Murder at High Tide (The Ralph Chalmers Mysteries Book 4)
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“I’m not sure. It’s a pretty big investment and I wouldn’t want you to tie up your savings over here when you haven’t really decided where your future is. Especially now you’ve been offered teaching at the Sorbonne.”
“Well, they haven’t actually offered me the post, yet. But even so, it wouldn’t hurt to have a place in the country here as well, especially if it’s a holiday let so that when we don’t want to use it it’ll be earning money for us.”
Ralph could see that Katie had already made up her mind, and truth be told, he would be just as happy to spread out his investments just in case the property market went belly up again. He was vaguely aware that money was not really an issue for Katie; her real problem was in trying to sort out how she could get her career back on track. Besides, they did seem to get along, and there was no reason why they shouldn’t go into a joint venture. It might even be fun, not a word that leapt to Ralph’s mind very often.
“I’ve no objections,” Ralph said cautiously, “but we’d need to get the solicitors to sort out the details since they’ve already got the contracts virtually ready for exchange.”
“Don’t worry about the details. That can easily be sorted. The main thing is are you happy to do it?”
“I’m warming to the idea,” Ralph said. “I must admit that I was wondering how best to use the place in the long run without it turning into a money pit. Your idea of renting it out as a holiday let just might make it pay for itself.”
“Then it’s all settled. Now if you’ll just tell me when you’ll pick me up, I’ll get back to town and pack a bag as soon as we’ve had some lunch.”
“Don’t you even want to see the details from the estate agent before you commit yourself? Or maybe even wait until after you see it in person?” Ralph suggested.
“Nope. If it’s good enough for your conservative nature it’s bound to be a sound investment. Knowing you, it’s near the coast and away from the sounds of traffic and village life,” Katie laughed. “So I’m sure it will suit me fine.”
“It’s in a little village called Clovelly just along the coast from Bideford and has white washed walls, roses over the door, overlooks the sea and has a small garden for sunbathing. Oh yes and an inglenook fireplace just in case the nights are a bit chilly. Do you want to hear about the boat?”
“No, not really. But I’m sure it’s just perfect. But you aren’t off the hook for standing me up. So get yourself up and take me to that pub by the bridge for lunch. I’m starving.”
Ralph decided that he would tell Katie about the coast guard and the fishing trawler incident at another time.
Ralph hadn’t visited the Mitre since he and his old flame Jane agreed to break off any thoughts of rekindling their long ago Cambridge romance. Now that seemed like ancient history and they had both moved on. When he and Katie were in Cairo they had met up with Jane and her new husband and he was pleased that seeing them happy had not been the painful experience he had anticipated. In fact, he felt relieved that she and her husband were enjoying a bit of celebrity as archaeologists, and as for himself, he found that for the moment he was quite content with Katie’s somewhat exasperating company.
“Race you to the end of the line of trees,” shouted Katie as she took off before waiting for a reply. At 50 plus Ralph still ran regular 10K road races, rowed stroke in the Molesey Eight at summer regattas and each year skippered a racing yacht in the Fastnet Races. He soon overtook her, but eased up to let her think it had been a close match.
“Another 10 yards and I’d have beaten you,” she gasped as they reached the graveled footpath. Hands on hips they stood there enjoying the moment.
“I dreamt of days like this when I was banged up in Holloway and by gosh I’m going to make up for lost time,” she said with a grin.
“Oh, there is one thing I didn’t tell you about the cottage,” Ralph said as they drove in the direction of Hampton Court and the Mitre. “It used to be owned by a famous equestrian, Richard Wakely.”
“I’ve heard of him. He rode for England at the Olympics a few years back; a bit of a hero of mine. Why did he want to sell his cottage if it’s as good as you say?”
“Well it seems he had a riding accident while out on his own and he was killed. So the house came on the market.”
She let out a loud laugh. “So now Ralph Chalmers, you want to buy a cottage with its own mystery built in. Presumably you suspect foul play; why am I not surprised? You are incorrigible.”
They both laughed at the picture she had painted.
***
As it was a warm day they sat outside on the terrace overlooking the Thames. The Mitre did a wonderful lunch menu and they enjoyed their seafood salads as they looked out at the array of boats moored nearby.
“Tell me Ralph, what made you choose Clovelly? There must be hundreds of properties on the market down along the coast, what with the property recession and all.”
“Nothing in particular, except that I saw a photo of the cottage in an estate agent’s window, and when he told me it had been owned by Wakely and was now up for a quick sale I jumped in, especially when he said that after the accident it had been vandalized and so had been completely renovated before being put on the market.”
“But a small village on the Devon coast for your hideaway? Must be more to it than that.”
“Not really. Of course there’s the sailing. The boat I bought is moored at a marina in Bideford and Clovelly is just a few miles up the road, but quieter and much prettier. And of course I was able to get the cottage there at the right price. Two birds as they say.”
“But there are zillions of little villages and hamlets along the North Devon Coast. So why that particular spot?”
