Murder on Exmoor (The Ralph Chalmers Mysteries Book 11)

by P. J. Thurbin

  ***

  Ralph had taken a shower after his morning run and was buttoning his shirt while trying to switch on the coffee machine when the phone rang. Ralph had never managed to sort out ‘caller ID and he wondered who would be calling at 9 on a Saturday morning. He grabbed the phone.

  “Ralph Chalmers.”

  “Sorry to disturb you so early, Professor. Detective Inspector Fletcher, Devon and Cornwall CID.”

  Ralph had a premonition that this would happen. “Inspector. No, that’s alright. I was just getting some breakfast. How can I help you?” He wondered if his response sounded overly familiar. Apart from seeing the Inspector at Barnstaple police station and one other time when he came to the cottage, he didn’t know the man.

  “We’ve had a complaint, sir. I thought a quick call would help clear things up. We obtained your number from Doctor Tulle, as we knew she rented your cottage over at Clovelly.”

  “A complaint about the cottage?” He knew he was being obtuse, but he needed time to think, and he didn’t like the way the Inspector kept saying ‘we’. The Inspector moved on.

  “A Mr Bishop has made a formal complaint about a police officer harassing his daughter. He gave us a description of the officer and there was no match with anyone on the force who is assigned to that area. He said that the man drove a vintage Jaguar and had a London accent.” He paused. “Well it’s probably just a coincidence, but when we checked with the publican at a local pub, The Bell, over near Brayford, he also told us that someone had been making enquiries about Mr. Bishop’s daughter; he said that he thought someone had mentioned the name Ralph. If you’ll forgive me, sir. I recall your wife calling you Ralph when I was at your cottage in Clovelly. Anyhow, like I said, I hate to bother you like this, but I thought you might be able to clear this all up for me.”

  Ralph remembered that when he had first met the Inspector he had thought him a typical local small town country policeman. He had underestimated the Detective Inspector.

  Ralph explained that Ann Bishop had given him the photos and that he had posted them to Marian. He omitted the part about Ann being involved in attempted blackmail; he thought that she had suffered enough.

  “What happens now, Inspector?” He asked once he had finished.

  “Well I wouldn’t go so far as to say you’d actually committed a crime, Professor, but I hope that you realise you may have interfered in a possible murder enquiry.”

  Ralph waited.

  “At least now that we know that the photos have been recovered, we can contact Marian Watts and get them back. You’ll need to come down and make a statement, or you could do that through your local police. I believe you know an Inspector Linham?”

  Ralph now knew that the police network was alive and well. Having promised to call Inspector Linham first thing the next morning, he rang off.

  He finished making the coffee. He wondered if he should call Katie so that she could warn Marian that the police were likely to ask her for the photos. Then he remembered what the Inspector had said about interfering in a possible murder case. Best to let Marian handle it herself, he mused. It was going to be embarrassing to explain to his friend Inspector Linham that he had made fool of himself by letting the Bishops presume he was from the police. It was not the first time he had acted on impulse, even when he knew it was not a good idea.

  He scanned the local paper as he sipped his coffee. The conversation with Inspector Fletcher had shaken him. He remembered that he had not thanked Cynthia and Lance for the wonderful housewarming party. Katie had probably already spoken with Cynthia, but he thought he should thank them as well. He glanced at his watch and then dialed their number. Cynthia answered on the third ring.

  “I hope I’m not phoning too early,” Ralph said. I just wanted to thank you again for a great evening. We loved your new home.”

  “Oh, thanks Ralph. It was fun, wasn’t it? Peter was certainly a hit with all of those dance tunes he kept hammering out on the piano. If I’m not mistaken, I think I saw you and Katie out there once or twice.”

  “Well, you know,” Ralph said, somewhat embarrassed that he’d been caught seeming to enjoy himself.

  “By the way, you know that gold we read about in that article when we were down at your cottage? Well, my friend at The British Museum says she’ll give us a private look at the exhibition they’re putting on about Roman treasure found in England. She also told me that they’ve finished restoring and cataloging the Sherracombe Ford find and it’s in the collection.”

