Murder at High Tide (The Ralph Chalmers Mysteries Book 4)

by P. J. Thurbin

  Ralph decided that making a rush for the door was not really an option. Rachel was now looking straight at him, or so it seemed.

  “Bit cold this morning,” he said, trying to strike a casual note as though they had just met at a party. She was kind enough to smile back an acknowledgement. Beth came to his rescue with some timely advice about perspective and the variation of skin tones. The morning went quickly with a break for coffee and a chance for Rachel to stretch and warm up in a wrap that Allan kept there for that purpose.

  By lunchtime Ralph had made some progress and produced what might not have looked out of place in a kindergarten art competition. Allan and Beth were very kind and assured him that for a first attempt he had done well. Allan had taken some photographs of Rachel which he suggested Ralph might want to use to continue work on his painting at home. Ralph was not sure how Katie would react to seeing how he had spent the morning and politely declined Allan’s offer.

  The group decamped for lunch at the Red Dragon pub. Allan and Beth took their orders for sandwiches and drinks while the group got to know each other. David Smith and his wife Ann explained that this was their third year with the Robinsons. David, it transpired, was the CEO of a Finance Company based in London and struck Ralph as being close to a nervous breakdown. Agitated, talking nine to the dozen and ignoring his wife’s attempts to calm him down.

  “I can’t get the hang of painting in these damned oils. It turns out too brown. Allan wants me to persist but I’ve had enough and think I’ll just stick to watercolours. It’s just not working out”, exclaimed David, as his wife pushed a large glass of wine in-front of him.

  “David is a perfectionist,” she explained. “He worries about everything. And of course with the economy down on its heels he works far too hard for his own good. Eat some food, dear and you’ll be more relaxed,” she said and patted him on the arm.

  A tall figure in a blue and white checked shirt and jeans that must have cost a fortune leant across the table.

  “Here’s my card, David. I haven’t had a chance to introduce myself. I’m Martin Roper. I run a Management Consulting firm based in Surrey. We might be able to do some business some time.”

  Un bloody believable, thought Ralph. Here is this poor bugger trying to hold himself together and relax on holiday and this creep tries to sign him up to his sordid consultancy business. The others realized that they were meant to introduce themselves.

  “We’re here for the first time. I’m Christopher Villiers and this is my wife Gillian. Tell me what you think of the house wines here as we are wine importers. Always good to get feedback from the users,” he laughed as he held his wine up to the light.

  “Speaking of wine, I heard that there is some wine smuggling going on down on the coast here,” Ralph said after he had told the group about buying the cottage in Clovelly and being there to do a bit of work for his sabbatical project.

  “In my view, people who smuggle are nothing but swine,” Christopher interjected. “They wipe out people like us who are trying to make an honest living. The only wines worth smuggling are those at the top of the price and quality range. If someone runs a fine dining restaurant and has a top chef to attract the wealthy clientele then they might be tempted to smuggle some of the stuff in as that is where they make their money. But for pubs selling cheap plonk like this it’s easier to buy it from a wholesaler or even get a few crates from the local supermarket.” Everyone glanced at the publican standing behind the bar but he appeared not to notice the slur on his grape.

  Ralph wondered if Miles Willard and his wife were boosting their profits by smuggling in the expensive wines they served at inflated prices to rich connoisseurs with the help of the local fishermen. The margins would hardly be worth it unless he was acting as the front for a bigger distribution network or was that desperate to make whatever additional profit regardless of the risk.

  “My wife met a couple who own a vineyard in Bordeaux when she was riding up at Bay View Farm last week,” said Ralph. But either no one caught what he said, or if they did, they showed not the slightest interest.

  Allan and Beth joined them as the server deposited a large platter of sandwiches and a salad bowl on the table and everyone tucked in. Ralph was seated next to a trim attractive woman he hadn’t noticed before. He figured she must have slipped into the back of the room during the session. She was somewhere in her mid thirties, although Ralph could never tell for sure, and she hadn’t offered any information about herself when the introductions were being made. Right then she seemed intent on studying her sandwich and studiously avoiding eye contact with anyone.

