Murder at Downton (The Ralph Chalmers Mysteries Book 6)

by P. J. Thurbin

  MURDER AT DOWNTON

  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 our good friends, Tom and Heidi Druhot and to the many Sunday ‘Downton’ evenings at Sandy Road

  Acknowledgement

  To my wife, Daisy, without whose tireless editing and loving criticism this book could not have happened. She remains my harshest critic and my most avid fan.

  Chapter 1

  Before the Arab Spring Cairo had been his favourite city. Visits to see colleagues at the Museum of Antiquities and discuss his research on ancient hieroglyphics had been a delight. Now it was a city of beggars, armed police and soldiers. The sight of so much poverty had convinced him that his evidence of the location of a new tomb in the Valley of the Kings should be handed over to the Muslim Brotherhood. They seemed the ones most likely to use it to restore Egypt’s place as a centre of culture and learning. His appointment with the Ministry had been confirmed. Tomorrow his career as Professor of Archaeology would be over. His colleagues in England would disown him and he would never be able to return, but he had no regrets.

  The ceiling fan purred rhythmically as he tried to concentrate. His hands shook as he re-read his notes. Checking the calculations once more he moved the plastic cursor over the paper, trying to control the tremor of the black felt tip pen, his favourite tool. So neat and pristine a way of marking the white paper, he mused. Moving the desk lamp closer in the otherwise pitch black room, he connected the three lines and made sure that the measurements were accurate before he placed a small cross where the lines intersected. Sliding the print of the Google earth map under the transparent paper he leant closer to see the location of the missing tomb. The room plunged into darkness. A slim bright shaft of light from the doorway caused him to glance up. Then the excruciating pain in the chest before a violent blow knocked him from the chair. Someone was bending over him. For a few seconds he was conscious. Then nothing.

  ***

  Ralph was as concerned as the next person about the way that the big corporations avoided paying tax, but they made damn good coffee, and he was hooked.

  Sipping from one of those ridiculously large Styrofoam beakers, he felt that life was good. Bright sunshine lit up the countryside and highlighted the red roofs of the farm cottages against the dark green of the trees as the branch-line train from Guildford click-clacked its way slowly towards the Great Western mainline station at Reading where he would catch the Inter-City express to Bath Spa in Somerset.

  Being in academia had its perks. Ten hours a week contact with students, assuming you could not wriggle out of it, and the rest of the week to mark papers and carry out research, but which the jokers called ‘me time’. Now in his mid-fifties, he held a Doctorate from Cambridge and was a recognized authority in his field of International Business. Many of his colleagues pursued parallel careers alongside their teaching. For some that included running their own firms or private consultancies, or insinuating themselves onto government or local committees in the hopes of getting on the honours list for services to the Nation. If challenged, they would argue that it enhanced their value as academics and educators. Ralph had never taken the dual job approach. To him it seemed too much like cheating the hand that feeds. As he gathered his papers and stuck the lid back on his coffee, he realized that he was fast becoming a cynic. As his friend Katie often reminded him, it was not one of his most attractive features.

  Ralph cursed inwardly as a group of weekend cyclists pushed past him using their lightweight bikes as battering rams. Sporting dark glasses, string backed gloves and black tights, to him they looked more like extras from a sci-fi film than athletes. He had competed in a Tin-Man Triathlon recently and the part he had hated most was wearing a helmet for the 25 mile bike. Ralph had the impression that some cyclists saw it more as a fashion accessory than the safety gear it was meant to be.

  Ralph’s thoughts were assailed by the babble of foreign languages. Britain’s easy way of life and generous social infrastructure attracted Poles, Latvians, Romanians, Czechs and many others from Eastern European countries that had thrown off the cloak of communism only to struggle to keep their heads above water when they tried to compete in a free market system. Only yesterday a broadsheet had run a headline:

  London: Europe’s new ethnic melting pot. Within 15 years over a third of the capitol will be composed of ethnic minorities.

  Perhaps I’ll use it as an opening quote at the Conference tomorrow, he mused. He recalled his days at boarding school and having to recite the second verse of James Thomson’s poem.

  The nations, not so blest as thee,

  Must, in their turns, to tyrants fall:

  While thou shalt flourish great and free,

  The dread and envy of them all.

  “Rule Britannia! Rule the waves:

  Britons never will be slaves.

  Now transformed only slightly, it was better known as Rule Britannia.

  Ralph doubted if the national psyche had changed that much since it was written in the 1700s. But time to stop dreaming, grab a newspaper and catch the train to Bath and the two day Conference on National Culture and Economic Development. Ironic in a way he thought, as he looked at the mix of nations that swirled around the once austere Victorian station. Rule Britannia? Not any more. The top hatted and bewhiskered Isambard Kingdom Brunel must be turning in his grave, he muttered under his breath.

  Secure in the airline style seat his secretary Janice had insisted on reserving for him, he relaxed as the air-conditioned train accelerated smoothly away from Reading station. Travelling in these modern trains was a sharp contrast to the hissing and snorting of the steam locomotives that could still be found on heritage lines. Now the only sound was the irritating hiss of the automatic doors between the carriages as the last few passengers searched up and down the train for an empty seat.

