It was one of those mornings when the air is so fresh that just taking in a breath is exhilarating. Ralph was up at dawn and decided to get in a run before Katie woke up. He donned his running gear and headed off through the country lanes. He was getting into his stride when he remembered that he had intended to limit himself to 6 miles, which was far enough to clear his mind for a day of writing without aggravating an old injury to his Achilles tendon. He was surprised how few people were up and about and only the occasional farm dog seemed to be bothered to investigate this stranger intruding into their domain. As he jogged up the drive to the cottage he looked down at his watch: 42 minutes. Not bad for a start, he thought to himself. It was a great feeling to finish a morning run and have a hot shower. He felt that everything was starting to come together.
“I thought I heard you sneak out. Did you enjoy your run? I’ll bet you can still reel off those miles while waving to the cheers of the crowd.” Katie shouted up the stairwell as Ralph appeared toweling his hair.
“There are still a few miles left in the tank. A couple of months down here and I should be ready for the cross country season. That coffee smells good.”
“Orange juice, scrambled eggs and toast suit you?” She said giving him a mock bow.
They breakfasted in the whitewashed kitchen while Katie told him about her plans to check out the local riding establishments and to ask in the village if there were any places where Ralph could join a painting group. She had read that Clovelly, like Newlyn in Cornwall, was a Mecca for painters in the West Country, as the light was so clear.
The local radio seemed intent on giving air space to requests for people who wanted to hear tunes for their wives and children and even their pets. No world news and no mention of traffic jams and political intrigue. This was Devon radio at its best: the weather forecast for the farmers gathering their hay and the times of the high and low tides at Bideford.
“I’ll clear this up while you get yourself sorted for your foray into the country,” Ralph gestured at the leavings from their breakfast. He was just as happy that the renovation had included fitting a dishwasher.
“I’ll stop in on my way home and pick up some things if you don’t mind waiting to have a late lunch when I get back,” Katie offered.
Katie threw her riding gear into the back of the Morgan ‘just in case’ and waved to Ralph as she turned out of the driveway with the crackle of the exhaust startling the birds in the hedgerows. Although she had noted one or two riding stables listed in a worn copy of the yellow pages she had found in the cottage, there was nothing like local knowledge, so first she headed towards town. Although it was only a few miles down the road, the drive to Hartland was not easy. The main road was narrow with lots of sharp bends and it was obviously built in the days when everyone used a horse and cart or simply walked. The Morgan handled well except when she met vehicles delivering supplies to the village shops and the occasional tractor whose driver had stopped to talk to a friend. Then she had to nestle into the hedgerow to get past. No one seemed to be in any hurry except the holiday makers with Mums and Dads trying to appease impatient children whose only ambition in life was to get to the beach or find an excuse to shout for ice cream. She pulled in front of a church that was making a fortune charging tourists to park their car behind what remained of the old cloister. The main street seemed to have only ‘disabled spaces’ in front of the shops. It must be that working on the farm and having to walk miles to get anywhere wreaked havoc with the joints.
She went into the Post Office figuring they must know everyone and everything that happens for miles around. It took some time to get anyone’s attention. When one of the women behind the counter finally stopped filing her nails long enough to glance up, she looked put out to be interrupted in her morning ritual.
“What was you wantin’?”
“Good morning. I was wondering if you could tell me if there are any riding stables around here that you would recommend?”
She realized that what she had asked sounded ridiculous. Why on earth should she expect someone who sold stamps and weighed parcels to know anything about riding or where she would find the local stables? But it was too late now. The two ladies behind the grill looked at each other and Katie could have sworn that the one doing her manicure rolled her eyes. The older woman lent forward.
“This is a Post Office. You want the tourist people, m’dear.”
“Are they in the village?”
She realized she should have said ‘town’ not village. Or maybe it would have been smarter to have just said ‘thanks’ and walked out.
“Up on the top road aren’t they, Mabel?”
