Ralph was convinced that there was a link between the discovery of the treasure at Sherracombe Ford and Daniel Kaminsky. He had wracked his brains to think of some way of helping Marian, but since the TV announcement, he was stumped. On the spur of the moment, he decided to call Bob Wyman at the Bideford Weekly and ask a few questions. When Ralph opened by telling him that he had read his article, Bob was immediately suspicious.
“What do you know that I’d like to know, Ralph?” Was his immediate response.
“Oh, nothing, it’s just that a friend who’s down with us for Spring Break noticed the article and wondered what had happened to the two men who discovered the treasure,” Ralph explained.
Bob said that he planned to do a follow up that showed that not everyone who got a windfall squandered it on buying a sailing boat and going off to the South Seas. Ralph recognized the point Bob was making. He had inherited money from his uncle a few years back and had bought Gypsy Lady. But so far, he’d only taken it as far as Gibraltar.
Bob told him how Joe Minton had used the reward money to buy a small garage and was getting a reputation for taking on restoration work for the rich and famous.
“His old boss, Lord Farleigh put some work his way and got some of his well- heeled friends who were in to vintage cars to do the same.”
“I might want to talk to him myself,” Ralph said. He told Bob about the difficulties he had had finding anyone who could work on the Morgan. Bob gave him the address of Minton’s garage at the north end of the main street through Lynton.
“He might be just the guy to work on those tricky bits I can’t reach without special tools,” Ralph said. It was just over an hour from Clovelly but at the moment it was his only option. The thought of Katie being stranded, or worse having a crash in the Morgan because of some mechanical failure, had started to nag.
Ralph promised to arrange a get-together and buy Bob a pie and a pint at the Fox and Hounds, the pub in Bideford where they had first met. Ralph believed that a face to face chat was always a better bet when you wanted to tease out a difficult problem. He smiled when he pictured Bob chasing the last scrap of his meat pie round his plate when they met before, and he enjoyed Bob’s ‘free spirit’ attitude towards life.
The next day Ralph drove Cynthia and Lance in the Jag and Katie followed carefully in the Morgan. They found the garage as Bob had explained. It was quite a drive from Clovelly, but Katie had agreed that it was better safe than sorry and that her car had to be fixed. She had always left it in the garage at the cottage and driven back to London with Ralph, but she wanted to have the option of taking it back to Chelsea. It would be nice to have it there so she could just jump in and drive down to see Ralph at Surbiton or take her friends out for the day.
Joe was enthusiastic about working on the car and told Ralph that once he had looked it over, he would phone with an estimate for the work.
***
It was a beautiful warm summer day with a cooling breeze and just the occasional white cloud drifting across the green rolling hills. Ralph drove to the site of the dig at Sherracombe, as having read the article about the treasure and the body being found, Cynthia wanted to see it firsthand. She had told them that she was thinking of writing an article about it for the Kingston University Journal. She had her camera at the ready. Ralph was slightly hesitant, but he thought that being at the scene might give him some ideas about how to proceed. He was no nearer to thinking of a way to help Marian than he had been when she first spoke to them about Daniel and those wretched photos. He wondered if by chance he could find someone who knew Daniel Kaminsky. It all seemed a bit tenuous, and he was preoccupied when he pulled up at the site.
“What a beautiful spot, Ralph,” said Katie. “It’s hard to believe that something so awful happened here.”
The site was cordoned off with police tapes. A notice said:
Crime Scene - Police – Keep Out
“If these moors could talk,” said Katie. “Who knows what the early Brits got up to, and I don’t expect that the Romans were saints. Finding the odd body or two around in those times would have been everyday business.”
They stood and looked out over the valley below where a small stream tumbled among the rocks. The sheep that grazed on the hillside gave the odd bleat as the wind sighed through the tall trees.
“They must have needed the water for smelting the iron ore,” Ralph observed. “I wonder if they had time to admire the scenery.”
“I doubt it,” Katie said. “For them it must have been just another workaday. I wonder who decided to squirrel away that treasure. I’ll bet they did it on a moonlit night so someone could keep an eye out for the Roman soldiers while his pals dug the hole.”