  It had been a bit of a scramble at Reading. When Ralph couldn’t find the Times, he had had to settle for the Newbury Chronicle. To cover his annoyance, he rationalized that it would be an opportunity to find out what gossip appealed to the locals. The headline caught his attention:

  King Tut’s curse - Distinguished British archaeologist found dead in Egyptian Hotel.

  Probably a heart attack, he mumbled to himself. It happens when people forget that travelling can be hard work. He tried to hold the paper steady as he read on:

  Earlier this week Professor Charles Edington was found dead in the Al Mosira Hotel in Luxor. A representative from the British Embassy in Cairo issued a statement that the authorities were treating his death as suspicious. They confirmed that his next of kin has been notified. A Reuter’s news report stated that the Egyptian Ministry of State for Antiquities say they had no knowledge of Professor Edington’s presence in the country and if he was working on an archaeological project they had not been informed or issued any licenses to excavate. A spokesperson at Reading University where he worked said that Professor Edington was currently on sabbatical and that they were unaware that he was in Egypt.

  So the power boys at the University are already distancing themselves from the poor sod, thought Ralph. No surprise there. He read on:

  Edington’s area of special expertise was Egyptian hieroglyphics. He had been working with the British Museum to re-catalogue
artifacts from the 1922 excavations in the Valley of the Kings. He lived in a village near Highclere Castle, the location for the popular TV series Downton Abbey. Detectives from the Berkshire Constabulary are assisting the Egyptian authorities with their enquiries.

  Ralph had heard about the ‘Curse of King Tut’, a story that the newspapers had invented following the discovery of the tomb of the boy king Tutankhamun by the 5th Earl of Caernarvon in 1922 while working in the Valley of the Kings with his friend Howard Carter. The notion promoted at the time was that whoever opened the tomb would be cursed and die an awful death. The Earl had died from an infected mosquito bite soon after the discovery and the papers had reported that his dog Susie had died that very day and that the lights of Cairo had inexplicably gone out. Ralph wondered at the field day the press would have with this latest incident.

  ***

  Bath was one of Ralph’s favourite cities. The sweep of the Royal Crescent, tea at the Pump Room, the magnificent Abbey, and the winding streets leading to the 18c Pulteney Bridge over the river Avon; Bath had it all and was a Mecca for tourists. Sited at the bottom of the Avon valley on the edge of the Cotswolds, a short walk out of town rewarded the visitor with a panoramic view of the City spread out below like a child’s dream toy town.

  The Conference at the University of Bath provided accommodation in the student dormitory. Sharing the bathroom with strangers and foregoing most of the comforts of home was not something that Ralph looked forward to, but he thought he could cope since it was only for two nights. He hoped that there were some good pubs in the town. He had no intentions of joining in any late night debates in some grotty student bar with a load of crusty, self-serving academics.

  The Conference agenda went as expected. After the first day’s session he headed off for the town with Omar Naser. Omar was an economist from the Faculty of Commerce at Cairo University and had been in Ralph’s discussion group. Over a pub meal of fish and chips, they settled back with glasses of the local Abbey ale.

  “I thought your religion forbade drinking,” Ralph queried, with a chuckle.

  “We are not all devotees, you know,” Omar said. “My parents originally came from Cairo, but I was brought up in Scotland and attended Edinburgh University. I only went back to Cairo because my brother has a business there. Also, I was looking for a change of scenery and Cairo offered a chance to get a Department Headship. So I shipped out, bought myself a tent and a camel, and never looked back.” They both laughed at his caricature of the typical stereotyping of Egyptian life brought about by films like Laurence of Arabia and Casablanca.

  They exchanged stories about backgrounds and jobs with the usual caution that strangers exercise. Ralph commented on the article he had read and asked how the murder of a foreign academic in their country might impact on tourism.

  “I hadn’t heard about that incident. But you are right, tourism is vital to our economy. Since the so called Arab Spring, tourism has slowed to a trickle. Small groups are still visiting the pyramids at Giza and the Sphinx, and of course the Valley of the Kings at Luxor is still a hot spot for tourists, but the volume of tourists is still not back to what it was before all this unrest. Like most cosmopolitan cities, Cairo is safe if you keep away from the rougher areas. Your Professor Edington was probably just unlucky.”

  As they talked Ralph could not help feeling that there was something that did not ring true about Omar. This was especially pronounced whenever the conversation touched on economics, which was after all meant to be his subject. But Ralph decided to put his cynicism to one side and just enjoy the company. Omar was a good listener and he had a keen sense of humor, and after all, Ralph was not relying on him for financial advice.

  “Will you get a chance to visit your family and friends or will you have to rush back to Cairo?”

  “I have a bit of leave coming so I thought I’d stay on in the UK for a couple of weeks.”

  “Any particular plans?”

  “As you probably know, we Arabs are crazy about horse racing, so I thought I might go to the races over at Newbury after the Conference. Who knows, I might even pick a few winners.”

  “They have their International Spring Festival there soon. That might be worthwhile if you can get tickets,” Ralph said.

