Murder on the Rocks (The Ralph Chalmers Mysteries Book 7)

by P. J. Thurbin

  MURDER ON THE ROCKS

  By

  P.J. THURBIN

  Copyright 2014 P.J. Thurbin, all rights reserved.

  This is a work of fiction. All characters and events are a product of the author’s imagination. Where public figures, historical events or places are used they are used in a fictitious way. Otherwise any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  This book is dedicated to all the good times I shared with my sailing pals Eric and Graham Bartholomew on their boat Spindrift

  Acknowledgement

  With many thanks to my wife, Daisy. As always her tireless editing and constructive criticism made this book possible. She remains my harshest critic, my staunchest fan and my constant helpmate.

  Chapter 1

  Francoise Legrand shivered uncontrollably. She stood knee deep in an icy stream as she clung to the straps on Sergeant Jack Stigart’s back-pack. There had been no time to prepare when she was forced to flee from Paris once the Germans had discovered she was a secret agent working for the British. Her town brogues and lisle stockings were no match for the terrain they had covered. There had been little conversation since they had met in Tours. Jack was wounded and all he wanted was to get home to his young bride. It was pitch dark as they waited for the German patrol to move across the rock strewn path ahead. She wondered how much longer they could avoid capture. She kept repeating the mantra – I am an escapee not an evader. Her instructor at MI9 in London, in 1941, had said that once in Spain it meant the difference between release and internment for the duration of the war in the notorious prison camp at Miranda del Ebro. The rushing noise from the mountain stream and the howling wind in the tall pines must have hidden the approach of their Basque guide who would lead them over the Pyrenees to freedom in neutral Spain, then on to the British territory of Gibraltar and home. A branch cracked under foot.

  ****

  The sun beat down from azure blue skies on the small crowd gathered in the village square in the town of Hernani on the banks of the Urumea River. The village band struck up a tune as officials from the Spanish government and the town governor’s office saluted the memorial to the local Basque guides that had helped run the Comet Line for escapees from German occupied France during WW2. A few holiday makers from nearby Bilbao and Santander, the Ferry port, were among the crowd. The senior Spanish official shuddered at the thought that Basque Nationalism was still a threat. Some years back it seemed that an agreement on autonomy for the Basques would halt the killing. But the Euskadi Ta Askatasuna had claimed responsibility for a recent car bomb tragedy in a Spanish city. That meant that Eta was still active. Hopefully they would respect today’s ceremony. Old wounds and good deeds are never forgotten was a sentiment that seemed to sum it up.

  ***

  Ralph awakened to the gentle rocking of the boat and the clang of the halyards as they frapped against the mast in the early morning breeze. Gypsy Lady had made a good passage from Bideford on the North Devon coast, but with only the four of them handling the night watches, it had been tiring. For Ralph it was a relief to be free of teaching at the University, if only for a few weeks. Finally, after twenty years as Professor of International Business at Kingston University London, and now in his mid-fifties, he had at last learned to enjoy getting away. Earlier in his career he had been a renowned workaholic. Perhaps that explained, at least in part, why he was still a bachelor. Fit and fancy free he might be, but his relationship with Katie was now a central part of his life. His vintage Jaguar, a well-founded sail boat and an art deco period apartment in Surbiton, just outside London, made up the rest.

  He roused himself and turned on the stove and kettle before he looked outside. Santander was not an ideal port to moor his yacht. Ferry boats on the overnight trip from Portsmouth bringing cars and passengers bound for holidays in Spain and Portugal along with the vociferous locals made it a busy place. In between the ferries, the local shipping and some ocean going transport vessels churned up the flotsam and jetsam in the murky water. From the deck of his boat he watched as people emerged from offices and other buildings as the ferry approached. He went below to awaken his companions.

  “What time is it, anyhow?” said Katie as she tumbled out of her berth by the navigation desk. “Have you got that tea ready yet?”

  They had given the rear cabin to Cynthia and Lance. It was their first trip on Gypsy Lady and at least it afforded some semblance of privacy as well as a bit of space to spread out.

