Stick in the Mud: A riveting murder mystery

by Leo McNeir

  “Chambers, I think. We used it to go on holidays when I was a kid.”

  “Gosh, is it that old?” Anne sniffed the air. There was none of the mustiness she had expected. “It seems like almost new.”

  “It must be well over ten years old,” Donovan said. “We only used it a few times and I’ve looked after it properly since then.”

  They had found a camping site on a farm, where half a dozen caravans and a handful of tents were scattered about in a field. Donovan chose a slightly elevated position some distance from the outbuilding which housed the showers and toilets. When Anne asked why they weren’t setting up the tent nearer to the facilities, Donovan simply smiled and said all would be revealed in the fullness of time. Anne let it go as just Donovan being enigmatic as usual.

  “What are we going to do about eating?” Anne asked, plumping the pillows at the head of the sleeping bags. “Are we going to try and find a pub or a chippy or something?”

  Donovan was outside, fetching a large plastic box from the car. “Were you talking about food, Anne?”

  Anne stepped out of the tent. “What’s that?”

  The box was bright blue plastic with a stout red handle that extended over its full length. Anne noticed that a wire was protruding from one end, and that Donovan had wound it round his hand.

  “We can go out if you like, but I packed some basics in case we ended up somewhere remote.”

  He laid the box on the ground. It was almost the size of an overnight bag. Anne was intrigued.

  “Is it a cool-box?” she said. “Did you have it plugged in in the car?”

  “Yes. Also quite old, but it still works. The car didn’t have a cigarette lighter, so there’s no socket to plug into, but my father fitted an extension lead behind the driver’s seat.”

  “Clever man, your father.”

  “Yes, he was. But the extension was just basic D-I-Y. So, what would you like to do?”

  “Since you’ve brought the stuff, let’s eat here. Then we’ll be proper campers.” Anne laughed.

  “Why are laughing?” Donovan said.

  “This reminds me of camping out in the garden with my brother when we were children. Summer nights at home. We treated it like an adventure.”

  “An adventure in the garden at home,” said Donovan. “Why not?”

  “Absolutely. Sorry, I’m starting to sound like the Famous Five or Swallows and Amazons.” Anne’s accent became frightfully upper-crust. “I say, Dee, what a spiffing adventure!”

  Donovan smiled at her, but only faintly. “You know, Anne, you might want to be careful about adventure. You know my father lectured on German literature. He told me that adventure in medieval times meant whatever might befall you … might come your way.”

  “Was that good or bad?”

  “Either was possible, but it usually meant … sinister happenings.”

  They fell silent while Donovan took plastic containers out of the coolbox.

  “But for now,” he said, holding up each container in turn, “why don’t we concentrate on smoked cheese, rye bread, cucumber salad, coleslaw, hard-boiled eggs, yogurts and apples? And there’s a choice of beer – German of course – or red wine. What is your pleasure, madame?”

  Anne helped Donovan open the containers and set out their meal on melamine plates spread on a dark tartan picnic rug. The atmosphere had lightened, but both of them were thinking of Dick Blackwood and their mission the next day … whatever might come their way.

  23

  Chinese Whispers

  Sunday 22 July, 1997

  On Sunday morning they were the first people on the camp site to be up and about. It came as no surprise to Anne that Donovan had the tent dismantled and packed away in a matter of minutes while she rolled up the sleeping bags, and the air mattresses were deflating. They had showered the previous evening after supper, and Donovan suggested they find a café somewhere for breakfast. He was keen to be away.

  They stopped off near the shower block to use the toilets before leaving. Anne was the first to emerge and she stood by the car, looking out over gently rolling fields, enjoying the view. The VW was covered in beads of condensation, and a mist hung over the landscape. As she surveyed the area she understood why Donovan had chosen the spot to erect their tent. The nearer part of the field which had seemed ideal, close to the facilities, lay in a slight hollow and was now shrouded in a dense blanket of mist.