  “That sounds great, Cynthia. Is that the same friend who helped us find out about Tutankhamun?”

  “Yes, the same one. When would you and Katie like to see it? I’ll give her a call.”

  “I’m afraid that Katie’s in Edinburgh.”

  “Well she can see it another time, perhaps. I’ve only got Tuesday of next week free. So why don’t you meet me in the foyer of the Museum at say, eleven?”

  It suited Ralph as it was the only day he had free; he was involved in end of semester meetings and invigilating exams for the rest of the week.

  Ralph thanked Cynthia again before they rang off.

  He looked out of the window. It was a good day for rowing; no breeze, and clear blue skies. He knew that the race crews at Molesey Boat Club were preparing for a regatta at Oxford. If he got down there before lunchtime he might be able to get a place in one of the boats. It was more than likely that someone had scratched or had an injury. He could almost feel the adrenaline pumping as he grabbed his sports bag and headed for the door. A good workout and a pint with the lads in the clubhouse afterwards would put his mind right after having nearly cocked it up in Devon.

  He turned the key and the Jag started first time. He eased out of the drive and headed for Hampton Court and the river. He almost sang along to Radio Jackie as the popular tunes blared out of the car radio.

  ***

  Ralph took the tube to Russell Square. He enjoyed running up the 175 steps of the spiral staircase rather than taking the lift to street level. It was a short walk to the British Museum. As he passed the University building where Katie worked, he thought about her and wondered how she was getting on in Edinburgh. The Museum entrance was crowded and it took a few moments to find Cynthia. She knew the place like the back of her hand.

  “You remember Professor Chalmers.” Cynthia said after she knocked and then led him into Michelle Willows’ office. The tall strong featured woman stood up from behind the large desk that she dominated and shook his hand.

  “Wedjat eye; the Egyptian charm for warding off evil spirits wasn’t it? If memory serves, it all ended with someone getting murdered and you helping to catch the killer, or that’s what I read in the newspapers,” she smiled at Ralph.

  “Papers always tend to exaggerate,” he replied in a half-hearted attempt to change the subject.

  “So are the Romano-British playing centre stage in your latest escapade?”

  “No cloak and dagger stuff today,” Cynthia interjected. “As I said on the phone, Michelle, we saw an article in a local Devon newspaper about the Sherracombe Hoard.” She lost her train of thought as Michelle strode up and down on a line of thread bare carpet that was placed strategically in front of her desk. Ralph remembered that she had done exactly the same thing on the previous occasion when they were there.

  “That’s Britain – Europe and Pre-history – they’ve taken all of the Roman and Celtic artefacts under their wing. I’ve arranged for Dr. Franks, he’s the curator of the Mildenhall and the Hoxne Treasures, to show you around.”

  “That’s very kind,” Ralph said, “but will he have time to show us everything?”

  “Goodness no,” Michelle, exclaimed. “The main collections are rotated. To exhibit everything at one time would be too much; and besides that, our researchers need access to many of the pieces.”

  “It sounds like quite a job to keep up with it all,” Ralph said. “I really appreciate the chance to look at what they recovered at S
herracombe.”

  “We’re on our way, Dr. Franks,” Michelle said into the handset. “Sorry we’re a bit late, but our visitors have only just arrived. We’ll be with you right away.”

  Michelle led them through a maze of corridors and up seemingly never-ending flights of marble steps to a well-lit vaulted area. Ralph usually found that museums induced a sort of torpor as exhibit after exhibit passed in front of his gaze. Perhaps it was because today he had a special interest, he found that he was completely alert.

  Michelle made the brief introductions, then made her excuses and left. Dr. Franks was tall, with angular features. He wore expensive brown leather shoes; cavalry twill flannels, and the obligatory tweed jacket with leather patches on the elbows. He practically beamed as he approached a glass case full of engraved silver plates, gold ornaments and a box with gold coins arranged to look as though they were ready to cascade out onto the floor.

