“I just don't want any of you getting hurt, my dear,” he replied. “I fear that Mr. Graves might be far more dangerous than any of you imagine.”
“You've already told us that you think he's going to bump us all off when the job's done. I don't think you can get much more dangerous than that, can you?” asked Cutler, with a wry smile on his face.
“Hmm, you have a point, Joseph,” said the professor. “Look, I just wanted you to know what Marcus had discovered. You're all tired. Go and get changed and I'll meet you here when you're ready and you can tell me about your day in the field with Graves.”
Cutler and the others agreed to return within the hour, and left Doberman nursing his glass of Scotch. As hot water burst from the shower jets in his bathroom, Joe Cutler stood and let the water refresh his body. He wished the warmth of the water could do the same for his mind. He was bloody sick of trying to work out what the hell they were all doing here, and why he'd allowed things to go this far. He felt as though he'd put them all in danger by accepting Capshaw's contract, and for what? He didn't even know what they were supposed to find and even if he did and they were successful, it was highly likely that Graves would put a bullet in each of their heads, and that would be the end of all of them. As he stepped from the shower and pulled a towel around himself, Joe Cutler concluded that he was probably the biggest fool in the world. Now somehow he had to defeat Graves and Capshaw in their wicked aims, and keep his friends safe at the same time. He didn't know how he was going to guarantee that safety, but his sense of responsibility for those who worked for him gave him a steely determination to ensure just that. Neither Graves nor anybody else was going to hurt his people, oh no, Joe Cutler would do everything in his power to prevent that happening. Just let them try, that was all!
The conversation over dinner that evening centred mostly on the possible connections between the SS Livara, the missing ship's officer Hogan whose body presumable lay not far away in a Glastonbury field, and the Maitland family. Lucius and the others could easily understand the connection between old Samuel Maitland and the ship's owner Harry Blandford. Put simply, Maitland had provided Blandford with the stake he required to start his shipping company. In the days before easily available bank loans and finance companies virtually throwing money at people many East Enders utilised the services of people like Maitland. Despite their criminal activities men like Maitland often saw themselves as benefactors to the local community, many of whom would regard the crime bosses with a degree of affection. They might rob from the rich, but they'd never hurt `their own' people, or so the train of thought went.
The problem was, what could Maitland have to do with the Livara? Financing its purchase was one thing, but what interest did he have in it on the night she was torpedoed. Then again, according to his granddaughter, Blandford had paid the loan back in full long before the SS Livara sailed on her last voyage, so Blandford certainly wasn't in debt to Maitland, unless he owed him a debt of gratitude, and used the ship for carrying contraband of some sort across the Atlantic. But the ship was empty of cargo, at least as far as the official records showed. Then there was Hogan. Why was he killed, for it was blatantly obvious his death wasn't caused by natural causes; why else would he have been buried in a field? Finally, who killed him? He was an ordinary merchant marine officer as far as was known, so what could he have known that would induce someone to take the most drastic of actions by disposing of him?
These were just some of the questions that Lucius, Joe, Winston and Sally considered during the evening. Unfortunately, they were unable to provide answers for any of them. Lucius did inform them that his final e-mail of the previous day was still to produce any results, but that he would rather not say anything about it until his contact came back to him with a reply.
It was Sally who came up with what was perhaps the only plausible theory of the evening, or at least it was the only one that seemed to fit the facts as far as they knew them.
“Perhaps,” she said, as the night wore on and the other customers had all left the bar, “it might have gone something like this. What if the Livara wasn't really empty? Let's say for the sake of argument that she was carrying a cargo that the government wanted to keep secret. That would explain the extra men on board. They were sailors, or marines or whatever they used in those days, sent on the ship to guard whatever she was carrying. When the ship went down, the cargo was lost and the authorities didn't want to own up that they'd lost it, whatever it was. So, when they listed the men as missing it was just what they wanted in a way that the destroyer sunk because they could put those extra men down as having been on the warship and no-one would connect the military with the Livara.”