  Moments later, Donovan joined her. She pointed out the fog hollow. His only reply was a smile and a nod. Before driving off, he asked for a few minutes to finish preparing the car. From a plastic box under the bonnet he produced a large chamois leather and proceeded to wipe over the bodywork and windows while Anne studied the atlas and checked her notes. A few minutes later they were ready to leave.

  “We’re meeting Dr Parfitt in Norwich near the cathedral,” she said. “Looks like an easy run from here.”

  The engine rumbled into life. Donovan put the car in gear, and they trundled over the grass, through the field gate and out onto the open road.

  For the first few miles they were on minor country byways, but soon reached the A148 and within minutes came upon a large filling station with a mini-market attached. Donovan pulled in and filled the tank while Anne investigated the shop. It boasted a coffee machine near a display of pre-packed Danish pastries. They breakfasted in a lay-by a mile down the road and when they set off again Anne produced bars of Kit Kat to sustain them on their journey.

  The Beetle ticked off the miles, cruising solidly on the highway, with Anne noting passing villages to track their position. Donovan was a smooth driver, treating the car with the respect due its not inconsiderable age. After rolling in silence for a while, Anne spoke.

  “How did Dr Parfitt seem when you talked on the phone?”

  “Friendly enough … quiet spoken … approachable, once he understood that I’d been working with Dick at Horselydown.”

  “I wonder what he’ll be able to tell us,” Anne said.

  “I’m hoping he’ll fill in some of the gaps.” Donovan negotiated a roundabout before continuing. “At the moment we’re faced with too many unknowns.”

  Anne said, “We know Dick was teaching Parfitt to sail. That’s not in doubt. Also, we know he’d found some artefacts that could be part of the treasure.”

  “Not sure Zoë would agree with that last bit,” Donovan observed.

  “D’you think he lied about finding those things?” Anne asked.

  “I don’t understand why he’d lie. Zoë’s theory is that he could only enhance his reputation, even if nothing else came to light. Somehow I don’t see Dick doing something so blatantly dishonest. You saw him, Anne. He was genuinely excited by what he’d found.”

  “Yes, he was. I’ve always thought of Dick as a totally dedicated archaeologist. So you believe he really had found King John’s lost treasure, Donovan?”

  “He found something.”

  “Then why’s he gone off like this? What’s he up to?”

  “I’m hoping he’ll tell us that himself.”

  “You think we’re going to find him?” Anne said.

  “I hope we are. And I hope he’ll give us a simple explanation for everything.”

  “So for once you haven’t got it all worked out.”

  Donovan laughed. “I’m touched by your faith in me.”

  “No, really. You always seem to be one jump ahead of everybody else.”

  Donovan became serious. “Anne, there’s something we’re all missing.”

  “What?”

  “That’s just it. I can’t put my finger on it. But it’s probably staring us in the face.”

  *

  Marnie spent an hour that morning inspecting the farmhouse, leaving Ralph to his research on Thyrsis. She took a clipboard to list all the work still outstanding. To her surprise, the list was not long. Bill and his mate had made good progress during her absence. She saw too that the joiner was well advanced with his work. The fi
tted oak bookcases were almost complete, and shelving was in place in all the cupboards. Only the kitchen remained unfinished, and even there she estimated there was only another fortnight’s work till completion.

  Marnie stood for some minutes in the kitchen – the farmhouse kitchen, she told herself – a generous space, with windows looking out over the garden on two sides. That morning it smelled of freshly sawn timber and new putty. She tried to imagine other smells there: bread baking, bacon sizzling, a hint of garlic, cucumber being sliced, coffee filtering.

  She walked through to the living room, which gave onto the rear terrace through French windows. At the sight of the garden – garden to be – she grimaced. It was a jungle, no doubt home to as yet unidentified species of wildlife. Anne had once told her she was convinced gorillas were living in there.

  Thinking of Anne made Marnie wonder what progress she and Donovan were making. They would be well on their way by now, she thought. Pressing number two on the mobile’s speed-dial, she heard the ringing tone. After three rings, Anne came on the line sounding crackly but reasonably clear.

