The Magna Carta Murders (The Ralph Chamers Mysteries Book 12)

by P. J. Thurbin

  The Magna Carta Murders

  BY

  P.J. THURBIN

  Copyright 2015 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 Kath and Chris who triggered the serendipity

  Acknowledgement:

  My appreciation, as always, to my wife, Daisy, for her tireless editing and advice, without whose efforts this book could not be produced. She remains my harshest critic, my staunchest fan and my constant helpmate.

  Chapter 1

  The warm September sun reminded Alvaro of his home in Portugal. He had been living in Washington D.C. for over a year since graduating from New York University. His three years studying palaeography and conservation at the Institute of Fine Arts had paid off. Since then he had been slaving away assiduously at his job and living in a low rent apartment in crime ridden Ward 8. It had been exhausting work but he had earned the money to manage his student loan payments and have enough to start a new life on some tropical island in the Pacific. He had arranged to meet his contact at the Lincoln Memorial to hand over the shipment details and collect his final payment.

  A party of tourists pushed past as he stood and studied the carved inscription of the Gettysburg Address. Then he moved on to the south-side mural and smiled at the irony. ‘Notions of Freedom, Liberty, Immortality, Justice and the Law. “Propaganda,” he muttered.

  He knew that the Memorial had become a symbolic, almost sacred site for the Civil Rights Movement. He had been stirred when he watched the video of Martin Luther King’s I Have a Dream speech, uttered more than 100 years after Lincoln’s Emancipation Proclamation. It had taken a century for any real changes to occur. That was if in fact there had been any real changes, he mused as he glanced over at the wall where in 1962 someone had scribbled ‘nigger lover’, or more recently where someone had sprayed the legs of the statue in green paint. There was a hooligan element in every country, he thought.

  Alvaro had been brought up to revere his grandfather. He remembered sitting at his side when he was a boy while the old man told him stories of well-known artists whom he had known. It had fired Alvaro’s ambition to become famous one day and make his grandfather proud. But all of that would have to wait. For now he would sit in the sun and wait.

  Thelma was a regular at the Memorial. If she sat on the steps long enough, some passing tourist was certain to have pity on her and give her money. The most she could hope for was a few dollars, but it would be enough for a meal at McDonald’s and a half pint of cheap gin from the liquor store near her rundown apartment on the dark side of wealthy Washington.

  Alvaro had tried to cry out, but it was to no avail. She saw what happened and heard the shot. Afterwards she decided to keep quiet; she wanted no trouble with the police. When the Park service officials arrived at the scene soon after, the killer had already melted into the crowd. No one, apart from Thelma, had seen anything beyond the young man lying in a pool of his own blood on the broad steps that led to the Memorial. Thelma slipped surreptitiously into the throng of people who had clustered around to gape at the dead man. She just hoped that the killer had not seen enough of her face to be able to recognize her if they met again.

  The Park Service wasted no time in reporting the incident to the police, who arrived on the scene in only a few minutes. They confirmed that the man had been shot at close range, and from other evidence, they assumed that he must have known his killer. In the victim’s pocket they found a brochure entitled Celebration of the 800th anniversary of the signing of the Magna Carta. It contained the schedule for a series of events that were to take place in England. They also found some ID that identified the deceased man as Alvaro Caminah, a set of keys, and a business card from a downtown UPS shipping agent. When the municipal police contacted the FBI, the Bureau confirmed that Caminah was known to them and that they had been tracking him for the past 6 months. The federal authorities had already determined that Caminah had contacts with Eastern European syndicates who operated drug cartels and prostitution rackets for high rollers and celebrities in Washington and New York. A search of his apartment revealed nothing more onerous than pile of half-finished paintings, a collection of manuscripts, and letters from his parents in Portugal. When they checked at the UPS facility address that was on the business card, no one at the site recognized his picture.

  A day later the body of an unknown woman was found floating in the shallow water of the ‘Reflecting Pool’ that stretches in front of the Lincoln Memorial. She had been strangled.

  ***

  The unmistakable smell of wealth pervaded the Washington offices of the American Bar Association at Suite 400 - 1050 Connecticut Northwest. Thick plush carpets, oak paneled walls, soft lighting and the monotonous hum of the air-conditioning that made people speak in a whisper established it as modern day cathedral that paid homage to the gods of wealth. It was early spring. Washington would soon be painted in the pink and white blossoms of the trees that lined the broad avenues that defined the City. Coffee had been served and the meeting was brought to order by Miranda Warren. Tall and elegant with her blond hair tied back in a low chignon, she wore a dark grey trouser suit with a gleaming white silk blouse. Her entrance to the room had attracted admiring glances from the four men who sat waiting.

  “Thank you, gentlemen. I appreciate that you all have busy schedules so I’ll get straight to the point of this meeting.” She opened an expensive looking leather case and took out a yellow legal pad. “First, some introductions are in order. I’m Miranda Warren. As you know, I was honoured to be chosen to head up the Magna Carta Project on behalf of the ABA.” She smiled as she half-turned and motioned to the man seated on her left.

