Stick in the Mud: A riveting murder mystery

by Leo McNeir

  Stick in the Mud

  Leo McNeir

  © Leo McNeir 2012

  Leo McNeir has asserted his rights under the Copyright, Design and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as the author of this work.

  First published in 2012 by Enigma Publishing.

  This edition published in 2017 by Endeavour Press Ltd.

  For Roger and Anne Everest-Phillips.

  And for Mike and Chris John.

  Table of Contents

  Prologue

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  17

  18

  19

  20

  21

  22

  23

  24

  25

  26

  27

  28

  29

  30

  31

  32

  33

  Prologue

  The young woman with short pale-blonde hair was sitting comfortably as she opened the book at random at a chapter entitled The Killing Ground and began reading.

  Condemned on Wednesday, 12 April 1752, Jacob Pepper was led out of the notorious Clink Street prison two days later. With hands tied behind his back, he was dragged on board a river launch and rowed to Horselydown on the south bank of the Thames, opposite the Tower of London. With him were two custody officers from the Clink, the prison chaplain and two guards armed with muskets.

  Word had spread rapidly that the infamous river pirate known as Daring Jake was to be executed, and a fair-sized crowd had gathered by the riverside. When they caught sight of the prisoner and his guards a cheer went up from the throng, and the escorting officers were at first anxious that the onlookers might be supporters of the pirate. However, the shouts soon turned to jeers, and some members of the crowd began throwing rotten fruit at the man who had become a legend of wickedness over several years.

  The execution party alighted onto the bank. Some members of the crowd were surprised when the prisoner, the chaplain and the two prison officers mounted a small horse-drawn cart. The scaffold was, after all, barely thirty yards along the wharf. The wagon trundled over the cobbles, and the horse was guided through a wooden arch, halting once the cart was immediately below the structure. Now the purpose of the cart became clear.

  One of the prison officers picked up a coil of rope from the floor of the cart and hoisted it over the cross-bar. At this, the crowd cheered again, and the prisoner went a deathly pale as he saw the noose dangling before his eyes. The chaplain spoke up in a voice loud enough to be heard by all, asking the prisoner if he truly repented his sins. Daring Jake made one last gesture of defiance to authority. He spat on the floor and cried out that they could all rot in Hell. At this, the chaplain began incanting prayers for the pirate’s soul.

  One of the officers slipped the noose over Jake’s head and tightened the loop. Both men held Jake firmly by the arms, and one nodded at a guard who was holding the horse’s collar. The horse walked on, the guards released the arms of their prisoner and Jake was left dangling on the end of the rope. No record was kept of the time it took him to die, but it was believed to be some minutes that he danced on the air while his eyes bulged in their sockets, his tongue protruded from his lips and his face turned a livid purple.

  When his writhing ceased, the cart rolled back, and one officer bound the body in chains while the other coated him in pitch from head to foot. Independent sources from those times testified that the body of Daring Jake Pepper was still hanging there a year later, rotting and swaying in the breeze as an example to all who might contemplate a life of river piracy.

  1

  The Dead

  Friday 15 June 1997

  Marnie Walker was obviously in high spirits as she walked across the car park. This did not go unnoticed by her friend and associate, Anne Price, who was sitting in Marnie’s Land Rover Discovery waiting for her. They had agreed to rendezvous at Willards Brewery in Leicester, where Marnie had a meeting with board members of the company, her largest client. Initially Anne had wondered if it was a good sign that Marnie was emerging later than the expected time of three o’clock. But Marnie clearly had a spring in her step as she spotted the Disco, gave a cheery wave and veered over in Anne’s direction.

  From a first floor window, one of the directors observed Marnie crossing the tarmac. He estimated correctly that she was in her early to mid-thirties. She was above average height for a woman, with wavy shoulder-length brown hair and a figure that looked good in a trouser suit. She was popular with all the directors for her clear presentations in meetings and the interiors she designed for their hotels, restaurants and pubs. They were stylish and original, but possessed a quality that would not quickly go out of fashion.

  The director looked on as Marnie reached her car. He saw another woman get out from the driver’s side. This one was younger, probably still in her teens. She was wearing a T-shirt and jeans, ideal for the early summer warmth of mid-June, and had a figure that most people would describe as boyish. The uncharitable would say she was skinny. But in her favour, she had a pleasant face, with sharp features and pale-blonde hair almost sculpted to her head.

  The two of them exchanged words briefly, and the thin girl resumed her place behind the wheel as Marnie climbed in beside her.

  “I think you’ve got an admirer,” Anne said, fastening her seat belt.

  “Really?”

  “Blind twitching on the first floor. How did the meeting go?”

  “Fine.”

  “Only fine?”

  Marnie looked thoughtful. “Fine’s good, it’s … fine.”

  “That’s fine, then.” Anne looked at the controls in front of her and took a deep breath before turning the ignition key. The Disco was like a truck compared with her Mini. She looked sideways at Marnie. “Home, James, and don’t spare the horses?”

  Marnie hesitated. “Did you find a good bookshop?”

  “Yes. This is a university city.”

  “Can you find your way back there?”