  “Kettle’s on now. The ferry’s almost in. Why don’t you get Cynthia and Lance up while I run down and make sure Peter and Marcia made the boat.”

  “Okay. But what are we doing about breakfast?” She asked as she reached for her sweater and deck shoes.

  “I thought we might go to one of those cafes along the quayside. It could be a bit of a tight squeeze for all of us to sit around our cramped little table for a fried egg and a mug of tea,” he pointed out.

  “They’ll soon get used to it, Ralph. But I could do with a good breakfast myself. You get off and I’ll sort out the crew,” she said as she waved in the direction of the rear cabin where waking up noises could be heard.

  Cynthia and Lance had done remarkably well, Ralph reflected as he strode along the cobblestoned docks. The coiled ropes at the side gave off a strong smell of seaweed and tar and large planks of wood stacked almost 20 feet high had that distinctive smell that he always associated with the wood yards where he and his Dad had gone when any DIY jobs had to be done at their country cottage.

  Lance was a colleague and old friend who taught marketing at the University. He was a boisterous rugby fan and had a sense of humour to match. They had sailed together in Devon and Lance had handled the boat particularly well.

  Ralph had paired Lance with Katie on the trip over. She had sailed in the Sydney to Hobart race in Australia, and like most Australians, she was a seasoned sailor. While lying awake below he had heard them talking during their watch about her attempts to get back into mainstream teaching. An incident with a loaded revolver that resulted in a colleague at Kingston being wounded some years ago had ended her career there. But Katie was a fighter, and a spell in Holloway Women’s prison had not dampened her spirits. Now she had the Sorbonne in Paris and Senior Teaching Fellow at University College London on her CV.

  Ralph and Cynthia shared a watch. She had also done well in spite of having had no prior experience of sailing. The appearance she projected as curator of the Dorich House Museum belied her strength and tenacity. A couple of times in the night they had to reef in the main sail and she had been as steadfast as anyone he had sailed with. He winced when he saw Peter up ahead struggling with their luggage. He had specifically asked them to use holdalls and to pack sparingly as space was at a premium. But he could see the bulging suitcases. Marcia had been a successful model and was obviously used to frequent changes of clothing. She evidently thought his little yacht provided the same amenities as the luxury yachts she must have got used to when she was in her heyday and filming magazine shots in Cannes.

  “Good to see you made it,” Ralph greeted his two friends. “So far we’ve had great weather. We’re all set to get a bit of a suntan and enjoy the pleasures of Spain and Portugal. Here let me give you a hand with that case. These wheels weren’t meant to cope with cobblestones,” he laughed as he lifted the case onto his shoulder. “Just a short way and we can dump this lot in the boat.”

  Peter was his best friend. He had recently been promoted to Dean of the Music School at Kingston and was a renowned world expert on early church organ music. They had been throu
gh a few scrapes together and Ralph was all too aware of the ups and downs in Peter and Marcia’s marriage. The last time he and Katie met up with them he had been glad to see that their marriage seemed to be on track again and that Peter was back to his usual high spirits.

  “Ralph. My god I thought we would never get here. That damn trawler or whatever they call that ferry was the pits. It was full of kids and bouncy castles and blokes swilling beer. That’s when they weren’t throwing up or playing on those damned one armed bandit machines. Good to see you, sport. I see you and your crew made it safe and sound.”

  “Yes, no problems whatsoever. Lance and Cynthia were model able seamen. I think my crew are a bit peckish, though. What say we get your gear stashed on board and then head over to one of those cafes for a bit of breakfast.”

  “That sounds good to me. All right with you Marcia?” He asked as he turned to help when her heel caught in the cobblestones.