  “Have you been here before?” Asked Ralph.

  “Sorry, I was a bit distracted. I’m Margaret Wakely. I’m not actually in the class. I just came down to see Allan. He did some paintings of my father riding his horse, Majestic, and Allan kindly invited me to tag along for the day. I’m an IT Consultant, although it is not as grand as it sounds.”

  Ralph was stunned. It was an incredible coincidence that he should meet Wakely’s daughter while sitting in a pub eating a prawn sandwich. He decided that it was not the time to explain that he had bought her father’s cottage.

  “I specialize in painting horses,” Allan interjected. I’ve had quite a few commissions from some of the big Arab racing owners. Some of them have stud farms around here, and you’ll find a lot of their trainers and stable hands in the local pubs. Some people don’t like foreigners coming into the area and you’re likely to hear jokes about al Queda and the Taliban setting up a missile range on Lundy or some other such nonsense. But the locals don’t mind taking their money, and without it the recession would have hit even harder down here in the countryside. But that’s country folk for you. I’m a Londoner and so they don’t really like me and Beth very much either, although the local ladies are happy to pick up a bit of cash during the winter modeling for us once the tourists have gone and seasonal jobs dry up. Rachel is a case in point, although she models for me throughout the year. By the way, if anyone is interested, tomorrow night we’re doing a special session with the twins.”

  Ralph blanched at the thought of what painting nude twins would be like. Would all their bits be identical, he wondered?

  “Thanks Allan, I’m afraid I can’t make tomorrow night. But I appreciate the invite.”

  Ralph looked around at the rest of the group. While Beth was answering some questions about the use of brush strokes to provide contrast, Ralph took the opportunity to follow Allan to the bar to order some coffees and ask him about Wakely.

  “I was chatting with Margaret a minute ago and she told me that you had done a few paintings of her father.”

  “Yes. He was a nice enough chap. Mind you he’d been divorced for some years and hadn’t been in touch with his daughter that much by all accounts. I heard from some of the ladies in the village that he was waiting for his girlfriend to go through with her divorce so that they could get married.”

  “Too bad. But of course that’s the way of the world these days,” Ralph said.

  “Between you and me, Ralph, what happened to him was no accident. Someone who has money can kill someone or have them killed and get away with it. Usually it’s jealousy or greed at the bottom of it, maybe both. But as we all know, money talks.”

  “Well, when I spoke with your Chief Inspector Smeeton at the Vicar’s garden party he did mention that Wakely’s death was now being treated as suspicious.” Allan just nodded in that way that told Ralph that news of that development had already spread.

  ***

  The weather in North Devon is very fickle and as they stepped out of the pub they were met with blue skies and a soft warm southwesterly breeze. Allan’s van was loaded with all the equipment and ready for an afternoon’s painting on the cliffs and they were soon settled at a vantage point overlooking Hartland Bay. Faced with an idyllic scene of blue skies, brown and green cliffs and foam flecked waves beating on the rocks, it seemed incredible to Ralph tha
t three local fishermen had been shot here while at their work. Ralph tried to picture the scene. It must have been done under cover of darkness, but if so, how was it that their boat had not been seen drifting until the next afternoon? It struck him that after they were shot and thrown overboard the boat must have been hidden until late the next day then set adrift off Hartland Point. Whoever had done it was obviously knowledgeable about the local coast and tides. If that were indeed the case then any theories about French trawlers having been involved all seemed a bit unlikely. This was more likely a local job and it seemed that it was connected to a major smuggling operation.

  “How’s it going, Professor Chalmers? I see you’ve got the light right on those cliffs,” Margaret said as she peered at Ralph’s efforts.

  “What? Oh sorry, I didn’t hear you come up. That’s very kind. I think the credit should go to Beth, though. She guided me through every stroke.”

  He had to struggle not to mention something about having bought her father’s cottage, but before he could think of anything else to say she continued.