Katie could see that she was now the tennis ball and the two clerks were wielding the racquets.
“Can I have a book of first class stamps please?” Said a large woman in tweeds and sensible shoes who pushed past and was now engaged in conversation with the two ladies behind the counter. They all ignored Katie.
“Bert told me that nothin’s been heard of what happened to those boys on the Mary Ann up at Mouth Mill Cove.”
“Yes ‘e told me ‘bout it. They never found Jack or ‘is two boys. Well not as yet anyhow.”
“The police think it’s all part of the trouble they’re ‘avin with them foreigners comin’ over and poaching our fishing grounds. I blame it on them French buggers. Somebody needs to teach ‘em a lesson. Orta sink the buggers. That would stop ‘em comin’ over ‘ere.”
Katie realized that they must have been talking about the trawler that Ralph had told her about.
The three women cackled at the image of the Royal Navy blowing a French fishing vessel out of the sea. People were pretty basic once you scratched the surface, thought Katie who had now abandoned any hope of getting any more information from them.
Walking out into the sunlight she decided to go into a small tea shop. It had those leaded glass windows and lace curtains that allowed couples who were meeting illicitly to go undetected as they supped their tea and nibbled on a muffin or perhaps a small pink and white iced cake. She realized that she needed to get a grip on things as she was beginning to fantasize far too much; and it was still only 10.30 in the morning. The quaint bell over the door rang as she entered and found a small unoccupied table by the window.
“Will you want to wait to order until your friend gets here, Madam?” A severe looking woman in a black dress hovered, glaring down at her.
“No, I’m on my own.”
There was that pause where Katie felt like someone who had turned up at a wedding in jeans and flip flops. The English certainly had a way of making you feel uneasy. She had lived in England long enough to know that it was a holdover from the class system where the game everyone played was to make sure that no one was able to easily identify which strata you occupied. Once your position was clarified then everyone relaxed and showed their largess and were some of the most generous people you could ever meet. But for now the severe lady in black was still at the exploratory stage.
“I’d like a coffee, please,” she said handing back the small blue edged, well- thumbed menu that she had been given.
“Certainly madam.” With that she turned to a rather large, red faced girl who had obviously had trouble with her acne that morning. The girl blushed even more when Katie smiled at her. A few minutes later the girl placed a bone china cup in front of her with a wrapped biscuit in the saucer along with a small pot of coffee.
“Anything else madam, just let me know,” said the girl.
“Thank you. What’s your name?” Katie enquired.
The girl was obviously taken aback and not used to such a display of familiarity.
“Jennie,” she said quietly.
“I’m Katie. I’ve just bought a cottage over near Clovelly and this is my first time in town. You wouldn’t know of any stables nearby, would you? I was hoping to ride a bit when we’re here.”
“My friend works up at Bay View Farm and she says it’s a good place. They get their
horses over from Portugal and train them up for the summer season, although they are open all the year to good riders. That Richard Wakely, the Olympic rider used to ride up there.”
Katie was a bit surprised at the mention of Wakely. But then it was a small village and his death must have been headline news, she thought. Jennie was now looking around nervously.
“That was before his accident you see, ma’am. He was killed when his horse threw him. That’s what the papers said. People in the village think it had something to do with him running around with that Max Horton’s wife.” The girl smiled self consciously as she realized she had probably said too much to a stranger.
“Thanks, Jennie. If you could write down the directions or the phone number I’ll give them a call. You’ve been very helpful.”
Jennie was reminded abruptly that there were other customers as the owner snapped her fingers in annoyance. But when she brought Katie the bill she handed her a piece of paper with the details of Bay View Farm and her friend’s name. Katie made sure that she left Jennie a generous tip. If politeness was a generational thing, so far the younger generation was winning hands down.