  “Do I hear road noise?” Marnie asked.

  “Yes. ETA is about half an hour.”

  “All well?”

  “Fine. How about you?”

  “I’ve just reached a major decision, actually two major decisions.”

  “You’re starting to sound like Donovan! Where are you?”

  “I’m standing in the kitchen.”

  “D’you mean the galley?”

  “No. I’m in the farmhouse.”

  “Your decisions concern the house?”

  “Yes. The first is that I’m aiming to move in this autumn.”

  “That’s great. And the second?”

  “I’ll tell you when you get back.”

  “Even more like Donovan! A woman of mystery.” Anne paused. “Well let me tell you something. Deciding on the colour could be tricky …”

  “What d’you mean?”

  “I’m guessing the front-runners are dark blue or red,” Anne said. “Tough choice.”

  Marnie laughed. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Of course you don’t,” said Anne.

  “Safe journey and keep me posted. Give my love to Donovan.”

  As Marnie disconnected, she looked up from a brochure lying on the workbench beside her to see Ralph walking into the kitchen.

  “All quiet on the eastern front?” he said.

  Marnie grinned. “She’s a witch, that girl, I’m convinced of it.”

  “What’s your evidence this time?”

  Marnie pointed at the brochure. Ralph looked over her shoulder. It was a catalogue of Aga cookers open at the page illustrating the range of colours. Marnie had written question marks against two of them. One was dark blue, the other, red.

  “So you’ve decided on an Aga?” Ralph said.

  Marnie nodded. “They’re so expensive. I suppose it’s now or never. And this place is made for one.”

  Ralph put a hand on her shoulder. “You know about the four adult ages of Man?”

  “Would Man embrace woman?”

  “Any time.” He held her by the waist. “The four ages are, in this order: lager – Aga – Saga – gaga.”

  Marnie groaned and hugged him tight.

  *

  Hearing Anne give Marnie their estimated time of arrival, Donovan calculated they had about an hour in hand before the rendezvous with Dr Parfitt. He pulled into a lay-by and asked to see the road atlas. The coast was not many miles north of their current position, and he traced a line up to a point where the name seemed familiar.

  “Isn’t that where the marina is, where Parfitt keeps his boat?” he said.

  Anne looked at her notepad. “Whittleham, yes. That’s the place.”

  “Why don’t we look in? We’ve got bags of time to spare. I’d like to see the boat and get the lie of the land … or the sea.”

  “Fine by me,” Anne said. “Take the next left.”

  Donovan put the car in gear and pulled out onto the highway.

  “Donovan, do you have another reason for going there?”

  “Such as?”

  “You’re hoping we might find Dick Blackwood there, aren’t you?”

  “The thought had crossed my mind. But even if we don’t, I’d still like to do a recce. I like to be prepared.”

  As they drew nearer to the coast it became noticeably breezy, and at their first sighting of the sea they could see white tops on the waves. Anne pointed towards the rolling grey waters.

  “Look … white horses.”

  Donovan looked but said nothing. Anne directed him to turn right along the coast road, and within minutes they saw the sign to Whittleham Marina on their left. The road stood at a slightly higher level than the harbour, and instead of driving down to the car park, Donovan pulled off onto the grass verge. They had a commanding view of the jetties where dozens of white-hulled sailing boats were tied up, their sails furled under covers. The village of Whittleham lay to their left at the mouth of a creek, and with the tide in, a host of small boats rode at anchor in the channel.

  Donovan switched off the engine and let down his side window. Immediately a salty breeze buffeted the inside of the car, and a tinny, rattling sound assailed their ears.

  “They could make a better job of that,” Donovan murmured.

  “Do you know about sailing boats?” Anne asked.

  “We used to have one when I was little, a twenty-eight footer. Kept it at Gosport.”

  “So you’re knowledgeable about sailing.”

