top terminated in a small V. He understood this was a thumb stick. He found it comfortable to use and was pleased with the purchase. A pair of dark glasses and a wide-brimmed hat bought in a local shop changed his appearance considerably. He was satisfied with what he saw when he examined himself in a mirror in the cabin of Cormorant. Suitably prepared, he set off for the railway station.

  He had no trouble purchasing a ticket – the clerk showed little interest in him – and he easily found an empty compartment on the train standing at the platform. However, things were different when he got to Lewes, where he had to change trains. The station was busy, and there was quite a crowd waiting for the London train. But, to his amazement, his apparent disability, and, possibly, the dark glasses, seemed to make him appear vulnerable and needing assistance. Two kindly souls not only helped him on to the train but made sure he had a seat. He thanked them in, what he ho
ped, was English heavily accented with French, and received just smiles and encouragement in return. Thus prepared, he set off for his first visit to the capital.

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  Arriving at Victoria station, he gave up his ticket at the barrier and made his way out on to the station forecourt where a row of taxis stood. As he leaned into the window of the first one a gruff voice asked: ‘Where to, guv?’

  ‘Harley Street, please.’

  ‘In you get then.’ Herr Müller/Monsieur Meunier climbed into the taxi; the driver waited until he had settled back into his seat, and then headed off.

  Chapter 8

  Sir Giles Gilbert Scott was an English architect known for his work on Battersea Power Station, Cambridge University Library, Liverpool Cathedral and Waterloo Bridge and for designing the iconic red telephone box.

  Russell gently replaced the receiver on the handset. He sat back in his chair and rubbed his face with both hands then let out a heartfelt sigh. He whistled a snatch of Frankie Laine’s Answer Me. He had just had a long telephone conversation with his French opposite number, Bruissement. Under normal circumstances he would have welcomed a chance to chat with his friend. The previous year they had greatly enjoyed each other’s company, succeeding in preventing a cruel murder and bringing Ludwig Müller to justice but now, several months on, there was little to celebrate. The shame was that the German’s brother, Wolfgang, had evaded capture not once, but twice. Bruissement had rung with the disappointing news that his superiors were going to review the case against the absent Müller brother. They hinted that if no further progress was made it would be shelved. There was a knock on Russell’s door. Aggie, sitting under the desk, pricked up her ears.

  ‘Come in,’ Russell said wearily. Superintendent Stout’s pudgy face appeared around the door. Russell quickly got to his feet. ‘Sorry, Sir. I didn’t realise it was you.’ He couldn’t remember the last time Stout had come to see him. Almost without exception he was summoned to the boss’s office. The dog was about to growl but fell silent when Russell nudged her with his foot.

  ‘Sit down, man. Don’t stand on ceremony.’ Surprised, Russell sat down again, Stout taking the chair opposite him.

  ‘What can I do for you, Sir?’

  ‘I’ve been thinking about this business at that place you went to.’

  ‘Shambhala?’

  ‘That’s it. The Buddhist place over near Uckfield.’ Stout wriggled in the chair, trying to make his bulk more comfortable. He reached into his inside pocket and took out a slim cheroot. He waved it at Russell. ‘D’you mind?’

  Russell wasn’t keen but Stout was the boss. ‘Of course not, Sir,’ he said, opening a drawer and taking out an ashtray. ‘Go ahead.’ Stout nodded, put the small cigar between his lips and, from a side pocket, produced a Zippo lighter.

  Russell had often wondered why his boss had a Zippo instead of a Ronson lighter, which seemed more fitting to his position. Then he found out. Stout had served in the Royal Air Force during the war. He had been stationed at an airfield in Norfolk used by American bomber crews and had become friendly with them. Hence his preference for the US-designed Zippo.

  Stout thumbed the flint wheel several times before the lighter produced a bluish flame. Holding it to the end of the cheroot he sucked greedily until the end glowed orange. Then, taking it out of his mouth, he tipped his head back and sent a stream of smoke towards the ceiling. Russell put his fist up to his mouth and tried not to cough. As a non-smoker his sinuses were easily affected by tobacco smoke although he didn’t find cigars too objectionable, unlike ‘Bonnie’ Parker’s foul Capstan Full Strength. The terrier lay down, her chin resting on her paws, and gave a long sigh.

  ‘Now, Russell.’

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘About this business at Shamb-whatsit…’

  ‘Shambhala, Sir.’

  Stout waved his hand, scattering ash across the desk. ‘Yes, whatever.’

  ‘Do you mean the monk who died?’

  ‘Of course not.’ he said impatiently. ‘Crooks established that was death from natural causes, didn’t he?’ Russell nodded. Stout went on: ‘I meant this Elsdale fellow. The one who got impaled on the branch.’

  ‘Oh, right.’

  ‘Did you interview the monks about those two that went off early?’

  ‘Well, I got addresses for them.’

  ‘Yes, yes, but they didn’t exist, did they?’

  ‘Er no, Sir.’

