“Hey, Professor Lucius, I knew you'd been holding out on us man.” Winston was grinning again as he spoke, as if he knew that Lucius had saved the best until the end, and appreciated the fact that this strange man had suddenly appeared as if from nowhere and was pulling out all the stops to help them.
“Yes, Lucius, come on, put us all out of our misery,” Sally implored.
Cutler simply sat resting his chin on his hands, waiting to hear what else Lucius had discovered.
“Well,” said the professor, “it seems, according to Angela Trent, that there was some small mystery involving the last voyage of the SS Livara. She was captained as she had been all her voyages by Captain David Scott, a man who her grandfather trusted implicitly she was quick to point out. He'd been a seafaring man all his life and had served on board ship with Harry Blandford in their younger days. When Blandford bought his own ships he asked his old friend to join him in the enterprise, and Scott commanded the Livara on every voyage she made under the flag of Blandford Shipping. The ship's regular first officer, an Irishman by the name of Seamus O'Rourke was unable to sail on the ships two voyages prior to the fatal convoy sailing as he'd broken a leg in a bar-room brawl, and was in a plaster cast. His place on the bridge had been taken by a man named James Hogan, who Scott took a dislike to. When he asked Blandford to find him a different replacement for the reliable O'Rourke he was surprised when Angela's grandfather told him that Hogan would stay with the ship until the Irishman returned to duty. It was unlike her grandfather to go against the wishes of his captains when it came to operational matters and the affair was said to have left a bad taste in Scott's mouth. This story was relayed to Angela Trent by her mother by the way, as she related the family history to her daughter as she lay dying from the cancer which killed her. Anyway, Scott's pessimism regarding Hogan was apparently well-founded as the man simply disappeared the night before the Livara was due to sail on her last voyage. There was no message, no nothing; he just failed to arrive back on board after leaving her earlier in the day to conduct some `personal business' in the city of Bristol, so he'd said.
“The SS Livara sailed on her fateful voyage without a first officer. Scott simply hadn't had the time to find a replacement before she sailed. Captain Scott went down with his ship, of course, but Hogan's no-show was reported by the Captain to Blandford in an `I told you so' telephone call the night before the convoy departed from Bristol. Strangely, my friends, the man known as James Hogan was never seen or heard of again, and Angela Trent could be of no help in suggesting where he'd disappeared to or what had happened to him.”
Doberman leaned back in that typical way of his that implied he'd finished, and he reached out to take up the brandy from the table. Cutler and the others took a few seconds to allow his latest words to sink in, and then Cutler himself broke the silence.
“I think, Lucius, that we might have a good idea what happened to Mr. Hogan to prevent him joining his ship that night, don't we, folks?”
Winston and Sally both nodded gravely in agreement with their boss, and it was Winston who voiced the thought they were all thinking.
“James Hogan couldn't join his ship, Lucius, because he was dead, and lying buried in a shallow grave near Glastonbury. He's the bloody skeleton in the field, man, I'll bet my life on it.”
“I was kind of hoping that you'd deduce that,” said the professor, “as that's exactly the way my own thoughts have been leaning.”
As the gravity of this latest twist in their strange quest sunk in to the minds of the small survey team, Sally Corbett probably spoke for all of them when she said:
“Lucius, Joe, will you please tell me what the hell we've got ourselves into here?”
It was Joe Cutler who provided her with an answer, not that it did her much good or served to allay her fears.
“That, Sally, is something that only time, and perhaps our Mr. Graves, is going to reveal.”
Joe Cutler didn't know it at the time, but his reference to Walter Graves and his part in revealing the truth of their situation was to prove highly prophetic.
Chapter 32
Charlotte Raeburn slipped out of the bed as Malcolm Capshaw lay sleeping beside her. Making her way to the bathroom, she could feel the metallic taste of her own blood in her mouth where Capshaw had lashed out at her. Using a damp tissue she wiped the dried blood from the corner of her mouth, sat on the toilet seat, and sobbed quietly.
