Bruce had struck his head on a starter motor that Joe had meant to fit that day. The pool of blood and beer spread out like a fan across the floor. Joe straightened up. He picked up one of the beer bottles and threw it across the room. He looked around at the mess. He thought of calling an ambulance, but he didn’t. With one arm he swept the table clear. Then he sat down in the silent room and began to sob.
It was a lot later and the light had faded before Joe finally came to his resolve. Bruce was dead and he had to get rid of the body. I can say he went away, he thought; that he went back to Australia. I can say that he only came for a visit. His mind raced. He had been so wrapped up in what to do with Bruce’s body and concocting a story about why he had left that for a few brief moments he had forgot about the treasure. Suddenly it dawned on him; it was all his.
He fetched the rug from his bedroom floor and rolled Bruce’s lifeless body onto one edge of it. Then he rolled the rug and Bruce up in what would have been funny skit if Bruce had not been stone cold dead. He dragged it to one of the inspection pits and tipped it in. He started up the cement mixer that he had hired to finish levelling some rough areas at the back of the lot where he parked the cars. Two hours later and he had erased all trace of his friend.
He had moments over the next few days when he thought about what he had done, but he convinced himself that it had been an accident. He focused on his work and pondered his next move. It was time to shift his treasure and find some legitimate looking way to get the money out of the joint account; no one must suspect anything. He started to whistle as he formulated the plan in his head. He concentrated on setting the timing mechanism on a 1950’s MG Sports. It’s all goin’ well, he mused. It’s all goin’ bloody well.
***
Ralph and Katie had done all that was needed to prepare Gypsy Lady for the upcoming race and had decided to take a day off. There had been a notice in the local paper about a cricket match at Simonsbath, only a few miles up the road from Sherracombe Ford. Ralph wanted to combine a chance to watch some village cricket with another look at the site of the dig. The notion that Dr Franks at the British Museum had planted in his mind that only a portion of the total Romano- British hoard at Sherracombe had been unearthed had intrigued him. Could Joe Minton and Bruce Ansell have kept some of it for themselves? He had pondered that question since speaking with Dr Franks. But after seeing how much pride Joe took in his work at the garage, he had begun to discount the notion. He had not mentioned anything to Katie about it, but he also wanted to show the youths at The Bell that he was not easily intimidated.
The setting was perfect. A warm summer day, blue sky and a green swathe of grass that looked like a billiards table. Years of attention to drainage and loving care with the heavy roller had obviously paid off. As they parked and strolled towards the cricket ground he listened for the distinctive ‘thwack’ when a willow bat strikes a leather ball. It was every boy’s dream of being the hero who wins the game for his School.
It was a mid-week match. Ralph guessed that most of the players were either college lads or else youths who had not managed to get a job. Unlike the big city shops and supermarkets that stayed open seven days a week, rural places like South Molton, Simonsbath, Lynton, and other small towns in the area still observed Wednesday half-day closing.
“Lance would love this,” Katie said as the batsmen ran between the wickets to a round of polite applause from the small crowd of spectators who sat in deck chairs outside a small, green painted, wooden pavilion.
“It’s been an English tradition for nearly five hundred years,” Ralph remarked as they strolled toward the pavilion.
“Do you fancy a cup of tea,” Katie asked. “I could murder for some tea, and a scone with clotted cream and strawberry jam myself.”
A tall willowy lady in a large floral patterned hat saw them and waved.
“Do you recognise her?” Ralph asked as the woman came towards them. Katie just shook her head.
“I’m Mary Richardson,” the woman said when she reached them. “We do cream teas to help support the club, if you’re interested.”
“We were just talking about that,” Katie said. “I’m Katie and this is Ralph.”
“It helps pay for the upkeep of the grounds now that the council don’t do it any longer. Can I get a plate for you and your husband?”
Katie told her that that would be lovely and asked where they should go for it.
They were interrupted by a shout of ‘hows that!’ from the players. As they turned to see what was happening, the white-coated umpire held up his arm and pointed his finger to the sky.
