The Sinking Admiral

by The Detection Club

  She put the book down. If the Admiral had found a massive hoard of gold, he would never have been able to keep that quiet. What were these ‘documents’ though? Where would he have kept them? Surely if they were in his office in the Bridge, she would have seen them? If not her, someone else going through his papers would have found them. If they were truly medieval, they would be obvious, after all. They would have been written on skins, wouldn’t they? Vellum, that was the word.

  The idea that the Admiral had found a number of new documents was as unlikely as him finding a hoard of gold. He wouldn’t have kept it quiet, would he? But even Ianthe would surely never have allowed a manuscript to get so near to publication without checking all the facts, and the most basic facts of all for any editor would be the source material, wouldn’t they? She would have to have seen the documents on which the Admiral based his entertaining but far-fetched tale. No publisher could put out stuff like this, not without that kind of verification.

  Where would he have hidden the papers, if he had kept them? There was the safe, of course, but Amy had looked inside that every day when cashing up the till. There was nothing else in there. In his desk? Possibly. There were other places of concealment in the Bridge, of course, but none very likely, unless he had found a cubbyhole no one else knew about. The old place was riddled with them, in all likelihood. She had already noted that the panelling on the walls was loose. Perhaps he could have stuffed something behind there? But if he had, the documents would get ruined. He would know that. The whole building was damp. The pub’s leaking roof kept the walls sodden.

  No. The most likely place was his desk, she reckoned.

  Glancing at her watch, she realised she was due back at work. It was time for her evening shift. She hastily closed the book and shoved it away on her shelf before pulling on her Barbour and hurrying to the pub.

  The Admiral Byng was almost deserted when she arrived. She served three locals and two men who looked like journalists (not the old-fashioned Bob Christie blazered kind – these two sported expensive branded sweatshirts and jackets, trendy haircuts, one with designer stubble marking his jawline). But after that the bar went quiet and didn’t get livelier for the rest of the evening. There wasn’t much point in hoping that the pub would keep open, not at this rate. The beer in the barrel was going off, and with so few customers, it would be vinegar before the last couple of gallons were served. And, however sensational Ben Milne’s documentary was, any publicity it generated would be quickly forgotten. It was enough to make a girl weep.

  If she had the inclination.

  Amy did not. She had done her weeping alone when she discovered Fitz’s body. Since then she had been made of sterner stuff, and having followed her own course all her life, she wouldn’t give up and dissolve into tears now.

  The emptiness of the bar allowed her to let her mind wander. There was so much to absorb here, with the information she had gathered from the proof. She wondered whether Ben had managed to glean anything new. He would love the idea of Templar gold, she was sure. The greedy look in his eyes wasn’t only avarice for a journalistic scoop with his blasted ‘reality’ show. He’d be keen for cash, too He probably had an ex-wife or two, and children, to maintain.

  She’d have to tell him about the treasure. They had agreed they would share all information they unearthed individually. She wondered whether Fitz’s mention during his ‘Last Hurrah’ of ‘ill-gotten gold rather nearer home’ referred to the Templar gold. That would make sense.

  Gold. She was polishing a wine glass as the thought came to her. A hoard of gold, perhaps eight hundred years old. That was better than the Lottery. What were the rules about finding treasure? She had heard of something called ‘treasure trove’, but she didn’t know how it worked. Surely it would be safe from the government? If it was gold, and if she were to find it, that would be a nice windfall. She could even forgive the Admiral for not paying her for nearly a month. The book proof said that there had been enough gold to maintain the Templar army in Palestine. If Gilbert FitzSimon had not stolen it, that money could have affected the outcome of the war. So there was enough gold to help fund an army. Perhaps to arm it. That would be enough to cure all her financial problems several times over.

  The bearded journalist suddenly called to her, ‘Oi, love, give us another round, eh?’