  “Mario Canta, Federal Bureau of Investigation.” He was gaunt and grey-haired, he looked like someone that you would not want to tangle with. The others took it in turns to introduce themselves.

  “Chuck Myerson, Central Intelligence Agency, Langley.” Chuck looked as though he had been a football player in his time. At least 6 feet and around 200 pounds, most likely he had been a linebacker. He was past his prime, but he still had that determined look that obviously went well with the top brass at Langley.

  “James?” Said Miranda as she smiled at a diminutive man who appeared distracted. He wore an expensive Saville Row suit that failed to hide the slope of his shoulders. He had been fiddling with his gold cufflinks. He now looked up with an expression of a schoolboy caught out by his primary school teacher.

  “Sorry. James Radnor. I’m with Miltons. You may have heard of us. We’re a global law firm based in London, England.” He smiled before he remembered that Americans did not appreciate a condescending manner. At home, among barristers and his wealthy clients, it was de rigeur. He glanced over at Chuck just as the formidable American shrugged and rolled his eyes.

  “As you know, the Association is sending a delegation of some six to eight hundred of its members to London as part of the Magna Carta 800th anniversary celebrations,” said Miranda as she turned to a well-built, distinguished looking man on her right, and paused. “James’ firm has been invaluable in helping with the arrangements. Colonel?”

  “Yes of course. I’m Robert Stigart. I’m with MI6. We’re the British counterpart to Mister Myerson’s organization, if I may say so?”

  “Some of my colleagues have worked with your organis
ation in the past, Colonel. First rate outfit. But please call me Chuck; all this Mr Myerson stuff makes me feel like my father.” Everyone laughed politely as Stigart smiled and gave a nod of acknowledgement.

  Miranda Warren continued.

  “You all received my note about the progress we’re making with the arrangements for the celebrations in England. Well I’m pleased to report that everything’s on schedule and we’ve completed stage one. James, can you fill us in on the details?”

  “Certainly, Miranda. The Unification event went off without a hitch. That’s where we brought the four original Magna Carta manuscripts together for the first time since King John applied the royal seal some 800 years ago. They were available for viewing to an invited audience for three days and then they went to the House of Lords for a day before two of the documents were returned to their original homes at Salisbury and Lincoln Cathedrals, where they’re on view to the public; the remaining two will also be on view at the British Library throughout the summer. We’re all pleased, and not a little relieved that that part of the celebration is over. Fortunately our security is first rate.”

  “If your police have as much experience protecting precious documents like that as you seem to think, I don’t see what all the worry is about,” said Mario, who had taken an instant dislike to the Brit.

  “Oh, we aren’t worried,” James replied. “Far from it. The security arrangements were well looked after by a firm called T24. They’re the same people who handled a part of the security during the London Olympics and manage all sorts of events.”

  “Then what’s the problem?” Mario persisted.

  “Our primary concern was that a third party might have decided to use the Unification event as an opportunity for some sort of political protest.”

  “Could you clarify that a bit for us, James?” Miranda asked.

  “It’s well known that the Magna Carta’s one of the foundation documents of democracy and protection of civil liberties. There was always the possibility that some groups would see the event as a platform to demonstrate against oppression in countries such as China and North Korea, as well as Russia and a host of others.”

  “Such as Guantanamo Bay?” interjected Myerson. “The Agency’s already submitted its report on that one. It’s time people moved on to bigger problems like Yemen and Libya and some of the other hot spots in the Middle East!”

  “I meant no such thing,” said Radnor. “Apart from the genuine civil rights protesters there are radical groups in Europe whose central plank is still anti-immigration and denying people their civil liberties.”

  “What’s so special about Europe?” Myerson interjected.

  “We can go over some of these points tonight over supper, Chuck,” Stigart interrupted. “There are things that you need to know that aren’t part of this meeting. Suffice it to say that Magna Carta’s stood as a talisman for nations and people trying to establish liberties and freedom from oppression for hundreds of years. Don’t forget, you chaps used it as a basis for getting rid of us Brits back in the 1700’s. Mind you, I think you missed out because I still can’t get a decent cup of tea anywhere in America.” Both Mario and Chuck laughed. Somehow Stigart had managed to break the tension and diffuse what could have been an awkward situation.

  The Colonel got up to refill his cup from the coffee urn at the end of the room while there was a lull in the meeting. He returned just as Chuck Myerson explained why the CIA was concerned about security.

  “We were convinced that the brochure about the 800th anniversary celebration that we found on Alvaro Caminah’s body after he was murdered at the Lincoln Memorial was an indication that someone was plotting something. We seem to have been wrong on that one.” He glanced at Mario Canta for confirmation of the police and FBI findings.