“Oh dear. That’s our lot out, I’m afraid. Our secretary, John Wilkes was our last hope.” Their quintessential English hostess swept straight on. “Never mind. At least we can all have tea.”
Mary Richardson showed them up the steps to the pavilion as the small crowd applauded the players who were walking off. There was a lot of handshaking and cries of ‘well done’. Ralph smiled at the show of true sportsmanship.
Mary showed them to a small rickety bamboo table and motioned to a young girl who came over and brought them their tea.
“Did you say your John Wilkes was the secretary of the cricket club?” asked Katie. “Ralph played at college.”
“Goodness no. John is deputy manager at Lloyds Bank in South Molton. He’s the secretary of the North Devon Archaeological Society. I’m the chairman. Well I suppose nowadays it’s chairperson, but frankly I think the old ways were best. Everyone knew what you meant and no one took offense. Young people today seem to have forgotten how to be private. What with Facebook and talking to people they’ve never met. It’s a funny world. But here I am chatting on and you want to enjoy your tea.”
“Not at all,” said Ralph. “We’re both quite interested in archaeology; amateurs of course.”
“Are you local, then? Perhaps you might like to join our society as well as the cricket club? We meet monthly and there are regular supervised digs. We link up with Exeter University and of course the people who look after Exmoor. Some of our members joined just to keep in touch with things. And of course we put out a newsletter.”
“We’d love to,” said Katie.
“That’s wonderful. I’ll send you the forms. Just an address and that sort of thing. We have a dig over at Sherracombe Ford weekend after next. You’d be more than welcome.”
Ralph explained briefly about his chat with Doctor Franks at the British Museum and that he had seen the exhibition they had put on about the Sherracombe Hoard. Mary seemed a bit taken aback that a comparative stranger should be so aware of what had happened at Sherracombe.
“Are you alright,” asked Katie.
“Yes, of course. It’s just that there’s been a lot on lately and I might have been overdoing things. The newspaper reporters have been asking a lot of questions about the site where they found poor Daniel Kaminsky’s body, and they arrested Mr Bishop for something to do with drugs. Then there was Mr Raines’ accident; he was a founder member, you know.”
Ralph had heard something about an accident from the new Harbourmaster at the Marina.
“I’m sorry,” said Katie. “It sounds as though you’ve really had your share of trouble lately.”
“Well these things happen. But Seth’s death was tragic even if he was a difficult man at times. No one deserves to be run down and left for dead lying in a ditch like that. His sister Megan lives over at Lynton; works at the Farmer’s Market over there. They open a couple of days a week, I think. You know, vegetables, fruit and local produce, that sort of thing. Without Seth to help her out, she needs every penny she can get. We all went over there for the funeral at St Mary the Virgin. We had a collection because funerals are expensive these days and we wanted to help out.” She straightened up and smiled. “So we’ll see you at the dig. Never know we might even find some more evidence of the Roman buildings, although I doubt it.” She smiled and went off to console John Wilkes.
Ralp
h and Katie finished the last of their strawberry jam and clotted cream scones before they found Mary again. She promised to send them the archaeological society forms and they thanked her for all of the helpful information.
“Shall we drive over and get a preview of Sherracombe Ford?” Ralph asked as they walked back to the car.
They drove over to the site of the dig. It looked pretty desolate even on a beautiful summer’s afternoon. It was a bit early for The Bell, so Ralph decided to save that for another day.
“Ralph, you said something about wanting that man at the garage in Lynton to look at your car. Why don’t we go over now? It’s still early. We could get some fresh farm produce at that market that Mary mentioned at the same time.”
“You’re as transparent as glass, Katie Eggleton. You just want to see that woman Megan that Mary Richardson told us about.”
“Race you up the hill, Mr. Smarty,” shouted Katie as she set out to reach the top of the woods by the dig site. They were not aware that it was so close to the spot where Daniel Kaminsky had been found.