“But some civilian clerk put the men down as having been lost on the freighter and no-one noticed at the time because no-one would have been checking those figures as there was a war on!” This came from Winston, who was rapidly warming to Sally's theory.
“But where did Hogan fit into all this, and why was he murdered so far from Bristol, where the ship was docked?” asked Joe Cutler.
“I don't know, Joe. My theory doesn't quite stretch far enough to work out what he had to do with it or why they killed him.” Sally looked a little crestfallen at not being able to add that particular piece to her puzzle.
“And what has our search here in Glastonbury got to do with whatever was on that ship?” Winston asked the question as he tried to think of an answer himself.
Lucius Doberman who had been sitting quietly listening to theory after theory during the evening suddenly became quite animated as he exclaimed: “Actually, I do think that Sally's on to something. Whatever was on that ship is here, buried near Glastonbury. I still can't be sure where Hogan fits into the picture, but everything else about Sally's idea makes sense. The fact that those extras on the ship were Naval personnel fits with Sally's theory that the government, or at least the Military were involved, but what could have been so important that it was worth covering up its loss for all these years, without any official mission being launched to recover the cargo, and how and why did it end up in Glastonbury? I suspect that was where our Mr. Hogan came into the picture. Someone, and I suspect it was the Maitland's grandfather, made sure that the Livara's regular first officer met with the little `accident' that made him unfit to sail and he then arranged for an officer who was probably on his payroll to take his place, and help smuggle the cargo off the ship to a prearranged location. Maybe Hogan tried to double-cross Maitland, I really don't know, or maybe he was just killed to ensure his silence, but I think we are very close to solving the mystery of the SS Livara, and with it, the equally mysterious reason for your being here in Glastonbury.”
Lucius Doberman rose from his seat and reached across the table to take Sally's hand in his own and plant an old-fashioned gentlemanly kiss on the back of the hand.
“Sally, I must congratulate you, dear girl. You have exercised your brain in the most productive fashion and have produced our most workable theory to date. I shall be very surprised, indeed, if your hypothesis is far from the truth when we eventually unravel the final clues in this mystery.”
“In other words, Lucius, if Sally is right, we've just got to find an unknown cargo from a ship that sunk over sixty years ago, and while we're at it avoid being killed by a gangland hitman, and then also try to discover why the government didn't want anyone to know about it in the first place?”
“Precisely, Joe,” said Doberman enthusiastically, “though when it comes to your third point, I rather think that I might be the best one to solve that particular riddle. Leave it to me. I have someone in mind who might be able to put two and two together to make five in our case.”
With that, the conversation gradually drifted into a series of repeats of the points already raised until the weary quartet decided to call it a night and each headed off to their own rooms.
This night was a little different to the one before, however. The distance in knowledge between the good
guys and the bad guys was shrinking by the hour thanks to Sally's new theory addition.
Chapter 36
Charlotte woke to the sound of birdsong coming from just outside her window. It was the unmistakeable serenade of a blackbird. She stirred lazily, feeling safe and warm beneath the daisy patterned quilt that adorned the bed in Jenny's spare room. As she turned over in bed to look towards the brilliant shafts of morning sunlight that were creeping through the curtains, Charlotte realised she hadn't felt so relaxed in a long time, certainly not since she'd begun working for Malcolm Capshaw. She knew that she had to keep at least one step ahead of her employer, or face what may be potentially painful consequences.
Her reverie was broken by a knock on the bedroom door. Jenny's cheerful face peered through the space, smiling at the sleepy eyed Charlotte as she sat up in bed.
“Good morning, sleepy head,” she grinned at Charlotte. “Ready for some breakfast?”
“Oh, Jenny I'm sorry. I must have slept longer than I expected to.”
“No need to apologise. You must have needed the sleep. Wrap yourself in that dressing gown behind the door and come and join me in the kitchen.”
“Thanks, Jenny, I won't be long,” said Charlotte as she pushed her feet out from under the bedcovers and stood, stretching and yawning.