  “I think so.”

  “Then let’s do that. I need some reading matter.”

  While Anne manoeuvred her way through the traffic, Marnie phoned home on the mobile. The call was answered by her lover, her fiancé, Ralph Lombard – to be precise, Professor Ralph Lombard of All Saints’ College, Oxford – who was working on a research paper on his latest hot topic, the economic situation in the Far East. Marnie told him they should be home within an hour or two, and Ralph promised to have a meal ready for them. He was one of the brightest academics of his generation and knew how to take a hint.

  In little more than ten minutes Anne had retraced her journey back to the bookshop and then took another ten minutes finding somewhere to park.

  *

  Anne caught up with Marnie at the till and cast an eye over the voluminous carrier bag filled with books that Marnie heaved onto the back seat when they regained the car.

  “Next stop Ikea?” said Anne with a deadpan expression.

  “What for?”

  “A new bookcase?”

  Marnie nodded. “Perhaps I did get a little carried away. Shall I drive us home?”

  Anne was grateful to hand over the keys and ride shotgun. The thought of steering through city traffic when the schools were turning out did not appeal. She asked if she could look at the books Marnie had bought and dragged the bag onto her lap
as they drove off.

  The variety of Marnie’s purchases surprised her. There were a few novels of the kind that people bought at airports to take on holiday, predictably some art and design books, two books on the history of London and the Thames, plus a further two books about … pirates.

  “Pirates?” Anne said. “Since when have you been interested in them?”

  “I have hidden depths.” Marnie pulled up at a red light.

  “But seriously,” Anne persisted.

  “Tell you later.”

  “Okay.” Anne noticed that one of the books dealt with river pirates, the other about the myth and reality of pirates in the Caribbean. She flicked open the former. “Can I have a look?”

  “Go ahead.”

  For the next few miles the car plodded from one hold-up to the next. Anne normally got car-sick if she tried to read while on the move, but she was able to peruse the book without discomfort. It told the story of piracy in the port of London around the eighteenth century. Trade was then so brisk and the port so busy that vessels could be tied up often for weeks on end, waiting to unload. They were an easy target for thieves.

  Anne found herself immersed in the tale of one man, Jacob Pepper – known as Daring Jake – a notorious gang leader in the mid-1700s. They broke into one ship after another and amassed a fortune in stolen goods: carpets, tapestries, brandy, rum, port, silks and silver, spices and gold. They struck at dead of night, off-loading booty onto their own boat. Anyone who got in their way was likely to be murdered and thrown into the river.

  “What a scurvy mob,” Anne murmured, “especially their leader.”

  “Who was that?” Marnie asked between gear changes.

  “This pirate … Daring Jake Pepper. I wonder what became of him.”

  “Probably came to a sticky end.”

  Marnie was right.

  So successful was Daring Jake, and so elusive, that the port authorities offered a substantial reward for his capture. Jake was eventually betrayed by one of his own crew. Brought to trial and confronted with his crimes, Jake had no credible defence to offer, and was condemned by the testimony of his betrayer. There was only one sentence possible. Anne read on. The account of Daring Jake’s hanging left her enthralled and appalled in equal measure.

  “… cut across country, I think, and go down the A5.”

  Anne looked up in surprise. “What? Sorry?”

  Marnie glanced at her. “You okay? I was just saying, I don’t think it’s a good idea to head for the M1 with all this traffic.”

  “No,” said Anne, her voice flat.

  “What’s the matter?”

  “I was just reading about that river pirate.”

  “Daring Jake? What about him?”

  Anne grimaced. “He was hanged and his body … ugh!”

  “Where was that?”

  “In London, some place called …” Anne consulted the text. “… Horselydown. I’ve never heard of it before.”

  “Well, you may be hearing about it again,” said Marnie, “and sooner rather than later.”

  Anne closed the book on her lap. “It’s a horrible story.”

  “A sticky end?” said Marnie.

  Anne thought of Daring Jake’s slowly rotting tarred body, hanging for weeks, months, perhaps longer.

  “Very sticky,” she said.

  *

  It was almost six o’clock when Marnie turned off the dual carriageway and took the narrow country road to their home village of Knightly St John. Both she and Anne relaxed as they cruised along the high street past stone cottages, some of them thatched, past the shop-cum-post-office, the pub – The Two Roses – and the primary school. The street then made a long right-hand turn leading out of the village. Rounding this bend, Marnie steered the car through a field gateway on the left and followed a track down the sloping meadow.

  Marnie smiled across at Anne as chimney-tops came into view above a cluster of trees. Now Anne was looking happier. Marnie wondered when would be a suitable time to break the news to Anne that would make her less cheerful.

  Arriving at a group of stone outbuildings, Marnie swung left and turned into an open-sided barn comprising four bays. She parked the dark blue Disco between a lighter blue elderly Volvo and a shining red Mini, Anne’s pride and joy. The end bay housed a small vehicle under a tarpaulin, Marnie’s classic MG sports car dating from the 1930s.

  As soon as they climbed out of the Disco, Marnie and Anne paused to take deep breaths of clean country air.

  “It’s great to be home,” said Anne.