Whatever Graves had said to Capshaw had infuriated him to the point of violence, and Charlotte had borne the brunt of that anger. Not only that, she had overheard the Maitlands being mentioned in connection with the Glastonbury project, confirming that they were deeply involved with Capshaw in the enterprise. Her fear of the Maitlands coupled with Capshaw's beating had convinced her more than ever that she had to escape the clutches of her employer.
As soon as he'd hung up on Graves her ordeal had begun. Capshaw's sexual demands had been brutal and painful. When he'd reached down the side of the bed and produced a whip that Charlotte hadn't seen before, things begun to get out of hand. She twisted and tried to see the marks that she knew he'd left on her back. She could feel the wheals where his blows had landed, and could make out the raised red stripes that showed the track of the whip as it stung into her flesh. When she'd protested to Capshaw he'd swung his hand in a vicious arc and connected squarely with Charlotte's mouth, drawing blood instantly. The beating seemed to turn him on, and after giving her a moment to catch her breath, he'd jumped on her once more, gratifying himself before leaving her feeling utterly used and dejected. Soon afterwards he'd made her lie down beside him and had fallen into a deep sleep.
Charlotte made a decision. She would leave, not in the morning, but now. Being as quiet as she could she returned to the bedroom, gathered up her clothes and went out onto the landing where she hurriedly dressed. Five minutes later, Charlotte was in her car, driving into the night, her first priority being to put as many miles between her and Malcolm Capshaw as she could. She drove home and swiftly threw a few clothes and personal items into a holdall before hitting the road once more. She had to get as far away from Capshaw as she could. His fury would be unabated when he found out that she'd disappeared, and Charlotte couldn't be sure how far his tentacles of revenge would reach. At least she wouldn't be missed until he arrived at his office in the morning. Sure, he'd be mad to find her gone when he woke alone in his bed but he'd probably put that down to her own anger at being used so badly the night before. He'd drive to the office ready to vent yet more anger on her, and would only realise that she wasn't coming in to work when she failed to arrive on time, as she always did. He'd be ringing her home trying to bully her into going in to work and when he got no answer Charlotte's troubles would really start. He'd probably do everything he could to find her, and, as she drove through the night Charlotte began to have the first pangs of doubt as to whether running away from Malcolm Capshaw was the wisest decision she could have made.
Eventually, she decided that it was too late to turn back. She tried to formulate a plan as she drove, having left Capshaw's mansion with no real idea where she was going. Her cousin Jenny lived in a small village not far from Hereford, well within range of a night's driving, and Charlotte decided to visit her cousin, Jenny, and maybe stay for day or two while she figured out where to go next. Charlotte had enough money in the bank thanks to Capshaw to live for quite some time without finding gainful employment, so she'd have plenty of opportunity to find a new town and a place to settle into.
As she drove a light rain began to fall, and the windscreen wipers beat a steady rhythm as the car ate up the miles, the headlights picking out the curtain of raindrops that fell incessantly in the darkness. The further she drove away from Stratford, and away from Capshaw the more Charlotte allowed herself to relax a little. Soon, she began to feel slightly proud of herself for having the courage to make the break from the man. After all, what right did he have to use her the way he had? She wasn't his propert
y even though he may have treated her as such. Charlotte could still feel the pain from the whiplashes on her back as she pressed against the back of the car seat, and her mouth still carried the taste of blood, and those combined sensations helped to convince her that she'd made the right move. Let Capshaw rant and rave as much as he liked. Charlotte was gone, and she sure as hell wasn't going back!
By the time she arrived on the outskirts of Hereford, the rain had stopped and the morning sun had begun to burn off the dew that had formed overnight. Where traces of that dew still clung to the bushes and plants that made up the hedgerows she drove past, it was as if nature had deposited a haul of tiny diamonds amongst the green that lined the roads. Charlotte drove slowly along the country roads, now and then spying the beautiful creation of the jewel that was a spider's web, also littered with miniscule dew-diamonds. Her mood lifted with every mile she drove, and shortly found herself entering the quaintly named village of Stretton Sugwas, where her cousin had made her home some years before.