_____________________
Chapter 10
It was an unusually hot day. So hot that as they drove over to Lynton the tar on the main roads had begun to soften. Ralph had phoned and asked Joe Minton if he could take a look at the rear brakes on the Jag, as he had noticed a slight scrapping noise. When they walked into the cool vaulted garage, Joe had just finished working on a blue 1936 Railton Straight Eight. He proudly pointed out that it was currently owned by a once famous Formula 2 driver. Katie was used to Ralph’s fascination with vintage cars and she waited while they exchanged tit bits of knowledge.
“I’ve worked on old cars straight from when I left school,” said Joe as he stepped back and admired his latest challenge. Reid Railton had a hand in the design of this beauty.”
“I think I learned somewhere that they started somewhere near me in Surrey,” Ralph remarked.
“Tha’s right. Over Cobham way; but they sold out to Hudson jus’ afore the war.”
“My Jag’s a new boy as far as you’re concerned,” Ralph said jokingly.
“Still a great model, plenny a innovations. An’ she looks good. Morgan goin’ awright fer ya misus?”
“Its great, thanks,” said Katie. She was stuck for anything else to say. As far as she was concerned, a car either started or it didn’t. In Australia where she grew up, men did the mechanical stuff and fixed things that broke; a woman’s role did not include messing with cars or tractors.
The two men peered under the Jag. Joe pointed out that Ralph’s model had in-line braking fitted to the back axle and that it would take him about an hour to check it out. That suited Katie fine; she was eager to explore the quaint old town and take a look at the famous cliff railway. She also wanted to try and find the farmer’s market that Mary Richardson had talked about.
“That’s fine, Joe. We’d like to take a look around the town and maybe get a coffee.”
“Nice day for it. Lots of antique shops down the side road by the church," said Joe as he jacked the car up and dragged out a sliding trolley. With a grunt he slid under the car. They heard him start to whistle as he got to work.
As they strolled along, Katie stopped outside a jeweler’s shop that had a display of antique estate pieces.
“I’ve been looking for a chain for that pendant you gave me for my birthday, Ralph. What do you think about that silver chain? None of the ones I have are heavy enough.”
They went in. The place was filled with wall clocks of every description including an ornate full-case grandfather by the far wall; the loud ticking bombarded their ears. They had just turned to make a quick exit when the proprietor emerged from behind a beaded curtain that separated the shop from his office.
“Afternoon. Just feel free to browse around. Most of the pieces are Victorian and Edwardian, but I have a few new engagement and wedding rings in the case here.” He looked at Ralph.
It was the same whenever they went into a jewellery shop. Once the person behind the counter noticed that they were not sporting rings, he or she assumed that that was why they were there. He had a slightly disappointed look on his face when Katie told him that she was only interested in the chain in the window. When he went to retrieve it, she and Ralph exchanged looks, and it was all they could do to keep from laughing.
“Madam” the proprietor said as he handed it to Katie. “It’s late Victorian, 1900 according to the hallmark.”
Katie held it up. The owner eyed her uncomfortably as she held it against a steel scale along the front of the counter. Customers usually asked him to do that.
“Is it the right length?” Ralph asked.
“Just about perfect,” Katie said. “A birthday surprise?” She laughed.
Ralph asked the man to wrap it while Katie went to look more closely at the long case clock.
“Now that’s the way I like to shop,” Ralph said as they walked out into the sunshine. No hassle, and a memento of our day out. Now all we need to do is stroll around the town and see what Lynton has to offer in the way of a coffee or tea shop. With a bit of luck the car’ll be ready by the time we have a cup of tea. I must give Bob Wyman a call and thank him for putting me on to Joe.”
Lynton was the quintessential English seaside town. Being situated at the top of the cliffs above Lynmouth Harbour, anyone without transportation either had a pretty strenuous hike or else they had to use the Victorian cliff railway. Walking along the steep narrow road was both dangerous and exhausting.