  Marnie laughed. “Anyone would think you’d just got back from the South Pole instead of an outing to Leicester.”

  Anne was unrepentant. “I don’t care. I always feel like this when we come home to Glebe Farm. And we’ve got a welcome committee.” She knelt down as a large black cat trotted up and rubbed its flank against her legs. Anne stroked the animal’s head. “Hallo, Dolly. Caught any big fat mice?”

  The cat made an enigmatic warbling sound and turned its attentions on Marnie.

  “Pity we can’t train her to carry parcels.” Marnie reached down to stroke the sturdy head. “These books are heavy. Come on, I want to check the answering machine before we eat.”

  The three of them walked round to another stone barn. It faced onto a cobbled courtyard, on the opposite side of which stood a row of three cottages, each having a front door of dark blue, with white-painted window frames. Set back at the end of this terrace, to the right of the office barn, stood a double-fronted farmhouse. All the buildings at Glebe Farm were of pale local limestone under roofs of Welsh blue slate.

  The cottages had been renovated and modernised and were let to tenants. The expense of refurbishing so many buildings had led to only slow progress with works on the main dwelling, but now after three years, they were approaching their final phase. Marnie hoped to be able to move into the house with Ralph that autumn.

  The facade of the office barn was enclosed by large wooden doors. When shut, they gave the appearance of a double cart building. When opened and folded back, as now, they revealed a tinted plate glass window like a shop front. Marnie unlocked the single front door and went in.

  The office contained two desks equipped with computers. Filing cabinets and other storage units lined the wall to the right. At the rear was a kitchen and beyond that, an internal wall concealed a utility area comprising a laundry room, shower room and toilet. The colour scheme of tinted white walls and blond-wood furniture was light and bright. On the left was a wall-ladder leading up through an open trap-door to a large attic room. This loft was Anne’s domain, her living quarters, another pride and joy.

  Marnie pressed the button on the answerphone and listened while Anne made notes of the messages. One of them, significantly, was from Marnie’s former employer, Philip Everett, a senior partner in the London firm of architects, Everett Parker Associates. After clearing the messages, Marnie checked her e-mails while Anne went outside and closed the barn doors.

  It was time to join Ralph for the evening meal.

  Behind the office barn a spinney extended for about fifty yards, with a footpath running through it, leading to the canal. To their left as Marnie and Anne exited the spinney, a docking area joined the canal at ninety degrees. It was occupied by Marnie’s narrowboat, Sally Ann, in its livery of navy blue, red and yellow. Ahead of them, moored on the canal’s main line was Ralph’s boat, Thyrsis. Marnie had once compared its livery of deep sage green and gold with a Harrods carrier bag.

  Waiting for the farmhouse to be ready, Marnie and Ralph slept on Thyrsis, which also contained Ralph’s study. They normally used the galley and saloon on Sally Ann for eating, but that evening was to be an exception. Even before they emerged from the spinney their noses announced the meal that Ralph was preparing. The unmistakable tang of a barbecue was in the air.

  Ralph himself appeared from behind a swirl of smoke, fanning the fumes away with one hand, using tongs to rotate sausages with the ot
her. At six feet tall, with regular features and dark hair, he had kept in good shape for a man in his early forties. Under a red-and-white striped apron he was wearing a light blue silk shirt and navy slacks.

  Beside the barbecue, under a large cream parasol stood a round table. Marnie noticed with some surprise that Ralph had put out five safari chairs and five place settings.

  “I perceive, Watson, that we appear to be expecting guests,” Marnie said quietly.

  “Not in the diary, Holmes,” Anne replied.

  “I hope I don’t have to be Moriarty.” Ralph kissed Marnie on the lips. “All that twirling of moustaches and falling over waterfalls can be very wearing.”

  “Okay,” said Marnie, “I’ll let you off, but you have to reveal who’s coming.”

  “Fair enough. I’ll give you three guesses and a clue.”

  “You’re on,” said Marnie.

  “The clue,” Ralph paused for effect, “is that I invited them on condition they don’t insist on saying grace.”

  “Got it,” said Marnie. “The Archbishop of –”

  “Randall and Angela,” Anne interjected.

  “Give the girl a coconut!” Ralph exclaimed with a flourish. “Actually, they virtually invited themselves. They have something important to tell us.”

  “Perhaps Randall’s going to make an honest woman of Angela,” Marnie mused. “It’s about time.”

  “I’ve never thought of rural deans making honest women of lady vicars,” said Ralph. “I can’t imagine Angela as a vamp in fishnet tights.”

  “Pleased to hear it,” said Marnie. “And while we’re thinking of such practical matters, is that all the salad you’ve made for supper?”

  On the table stood a bowl of sliced tomatoes in vinaigrette with chopped basil leaves scattered over them.

  “I did wonder about that myself,” Ralph admitted.

  Without a further word, Marnie and Anne repaired to the galley on Sally Ann. Marnie dug out lettuce, cucumber, spring onions and baby beetroots from the fridge. A mixed salad was in the offing, but she wondered if that would mean too much French dressing in the side dishes. Anne had two suggestions.