  ‘No.’ Stout took a long drag on his cigar. ‘Did you find out anything else about them?’

  Russell could have kicked himself. ‘I’m afraid not, Sir. I didn’t think of it at the time. I assumed we’d be able to track them down easily.’

  ‘And of course, you couldn’t.’ Stout’s face had reddened. ‘I expected better of you, Inspector.’

  ‘Yes, Sir.’ Russell spoke quietly.

  ‘I think you’d better go back and do the job properly. And take Weeks with you. Hopefully he won’t miss anything.’ Stout ground the cigar butt into the ashtray, heaved himself out of the chair and left the room, without another word.

  Russell rose and went to the door, Aggie at his heel. Peering round the frame he called: ‘Weeks?’ The tousled head of his DC appeared above a teetering stack of files. ‘We’re off to Uckfield. Get your coat.’

  -0-

  When they arrived at Shambhala the car park was empty and there was no reply when they knocked on the front door. ‘Strange,’ Russell said, ‘I was sure there would be someone here.’ He scratched his head. Aggie, who had been sitting patiently at his feet, suddenly took off, round the side of the house. ‘Aggie!’ he called. But she was gone.

  ‘Should we follow, Sir?’ Weeks asked.

  ‘I guess so,’ Russell answered. ‘C’mon.’ The two officers set off after the dog and made their way round to the back of the house but there was no sign of the monks. They continued on to the shrine room. The terrier was standing by the door, wagging her tail. Weeks was just about to knock when Russell placed a hand on his arm. ‘No wait, lad. They could be meditating.’ Walking along the side of the building, he came to a window, the sill low enough to see in. Shielding his eyes from the reflected light, Russell peered through the glass. Sure enough, four figures, swaddled in blankets, sat motionless. ‘Ah, I was right.’ He stepped away from the window. ‘Let’s go and have a cuppa while we wait.’ They went into the house through the back door and Russell led the way to the dining room.

  Once they were settled at a table with two mugs of tea, Aggie, lying on the floor under the table, Weeks spoke: ‘What is this meditation business all about, Sir?’

  Russell took a draught from his mug, sat back in his chair and thought, his brow furrowed. ‘Well,’ he began, ‘essentially, the idea is to clear the mind, let go of random thoughts and try to achieve a state of higher consciousness.’

  It was Week’s turn to look baffled. ‘But how do you do that?’

  ‘The idea is pretty straightforward, but the practicality is a little more difficult.’

  ‘How’s that, Sir?’

  Well it sounds simple but it’s amazing how many random and unconnected thoughts seem to clog up the mind.’

  ‘What do you actually do?’

  ‘We-ell,’ Russell said slowly, ‘you have to get yourself comfortable first. It’s best to sit cross-legged on a low cushion, with extra support under your knees, if necessary.’ He grinned. ‘We Europeans aren’t quite as flexible as our Asian cousins.’

  Weeks was intrigued. ‘And then what?’

  ‘When you get comfortable – if you can – you concentrate on emptying your mind.’ Russell was about to continue when the door opened and Sanghaketu and Vidyatara entered. The policemen stood up.

  Sanghaketu stepped forward. ‘Hello Mr Russell, and…?’ he looked towards the other policeman.

  ‘This is Detective Constable Weeks. I hope you didn’t mind us helping ourselves to some tea – we didn’t want to disturb you. I’m afraid we need to ask you a
few more questions. Please, sit down.’ The four of them sat round the table. ‘We need to ask you about the two who left early, Laurie Baker and Helen.’

  ‘What do you wish to know?’ Sanghaketu asked.

  ‘Anything you can tell us really.’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘Where they had come from, for instance.’

  ‘I’m afraid I cannot tell you any more than I already have. I did give you their addresses, did I not?’

  ‘Yes you did, but both addresses were false.’

  Vidyatara held up a finger. ‘I think I may be able to help you.’

  ‘Oh yes?’ Russell cocked his head on one side.

  ‘I remembered that the woman…’

  ‘Helen.’

  ‘Yes, Helen, she has been here before.’ Russell sat up straight. ‘I remember her. She was very good at meditating. What you would call a natural. I looked back through our records and found the dates.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘There was an address, and it was different from the one she gave this time.’

  Russell was visibly excited. ‘Do you still have it?’

  ‘Of course, I will get it for you.’

  ‘Did she tell you anything about herself?’ Weeks asked Sanghaketu when the other man had left.

  The monk seemed lost in thought. Russell was just about to prompt him when he spoke. His words were slow and measured. ‘She told me that she lived on the other side of the county. Somewhere near a place called…’ He thought again. ‘…something Quay, I think.’

  The policemen looked at each other. ‘Nottery Quay?’ Weeks asked.

  ‘Yes, I think that was the place.’ Sanghaketu said slowly.

  ‘Did she say what she did for a living?’

  ‘Not really. Something in an office perhaps?’

  ‘And did she mention any friends?’