  “I find that visitors are generally much more interested in how much everything is worth and who found them than in their cultural significance,” he told them.

  Ralph wondered if Doctor Franks threw him in with the general lot and presumed that he did. He didn’t mind. His studies at Cambridge had taken him further down the academic path to understanding history more than he cared to remember. He was happy with the quick tour and Doctor Franks did not disappoint.

  “The Mildenhall Treasure. Imagine a snowy bitter cold winters’ day in East Anglia. Suffolk.” He turned to look at his audience. “It’s near Newmarket, the horse racing centre?” Ralph nodded. It seemed to be the required response. No doubt the hordes of school kids and tour groups had conditioned the curator to pitch to the lowest common denominator.

  “It’s 1942 and the planes are taking off from the RAF station nearby. Sydney Ford had a business renting out farming equipment and he had been asked to plough 4 acres of land for planting sugar beet.”

  Too much detail, thought Ralph. If he took that long getting to the point his students would be reaching for their mobile phones and texting their pals.

  “Gordon Butcher, a local man, agreed to do some of the ploughing. At the end of a row, he got off the tractor and went to have a look when he saw a silver plate sticking out of the soil.” He pointed to a magnificent trophy that shone even in the bright lights of the display case.

  “The piece you see now was at that time covered in blue and green mold. It had been buried since the 4th century AD.” He smiled. Not quite condescendingly, but close, thought Ralph. ”This is only a small sample of the treasure found there, of course. There were also spoons, platters and bowls. You can see that the Romano-British were no strangers to fine dining.” He smiled again.

  “I don’t believe that the find was exhibited until after the war,” Cynthia interjected. Doctor Franks took it as his queue.

  “Correct. It was a few years later that an archaeologist by the name of Doctor Hugh Fawcett was visiting Ford at his farm when he saw one of the spoons. Ford admitted that he and a friend had found some bits and pieces. Dr. Fawcett advised Ford to tell the authorities about the find. There was an enquiry, but because four years had elapsed since the original discovery, Ford and his friend Butcher were only given a thousand pounds. The Museum valued the find at around 2 million at the time, and today it would be closer to 5.”

  “I can’t help feeling a bit sorry for poor Ford and his friend,” said Ralph.

  “Nowadays people are a lot better informed,” Doctor Franks pointed out. “Doctor Willows mentioned that you were interested in the Sherracombe Find; that’s Exhibit 23. Over here.” He led them to another case. “You can see that it’s also made up of gold and silver.”

  “Valued at a lot less than the Mildenhall Find,” said Ralph.

  “Yes, so far, but we think that there’s more to be found. The unfortunate circumstances surrounding the site have rather put things on hold.”

  “You mean finding a body so close to the place where the two men with the metal detectors found the hoard, “said Cynthia. “It was in the local papers.”

  “Yes. The media have a tendency to exaggerate these things. I would have thought the people who use metal detectors would have learned from what happened at the Hoxne Hoard. We have it over here. November 1992. Suffolk again. A local farmer lost a hammer and asked a friend who had a metal detector to help find it. They found over 15,000 gold coins and a large number of silver platters stacked in what we think were Yew and Cherry tree boxes; again 300 to 400 AD. Valentinian and Honorius; the gold coins I mean.”

  “So your guess is that there’s more at Sherracombe Ford?” Asked Ralph.

  “I never guess, Professor Chalmers, and I suspect it’s not something that you would condone.” Ralph took it as an attempt at a compliment.

  “At this point it’s merely conjecture, but yes, I do think that there could be more finds at the site. Once the police have concluded their investigations and a decent time interval has elapsed, the dig will resume. There could be as much as four times the one million value that we placed on the present find still there. However, should any more be found, then any reward would probably go to the National Trust or to the Parks Authority. No individual would gain from any further discoveries.”