  Ralph groaned inwardly. He wondered how anyone could think to wear high heels on board a sailing yacht. He hoped they had brought some deck shoes or trainers or some other suitable footwear. He had a feeling that they would not cope nearly so well as Lance and Cynthia. He reminded himself that this was meant to be a chance to get together with friends and relax, not to be uptight and spoil their holiday. He had arranged a quiet passage down the coast with an overnight stay in Corunna. From there it was an easy run down to Oporto in Portugal, where he recalled that the fish was superb. After that they would make a short run to Lisbon where they could overnight if the weather was rough. Then they had a longish run to Gibraltar. He had booked a few days R and R at a posh hotel there. Their friends would fly home from Gibraltar. He and Katie planned to visit a few places in Morocco before they sailed on to the Mediterranean.

  “You look a bit stubbly Ralph,” said Marcia as she eyed Ralph’s unshaven appearance. “Is that part of the dress code?”

  “I never shave at sea. It’s not easy to get a lather up with sea water. But once we get to Gibraltar I’ll transform into my James Bond persona, complete with the white linen suit and tan shoes.” Marcia seemed unconvinced.

  “I can tell you Ralph, I’m looking forward to getting something to eat at that cafe once we’ve got rid of these bags? All they had on board apart from the warm beer was fish and chips, egg and chips, sausage and chips and pizzas. And the coffee was grim to say the least,” said Peter.

  “We should have listened to the travel agent and got a cabin,” Marcia said.

  “You’re right old lass. Still, it’s done now and we made it safe and sound. Sorry about the whinging, Ralph. You know how it is with us bloody old academics.”

  “I thought we’d try one of those little places along the docks for breakfast,” Ralph said as he gestured towards the little restaurants across the road.

  “That sounds good. I just hope you don’t expect to be called Captain Chalmers.”

  “Only when I’m barking out orders in a storm.” They all laughed, although he did notice that Marcia looked slightly alarmed at the mention of the possibility of a storm at sea.

  “Where is everyone?” Marcia asked. “You haven’t fed them to the fishes already?”

  “Not to worry. They’re all safely on board. No doubt they’re chafing at the bit to get over to the cafe and sample the Spanish omelettes.”

  ***

  After a good meal and a lot of boisterous laughter and a chance to catch up on the latest gossip, they went on board and set sail for Corunna. Fortunately the weather was good and a soft North Easterly meant that they had a broad-reach along the coast and everyone could indulge in a little sunbathing as they sipped the iced lemon water that they had purchased at the cafe. A shoal of dolphins accompanied them for hours, cavorting under the bow of the boat. Although as always it proved difficult to get a good photo shot.

  “This is the life Ralph,” said Cynthia as she stretched out on the foredeck in her yellow bikini. “Any more of that sun lotion, Lance?”

  “I’m not sure what your last slave died of, but I’d put money on a lack of sleep.”

  “You snored like an ox all night, Lance, so don’t give me that lack of sleep stuff.”

  “So Ralph, what’s the plan for tonight?” Asked Marcia. “Are we going ashore or sleeping on board?”

  “We’ll be sailing overnight so I’m afraid it’s bunks all around tonight. We should get to Corunna about 3 tomorrow afternoon. I’m looking forward to seeing how the town has changed since I was here before. I thought we’d try a nice restaurant that I went to a few years back.”

  “That doesn’t sound like a bad plan, Ralph. You do the sailing while we do the sleeping,” Peter laughed. Ralph got the feeling that he was only half joking.

  “Well as it’s your first night on board and I expect that you are both shattered, you two get the night off. But after tonight, I expect you to pull your weight. This isn’t a luxury cruise, you know!”

  “You’re all heart, my friend,” Peter said with a laugh.

  “I put you and Marcia up front. The cabin is pretty roomy and the loo is right outside the door. The seas are pretty smooth, so I don’t expect too much bouncing up and down.”

  “That sounds very nice,” Peter said. “Why don’t I cook supper. I did my time as a Boy Scout and can still rustle up some tasty chow.”

  “And I can help,” Marcia interjected. “I’m certainly capable of laying the table and all that,” she said smiling at the rest who tried to restrain themselves from laughing at Peter’s underestimation of what it took to cook a meal on a pitching boat.

