by Leo McNeir
They were sitting at the dining table in the flat, having a sandwich lunch so as to leave space for coffee and cakes on Donovan’s boat that afternoon.
“Dick’s not going to be overjoyed,” Marnie agreed, “though I suppose a lot will depend on whether he can get hold of those maps and papers that Dr Parfitt seems to have taken with him.”
“Do you think finding King John’s treasure will outscore Zoë’s TV series?” Anne said.
Ralph swallowed some mineral water. “It’ll make big headlines and possibly outshine her success if he can locate it beyond doubt.”
“That’s the big question,” Marnie said. “If he can locate it. What if he can’t get hold of the maps and other documents?”
“I expect he’ll ask Bernard de Groot to make contact with the archaeology department at UEA and get permission for Dick to check out his study to see if they’re there.”
“Or they could be at Dr Parfitt’s home, Ralph. Do you know what his domestic situation was? Did he have a wife and family, a partner or anything?”
“No idea. But in any case the whole thing is a longshot. I wouldn’t be at all surprised if Parfitt took them with him to a watery grave.”
“That’s a bit unlikely isn’t it? If he’d had them on him when he and Dick went out on the boat, Dick would’ve seen them. We’re talking about a bright yellow folder stuffed with material. It couldn’t go unnoticed.”
“That’s a fair assessment, I suppose,” Ralph conceded. “On the other hand, why would Parfitt leave them behind when they sailed? I thought the whole idea was to go off and find the treasure. My thinking is that he did indeed take the folder with him, but somehow it got lost when the storm hit them. Perhaps he was trying to go through the papers after Dick went over the side, but then got struck by a wave himself and they all ended up in the drink.”
Marnie felt a chill sweep over her.
“Are you all right, Marnie?” Ralph said. “You’ve gone rather pale.”
Marnie put a hand to her face. “You’ve broken my dream. That’s exactly what I saw … Parfitt and all the papers in the sea, everything being destroyed.”
“Sorry, darling, I didn’t realise. Still, it was just a dream. It doesn’t mean anything. This has been preying on all our minds for the past few weeks. We’ll soon know for sure what really happened. Then we can put it down and get on with our lives.”
“I hope so.”
*
They crossed London by tube and took a taxi for the last part of the journey from Hammersmith Broadway to West Drayton. Donovan had given them a rendezvous and had brought the boat as close as possible to the Uxbridge road. As the cab cruised slowly along, Anne was first to spot XO2 at her mooring. It was just a short walk under a grey sky along the towpath, once they passed through the access gate. The rain had eased off, but felt as if it could return at any minute, and they had to step round puddles left behind by the latest shower.
As they drew nearer, a familiar waterways smell reached them. Mingled with the cool, damp air was the unmistakable aroma of wood-smoke. Ahead of them they saw wisps of pale grey issuing from Donovan’s chimney. Without exception they were immediately transported to a world of rural idylls, early morning departures and the lure of the silver ribbon of water calling them on their travels.
Donovan must have seen them coming, for the stern doors swung open and he came out onto the deck to welcome them aboard. Dressed in black sweatshirt and black jeans, he complemented perfectly the dark grey paintwork of his boat. Marnie noticed that even the mooring ropes were black, though they had faded slightly to a shade of charcoal grey.
Anne guided them down into the boat, past the shower room, through the sleeping cabin, on into the galley which in turn opened into the dining area and saloon. Behind them, Donovan closed the stern doors and slid the hatch back into place before joining his guests. With all four standing in the dining-saloon space, the interior felt crowded. Donovan invited his visitors to sit at the dinette while he completed preparations for Kaffee und Kuchen.
“This is delightful, Donovan,” Marnie said, twisting in her seat beside Ralph to survey the interior. “I’m not quite sure what I expected. Your design scheme is very functional, but you’ve made it really cosy and welcoming.”
“I’ve never seen it with the stove in action,” said Anne. “It creates a lovely atmosphere.”
Donovan laughed. “A U-boat with a wood-burning stove! It’s gotta be a first.”
“D’you mind if I look round?” Marnie said. “I feel so curious about what you’ve done with the boat. I’ve never seen anything like this before.”
“The U-boat is certainly unique,” Anne chimed in.
“Go ahead.” Donovan gestured towards the saloon. “Make yourself at home.”
Marnie stood and walked towards the front of the cabin. On the left was a desk unit with shelving above and fitted drawers either side of the knee-hole below. Beyond it, the blackened wood-stove glowed orange-red with yellow flames flickering behind the glass.