  Startled, she moved the cloth too sharply. With a loud snap the stem broke, and she felt the sharp spike of glass stab through the drying-up cloth and into her wrist. Dumbly, she stared at her arm for a moment, then pulled the glass free and felt her stomach clench at the sight of the blood running.

  The second journalist took one quick look, turned green, and hurriedly lurched from the room, while the bearded man’s face pulled into a sympathetic grimace.

  ‘Oh, oh, I’m sorry, love, Here, you want to get that checked over? I’ll drive you to the hospital, right? You got a casualty around here, love?’

  She swallowed the first three sharp rejoinders that occurred to her. There was no point snapping that she was not his ‘love’, nor anyone else’s. However, the steady trickle at her wrist told her that she had to go and clean the wound. It was quite a slash, but it wasn’t terribly deep, and there was no need to worry about the hospital. It didn’t merit stitches, only a plaster.

  Amy took the broken pieces of glass and threw them into the bar’s bin. ‘Be back in a minute,’ she said, and made her way to the Bridge, where she knew there was a first-aid box. There was another set of plasters in the kitchen, but she didn’t want to have to explain how she’d been startled. Meriel would like that. She always liked to have snippets to store for gossip, and the idea of Amy jumping with fright because a customer asked for a beer would be one she could trade all over the village.

  No, in preference she hurried to the toilets and washed the cut. Firmly slapping the drying-up cloth over it, she made her way to the Bridge.

  Now there was a ‘Police – No Entry’ sign stapled to the door. But she couldn’t hear a sound from inside. Anyway, if Cole or Chesterton were in there, they could hardly complain about her needing a plaster. She tested the handle. It opened easily, and she closed the door behind her. Though there was evidence of computers and other police impedimenta, the Incident Room was empty.

  This wasn’t the first time she had been in the Bridge since the death of the Admiral, but it still felt cold without him. He’d been such a lively man, absolutely full of life, never more so than on his last night. Amy felt tears threaten, but would not give in to them.

  This was ridiculous, to be so emotional. Where was the box of plasters? She crossed the floor to his desk. The papers piled haphazardly on top could have concealed half a dozen boxes of plasters, but she ignored them and began opening drawers. It took three before she found what she was looking for. She picked up a plaster and ripped the paper wrapper from it, covering the gash in her arm. The blood was already clotting nicely.

  The drawer seemed to be the one where Fitz had kept all his medical supplies. There were a lot of small plastic pill bottles with printed labels from the Crabwell surgery. But on each one the name of the drug had been scored out with a ballpoint pen. And all the bottles were empty.

  That seemed odd. Fitz had quite often asked her to pick up his repeat prescriptions from the surgery’s pharmacy, but she never knew what medication he was on. All she had to do was give his name and address, and sign for the sealed paper bag, which was then handed across to her. Then she’d deliver the unopened package to Fitz back at the pub. She wondered for a moment whether the empty pill bottles might have anything to do with the cause of his death.

  But the thought didn’t stay with her long, because her attention was drawn to something much more interesting.

  It was only a Post-it note, stuck to a thin file inside the first drawer she had opened. Didn’t look like a business folder, and then she realised that on the Post-it was the name Gilbert FitzSimon. She pulled it out, feeling a tingling of excitement running down h
er spine, and opened the blue cover. Inside she found a crumbling, brown sheet of newspaper on top of a number of other documents. Peering closer, she saw that it was a page from the Dunwich Evening Chronicle, dated 12 June 1914. She stared at a paragraph ringed in pencil.

  Sir Gilbert FitzSimon was, without a doubt, a singularly bold adventurer and outlaw. With the courage and determination of a modern-day Raffles, he went about his nefarious tasks. The vicar of St Stephen’s in Dunwich has unearthed a fascinating manuscript that tells of this appalling felon, and has written a short monograph entitled…

  ‘The Shameful Crimes of the Outlaw FitzSimon,’ Amy read aloud.