  “Yes, I managed to get some. I hear that there are some fabulous musicians on the program. It’s my chance to catch up on some local culture. I also want to see the location for Downton Abbey. You know the TV series.”

  “I knew it was popular in America but didn’t realize its popularity had spread to Egypt,” Ralph commented.

  “It’s famous all around the world. Some of the nomads even have satellite dishes nowadays. It seems that no corner of the earth can escape modern technology.”

  “Downton really captured the Edwardian period well. And the cast and costumes are first rate. It’s easy to see why people are drawn to it,” Ralph agreed.

  “Is there a real Downton Abbey?” Omar asked.

  “No, it’s fictitious. But the location is at Highclere Castle, not far from Newbury Racecourse, as a matter of fact.”

  “Really? That’s convenient. Is that where all the filming is done?”

  “A lot of it’s done in the house and grounds, but some of it’s done at Ealing studios and at various London hotels where they still have art deco interiors. Sorry, I hope that hasn’t spoilt it for you,” Ralph apologized.

  “No not at all. But I would like to visit Highclere Castle.”

  “From what I’ve heard, it’s a great house. And I believe and they do tours, but I understand they aren’t easy to come by. It’s the home of the Earl’s of Carnarvon. The 5th Earl’s the one who discovered King Tut’s Tomb. But you probably know all about that,” said Ralph.

  “If he’s the one who brought some of the finds back to Downton, sorry, Highclere, then he must have become very rich,” Omar observed.

  As it was now getting late, they drank up and made their way back to the Student accommodation that awaited them at the University.

  ***

  There was a distinct sigh of relief as Chief Superintendent Ross left the building.

  “Well Sergeant Jones, it looks as though the top brass are taking a keen interest in this one, and we all know why,” said a somewhat exasperated Inspector Roberts. “Our lords and masters want us to resurrect that burglary at Highclere Castle. I suspect the fact that the Chief Constable is up for a Knighthood in this year’s honours list means that the owners of Highclere have to be given special treatment. But that escaped prisoner is still our number one priority.”

  Inspector Roberts, had spent two days in Cairo talking with his counterparts about the murder of Professor Charles Edington. Now he was in the middle of a hunt for an escaped prisoner who was considered a danger to the public. The escapee from Bullingdon prison in nearby Oxfordshire was serving a 12 year sentence for voluntary manslaughter. Road blocks and searches in the surrounding countryside had so far drawn a blank. The theft from Highclere Castle had not, up until now, been a priority.

  “So what do we know about the burglary, Jones?”

  “It seems they’ve set up a mini Tutankahmun exhibition at Highclere. The break-in was there. The tourists are flocking in to see where Downton Abbey is filmed. Someone must have stayed behind when they were closing for the day; easily done as the place is a rabbit warren.”

  “Remind me what was stolen? Nothing much from what I remember.”

  “The funny thing is, Sir, that whoever did it stole the only real thing in the entire exhibition. The rest are facsimiles, you know copies.”

  “Thank you, Jones, but I am not completely illiterate,” the Inspector said. He began to feel frustrated by his Sergeant’s failure to get to the point.

  “Okay so someone pinched something. Was it valuable, and who have we got in the frame?”

  “No, not really valuable, Sir. It was gold, but quite small. It was on loan from the British Museum. It was one of the artifacts that was
dug up in the 1920’s in the Valley of the Kings, in Egypt.”

  “I know where it is, Jones, I have just come back from two flaming sticky days in Luxor, if you remember. But if it was not worth much, do we think it was a souvenir hunter or some nutter wanting to show us how clever he was?”

  “It could have been anyone, Sir. Crowds flock through that place every day and then there are the film crews and of course the cast and the extras. We interviewed the guide who shows people around the exhibition, an Anton Meckler; but he couldn’t add much.”

  “Did we check his background?”

  “Yes. He was involved in some petty larceny when he was a teenager. Born and bred in the local village at Burghclere, a short drive from the Castle. He’s been at Reading Museum for 20 years where he looks after their antiquities section. He’s on loan to Highclere Castle for the season.”

  “So we’ve drawn a blank, Jones. Is that what we can tell the Chief Superintendent?”

  “Well, Sir. I think there could be a link to that murder in Egypt. That Professor Edington.”

  The Inspector leaned forward.

  “Go on. Spell it out.”

  “Edington also lived in Burghclere. His younger brother, Justin Edington, has a big farm there. It’s a pretty small community. The Mecklers and the Edingtons must have known each other. Meckler could have stolen the artifact and given it to the Professor who took it to Egypt to sell it on. Edington could have been trying to do a deal with some collector and was overheard. Or he asked too much for the artifact and someone decided it was easier to rob him and it went wrong.”

  “Sergeant Jones. One of these days I hope you get a promotion, but I can see it will be some time yet. Why would this Meckler bloke go to all that trouble? He must have his own contacts from all his years at the Reading Museum. He could easily have sold it to some collector he’d gotten to know that way. And why would a respectable academic risk everything over some petty thieving? Career, reputation, family and god knows what else?”