To the right of the cratch door opposite the wood-burner and down the side wall towards her, the cabin was lined with bookshelves. Nearest to the dinette was a unit containing the three classic Leica cameras. Marnie admired the crockery displayed below them and guessed they might be Rosenthal or Hutschenreuter from years past. On the end panel, that was painted matt black, she saw the three photographs of silver racing cars from the 1930s.
The whole interior was monochrome in shades of grey, just as Marnie imagined a U-boat might be. Even the upholstery was in a dark grey tweed material that was both functional in appearance and comfortable to use. Portholes were the only source of external light, and on that dull overcast afternoon, Donovan had drawn the curtains. The only lighting inside the boat was provided by candles, thick and chunky, some of them decorated with carvings like the friezes on medieval rood screens.
Marnie found herself admiring Donovan’s sense of design and his success in bringing all the elements together in a cohesive style. She took her place with the others just as Anne was helping Donovan set out the refreshments.
In the German way, he had filled a large vacuum jug with coffee, which he set down in the middle of the table. Beside it was a bowl filled with vanilla-flavoured whipped cream. There were three sorts of cake on offer: a Streusel, a sort of apple and blackberry crumble, a tart made with raspberries, known as Linzertorte and a cake topped with plums, which he called Zwetschgenkuchen.
Donovan looked at his guests. “It’s decision time, perhaps in more ways than one.”
“Hearing you pronounce their German names like that seems rather exotic,” Marnie said, studying the plates before her, “and rather daunting.”
Donovan smiled. “Don’t worry about the names, Marnie. It’s the taste that counts.”
“They all look delicious,” said Ralph. “May I ask, without indiscretion …”
“My aunt made them all. She likes nothing better than baking. So, please … what will you have? Perhaps it’s easiest if you serve yourselves while I pour coffee?”
They set to, and soon the only sound heard at the table was groans of pleasure. When they had finished their first slices of cake, Donovan invited them to take another. Marnie suggested a small pause, partly to let the first pieces go down but also to heighten the joy of anticipation. At that point, the conversation turned to the questions that were on their minds.
“So where are we with King John’s treasure and all that?” Marnie began. “What do we know for certain, and what remains to find out?”
Donovan astonished them all. “I think it’s all quite clear.”
Marnie laughed. “Why am I not surprised to hear you say that?”
Ralph joined in. “Surely there are some questions that are still unresolved.”
“I think Dick is hoping that’s the case,” Donovan said quietly.
“Isn’t he the one who has all the answers?” Marnie said. “He’s the only one who knows what really happ
ened on Arabella that day. No-one else can ever know about that head injury to Dr Parfitt … whether it really was an accident or … he was struck with a blunt object.”
“Like a lock key,” Donovan added. “Yes. It’s impossible to know exactly what happened and therefore impossible to prove things one way or another.”
“You suspect Dick, don’t you?” Ralph said.
“That’s not really the point.”
It was a stock Donovan reply. Ralph smiled.
“Then what is?” said Marnie. “Surely that’s at the heart of everything.”
“Of course. But the real point is, what do we do about it?”
“Do we all think Dick killed Parfitt?” Marnie asked.
“It’s probably the only solution that fits all the facts, as we know them,” Ralph said. “We know he’s fanatical about his discovery, that he sent Parfitt to get the maps and papers, that he was furious with Parfitt for trying to muscle in on his hour of glory. He’s admitted as much.”
Marnie agreed. “But what he doesn’t know is what became of the maps and other documents. He absolutely must have those in order to pinpoint the exact location of the treasure.”
“Coming back to my question,” Ralph was looking at Donovan, “do you believe Dick killed Parfitt?”
“Yes. He killed Dr Parfitt. I’m certain of it. What we can’t know is in what circumstances he did it. I mean, was there a sudden flare-up, a fit of rage in which he lashed out?”
“It could never be proved, as you say,” Marnie said. “But if that’s the case, how can you be so sure?”
Anne spoke for the first time. “The lock key.”
Donovan nodded. “The lock key. There’s no need for a lock key on a boat sailing in the Wash. And with twin keels like that, Arabella was never going to cruise on inland waterways, so she was never going to enter a canal lock.”
“You believe he took the lock key from Judith’s boat,” Marnie said.
“There’s no evidence to prove it, but yes I do … and so I think does Judith.”
“So it was premeditated on Dick’s part.”
“Why else would he take it with him when they went sailing?” Donovan said.
He reached forward and offered Marnie a slice of the raspberry tart, the Linzertorte. It was covered with lattice pastry and looked very tempting. She topped it with a spoonful of whipped cream. The others followed her cue, while Donovan poured them all a second cup of coffee from the flask.