After studying her map and avoiding the tractors and holiday makers, Katie soon found herself at the entrance to a narrow winding road leading to Bay View Farm. The sign said:
Holiday Riding Stables– accommodation provided for experienced riders and accompanied non riders. No children or pets.
It sounded perfect.
She negotiated the cattle grid at the entrance to the farm and pulled up next to a small outbuilding. When she turned off the engine she was conscious of the silence which was broken only by the sounds from a few chickens that scratched about in the straw scattered on the roadway and the buzz of bees in the honeysuckle. She walked up to what looked like a deserted stable yard. One or two horses were obviously being rested for the day and were happily munching hay from the bags hanging in the corner of their stalls. They ignored her. Suddenly a small unshaven man appeared from what she guessed was the tack room.
“What you want?”
“Good morning. I’m staying down near Clovelly and wondered if there was a chance of hiring a horse? I might even want something for a few months as my husband and I are down here for most of the summer.” She thought it wouldn’t hurt to mention a husband as the man was already making her feel uncomfortable.
“Moit, but the owners owt now on a roide and won’ be back till ‘roind 4. You can come insoid fur a tea and wait if you loik?”
Katie had not led a monastic life; after all she had been married twice, and being Australian, she knew how to handle men. But this one was a bit too creepy for her liking.
“No thanks. I’ve got her number and I’ll speak to her this evening.”
“That your car? Looks like the one what used to belong to Wakely. ‘E was up ‘ere all the time wi’ that Horton bloke’s woife. Silly bugger fought ‘e was a better rider ‘an anyone else. That is ‘til he come a cropper. Went owt on ‘is own one day and broke ‘is neck. Talk about fuss. The place was crawling wiv coppers fur weeks. They fort someun ‘ad done ‘im in cos a that woman.” His sinister laugh made Katie’s skin crawl. She took the laugh as a chance to leave and was soon backing her car out of the yard. He shouted out after her.
“Watch out missus. Some bugger moit fink you’re Wakely in that car and take an uver pop at you.”
She could still here his creepy laugh as she drove at speed out over the cattle grid; probably not that good for a low slung sports car, but she just wanted to put some distance between herself and that creep. She stopped at a bakery just outside the village and bought some Devon meat pasties, local cheese and some fruit to take back to the cottage for their lunch. She found Ralph stretched out in the hammock they had found in the barn and strung up between two old pear trees.
“Good to see you made it back. I was starting to think you had run off with one of the local farmers or a dashing horseman.” He shielded his eyes from the sun as Katie picked her way carefully down the overgrown pathway.
“Don’t talk to me about the locals. So far I’ve met one girl who was very nice to me and the rest were plain awful. Talk about a closed community. This lot must have the corner on that market,” she said dumping her shopping on the table with a resounding thump.
“You sound like you could do with a cold beer. I put two in the fridge so we can have an alfresco lunch and you can tell me all about it.”
“You know I don’t drink beer,” Katie snapped. Oops. Too late. Katie knew that Ralph had a tendency to interpret anything uncongratulatory as a criticism. She watched as he leapt out of the hammock and went into the cottage in that brusque way that told her she had offended him.
“But I would kill for a nice cold glass of water,” she called after him in what she hoped was a conciliatory tone.
Ralph returned with a beer for himself and a glass of water for her in one hand and a couple of paper plates and napkins in the other. Katie told him what had happened and what she had overheard the ladies in the post office saying about the Mary Ann as they ate their lunch in the cool early afternoon breeze. They laughed at the grim picture that she painted of being an incomer to the Devon countryside.
“Well just think about it. If someone walked into an office at the University asking where the local cinema was, I can imagine the response would be much the same,” said Ralph.
“You’re not very sympathetic, but you’re probably right. I’m not sure what to make of that creep up at Bay View Farm. He seemed to think that Wakely was killed because he was having an affair with some bloke’s wife. He mentioned the name Horton which ties in with what the girl in the tea shop said. Has any of this sparked off those sleuthing genes of yours, Professor Chalmers?” She ducked as Ralph took a swipe at her with his table napkin.