  Having thanked Dr. Franks, they made their way out into the fresh air. London was at its best; they strolled over to a nearby park and sat in the sun and listened to the drone of the traffic beyond the trees.

  “You’re puzzling over something, Ralph,” Cynthia remarked.

  “It’s those two that found the gold at Sherracombe. Like Franks said, they must have known all about treasure trove and the law about what happens when three or four million is found on someone’s land. I’m just wondering if they turned it all in. It would be awfully tempting to keep some for yourself. On the other hand, if they knew the law, then handing it in would be sensible since they’d each get a third without breaking the law, and English Heritage or the Exmoor authorities would get the rest. I suppose that at the end of the day it all depends on character.”

  __________________________

  Chapter 7

  Joe Minton had spoken on the phone to Bruce, who assured him that everything had gone to plan. Bruce confirmed that the consignment, as he called it, had been shipped on to its final destination and that he was on his way back to Sydney to sell the truck and fly home. Joe joked with his friend and told him to enjoy the sun as it was ‘pissing it down’ in glorious Devon.

  Joe sat in his tiny office and wrote out a few bills and checked the two orders that he had made. One was for a new radiator and the other was for some special part that he needed for an MG Sports. His mind was not on the paperwork as it was the part of his work that he disliked. Well at least Bruce had done what was expected of him. ‘So far so good’, he muttered. As long as he keeps his nerve and doesn’t meet one of his old friends and gossip we’ll be alright. Bruce was a good friend, he thought, giving a grin, but he lacked focus. If things started to go wrong and he began to panic, from there on in it was likely to snowball downhill. The thought of it snowing in Australia made him laugh out loud.

  Joe spent the day working on a vintage Bentley, happy in the knowledge that he would soon be getting a call telling him where he could start collecting his money. As he reached for a spanner he heard his office phone ring. He climbed out of the inspection pit and ran over and picked it up. Normally he would have just cursed and let it ring. People who had expensive motors that needed his services either came down in person or got their drivers to come and explain what their boss wanted. He had resolved not to take in any local work from the surrounding villages; locals didn’t have the ready money, and he couldn’t stand people who dithered. He thought it might be Bruce with some problem or hold-up. He had been amazed at how well his friend had done so far, but he knew that one little thing going wrong could wreck everything.

  “Bruce?”

  “Tha’ Joe Minen?”

  “Joe Minton. Yes?”

 
; “You don’ know me. Jus’ lissen.”

  Joe thought at first that it was a local village lad playing a prank. He had chased a bunch of them off the previous week for sitting in the cars he had at the back of his garage waiting to be worked on. The voice went on.

  “It’s fer yer own good.”

  “Who’s that? If this is one of you kids with your pranks, I’ll call the police.” He shouted into the mouthpiece.

  “I said jus’ lissen.” The voice was now harsh and demanding.

  He sat down; he noticed that his hand was trembling. He reached instinctively for his tea mug but it was cold and empty. The anonymous caller went on to say that he knew that Joe and Bruce had not handed in all the Sherracombe Treasure. He demanded 2,000 pounds or he would go to the police. Joe froze. It was a nightmare that he had not up until then contemplated.

  “Who is this? You’re crazy.” He hoped that whoever it was would be scared off if he shouted loud enough. They would soon see that he was not easily intimidated.

  “The Bell a’ Brayford; Saturd’y noight. No police or you’re done fer.” The voice fairly gloated down the line. He had a bitter taste in his mouth that he got sometimes if he began work too soon after breakfast and felt as though he was going to be sick.

  “I haven’t got that kind of money. You need to come here so we can talk.”

  It had dawned on him that if he could get the caller to come to the garage, they would be on equal terms. If it came to it, he was prepared to beat the daylights out of the bugger. He prided himself on being good in a brawl.

  “The Bell. Saturd’y. A woman’ll come to the garige in a mornin’. Give ‘er 500; an’ no tricks, mind, so I’ll know yer playin’ ball.” There was a hideous cackle and the caller rang off and all Joe heard coming down the wire was a continuous hum.