“Presumably,” Ralph began tentatively, “the police would come to that same conclusion, so Dick wouldn’t get away with it.”
“But what evidence would they be able to find … what actual proof?” Donovan said. “My guess is, that lock key is now lying at the bottom of the sea, for all we know keeping company with King John’s treasure. It could be there for another eight hundred years. Finding a needle in a haystack would be easy in comparison.”
Ralph frowned. “And if Dick does find his papers in Dr Parfitt’s study, either at the university or at his home, he’d be able to use them to his advantage and achieve international fame and fortune.”
“That would be so unfair,” Anne said.
“Not necessarily.” Donovan drank some coffee and took a small forkful of Torte.
“This is you being enigmatic as usual,” Marnie said, smiling.
“Sorry. I meant it would only be unfair if he got away with it.”
“What’s to stop him, assuming he can get hold of his papers again? The police would have no grounds to withhold them.”
“That’s a rather crucial assumption, Marnie.”
Marnie thought of her dream, with Parfitt under the sea and the papers dissolving around him. “You think Dick isn’t going to retrieve his papers … that they may be lost forever?”
“That’s in the lap of the gods, no doubt,” Ralph said.
“No, it isn’t, really.” Donovan stood up. “Excuse me. The stove needs another log.”
Marnie swivelled in her seat and followed him with her eyes. “What are you up to, Donovan? What aren’t you telling us?”
Donovan crouched by the stove. He picked a log from the basket and examined it for a few seconds before blowing a spider away to one side. He opened the stove door and pushed the log in. A current of warm air drifted down the cabin, carrying with it a tang of burning wood. Donovan closed the door with a snap and stood up.
“I’ve been trying to work out what’s best to do. That’s why I wanted you all to come here today. It can’t be my decision alone.”
“Decision?”
“Yes. What’s a fitting punishment for someone who takes the life of another? Sorry to sound so grandiose, but that is the question.”
“You said yourself nothing could be proved in a court of law,” Marnie said. “So your question is presumably hypothetical.”
“No, it isn’t.” Donovan smiled faintly. “Sorry. I keep saying that.”
He turned towards his desk, opened the top drawer and pulled out a folder. It was yellow and stuffed thickly with papers.
Ralph sat up with a start. “Is that what I think it is? Are those Dick’s maps and original documents?”
Donovan held them up. “Everything is here. Everything he needs.”
Anne was sitting in silence. She realised that her mouth was open and she closed it quickly.
“Blimey,” said Marnie. “How did you get them?”
“You remember I took longer than usual travelling up to Knightly St John on Tuesday? I called in at Dick’s place and Jonathan let me in. I told him I had some questions. He was having breakfast and I offered to sit in Dick’s room while he finished and made me a cup of tea. I found the folder in the top drawer and tucked it into my rucksack. Jonathan suspected nothing.”
“You could’ve given them to Dick when we saw him yesterday,” Marnie said, “but you wanted to be sure, wanted to hear what he had to say, didn’t you?”
“And he convinced you that he was guilty,” Ralph added.
“That’s right.”
“So where does that leave us now?” Marnie asked.
“Now I come back to my question,” Donovan said. “What price do we put on a man’s life? Is it more important than solving the greatest unsolved mystery of the Middle Ages, as Dick called it? Does it count for eight hundred years of waiting?”
“What do you have in mind?” Marnie said.
Donovan shook his head. “I told you. It can’t be my decision alone.”
He clasped the folder to his chest and looked down at the wood-burner. The fresh log had taken light, and flames were licking round it behind the glass door. Donovan turned and laid the folder on top of the stove. He knelt down again and slid open the vent. They heard a faint roaring sound as the flow of air quickened and the log began to blaze more brightly. They all stared at it, remembering how Judith had said that Dick’s work meant everything to him. A smell of warm paper began to float through the air.
“What do we think?” Donovan continued. “It’s down to all of us here. No-one else can decide for us. Do we consign the folder and all it represents to the fire?”
Marnie looked from Ralph to Anne and back to Donovan.
“That,” she said, “is a very good question.”
If you enjoyed Stick in the Mud check out Endeavour Press’s other books here: Endeavour Press - the UK’s leading independent publisher of digital books.
For weekly updates on our free and discounted eBooks sign up to our newsletter.
Follow us on Twitter and Goodreads.
Table of Contents
Prologue
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
&nbs
p; 21
22
23
24
25
26
27
28
29
30
31
32
33