“Well, you know my undergraduate degree at Cambridge was in history, and the Island of Lundy is only 10 miles or so off the coast where the cottage is situated. Lundy is a place I’ve always been curious about. It’s steeped in history. It was used by Barbary Pirates in the 1600s and flew the Ottoman flag. Then in the 17th Century a slave trader called Thomas Benson had a contract from the government to ship convicts to the new colonies in Virginia and instead diverted the ship to Lundy and used the convicts as personal slaves to build himself a castle. After that Sir Aubrey Vere Hunt set up an Irish Colony there around 1800. And as recently as 1957 they found a bottle with a message dated 1843 saying that the three masted schooner Jenny had foundered on Lundy with ivory and gold aboard. They never found the gold. It’s a smugglers paradise.”
“You’re doing it again, Ralph!” Katie almost shouted. Some of the other diners glanced up. “Given half a chance you get into lecture mode and start pontificating about either business strategy or history. But I refuse to just sit here and be one of your adoring students.”
“No, not at all. I just thought you’d be interested in the background now that you will be investing in the area,” Ralph said, although he did rather enjoy talking about the historical background and realized it may not be everyone’s idea of a casual chat over lunch.
“Well, I’m not. I’m much more interested in what sort of riding and walking opportunities there are close by; and how to do both without getting myself killed Wakely style,” Katie retorted. “Speaking of which, you aren’t really thinking this Richard Wakely thing was something other than a freak accident, are you?” Katie asked suspiciously.
“What makes you ask such a question?” Ralph replied, although it really grated the way Katie could always see through him like that. Ever since he became involved in helping the police solve a string of murders in and around the University he had got the sleuthing bug; and something about the Wakely incident was niggling at him.
“You are so predictable, Ralph. I sussed right from the start that you figured there was more to Wakely’s demise than a simple riding accident and you are obviously determined to get involved in another investigation. Well I can tell you right now that I intend to spend my time sunbathing, walking on the cliffs and perhaps doing a
spot of horse-riding. If I were you I would find something to help you relax between writing sessions, otherwise you will run out of steam. I know you will have your boat to play with, but sailing is a bit solitary and it’s unlikely to help you get your brain out of gear.”
“You’re right, although I don’t fancy my chances on horseback. It sounds like a dangerous sport.”
“I’ll do the riding; and maybe you could pick up your painting again between bouts of writing and sailing.”
“Good idea. I’ll pack my painting kit just in case I get some inspiration. But right now I need to settle the bill and get you home so you can start packing.”
“I’ll believe it when I see your masterpiece hanging in the Tate,” Katie replied as she finished off the remnants of her salad and dabbed her mouth with a corner of the linen napkin.
Tomorrow they were off to Devon and a well- earned break from the hurly burly of London and the University.
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Chapter 3
Ralph arrived early at Katie’s mews house in Chelsea. He wanted to avoid the commuter traffic that made driving in London almost impossible. Katie was ready to go. Ralph threw her bag onto the back seat and they were soon threading their way through the milieu around Heathrow Airport and onto the M25 where it was just beginning to thin out from the morning rush.
“Exit 12 isn’t as clagged up as I thought it’d be,” Ralph said as he exited onto the M3 towards Basingstoke. Ralph’s main extravagance was his vintage Jaguar and he had spared no expense on its restoration.
“Sometimes I think this is the only girl who could ever steal your heart,” Katie observed as she patted the dashboard.
“You must admit she’d be hard to beat,” Ralph replied in one of his rare lighthearted moods.
“I’ve been thinking about coughing up for a car myself,” Katie said. “Now that we’ll be making regular trips to the seaside I think I just might.”
“What did you have in mind?” Ralph asked. “I could go with you if you’re serious about buying one,” he offered.
“Typical man,” Katie teased. “You think a woman couldn’t possibly buy a car without a man’s help.”
“No, it’s not that,” Ralph said, perhaps a bit unconvincingly. “It’s just that you aren’t so familiar with the market over here and I thought I would offer my services. We could look around when we get back, if you like.”
“I kind of like this old banger of yours, Ralph. I don’t suppose it’s for sale?”
“Not this one; but there are other vintage cars out there if you can be patient enough to wait for the right one.” What Ralph didn’t mention was the surprise he had waiting at the cottage.
“Patience is not my strong point,” Katie pointed out, “But I guess I’m not in such a big hurry since I have you to chauffeur me around while I’m looking.” Katie sank into the comfortable leather seat and closed her eyes as the powerful engine devoured the miles.
Ralph figured he would rather be driving down the motorway in his precious car than doing just about anything else he could think of. It provided the perfect way to enjoy the wide open spaces after the congestion of London. Even Kingston was getting a bit crowded for his tastes, he reflected, and he was glad that he had decided to buy a flat a few miles away in relatively sleepy Surbiton instead of Kingston. Ralph glanced over and saw that Katie wouldn’t be providing much in the way of conversation so he popped a CD into the player. The company of Mozart would be hard to beat, in any event, he mused as the miles slipped away.