Ralph and Katie strolled through the town and looked down at the sea far below. A crowd of holiday-makers waited patiently in line to purchase a ticket to visit the town and harbor below. Those emerging from the carriage smiled at the people waiting in the queue. Parents told kids to behave or there would be no ice-cream. A few hardy souls tackled the path which zig-zagged along the side of the cliff face. Some of them were a good deal older than Ralph and seemed pretty fit. It reminded him that he needed to increase his daily mileage if he expected to be in top shape for the next triathlon.
“I should be able to keep myself as fit as those buggers for another twenty years,” Ralph said to a slightly amused Katie.
“How do you suppose that thing works?” Katie asked Ralph and waved in the direction of the train. “I can’t hear an engine running.”
“I cheated and read the leaflet last time I was here,” Ralph admitted. “The Victorians built it. They used water-power to raise the two carriages up that cliff face. One counterbalances the other. To be truthful I’m not 100% clear how it works even after having read the leaflet, but those cogs and that cable must be incredibly strong to pull that lot up. The pamphlet said it’s been in daily use for 120 years.”
“Let’s go on it, Ralph. We’ve got plenty of time.”
They joined the throng of day-trippers and their children as the carriage made its way silently down the steep cliff. When it reached the bottom, the bell in the carriage clanged, the gates at the bottom opened and they were out onto the harbor front.
“Let’s see if we can find an ice cream and have a look at the boats before we go back,” said Ralph. There was something relaxing about the tranquility of the small harbor and watching the fishing boats straining at their moorings on an ebbing tide.
They walked along the front and shared an ice cream between them. They passed a small museum and a white painted pub with a thatched roof. Outside along the seafront, holidaymakers drank their beers or lemonades and fussed over their children to stay away from the road. And there was the ever pervasive seaside smell of seaweed and fish and chips that mingled with that of the freshly baked Devon meat pies and pasties that wafted from one of the side streets where families could stroll around and look in the quaint shops. Across a small bridge over a roaring stream, some children chased each other and laughed. The thwack of tennis balls being struck by a couple of erstwhile Wimbledon Champions completed the idyllic scene.
Katie wanted to look ar
ound the museum. It was dedicated to the fishermen lost at sea and the volunteer lifeboat crews who had sacrificed their lives for the crews of ships in distress, and to people who had been drowned in a flash flood there a few years back. It was quite well done and provided some sobering thoughts for both of them.
Out in the sunlight once more, they sat on the flint-rock harbor wall and watched the seagulls as they scouted for an unwary holidaymaker to wave their sandwich or ice-cream cone around as they walked along the seafront. An afternoon sea breeze had picked up and cooled the summer air. Some of the tourists had put long sleeved shirts over their skimpy tops and others chivvied their children to get changed out of their wet bathing costumes before they caught colds.
A short ride in the rail car soon took them back up the cliff to Lynton. Katie took advantage of the lull in trade at the farmer’s market to stop in for a chat with Megan Raines. As Ralph watched them, he thought that she looked worn out; he wondered if her brother’s death was the cause.
Katie explained that they had met Mary Richardson at the cricket match at Simonsbath earlier that day, and that Mary had told them about Seth’s death.
“We’re really sorry for your loss,” Katie said as she put her hand on Megan’s arm in a gesture of condolence.
“Everyone’s been so kind ever since Seth’s accident,” Megan said.
Ralph noticed the slight hesitation before she said the word accident.
“We stopped in at Saint Mary’s at the top of the cliffs,” Katie said. “It’s a lovely view out over the sea; so peaceful.”
“That’ where we buried our Seth,” Megan said. “He lived over at Brayford, but Mum’s buried in St Mary’s, and I wanted him to be with ‘er.”
“You just visitin’? Pretty place in summer, but winter can be a bit bad. When the snows come in across the channel from Wales, that’s when you like to remember these nice summer days like this. Seth was allus after me to go over to Brayford closer to him, but I like lookin’ out over the sea when I want; an’ I know people in the village, though most of 'em seem to be droppin’ off these days. Still mustn’t grumble, eh.”
Murder on Exmoor (The Ralph Chalmers Mysteries Book 11) Page 11