The two cousins were soon sitting at Jenny's kitchen table enjoying freshly percolated coffee, croissants, and waffles drenched in traditional English honey. Charlotte hadn't felt this good in ages and wished she could stay longer in the sleepy little village, enjoying the hospitality and companionship of her relative, but of course, she knew that wasn't possible. She had to go, and go soon, the only question to answer was where to? She'd think about that later, and be gone by the following day.
They cleared away the paraphernalia of breakfast together and afterwards Jenny announced that she had to go into town again that morning to deliver a recently completed painting of Hereford Cathedral to the verger of the church in the village of Credenhill, a few miles away.
“May I see it?” asked Charlotte.
“Of course,” said Jenny, going through the door to her studio, beckoning Charlotte to follow.
It's beautiful,” Charlotte exclaimed as Jenny revealed the canvas to her. “You're so talented, Jenny.”
“I'm glad you like it,” said Jenny as she wrapped the framed painting in thick brown paper and then tied it with strong string to protect it on the short journey to the church. “You're sure you don't mind me leaving you?”
“Of course not. I'll be fine.”
“Oh yes, I'm expecting a delivery of some very special paints I ordered via the internet. Will you listen out for the postman please? He'll need a signature for the package.”
“Yes, now you go and deliver your painting. I'll be here when you get back, with the kettle on for a good cup of tea.”
Jenny left minutes later, and Charlotte was left to her own devices. The cottage was quiet and peaceful and she suddenly realised that the blackbird had returned to his branch on the beech tree in the garden, singing his cheerful song once again. Charlotte walked into the small cosy sitting room and peered out of the window into the garden. As she looked up at the tree she could see the blackbird perched on one of the lower branches, his head arched upwards as though he were projecting his song as far as he could. Charlotte could almost feel the sheer joy he must be feeling on this warm sunny morning, and she actually envied the little bird, for it was free to come and go, to sing his song of joy and happiness as he pleased, unfettered by the bonds that held her to the daily grind of everyday human existence.
Her enjoyment of the blackbird's symphony was broken by the sound of someone knocking on the door. Assuming the postman had arrived with Jenny's package, Charlotte hurried from the sitting room to the front door of the cottage. Without thinking, she opened the door wide expecting to see the smiling face of a ruddy-faced countryside postman.
Instead, a man with short, almost cropped bleached-blonde hair and emotionless and penetrating blue eyes stood in the doorway. Before Charlotte could say or do anything, the man roughly pushed her in the chest, sending her spinning back into the hallway. She fell backwards as her feet caught on the legs of Jenny's telephone table, and landed face up on the floor. As she tried to catch her breath, the blue-eyed man loomed above her prone figure and in a voice that sent tremors of fear through every nerve ending in Charlotte's body he spoke quietly and menacingly:
“Hello, little whore. It's time to play.”
Jenny arrived home two hours later. Finding the front door ajar, she assumed Charlotte had gone into the garden, perhaps to sit and enjoy the morning sun.
“Hi, Charlotte, are you there?” she called as she walked into the cottage and closed the door behind her. Silence. “Hey, cousin, have you gone back to sleep? I'm back.”
Still receiving no answer Jenny tried both the kitchen and the sitting room, but there was no sign of Charlotte. Thinking she must have gone back to bed for a nap Jenny made her way upstairs and opened the door to the spare room.
The dead, sightless eyes of Charlotte Raeburn stared up at her from the bed. Her cousin's wrists had been bound with her own stockings and tied to the wrought iron headboard on the bed. Her legs were splayed wide apart and there was blood between her thighs.
The compulsion to scream welled up in Jenny's throat, but just as the sound was about to erupt from her lips a hand reached round her neck and closed over her mouth. She tried to struggle, but the man had his other arm around her body and held her in a vice-like grip. Jenny could do little more than kick her legs backwards in an attempt to fight off her assailant.
