THE GYPSY HILL MURDERS
By
P.J. THURBIN
The Gypsy Hill Murders is a work of fiction. Names and characters, apart from historical and public figures, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons is entirely coincidental.
Copyright 2012 by P.J. Thurbin
This book is dedicated to
Eleanor Katherine, The most beautiful and mysterious woman I know
Introduction
Writers are often advised to search for stories from within their own experiences. Having worked in academia for many years this was where I began to look. The story is built around real events and places, only the characters and their part in those events are fictitious. My first challenge was to create characters that are real and in many ways larger than life so that the reader can grasp their characterization. While at the same time unraveling a story that is both compelling and entertaining. In this book I have given sufficient background to the characters that allows the reader to identify with their actions as the plot unfolds. My aim was always to get the characters to behave and react to events in ways that ring true for the reader.
The Gypsy Hill Murders is based on a mixture of fact and fiction. In formulating the plot I was aided by firsthand knowledge of the University working environment and the way that academics behave in certain situations. Contrary to popular belief, academic life is played out by real people who have all of the human frailties and strengths that one finds in any organization or institution.
I had always been fascinated with the history surrounding the Victorian buildings in the University grounds and with the way the First World War has had such an all pervasive impact on people’s lives. Finding that Gypsy Hill had been the site of an early hospital for army officers and Florence Nightingale’s links to the campus stimulated me to create a mystery novel against that historical backdrop.
As the characters emerged, there seemed to be so much more about them that could not be put in one story, that as I wrote the book I decided that it would be the first of a series, with each one having their own start and finish. That way I could let the characters build relationships as new events challenged their everyday lives. I soon realised that as the plot unfolded some of the characters might fall victim of unexpected circumstances and would have to be replaced in subsequent books. I saw this as reflecting real life, just as people in an organization leave and are replaced over time, although not always perhaps in such dramatic circumstances as depicted in The Gypsy Hill Murders.
Anyone who has either worked in academia, or even been a student, will recognize the characters and the way in which politics, power and jealousy come into play. This has probably always been the case and is unlikely to change. It creates the glue that holds the characters together and dominates their daily lives.
It was difficult to decide the time period in which to locate the main actions in the book. Suffice it to say it is contemporary. Although the main events described in the book take place within one year, the historical events described span the period from the 17th century to the present. Although some of the characters in the book are cast as villains and possible perpetrators of some vicious acts, a genuine sympathy for people who get involved in events and experience emotions beyond their control dominates. For the protagonist, I have tried to temper his deeds with humility.
It was great fun to write The Gypsy Hill Murders, as in this case I had been dealt a good hand.
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Chapter 1
Ralph Chalmers was Professor of International Business at Kingston University situated some nine miles outside London, on the River Thames. He had developed the habit of working late, which fitted his ambitions but played havoc with his private life. Working in a comfortable office equipped with rumbling but efficient Victorian radiators, and the oppressive silence that went with the Victorian surroundings, often ended in him falling asleep over his papers.
It had been a long day and Ralph was rudely awakened from his slumbers by a crashing noise from along the corridor, accompanied by what he thought was a shout or cry. His first reaction was that it was a bad dream and looking at his watch, he was surprised to see that it was nearly midnight. He did recall that the old clock over the stables in the courtyard had struck eleven but after that he guessed that the fug in his office had worked their magic.
As he pushed his chair back and started to get up, his office lights went out and he had to grope his way to the door. When he reached the corridor he could see that the whole building had been plunged into darkness and unlike on a plane, there were no little rows of blue lights leading to safety. Kenry House, the building where he was officed, was a Victorian pile built around 1830, and apart from the asbestos insulation that had been removed the previous year by the Health and Safety team, it was still a potential death trap, with twisting staircases and dark oak paneled corridors. Ralph had often wondered what would happen if there was a fire.
Ralph was a dedicated pipe smoker, another habit that had sprung from his days as an undergraduate at Cambridge, and he always carried a king size box of matches. Being careful not to drop the lot, he struck one and used the flickering light to find his way to the top of the sweeping Victorian staircase. Then he heard a sound as though someone was moving around. His first instinct was to spring back, and he cursed as the match spluttered and burned his fingers. He could just make out a dark figure at the foot of the stairs that appeared to be bending over what looked like a sack of potatoes. Ralph realized that this was no dream, much as though he wished it were.
“Blimey, you gave me a turn Professor. I fought I was the only one in the ‘ouse. Good job you’re ‘ere sir, as I could use an ‘and with poor old Bob ‘ere as ‘e seems to be in a bad way.”