“Or it could have been a couple of Roman soldiers who planned to desert on the way back to Rome and come back when the coast was clear to collect their stash,” said Cynthia. “It’s a good job it wasn’t paintings, or the only thing left would be a few rotten nails and not even a frame.”
They wandered around up on the moor for a while longer, each one speculating on how and why the treasure was left in the first place.
“I saw a pub as we drove up,” Lance said. “Anyone else ready for lunch?”
“I wouldn’t mind checking out the menu,” Katie agreed as they headed back to the car.
Ralph drove to the crossroads. A short way further on they saw a sign for The Bell.
The old pub provided a picture postcard setting. The whitewashed walls and thatched roof nestled behind the deep red roses that climbed over the doorway. The back drop of green hills made it stand out against the blue skyline.
“Only a few cars outside, so it’s either no good or full of unfriendly locals,” said Cynthia. “Katie and I’ll wait outside at one of those tables with the umbrellas while you two go in and see if the natives are friendly. We’ll give you ten minutes before we call out the cavalry.”
“We might as well give it a try,” said Ralph. “I don’t mind the locals. I’m thinking of becoming one,” said Ralph.
“Come on Cynthia, these two may need our help.” They all stepped through the narrow door. Lance and Ralph had to duck under a solid oak beam that must have been there since the place was built.
Inside it was welcoming. There was a large inglenook fireplace, and polished horse brasses adorned the walls. As Cynthia had predicted, there were half a dozen locals at the bar who never turned around to look at the newcomers; a typical ritual that was played out in English pubs whenever strangers dared to venture in.
“Welcome to The Bell, folks. Name’s Rob. What can I get you?” Asked the jovial publican. “We don’t get many folks around ‘til a bit later in the year when the local campsite fills up. Just ignore this ugly lot,” he said with a wave of his arm towards the people at the bar. “Most of ‘em don’t even speak English; not what you’d recognize any roads.” Everyone laughed and the tension was broken.
An old man at the bar said, “at least they’re not the police, unless it’s them plains-clothes types from the telly.” There were loud guffaws from the others, and the author of the witty remark added, “no offense, ma’am.”
“Steady on, Seth. You’ll go too far one of these days,” said the publican. The man just grinned and raised his tankard in a mock salute.
They enjoyed an exceptionally good pub lunch. When Ralph went to pay the bill he asked Rob, the publican, if he had seen the recent article in the papers about Daniel Kaminsky and the arrest of James Bradley. At first he was taken aback by such a direct question, but once he got past his initial reaction, he was only too happy to talk about ‘local goings on’, as he put it.
“I know it’s ill to talk of the dead, but that Kaminsky lad was trouble with a capital ‘T’; drunk and ready for a brawl when he weren’t chatting up the ladies, he were; fancied himself that one; only a matter o’ time before someone took a crack at ‘im.” He paused as he served a customer.
“Right Mick remember me to your wife and hop
e she’s better soon.” He turned back to Ralph.
“You think it was more than an accident up at Sherracombe, then?” Asked Ralph.
“I’m not saying that. I told the police all I know. But that bloke what came in, James Bradley, the one what got arrested, I recognized him when they showed me his picture. It was all in the papers. I told Sergeant Jones that he was havin’ a right go at Daniel. But then sometimes when Daniel had been on something, he could flip. Charmin’ the ladies one minute, then bang he was off. Rumour ‘as it that he dabbled with the weed, and well, it don’t mix with the drink. I’ve seen it before.”
Ralph said nothing about knowing James: albeit through Marian. He paid the bill and left a tip for the young girl who had served them.
“You seem to be getting along alright with mein host,” said Katie as they walked back to the car. “Anything interesting?”
“Seems he was the one that told the police about James. He also said that our Mr Kaminsky was a bit of a romancer and most likely a regular drug user. But that expression you used just then reminded me of my schooldays,” said Ralph.
“What expression? I never said anything.”
“You did. You said, Mine Host.”