Ralph was enjoying the prospect of getting away and he felt himself relaxing as they left the local commuter traffic behind. He could visualize hundreds of people getting up, having a quick breakfast, kids off to school, parents rushing to their workplace wondering what the day would bring: yesterday’s confrontation with the boss, new problems to tackle, friends to gossip with. Now they were all busy with their day. The roads were practically empty going their way although there was a steady stream heading into the City of London. The long distance trucks stuck rigidly to the required legal speed limit in the middle lane. That suited Ralph just fine as he sped down the outside lane with the speedometer nudging 85 as they joined the A303 towards Salisbury.
“The countryside looks so green and I am always surprised at how quickly the towns are left behind,” he shouted above the road noise when he saw that Katie was now sitting up looking out of the window.
“It’s the same at home in Australia except there you are talking about hundreds of miles between towns. If you break down in the outback you are probably going to die of thirst within a day or two. Here the motoring rescue and recovery boys would tow your car to a garage and have you safely booked into a local hotel until it was fixed. It’s quite a different world here in jolly old England.” As they approached Salisbury Plain Katie noticed the huge standing stones on Ralph’s side of the road.
“Hey, look over there, Ralph. On the other side. Is that Stonehenge? Can we stop and take a look?”
Ralph pulled in to the graveled car park and parked under a sprawling plane tree on the far edge of the flat area reserved for visitors. There was the usual food wagon selling teas, sausage rolls and ice creams for the kids. It seemed that whenever people stopped driving they had to eat and visit the rest rooms.
“Have they ever figured out exactly who put these giant stones here or why?” Katie asked.
Ralph explained what he knew about Stonehenge, and how there were many theories as to their origin, but so far no one had come up with any hard evidence. Research and carbon dating had shown that they were prehistoric, dated about 3000 BC, but in spite of the lack of evidence, people liked to believe that they were put there by the Druids for religious ceremonies. A tunnel under the main road that ran alongside the ancient monuments soon took them away from the crowds that were swarming around the modern facilities provided by the National Trust. It was good to relax and simply listen to the skylarks wheeling overhead and take in the vista that stretched for miles in every direction. Rolling fields, a few hay stacks, and small clumps of trees that formed wooded enclaves amidst acres of open brown fields.
“I can see why people saw this as a spot to come and worship,” said Katie. “But how did they get all the stones here? Each one must way tons.”
“According to the archaeologists, they had to drag them here from miles away; some from as far as Wales, although they were probably smart enough to use the rivers, and no doubt thousands of slaves for the hard work. Whenever I see anything monumental I can’t help but think of the poor buggers that were on the wrong end of the whips. Those mounds you can see on the horizon are burial grounds, but long cleared out by grave robbers. It’s a peaceful place right now, but on Mid-Summer’s day you get thousands of hippies, or their modern equivalent, camping out overnight so they can see the sun come up and stream through that central arch between those two stones that were aligned perfectly for that reason.”
“Assuming that they can still see straight after a night of booze and drugs,” said Katie with a laugh.
“You’re a real cynic, Katie Eggerton, and I thought I was the one who needed to take a more generous view of mankind. Let’s get in that queue and get a cup of tea before we head off.”
Suitably refreshed and having bought some postcards that Katie wanted to send home to her relatives in Australia, they were soon on the road again.
“The army uses Salisbury Plain for their training and most of the villages around here are full of army wives out having lunch before rushing home to get ready for dinner parties,” Ralph said, pointing to the convoys of army lorries and jeeps in formation on the other side of the motorway and the tanks on the horizon.
“It must really annoy the locals to have tanks driving among these pretty villages and crashing through the local duck ponds,” Katie shouted as they overtook a large army vehicle with a bunch soldiers sitting in the back who gave Katie a wolf whistle as the Jaguar roared by.
“But I’ll bet the locals are happy to take the money the army bases bring in,” said Katie. “I don’t suppose there’s much civilian work here nowadays, what with the big industrial co-ops owning the farms. The countryside might look idyllic on a lovely summer’s day, but in February when it’s windy and raining it must be pretty grim. Bet you wouldn’t want to swap it for your comfy life teaching in a University and having a comfortable art deco apartment to go home to in the evening,” Katie said.
“You’ve got a point there, although no place in the UK is much fun in February. But I must admit that the wind and rain howling across the plains on a winter’s day doesn’t sound like my cup of tea.”
“Speaking of which, I’m getting a bit hungry,” Katie said. “Do you know of anywhere we can stop for lunch?”
“I thought we might stop at Taunton. It’s not much of a place but it makes a break to get off the M5 for a while.” He looked across at Katie who had pushed her seat back to the fully reclining position and was fast sleep with her feet up on his walnut dashboard; at least she had taken her shoes off. There was some justice left in the world, he thought.
The main street in Taunton, once busy with shoppers and market traders, was now a collection of Indian, Chinese or Greek restaurants and the usual clutch of charity shops.
The railway station was on the main line from London to Devon and Cornwall but even that had seen better days. The best choice among a poor bunch was The Railway Arms pub. It presented a whitewashed uninspiring exterior that at least offered the prospect of a quick lunch. They were served cottage pie which Katie likened to the English equivalent of the Australian ‘floater’, a meat pie floating in green pea soup.