  “This probably sounds silly but there’s more to my visit than just to see those paintings of my father that Allan did. I hope you don’t mind, but you remind me a bit of my father, and I felt I had to tell someone about why I’m really here.”

  After years of teaching Ralph was used to students wanting to unburden themselves of something that was bothering them.

  “Look I could do with an excuse to stretch my legs. Why don’t we go over to that kiosk and get a cup of tea?” said Ralph. “I’m afraid the coffee at the pub wasn’t that good, although I certainly couldn’t fault the sandwiches.”

  They strolled across and he bought two teas and carried them over to a bench overlooking the sea where Margaret picked up her story.

  “You see at the inquest they said my father was killed in a riding accident, but I don’t believe it. He was too good a rider. We hadn’t really had much contact with each other until a few months ago, but I spoke to him on the phone only a few days before he was killed and he told me about his plans to marry Clarissa Horton once she got her husband to agree to a divorce. Dad told me that when they moved down to Devon and bought the Manor House it was done mainly with money she had inherited plus a bit from his redundancy. I overheard you talking to Allan about smuggling. Well Dad was obsessed with that. He had some crazy idea about rival gangs bringing contraband into Devon. I know he didn’t like Clarissa’s husband, but he told me that a few weeks earlier she had discovered that he was involved in some shady dealings, although he didn’t say what they were. Dad said they were keeping quiet about it until after the divorce.”

  “Did he write any of this down or include it in a letter he might have written to you?”

  “No, but Dad was a meticulous note keeper. He said that he had been watching the local fishing boats and making notes in a diary he was keeping. He told me there might be rival gangs operating in the area and he thought Horton was behind one of them. I contacted the police in Bideford when I heard of Dad’s accident, but I think they saw me as just another overwrought and hysterical relative. Then when I read in the papers about those poor fishermen being shot I knew Dad had been right. If he had found something out and those gangs knew it, then they would have wanted to silence him. In my mind it all points to murder, but no one takes me seriously. The police keep saying there is no evidence but that they are still investigating; fat lot of good that seems to be doing.”

  Ralph was impressed at her logic and tenacity in what must be very trying circumstances. What she had said tied in with his theories and added some new twists. He explained about buying Rose Cottage and how he and Katie had found the maps and the diaries in the barn and turned them over to the police.

  “Do you think that will encourage them to treat my father’s death as something more than an accident?” Margaret asked.

  “Well, now that those fishermen from the Mary Ann have been killed it seems logical that any interest your father had in her movements in and out of the harbour would have to be taken seriously,” Ralph hedged, aware that the information he had been given by Chief Inspector Smeeton may not have been officially made public.

  “Look Margaret, why don’t you come back to the cottage with me and meet Katie? She’s been riding over at Bay View Farm where your Dad kept Majestic, and she has her own ideas about what really happened up there. Or if you are staying in Hartland we could all meet up tonight and have dinner at Chez Liz. We’ve been promising ourselves a night out.”

  “Sounds good to me, Professor Chalmers.”

  “Ralph,” he said as he collected up the cups and put them in the bin before heading back to join the others.

  “Okay, Ralph. I’m staying at the Lamb Hotel. I could meet you and Katie at say, about 7? I’m looking forward to meeting Katie and to a change from eating junk food.”

  Having thanked his mentors for a marvelous day and some good tips, Ralph was soon heading back to Rose Cottage with his painting of Hartland Point on a summer’s afternoon.

  ***

  Katie had spent another day riding and was delighted at the prospect of going out to dinner for a change. She was also looking forward to meeting Wakely’s daughter as she hoped it would help them get a step nearer to solving the mystery surrounding his death. Ralph explained what had transpired with his attempts at life painting and suffered the jibes that he had anticipated from Katie. He was relieved that she found it all a joke.

  At just before seven Ralph parked the Jag in the hotel car park and they went into the lobby to meet Margaret. They decided to leave the car where it was and walk to the restaurant and by the time they got there Katie and Margaret were chatting away like old friends. Ralph had phoned ahead and reserved a table and as they opened the lattice door they were greeted by an enthusiastic Miles Willard.