Jenny was an artist, and had moved to Hereford because she admired the countryside of the area, and because it afforded her a useful base for exploring some of the most unspoilt countryside in Britain. From here she could reach the Cotswolds, the Brecon Beacons in Wales, the Forest of Dean, and other notable locations that displayed the beauty she so loved to record on canvas. She was far from wealthy, but at least she made enough to live on, and to pay the rent on the beautiful stone cottage she'd lived in for the last five years.
Charlotte pulled up outside the cottage which she'd visited only twice before. She and Jenny weren't particularly close but had always been friendly, and she was sure Jenny wouldn't turn her away. Charlotte thought it strange that the thought of not being made welcome by her cousin hadn't entered her mind until now. But it was a little late to turn back now. Besides, Charlotte knew she had no other alternatives.
She needn't have worried. Jenny was delighted to see her cousin, and didn't appear at all surprised to find her standing on her doorstep at just before eight in the morning. She wrapped her arms around Charlotte in a warm embrace, released her, and led her into the tiny kitchen where the kettle was about to boil, and the smell of frying bacon filled the air. Charlotte suddenly realised how hungry she was, and took little persuading to join Jenny for breakfast.
Once breakfast and dishes were cleared, Jenny finally asked her cousin a question. “Who hit you, Charlotte?”
There was no, “has someone hit you?” or “what happened to you?” Jenny spoke as though she knew exactly what had happened, and Charlotte answered her honestly.
“The bastard,” said Jenny, after Charlotte had related her story of the treatment she'd received at the hands of Malcolm Capshaw. “Why did you let him treat you like that? For God's sake, girl, you should have had more respect for yourself, and got out of there at the first sign of him showing any ugly sexual tendencies. You've let him turn you into a virtual slave by the sounds of it.”
“I know I've been a fool, Jenny, but, well, the money was just so good, and the job wasn't too hard, and he seemed alright at first, you know, very generous and so on. He used to take me to the theatre and to expensive restaurants and…”
“And you let him think he'd bought you. Honestly, Charlotte, you've been a bloody fool, but at least you've shown some sense now in getting away from the brute. You're welcome to stay as long as you want as long as you don't mind me coming and going with my work. Just make yourself at home.”
Charlotte sniffed, once again on the edge of tears. She managed to get a hold of herself. “Thanks, Jenny, you've no idea how much this means to me. I won't stay long, just a day or two until I decide where to head for next. I have to start a new life as far away from Capshaw as possible. I just hope he doesn't trace me here and cause trouble. I'd hate to bring anything like that on you.”
“Ha, I doubt that he'd do that, Charlotte. My experience with bullies is that once you've stood up to them or given them their marching orders, they will soon forget you and move on to some other poor soul. Do you really think a wealthy man like Capshaw will give up important money-making time to go searching for his missing secretary, who, I might add, has a very good case for calling the police and reporting the bastard for assault, both sexual and physical?”
“I don't want the police involved, Jenny, really I don't. I feel enough of an idiot already without making myself look even more foolish. Anyway, Capshaw would probably say that I was a willing participant, and I suppose in a way he's right. I never actually did much to try to stop him.”
“Well, as long as you're sure.”
“I'm sure. I'm just glad to be away from there, believe me.”
“Right, no more lectures from me then, that's a promise,” said Jenny, adding, “You just forget about Mr. Malcolm bloody Capshaw. I doubt you'll ever see or hear from that bullying shit again, you mark my words.”
Charlotte wished she could share her cousin's optimism, but she omitted to tell her one or two things about Capshaw. Charlotte thought that what her cousin didn't know couldn't harm her, and hoped to herself that she'd be well away from Hereford before Capshaw came after her, or worse still, sent someone else to find her. For some reason Charlotte suddenly realised she might have to spend the rest of her life looking over her shoulder and that was not a prospect that endeared itself to her.