  It was printed on the topmost page of an ancient pamphlet that was in the file beneath the sheet of newsprint. Browned, just as the news sheet was, and roughly the size of a page of A4 paper folded in half. When she picked the pamphlet up and studied it, she could see that the pages were held together by two rusted staples that had fused themselves into the paper itself, staining the pages. The print was ancient and tiny, but perfectly clear.

  ‘So, this is where you got your story from,’ she breathed. ‘Where did you find these then, Admiral?’

  There were some scribbled notes on the folder’s inner surface, and she turned the file around so that she could look more closely.

  ‘Found in attic space of the Sinking Admiral,’ she read. ‘Hints at medieval document. Called Suffolk Institution, but none known. Vicar was convinced. Gold?’

  Amy put the file down again and stared into the middle distance. She was still there when Meriel appeared in the doorway. ‘You all right? I heard you’d cut yourself?’

  ‘I’m fine. Just a little nick,’ Amy said quickly. She shoved the papers back together again in their file and stood. She felt guilty at being here, and Meriel’s sharp little glance didn’t make her feel any better. ‘Come on. I need to get back to the bar.’

  But when she was back in the bar, there were no new customers. Only three remained: the two journalists, and one local man, old Reg, who had once been a fisherman, and now spent his days beachcombing. He sat in a corner mumbling incoherently into his beer, while the two younger men laughed and joked, considerably the worse for six pints each. It was a relief when all three finally stumbled from the doorway and Amy could close up.

  She took the money from the till and cashed up, grateful as ever that she’d persuaded Fitz to replace the ancient device with an electronic one. She took all the cash upstairs to the Bridge in the red bank bag. Thrusting it into the safe, she swung the door closed and spun the dial before glancing at the desk. Once again she saw the file. Quickly, she snatched it up, curled it into a cylinder, and strode from the room. Down in the hallway, she shoved it into the sleeve of her Barbour, and then called out to Meriel as she left. Meriel could lock up.

  Back at the cottage, she opened the file and read the pamphlet written a hundred years ago by a vicar just before the outbreak of the First World War.

  It told of a knight who was noted for his savagery, his intolerable greed, and his bloodthirsty career.

  He had not lasted long. The vicar wrote that, like many other knights of his period, he felt snubbed by those who, so he believed, should have honoured him, and as a result he took to the life of a felon and murderer.

  Yet there was something odd about his story. Although he had apparently robbed the Templars at Dunwich, he kept to his life of crime, attacking travellers and home-owners. He would turn his nose up at no one, from the stories told, taking money from the rich and poor alike. An equal opportunities thief, she smiled to herself.

  But if he had stolen the Templars’ gold, why did he have to continue on his murderous crime spree? Surely he could have easily hung up his sword and retired?

  There was a clue later in the pamphlet.

  Although he had stolen the Templar gold, Sir Gilbert FitzSimon had never benefitted from it. He had been denounced by the outlaw who had been the sole survivor of his attack on the temple at Dunwich, and soon his manor was besieged by the posse of the county. The little place was fired, and the knight made good his escape in the smoke, but he could not take his hoard of gold with him. It was thought that it must have remained in the smoking ruins of his manor, but there was nothing ever found. Rumours abounded of a small chamber underground, into which it had been placed and sealed, while others maintained that there was a large system of caves in the rocks nearby, and the gold was hidden deep within them. Some said the Devil had come back to take his payment. And from that moment on, Gilbert had not a moment’s rest. He had lost all for a treasure, and then lost that too.

  Amy replaced the papers into the file. Well, perhaps it was true. But if so, the man probably came back later, uncovered his ill-gotten gains, and then fled. Somewhere she had read that the Templars had discovered America. Maybe it was all over there, then. He had put it on a ship to send it abroad for safety!

  No, there was nothing much of any use in this lot, she decided. Gold, Knights Templar, outlaws, the whole lot was less credible than The Da Vinci Code itself. And worse written (if that were possible). But it did leave an interesting thought: who could have profited from all this twaddle? Ianthe seemed to think that it was an important piece of work. Well, perhaps it was for her. Amy supposed that an editor who succeeded in publishing something like this would earn her monthly crust. But it was such nonsense, Amy would have expected Ianthe to lose her job – for offences committed against English, if nothing else.