  “Welcome to Chez Liz. It’s such a warm night I thought I’d put you by the window overlooking the terrace. There’s just enough of a breeze to be comfy.”

  All of the tables were occupied and Ralph noticed that the clientele were certainly not run of the mill holiday makers. He had also noticed that the car park sported some very expensive motors; a couple of vintage Bentleys, a Lamborghini and a couple of Ferraris plus a clutch of modern luxury limousines. Once they were seated Katie noticed that Marcel and Arian Dupois were at a nearby table and smiled and gave a little wave. Arian came over and Katie introduced her to Ralph and Margaret.

  “Nice to meet you all. Sorry but I couldn’t drag Marcel away from his chat with Miles, but he’ll catch up with you later,” she said as she caught her husband’s eye and he gave a little smile of acknowledgement. “Marcel and I are most impressed with the wine menu. We didn’t expect Miles to have some of the best wines from Bordeaux that you usually only see in top restaurants in Paris. How on earth he can sell it at these prices is amazing. He’s obviously stealing it,” she joked as she went back to join her husband.

  Margaret and Katie were engrossed in chat about horses and had arranged to go riding together later that week. Margaret was a bit hesitant when Katie suggested she might want to ride Majestic.

  “I’m afraid I haven’t ridden since I was a child,” Margaret explained and told her that after her parents were divorced she and her mother had moved to London and that until recently she hadn’t even had much contact with her father, apart from the odd card or present he sent on her birthday.

  “But doesn’t Majestic belong to you now?” Katie asked.

  “I suppose that technically he does, but I’ve told Amanda that I would like her to sell him. There’s not much point in paying for his upkeep so other people can ride him.”

  “Hmmm,” Katie said, “That’s a thought I’ll keep in mind.” Ralph couldn’t help but raising an eyebrow on hearing that bit of conversation.

  Ralph was not a wine connoisseur by any means and so he asked Miles to choose one for them.

  “I’m convinced that Miles is having these wines smuggl
ed in,” said Katie once Miles had made his suggestions and was out of earshot. “Otherwise he couldn’t possibly sell them at such a low price. I noticed that practically every table here has a pricey bottle on the table. Not many have ordered the English and South African staples I’ve seen at some of the restaurants in London. I guess he’s found a way to help pay all those gambling bills.”

  “If there are two rival gangs let’s hope that he has backed the ones that are winning,” interjected Margaret. “If he was using the Mary Ann lot then his source of wine will have dried up.” They all laughed although Ralph felt that it was not quite right to be joking when three men had been shot.

  Margaret explained to Katie what she had told Ralph that afternoon and how she was now undecided as to what to do next.

  “Well you’re the sleuth, Ralph. What do you suggest?” Asked Katie as they drank their coffee.

  “Well there’s not much hard evidence to go on. If Horton was involved in your father’s death then it is possible that Clarissa knows about it or at least has her suspicions. Also, if your father had found some evidence to link Horton with the smuggling then he and Clarissa would have talked about it. She may even have the evidence. So she is our best link,” said Ralph. “As you’ve met her, Katie, maybe you could arrange to visit her up at the Manor House or even at Bay View, since we know that she’s a keen rider.”

  “But I don’t see why Horton would have been involved in killing those three fishermen,” Margaret said. “And if he was, how could we ever prove it? You said he was very friendly with the Chief Constable, so presumably the police will make sure that suspicion never falls on him.”

  “Well I don’t think that the police would deliberately cover things up, but I agree that he is sufficiently well off not to have to bother with a bit of small time cigarette and wine smuggling unless he is the front for a bigger operation. If so, then his men might have clashed with whoever was using the crew of the Mary Ann. But killing them does seem a bit extreme. At the moment I’m afraid that Horton certainly holds all the cards. But experience tells me that something will turn up or he will overplay his hand,” said Ralph.