Jenny had to go into town that morning to buy various materials she needed for her work and left Charlotte to rest and settle in the cottage. The cottage was eerily silent after Jenny had driven off in her old battered Range Rover. Tiredness suddenly overwhelmed Charlotte and she made her way on slightly groggy legs to the spare bedroom, where she stretched out on the bed, pulled the duvet over herself, and fell into a deep sleep asleep in seconds.
Chapter 33
Breakfast at the Rowan Tree was a somewhat subdued affair. Despite Lucius's revelations of the night before, they were still no nearer to discovering exactly what Capshaw and Graves were searching for. All of the Strata Survey team were now aware that their lives might be in considerable danger from Walter Graves, but how and when he might strike against them was still an unanswered question. Lucius informed them he thought it unlikely anything would happen while there was a chance they might yet find whatever Graves was looking for. Cutler agreed, but only as long as they could convince Graves that they hadn't caught on to his Excalibur charade. If Graves thought for just one minute they were on the verge of discovering the truth, Joe felt that the man would have no hesitation in taking punitive action against all of them. Lucius Doberman and his contacts remained Joe's ace in the hole. As long as Graves had no inkling that Cutler was receiving outside help in attempting to solve the mystery than they still had a chance of thwarting whatever evil he and Capshaw were perpetrating in the heart of the English countryside.
“So,” said Lucius, mopping up the juice from a grilled tomato with a slice of heavily buttered bread, “today I shall try to carry my investigation a little further. I must tell you that amongst other things, yesterday I asked Marcus to look into the background and credentials of our friend Graves. I know your worthy Mrs. Hightower did her best, Joe, but when it comes to digging the dirt on members of the academic fraternity, I can assure you that no-one is more adept at the art than Marcus. Also, I forgot to add that he is a close personal friend of the Dean of St. Aidens College, where I believe Graves is employed?”
“You sly old fox,” said Joe. “You kept that one quiet, didn't you?”
“Purely because as yet I have had no reply from Marcus on the subject. However, I felt it only fair to inform you at this point so that you may have something to look forward to when we meet this evening. I fully expect Marcus to have spoken to the Dean by sometime this morning, and I'm sure he'll have some news for me before you return from the field.”
Sally clapped Lucius on the back. Winston grinned his infectious ear to ear grin. Joe spoke once again.
“You know, if I didn't know better, I'd say t
hat you were thoroughly enjoying this Sherlock Holmes role, Lucius.”
“Well, I must say, it's certainly exercising parts of my brain that perhaps haven't been utilised to their fullest capacity for a while,” the professor replied. “Now, please, don't let me delay you all any longer. You must go and keep our friend Graves amused and bamboozled for another day whilst I try to discover further intellectual weapons with which we may yet defeat him and his dastardly employer.”
“Man, don't you just love the way the man talks,” said Winston.
“Very flowery at times I must say,” said Joe
“I'm afraid that's the academic in me, old chap,” said Lucius. “Just can't help myself I'm afraid.”
“Well, I think you're just wonderful. Thank you so much for coming to help us.”
Sally planted an affectionate kiss on the cheek of Lucius Doberman, who actually blushed as she did so.
“Hmm, yes, well, like I said, off to work with the lot of you,” he repeated, and without further delay they said their goodbyes, and left the professor to his academic intrigues while they set off for another day in the company of their potential Nemesis.
At around the time that Cutler and the others were leaving to begin their day's work with Walter Graves, Malcolm Capshaw was arriving at his office in the centre of Stratford. The beauty of the day, the warmth of the sunshine and the singing of the birds were totally lost on the millionaire who was in the foulest of moods. He'd been incensed to find Charlotte missing when he'd woken up at six-thirty. He'd rung her home, expecting to give the little trollope a piece of his mind only to be met by the mechanical voice of her answering service. Thinking that she'd be at her desk at the office when he arrived, he was stunned to walk into a deathly quiet room, devoid of any sound. Charlotte was nowhere to be seen, and there was no sign that she'd even been in the office that morning, no chance that she'd just popped out to the shop for cigarettes or a newspaper.
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