  “Not really. Both my parents enjoyed it, but the time they died was about when I would’ve started to learn, so I never really …”

  Anne bit her lip, regretting that she had introduced a painful subject.

  “So what could they make a better job of?” she asked, indicating the boats in the marina.

  “My father would’ve thought that was sloppy. He’d never have left the halyards loose to clank against the mast like that. That’s the noise you can hear. He always tied them back to the stays with stretchers to keep them clear.”

  Donovan reached across and opened the glove box. He took out a compact pair of field glasses and began sweeping the marina. Watching him, Anne found herself remembering her first impression of him and XO2: Donovan, the U-boat Kapitän.

  “What can you see?” she said.

  “I’m looking for … ah … what did you say Parfitt’s boat was called?”

  “Arabella.”

  Donovan leaned forward, adjusting the focus of the glasses. “Got her. There she is. Nice boat.”

  Anne muttered under her breath. “Half ahead both, come left two points, flood forward torpedo tubes.”

  Donovan lowered the binoculars and stared at her. “Sorry?”

  Anne shook her head. “Nothing …” She grinned at him. “… Herr Kapitän.”

  Donovan raised the glasses, shaking his head slowly. “Funny girl!” he said, smiling.

  “What now, then?” Anne said.

  Donovan lowered the glasses. “Presumably, fire one … fire two?”

  “Something like that.”

  “She looks deserted, but I’d like to go down and take a quick look. I don’t think Dick – or anyone else – is on board.”

  “Can we just do that?” Anne said. “Don’t we need permission?”

  “We’ll soon find out. Anyway, it’s easier to ask forgiveness than permission.”

  Donovan gave Anne the binoculars and started the engine. The road led down to a car park beside the moorings. Large signs stated that access to the jetties was strictly reserved for those with genuine business on the boats. They parked as close as they could to where Arabella was moored, and Donovan set off walking assuredly along the pontoon while Anne remained in the car. She was to start the engine if anyone came to investigate them.

  A quick inspection told Donovan all he needed to know. The cabin was locked shut with a p
adlock on the outside. An inflatable dinghy, also secured by padlock was stowed on the deck. They were soon heading back to the main road, confident that their visit had gone unnoticed.

  In the marina office another pair of binoculars was lowered, and the registration number of the black VW Beetle was noted in the daily log.

  *

  Ralph was glancing through the Observer magazine as relief from the business news, when he spotted an article about eating habits. It was one of those lifestyle pieces that reveal changing trends under the heading, The Way We Live Now. The discussion of food tickled his taste buds, and he rang Marnie in the office.

  “Had any thoughts about lunch?” he asked.

  Marnie reflected. “Nothing specific. Why? Are you hungry already?”

  “I was wondering if you fancied going out for a traditional British Sunday lunch, the country’s favourite meal.”

  “Roast beef and Yorkshire pud?” Marnie said.

  “Not even close … it’s chicken tikka masala.”

  “Really? Since when?”

  “I’ve just read about it in the Observer.”

  “Oh well, then it must be true. But will we get a table at such short notice?”

  “I’ll ring the Maharajah Tandoori.”

  “Give him my regards,” said Marnie.

  *

  The road atlas had a section at the back giving street plans of the centres of major towns and cities, which included Norwich. Anne guided them to a car park that was free on Sundays. They walked to the cathedral precinct in five minutes and took another minute or two to locate the pub suggested by Dr Parfitt. As they walked towards it, they saw a man in shirtsleeves coming from the opposite direction. He was of average height and medium build, with a shock of sandy hair and carrying a briefcase. His trousers were khakis with patch pockets, and his shirt was chequered in cream and green.

  “I bet he’s our man,” Anne said quietly.

  She was right. The man smiled hesitantly as the three of them converged on the pub’s front entrance. Anne was determined to resist the temptation to say Dr Parfitt, I presume, and she hoped Donovan would do the same. As soon as they got within speaking range, Parfitt extended a tentative hand.