  Ianthe was definitely keen to see the book published. Perhaps she thought there really was gold down here somewhere. The Admiral could have teased her about it – he always enjoyed winding up people he thought were too pompous for their own good. Or maybe he had wound her up some other way?

  Amy thought about Ianthe, and how she had been so keen to speak about the MP who had been there at the pub. When it came to the subject of Fitz’s death, she had been enormously keen to talk about anyone, really, rather than herself, hadn’t she?

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Willie Sayers wasn’t happy about this ingratiating young man’s request, but though he wanted to tell him to get lost, he knew all too well from grim experience that it was wise to avoid alienating the media unless you just had to. Bastards at the best of times, if they took against you, they turned into flesh-eating vultures.

  He moved the phone to his better ear. ‘I don’t understand why you want to see me? I’m aware that it’s in my constituency, but I’ve hardly ever been to the Admiral Byng.’

  ‘Since tragically we didn’t have the chance to interview Mr Fitzsimmons properly, we’re asking some of his close friends to help us paint a picture of him.’

  ‘What makes you think we were close friends?’

  Ben lied unblushingly. ‘I recognised you in a photograph in his office when I visited him a month or two ago and asked if you were friends. “The best of friends, old boy,” he said. “The best. Ever since schooldays.”’

  Sayers was both flattered and uneasy. He couldn’t remember seeing any photograph displayed on any of his visits to Fitz in the Admiral Byng or anywhere else he’d ever lived. And even though Fitz was a double-dyed hypocrite, would he really have been so two-faced? He tried a self-deprecating laugh and a change of subject. ‘I’m honoured that a TV presenter recognises a humble MP.’

  ‘You’re very well known in the constituency, Mr Sayers. And I’d done my homework in advance.’

  As he tried to work this out, Sayers regretted that he’d had so much to drink the night before at the pump manufacturers’ shindig. He wasn’t thinking as clearly as he’d like to. ‘Fair enough. And well done. But why would you want to interview me about Fitz for a programme that’s supposed to be about pubs?’ Then he recollected that he was an MP in a party suffering from accusations of being out of touch. ‘I mean I like pubs as much as the next man, but isn’t it a bit ghoulish to go featuring this one now poor old Fitz is dead? Can’t you find somewhere else?’

  Ben adopted his most
obsequious tone. ‘I can quite see why you feel that, Mr Sayers, but I feel that we owe it to Mr Fitzsimmons to finish the programme he cared about so deeply. Rural society depends on its pubs, he told me, and he prayed the sad decline of the Admiral Byng would show the catastrophic social consequences of meddling by uncaring governments.’

  ‘Steady on, Mr Milne. We’re not an uncaring government. I myself am a tireless spokesman for preserving our institutions and our enduring English values of fairness and—’

  Ben cut in. ‘Of course, Mr Sayers. We aren’t making political points. But people have been rather critical. And serendipitously, this would afford you the chance to make a positive case on camera. About the threat to a pub in your own constituency.’

  You’re a lying toad, thought Sayers. Undoubtedly a Tory-hating metropolitan-elite kind of toad who’ll be trying to trip me up and make a fool of me. But if I get it right, it could play well. Surely even the dimmest voters would be impressed by me appearing in a popular TV series and making an emotional plea to save their disappearing way of life and their right to get sozzled close to home?

  Besides, Willie Sayers was as keen as anyone to find out what the consensus was on the cause of Fitz’s death. Possibly keener than some.

  Should he have insisted on being interviewed in his office rather than in the constituency, he wondered, as he sat glumly on the back benches trying not to fall asleep as that boring adolescent twerp with the expensive floppy hair droned on about the need to legislate on aircraft noise. How dare the chief whip have insisted he start turning up on Mondays and Fridays for doughnutting and applauding duties!