“So what’s that have to do with Daniel Kaminsky?”
“We were forced to read Keats at school. That was a phrase in Mermaid Tavern:
“I have heard that on a day
Mine host’s signboard flew away.
Nobody knew whither, till
An astrologer’s old quill
To a sheepskin gave the story,
Said he saw you in your glory ----“
“Anyhow, I forget the rest.”
“Small mercies,” said Katie. “Come on, Mr. Poet, where’d Lance and Cynthia disappear to?”
They found them outside in front of the building. Lance wanted a photo of Cynthia standing in front of the pub sign.
“Come on you two, one of you take a shot of us together, then we’ll find someone to take a picture of all four of us. Maybe you could get one of those locals inside to do the honours, Ralph.”
“They didn’t seem all that friendly, Lance. But I’ll get one of you and Cynthia and one of you two with Katie, and then we need to be off.”
“Why do you suppose it’s called The Bell?” Katie asked as they pulled out of the car-park.
“Most pubs have signs with pictures on them because the villagers couldn’t read. You just said ‘see you at The Bell or The Horse’s Head’,” Lance said as they drove down the narrow lane towards the main Tiverton to Barnstable road.
“Horse’s something Lance, but I’m not sure it was the head,” Cynthia laughed.
“Steady on, Cynthia,” said Ralph. They all laughed as Ralph swerved to avoid a pheasant.
“Let me tell you about the pheasant plucker, “said Lance.
“I told you; one pint of cider and he’s incorrigible. You should’ve warned me what he was like before I married him, Ralph.” Cynthia gave Lance a little hug to show him that she was just being playful.
***
Ralph eased the Jag down the steep road leading to the main street in Lynton. Many of the villages were accessible only if you were prepared to drive down the narrow twisting roads. North Devon motoring was definitely not for the faint hearted.
Joe Minton had phoned to say that the Morgan was ready to be collected. The garage was about an hour from Clovelly, but the fact that there were no other options had made it an easy decision; a ‘no brainer’, as his students would have phrased it.
The garage looked like a scene straight out of a 1920’s film. The double-doored tall building opened onto the main street. Inside, the bare brick walls were painted a light grey and adorned with old metal signs advertising oil and other automobile requirements from companies that had long ceased to exist. The sun shone down through what used to be called Northern lights that all factories employed to save on electricity bills when industry was booming in Victorian times. As the light beams filtered down through the dust, it gave the impression of being in a church. ‘A cathedral to real motoring’ was a phrase that crossed Ralph’s mind.
Katie nudged his elbow as Joe Minton climbed out from an inspection pit where he had been working on an immaculate Bentley. A Rolls Royce sat straddled across another. They picked their way through tools and equipment that littered the garage floor to where Joe stood wiping his hands on a rag. He led the way into a small office.
“So what’s the verdict,” Ralph asked as Joe indicated two metal chairs against the wall opposite the cluttered desk.
“Bit tricky getting through the High Street,” Joe said directly to Ralph. “Like I said on the phone, it’s ready to go. I blew out the petrol lines and put new track rods on the front. Managed to get them from a place up in Bristol; they still make them, you know,” Joe said as he gave a sidewise glance in Katie’s direction.
“The Morgan belongs to Katie,” said Ralph in answer to the unspoken question.
Katie waited patiently and looked around for her beloved red sports car. She cast her eye at the office decor and smiled at the typical set of nude pin-ups taped to the walls.
She wondered if Joe’s wife or girl-friend approved.
“I’ve made the bill out. Cash or cheque? Fraid I don’t do credit cards.”
Ralph glanced at the bill and was surprised to see that it was a tad under 300 pounds, spot on the estimate. He made out the cheque and gave it to Joe.
“Thanks,” said Joe as he scrutinized the cheque and made out the receipt. “The car’s out back and the keys are in the ignition. You’ll find it runs like a dream now, Mrs. Chalmers; should give you a lot of satisfaction.”
“Just a little something to buy yourself a beer after work,” Ralph said as he added a 20 pound note that he had taken from his pocket.