  It was a good evening. Ralph put the boat on auto pilot so that they could eat together with only the occasional need to take a look to see if there were any boats or strings of fisherman’s lobster pots in their path. The watches went smoothly’ and as planned they tied up in Corunna the next afternoon.

  “This is the place where General Sir John Moore embarked his troops when they fled from Napoleon in the Peninsula Wars, if I remember my history lessons,” said Katie as they strolled through the quaint town.

  “It seems pretty quiet now, apart from those louts we saw hanging around the docks,” said Marcia. “Let’s see if we can find that restaurant you told us about, Ralph, and see what the region has to offer.”

  Over the next few days they sailed on through the sun filled skies and balmy nights with a kind Easterly wind helping them on towards Gibraltar. Oporto offered a chance to savour some of the finest fish restaurants in Europe. “It’s only five miles down the coast to Oporto from here,” Ralph announced to a slightly disappointed Marcia when they tied up in the Marina Porto Atlantico in Matosinhos.

  “Ralph, why didn’t we just go straight in to Oporto? It looked fantastic as we went by. The river ran right through the town. This is okay, but it’s not very old looking.”

  “I’m sure there’s a good reason, Marcia. Don’t forget that Ralph is our Skipper and on this little baby his word is law,” Lance commented as he tidied up some ropes on the deck.

  “Oporto has a big sandbar, Marcia and it can be tricky sailing in and out of the port. And it’s not a convenient place to get refuelled and put water on board. This is a lot better. It has showers and everything we need. There’s a taxi rank just over there and tonight we can go in to town. I used to know a fantastic restaurant that has all the traditional Portuguese foods. I expect it’s still there.”

  “Sorry to whinge Ralph. Once I’ve had a shower and changed into some clean clothes I’ll be fine,” she gave Ralph a hug.

  Later that evening, having managed to get the taxi driver to understand their attempts to speak Portuguese, and that Ruo Roberto Ivens was not their name, they arrived at Restaurante O Gaveto. Ralph had been there many years ago when he was touring Europe on his beloved old Norton motor bike during a summer break from his studies at Cambridge. In those days the restaurant was just a small place in a side street that was within budget. Now it had attracted the up-market tourists, but had still managed
to keep the authentic atmosphere that he had remembered.

  “This looks good, Ralph,” said Katie. “What’s that francesinah? If that’s how you say it?”

  “That chap over there has it. It’s a sort of made up dish. Basically a sandwich with several meats covered in cheese. I see he has an egg on his. Then they cover it in a sauce made of beer and various other things.”

  “Erm – I’ll go for the Dorado and a jacket potato,” Katie replied. Their waiter arrived and brushed down the already pristine linen tablecloth. He launched into Portuguese which sounded to them like:

  “Camao da Costa – percebes – ameijoas a bulhao pato. – Bacalhaus a Gomes de Sa” which Ralph recognised from his student days as a sort of cod dish. There was a lot of arm waving and when they looked around at the other diners, they were obviously enjoying the ritual of winding up of the foreigners. There were two words that they recognized - Francesinah and Vino.

  “That will do me,” said Lance as he put the menu down “I’d like mine just like that one over there.” He pointed across at the next table. Cynthia wanted the same but without the egg. After some more banter, and with the help of a young girl who spoke perfect English, they were soon tucking in to a fabulous meal at a reasonable price. The room had high ceilings and ornate chandeliers whose light created that soft glow that made everyone look 10 years younger. The typical Portuguese high-backed chairs gave that feeling that you were at a Royal banquet. All put together it provided a wonderful setting for their evening in Oporto.

  After the short taxi ride back to the boat they all fell into their beds. It had been an exhausting but fun filled day, and before long everyone was fast asleep. The boat rocked gently at its moorings. Ralph was glad that he had decided to spend as many nights in port as possible. Next day it was a fast sail to Lisbon. After that it would be a long haul to Gibraltar, but by then everyone would hopefully have their sea legs and enjoy sailing at night. It was getting warmer every day and rainy England had been long forgotten. He drifted off, content that everyone was having a good time.