  “After we went through his papers, we checked with New York University,” said Mario. “They confirmed that he’d studied there. He’d been busted on a minor drugs charge in New York, but a lot of those artist types use it; claim it gives them inspiration. He’d been employed by some of the galleries to do some restoration work on manuscripts. We contacted his family in Portugal and that’s about it. Must have been just a coincidence about the brochure. The guy probably just picked it up at one of the galleries or something. Maybe he was thinking of going to the celebration himself. We’ll never know now that the poor devil’s been killed.”

  “Have those manuscripts travelled anywhere else besides to and from London?” Asked Myerson.

  “The one from Lincoln Cathedral’s been all over the world,” said Miranda. “It was on display at Virginia Beach as part of the 400th anniversary celebration of the Jamestown Settlement. And back in 1987 it was here for the bicentenary of the signing of the US Constitution.”

  “Are those four the only originals” Myerson asked as he looked over at Radnor.

  “There are later versions, of course,” James replied. “I imagine it was similar with your Declaration of Independence and Constitution. After the ceremony at Runnymede when King John affixed the royal seal, manuscripts that incorporated some changes were issued over the course of the next seventy years or so. They also bore the royal seal of monarchs who reigned after King John.”

  “I believe I read in the Washington Post that Ross Perot’s foundation had a later version that was signed in 1297. It was in the National Archives here in Washington until they sold it off a few years ago at Sotheby’s for over $20 million,” Miranda interjected.

  “There’s been no known attempts to steal the original manuscripts,” said Colonel Stigart. “Our concern with the Caminah incident was purely that someone might use the 800th anniversary celebration as an opportunity to make a political point. It seems that, at least so far, our fears have been unfounded.”

  The meeting continued as Miranda outlined the ABA sponsored visit to London. She then brought the meeting to a close.

  “It’s a shame that we won’t be meeting again. Our little get-togethers have been most enjoyable. We’ve made reservations for lunch at a small restaurant just down the road. I hope you can all make it.”

  She thanked everyone for attending and reminded them that lunch would follow.

  ***

  That evening Colonel Stigart and Chuck Myerson met in the Blue Duck Tavern at the Park Hilton Hotel. After a few lawyer and spy jokes, Chuck relaxed.

  “How come you’re mixed up in all this, Colonel?” Chuck swirled his Jack Daniels around as the ice clinked. Somehow putting ice in whisky seemed a sacrilege to the Colonel.

  “We picked up intelligence from Europol that Nazi and fascist sympathizers, possibly funded by drugs and prostitution, could be hatching a plot. The Magna Carta celebration was an obvious target.”

  “But a plot about what?”

  “Perhaps it would be more accurate to call it an agenda. In any event, a chance to send a message around the world saying that Human Rights and Liberty were nothing more than political issues driven by economic and business interests. They claim that the notions of individual freedom and human rights are threats to national identity and culture.”

  “Well, the Nazis would know all about that,” Myerson said wryly.

  “I’ve noticed that politicians in the UK and America are increasingly focused on the problems created by the gap between rich and the poor. A headline in the paper that I read on the flight over claimed that America has lost its middle class.”

  “No doubt that’s true,” Myerson said. “But that’s what happens in a free country like ours. You have to make your own way if you want to get to the top.”

  Stigart was not so sure. He wondered if the American’s ‘sink or swim’ approach was perhaps a bit harsh in the global economy of today’s world.

  “Some people are predicting that if steps aren’t taken to alleviate the gap, there’ll be huge repercussions,” Stigart said. “I’ve even heard mutterings of getting the pitchforks ready; you know, the French Revolution all over again.” They both laughed. Chuck
leant forward and grasped a handful of peanuts. Throwing back his head he swallowed the lot.

  “You make it sound like the people involved in this Magna Carta were all good guys, Colonel. I remember being told at school that King John was forced to sign it by the land barons who wanted to protect their own interests from the Crown. Sounds to me like they were all in it for themselves.”

  “Perhaps there’s some truth in what you say, Chuck. I’m no scholar or historian myself, but from what I can see they were also trying to get protection for the ordinary man and woman from the people in power through the process of the law. So it benefitted everyone, not just a select few.”

  “Do you still think there’s a threat to those manuscripts that that little squirrely guy, James was telling us about?” Chuck asked.

  “Actually I do,” Stigart replied. “Some groups are against immigration and want to restrict people’s freedom to move freely between EU countries. There’s a group in Germany called the New Alternative for Europe that blames immigrants and the European Union for hampering German growth. France has a similar one called The National Front. In England there’s the British National Party. And Greece has the Golden Dawn. All of those factions would gain a symbolic victory if the Magna Carta documents could be discredited or destroyed. We have it on good authority that they believe that a symbolic burning ceremony would bring attention to their cause.”

  “I never had you guys in MI6 tagged as being so up on politics, Colonel.”

  “I don’t know about that, but if some bugger is going to put a bullet through me or destroy my country, then I need to have some idea what they believe in. Otherwise you’re fighting blind.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well my view is that there are two groups who might want to disrupt the celebrations in the UK. One are the radical politically motivated people like I just mentioned who want to curb people’s liberties.”