In the dim light of the pale moon shinning through the windows, Ralph could see Jack Welsh, the head caretaker, holding a heavy torch as he bent over the still figure that Ralph recognized as one of the other caretakers, someone that he knew as a quiet man who, even when rushed, always managed to be polite and friendly to the students and staff. But Welsh was a different kettle of fish. At times he appeared servile and at others bullying and aggressive. Sometimes he could be intimidating. Ralph knelt over the body in the dim light and he could see that the head was at an unusual angle, sort of twisted around, and there was blood oozing from the back of the skull. Ralph’s first thoughts were that the poor chap had been struck a blow from behind.
“I’ve called for the police, sir,” said Welsh. “I’d been looking for Bob as the master key was not back in my office on the ‘ook were it should ‘ave been. I was making the rounds when I found ‘im. The poor bugger must ‘ave tripped and fallen down those bloody stairs. Always said they was a def trap, specially at night when you’ve finished a long day.”
Ralph couldn’t help disliking Welsh. The way he spoke about someone who might be just about alive; and why was it that he was in college at midnight when he was obviously not on duty? He controlled his feelings and tried to focus on helping the injured man.
“Look Welsh, while we wait for the ambulance can’t you get these ruddy lights back on? You must know where the main switch is or the damn fuse?”
His tone must have struck a chord with Jack Welsh, who had been a Master Sergeant in the Guards before he came to work at the University. The old discipline from all his years as a soldier snapped into action.
“Yes sir, right away. I think I know what ‘as ‘appened”. Welsh dodged away down the corridor
it seemed only minutes before all the lights were restored.
“Must ‘ave been a dodgy fuse, Professor. This place is a nightmare and I’m expected to ‘ave it all up and running no matter what,” said Welsh when he returned.
***
As the police car sped through the dark and deserted streets towards the college, Inspector Linham leant across and shouted to his driver, Sergeant Wilson, who was focused on achieving the required incident response target set by the Home Office.
“Looks like we’ve been called out to the house of horrors, Wilson. I’ve seen that Kenry House place in broad daylight and it’s spooky enough. God knows what it’s like on a night like this, and who knows what’s in store for us this time. What do you know about this place, anyhow, apart from somewhere we’d rather not be?”
“It’s all part of Kingston University sir,” Wilson shouted back as they approached the roundabout at the foot of Kingston Hill. “The house is old. It was used as a hospital for army officers back during the First World War. It’s a big site, covers about 50 acres, and has modern halls for the students to live in. I can’t see what could happen there unless some of the students have got drunk and had a punch up or something.”
Inspector Linham grunted. Wilson often surprised him with his knowledge of the local scene. But he was now busy peering out through the windscreen as they drove along the tree lined driveway leading to Kenry House. As they approached, the outline of the house became visible through the autumn mist. A pale watery moon cast a light onto the wet and glistening slate roof and he shuddered involuntarily at the thought of all the ghosts that probably inhabited such a spooky place. The car skidded to a halt on the slippery driveway, and as the two policemen got out they could see a figure running towards them. Ralph, in his usual way, was taking charge.
“Good to see you officers. Not the best of nights and I’m afraid there seems to have been a nasty accident. The ambulance got here just a few minutes ago and the paramedics are in there with him now. It looks pretty serious.”
Ralph couldn’t help wishing he was somewhere else. Life was complicated enough without having to explain to two serious looking policemen what he was doing in a darkened college after midnight, showing them towards a body. He was right to be worried because it was the first thing that had crossed the Inspector’s mind.
The ambulance crew were direct and to the point as they turned to the Inspector.
“I’m afraid there’s not much we can do for the poor chap, sir. There’s no pulse and it seems as though he must have died from the fall, although there is a bad wound to his head as well.”
It was routine for the ambulance to be the first on the scene and although it would now be up to the police when the body could be moved, they had done their job.
“Thanks guys,” said Inspector Linham. “It looks as though we will need the police doc to have a look at this one. We could be dealing with a simple accident or possibly a crime scene. But thanks anyway and good that you guys could get here so quickly. Maybe you should take the rest of the night off,” he said with a wry smile, knowing that for these two it was probably the start of a long and challenging night shift.
“Look Inspector, I’m Professor Ralph Chalmers. I’m one of the lecturers at the University. The poor chap who had the accident is a caretaker here. I’m afraid that I only know him as Bob. Knew him, I should say.”
Ralph realized that he was sounding a bit flippant but something about being awake after midnight, and having had a long day made him feel a bit light headed.
“Thank you sir, just give the Sergeant here all your details and tell him what you were doing here at this late hour. I assume that lectures are finished for the day?”
It was a rhetorical question but dealing with academics had always been something that brought out the worst in Inspector Linham. Jack Welsh hung back waiting to be questioned.
“And who are you, sir? Was it you or the Professor here that called the police?” said the Inspector taking a step towards the hulk of a man lurking in the shadows.
“I’m the ‘ead caretaker sir. Jack Welsh. It was me what found poor Bob and called the police. As I saw ‘im lying there at the foot of the stairs I turned and saw Professor Chalmers, sir. He was standing there at the top looking down where Bob had fallen. I don’t know why the Professor was still ‘ere as usually everyone goes ‘ome by nine when we lock up. I’ve got Bob’s details back in my office and I can give ‘em to your Sergeant ‘ere if that would ‘elp?”