“One scream and you're dead,” whispered a voice from close to Jenny's ear. “Do you understand?”
She did her best to nod.
“I only came here for your little whore of a cousin. Keep your mouth shut when I take my hand away and do as I say and you won't get hurt. Nod if you understand.”
Jenny did her best to nod again. The hand released its grip on her face and the man placed both his hands on her arms, gripping her tightly. Jenny snatched the deepest breath she could. Fear coursed through her veins as she stood almost paralysed while the man moved her round until she was face to face with her cousin's murderer.
The steel blue eyes of her assailant stared into her own soft brown eyes, and Jenny's fear level tripled. The man pushed her back until the backs of her legs were against the end of the bed, then with one push he propelled her backwards and she fell onto the bed, next to the lifeless body of Charlotte. As the blonde-haired man bore down on her and his hands began to tear at her clothes Jenny tried to fight back. She vainly kicked out with her legs, but he struck her viciously in the face with the full force of his right fist. As stars exploded in her head, Jenny sobbed and gasped for breath.
“You said you wouldn't hurt me. Who are you?” she asked plaintively, through her tears as her dress was torn from her body.
The man didn't even pause in his rush to remove the last of Jenny's clothes.
“You can call me Karl, my pretty little whore, and by the way, I lied,” came the reply as she felt her legs being pushed apart and then another fist smashed into Jenny's face.
Chapter 37
Walter Graves was waiting for them as usual as Joe and the team arrived at Maiden's Farm to begin yet another day's search for the elusive prize that Cutler and his team had as yet failed to identify. Over breakfast that morning Lucius Doberman had proposed an addition to the theory first propounded by Sally and on which he had elaborated the previous night. An entire ship's cargo would surely have been too big to simply spirit away and hide beneath the ground in the depths of the countryside. Plus, if it were so important and had gone missing then why did the Navy put those additional men on board the Livara to guard what would have been an empty hold? Doberman thought that only a part of the cargo had gone, and that was what they were searching for. What that cargo was he hoped to identify through his mystery con
tact later that day. As Joe had observed, whatever it was it must be of a very high value if it all fitted into one coffin sized box, and was worth all the trouble that the Maitlands, Capshaw, and Graves had gone to in order to retrieve it.
Graves had been listening to the conversation in the van as Cutler and the others drove to the farm. What he heard made him realise that Cutler and Doberman were getting perilously close to working out the secret of the Livara. Winston had been in ebullient mood, praising Sally for her wonderful theory, and Cutler had echoed that thought. Cutler had also been excited at the thought that Professor Doberman might be close to discovering what the Livara was carrying on the night she sank. If that were to happen then Graves knew that all could be lost. Cutler and Doberman would no doubt take steps to recover the prize themselves, possibly with police protection, and Capshaw's anger would be unbelievable in its ferocity.
That settled it as far as Graves was concerned. He had to move to ensure Cutler's continued co-operation, and he had to move today. Graves heard the laughter and the high spirits from all three of the surveyors in the cab as the van neared his BMW. They were confident that they had him backed into a corner. Let them be! In a few hours Graves would be back in total control of the situation and Cutler and Fortune would be doing just as he wanted. Doberman would do little without them, of that Graves was sure, so he just had to focus on his plan and by the time Cutler saw Doberman again, the professor's information should be neutralized.
After an hour of fruitless searching, the radar not detecting so much as a tree hole, Graves suggested a break as the sun was rising higher and the day becoming hotter. Cutler and Sally came in from the field and Winston stepped down from the control centre in the van. There was something of an atmosphere between Graves and the others, no matter how hard they tried; it was evident that the relationship between historian and surveyors was becoming strained. Graves knew that time was running out. The level of suspicion from both sides was rising by the day and something or someone would crack before long. The time to act had come. He made his decision as they all sat on the grass sipping the tea that Sally had poured from her flask. As luck would have it, Joe Cutler played right into his hands as they put the tea mugs away and prepared to start their search of the next grid.
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