Katie just smiled. She had met a lot of Joe Mintons in her time. If you had been brought up in a man’s world as she had in Australia been married twice and lived alone in London, you learned pretty quickly. She could swot Minton like a fly on the wall.
Ralph had noticed a cutting from a newspaper cello-taped to the wall alongside the pin-ups.
“I read about your find last year.”
“Lucky day out for me an’ Bruce,” Joe said as he touched the cutting.
He obviously welcomed a bit of ‘mens’ chat, so Katie left them to it and walked off to get her car.
Joe told Ralph about Bruce and their lucky break.
“It turned round our lives, mine and Bruce’s. That’s him in the picture. He’s going back to Australia to buy the farm he grew up on as a boy. It’s what he’s dreamed about ever since we first got into metal detecting. We’re going out for a farewell drink tomorrow night. He never got over losin’ Joan. She was his wife, ya know. Maybe over there he’ll have a chance of startin’ a new life.”
“And you always wanted to work on vintage cars?” Asked Ralph. He had asked partly out of politeness, but also because he could see how happy Joe was in his work; he recognized a kindred spirit.
“Well, since a kid I’ve always been mechanical minded. I was working up at Lord Farleigh’s. I looked after all his farming equipment and his collection of cars. It’s a bit like that place down in Beaulieu except Lord Farleigh wouldn’t allow visitors; he likes to be private. Then when we struck lucky up at Sherracombe we could both do what we wanted; be our own man. That’s what everyone wants. You’ve got to do what you think is right.”
“You in business, Mr. Chalmers?”
Ralph was always stumped when anyone asked him a direct question about what he did for a living. He suspected that he suffered from a bit of inverted snobbery, although he preferred to think not. Saying that he was a Professor would be a show stopper; teacher was still awkward; consultant? Definitely not.
“I do a bit of this and that,” he finished up saying.
“Best way. Being independent is the way nowadays. Answer to no one. That’s me and Bruce.” He stood there alm
ost savoring the words.
Joe rambled on and only stopped when Katie pulled up outside the garage and gave a toot on the horn.
Joe smiled. “Missus waiting. She who must be obeyed.” He laughed in recognition of the common bond that men have when sharing their views of life. Ralph admired someone who could make a go of a new business venture and shook Joe’s hand.
“Thanks for taking care of the Morgan,” he said as he climbed behind the wheel of the Jag.
“No problem, sir. Drive carefully.”
Katie drove a bit too fast for Ralph’s liking and he eased back as she disappeared around the corners of the twisting road back to Clovelly. Joe had obviously worked the oracle. Everything seemed to be back to normal.
_______________________
Chapter 5
The Rising Sun, a 14th Century smugglers’ inn on the harbor-front in Lynmouth, was a favourite for the locals. With its thatched roof, whitewashed exterior, and situated at the foot of what the guide books claim as the highest hogback cliffs in England, it is the quintessential seaside pub. A funicular cliff railway connects the seaside town to the clifftops above. But, as it closes at dusk, the only way to get from top to bottom is by either walking down a steep pathway or driving down a twisty road. The Rising Sun is a snug place to meet. That night the locals were busy judging the ‘ugliest sweater’ competition, one of the many events that the publican put on to draw customers. Joe and Bruce sat at a side booth drinking their beer, having just finished a large steak and chips supper.
“How you gettin’ to Taunton?”
“Ray’s going that way; I’ll catch the train to London then get to Heathrow from there on the tube. It’s a straight shot from there. The plane don’t go ‘til late; ‘bout nine.” The truth was that Bruce was anxious about what lay ahead.
“By my calculations, that container ship should be in Sydney by now; our stuff’ll be waiting for you in the customs sheds when you get there. Let’s hope that welding holds,” Joe laughed. “Took me a week to fix that false floor in that bloody Toyota truck you bought. Once you get on those Aussie highways you’ll forget you ever left.” He clapped his friend on the shoulder as he went to get two more beers.
Murder on Exmoor (The Ralph Chalmers Mysteries Book 11) Page 4