Ralph couldn’t believe that Welsh was actually insinuating that he may have had something to do with the accident. He realized that there were no witnesses and he had no real reason for being in college at that late hour. The whole thing was getting a bit awkward and he wanted to set the record straight before the police took it any further. He turned to face the Inspector.
“Look Inspector, I heard a noise and the next thing I saw was a body at the foot of the stairs with Mr. Welsh here leaning over it. I’m sure you must have a record of when Mr. Welsh made the emergency call, but it must have been at least two or three minutes before I came down to help.”
For the Inspector it was routine: turning up at an incident, people giving different accounts of what might have happened. Nothing new here, he mused.
“Thank you sirs,” he said, addressing them both. “Just leave my Sergeant your details and then you had best be getting home. We’ll be in contact later and get statements from you both. We will take care of the rest. But before you go, Mr. Welsh, please give my detective the details of this poor chap so that we can inform his wife or next of kin.”
Ralph felt that he had at least tried to put his point to the Inspector. As there was little else to be done, he went home wondering how the authorities at the University would deal with this one. If there was one thing the Vice Chancellor hated it was bad publicity. He didn’t want to put off potential students whose parents would get a bad image of the place and want their off-springs to go somewhere else.
Ralph had an apartment in the nearby town of Surbiton. It was a popular location for people working in London as it took only 20 minutes by rail to get into town. His was a well appointed art-deco period apartment and over the years he had transformed it into the ideal bachelor pad. He had moved there after he had finished his Doctorate at Cambridge, and although he had had his share of girlfriends, he hadn’t yet found anyone he wanted to settle down with. He rowed for a local club on the nearby Thames, and was rated as a tennis player and a keen marathon runner. He prided himself on being the only Cambridge blue who had run the famous Boston Marathon in under two and half hours. Just then his phone rang and he wondered who could be calling him at this hour.
“Ralph, is that you? It’s Peter. Hoped you might be up as I’ve got myself into a bit of a pickle. Had a few too many ginger ales and have missed the last train home. Wife’s staying with her mother, so she tells me, so I wondered if you could be a chum and come and get me. I’m at my old club just by the side of the Royal College of Music. You know just down from the Albert Hall, opposite the Albert Memorial. Don’t hurry old sport as I might have time for a night cap before you get here.”
Ordinarily Ralph would not be pleased to go out again, and especially not to have to go all the way into London. But the events at the college had unsettled him and he was happy to escape from his own company, so he assured his friend that he was on his way. Ralph made his way down to his garage where he knew his trusty, racing green Jaguar XJ6 would provide a comfortable and swift ride into London. With no wife or children to support, even on a Professors modest salary Ralph lived quite comfortably. But he was far from a spendthrift, and the Jaguar was his only real indulgence.
The drive would also give him time to reflect on the events of that night. By now he was wide awake, and no doubt it would be nearly daylight before he got back. As he walked to his car he thought how being a lecturer had its compensations. Days off for what they called research time, when he could sta
y in bed or just go for a tootle down to Brighton with his latest girlfriend if the fancy took him.
As he drove down the main arterial road into an unusually traffic free drive into London, he let his mind dwell on what had happened at the college. What on earth was Welsh playing at, insinuating that he had something to do with that caretaker’s accident? And why was Welsh skulking around at midnight in the first place? And for that matter, what was Bob doing in Kenry House at that late hour? Like Welsh had told the detectives, they usually had it all closed up by nine or thereabouts.
And what was he going to say when Rupert Granger, his Dean, asked him why he was still working at midnight? Not exactly something that the other lecturers indulged in. They usually hit the deck running once their last class was over and to get them to stay it had to be free drinks or a punctured car tire. As he moved through the gears taking advantage of some open road, he decided that perhaps he was being a bit harsh. Most of the other staff had families they wanted to get home to. If he chose to work himself into the ground that was no reason to put anyone else down for wanting to have lives outside the University.
It wasn’t long before the gleaming Jaguar pulled up outside Peter’s club. Professor Cavendish, Peter to his friends, was an enigma. He was a tall, slightly weather-beaten character, known for his enthusiasm, sense of humour and for his marathon drinking. He was one of those fortunate guys that managed to mature without losing that youthful spirit that is always appealing to students. Gaining his BMus (Hons) degree at the Royal College, followed by his Doctorate based on research into sixteenth century organ music, had resulted in him being recognized as a leading authority on ancient music around the world. Being a cross between the film stars Nigel Havers and Michael Caine meant that he had no problem charming everyone, no matter how badly he had behaved. Tonight was no exception.
The Gypsy Hill Murders (The Ralph Chalmers Mysteries Book 1) Page 1