“I’m down here to write up my report for The Foundation. It’s what I do for a living and it means that I have to justify my year’s sabbatical to the powers that be at the University,” Ralph said in that slightly prissy way that infuriated Katie.
“Okay. Don’t get on your high horse. I was just teasing. But you’ve got to admit that your finding that abandoned fishing boat nearly on the rocks, talk in Hartland of the missing crew, skirmishes with the French boats, a top rider falling off a horse and breaking his neck, and gossip about some poor bloke being cuckolded and taking his revenge is enough to whet anyone’s appetite for a bit of intrigue.”
“My appetite is quite sated after those pasties and cheese, thank you. And now I’m getting back to my writing for a couple of hours. Then, perhaps if you are up to meeting some more of the locals we could walk down to that pub at the bottom of the cliff path. We could have supper there and try to unravel some of those mysteries.”
“Okay. I’ll usurp your claim to the hammock while you get on with it. But I am looking forward to exploring Clovelly a bit more, so I’ll hold you to it.”
“I read that all the houses in the village are owned by the Clovelly Estates, and have been for years. It’s a big tourist attraction and you can visit some of the original cottages which have been preserved. I’d like to see Crazy Kate’s cottage. The story is that Kate was watching from her window and saw her husband fall overboard from his fishing boat and drown. They say that she went mad and never left the cottage until she died.” He noticed that Katie was not really listening so he went in to get stuck in to his report.
Katie found that she was restless and soon gave up on her attempt to take a siesta. Instead she spent the afternoon pottering around the garden and the old barn. At the back of the barn she found a cardboard box stored in one corner and carried it out to the table in the garden so she could have a better look. She gingerly opened it in case it was a nesting place for mice or rats. Inside she found some charts, a diary with R. Wakely written on the inside cover, and a collection of newspaper cuttings. The charts turned out to be a series of large scale maps of the Island of Lundy and the Bristol Channel with vario
us felt tip markings around Clovelly Harbour and Hartland Quay. Ralph appeared just as she spread the maps out on the table.
“I started to doze off and thought it best to quit while I was ahead. I hate having to rewrite stuff that I wrote when I was tired and would have been wiser to take a break. What’s all this?”
They studied the cuttings which were reports in the local Bideford Newspaper about smuggling. They covered a period of about 15 months and referred to cigarettes and alcohol being smuggled in from France and Ireland. So far it appeared that the Customs and Excise people had only managed to trace a few of the smugglers, including a local fisherman who picked up the contraband from French fishing trawlers that sailed in to the Bristol Channel. It all looked pretty small stuff, but it had obviously fascinated Wakely.
“Should we be reading this?” Ralph asked when Katie picked up the diary and began turning the pages.
“Probably not, but maybe he wrote something in his diary that had to do with those clippings. It looks here like he kept a record of the dates when the fishing trawlers were going out. Most seemed to go out for two or three days, but here it shows the Mary Ann as being out only once a week and each time for only one tide.”
Ralph leant over the charts, stifling a yawn.
“It’s pretty detailed,” Ralph observed as something in the diary caught his interest. “He even seems to have plotted the direction they left and returned from. He obviously wasn’t much up on navigation because boats have to watch the tide and the strong winds and currents in the Bristol Channel. He probably concentrated on Clovelly Harbour as there is no real access by road other than by a local Land Rover provided for tourists who don’t fancy walking down the steep paths. Clovelly is at the foot of the cliffs and you have to follow an old cobblestone walkway to get down there. But at least we have all the dates.”
“Wait a minute, Ralph. I don’t like this use of ‘we’. I’m not interested in some hobby the poor guy engaged in to pass his time. It’s just a diary and probably just a coincidence that the one boat he mentioned was the Mary Ann.”
Murder at High Tide (The Ralph Chalmers Mysteries Book 4) Page 4