“Hey look over there. Jason and Barbara Anderson, you know, the antiques dealers we met at the Vicarage. By the way Miles shot over to greet them, they must be regulars,” said Katie. “Wait a minute, they seem to be having some sort of row and by the looks of it he’s getting pretty agitated about something.”
“Probably mixed up their booking or they are complaining about the fish last night,” said Margaret.
“Look I think we are all getting a bit paranoid about these people. Why don’t I get the bill and we can go back to the Lamb for a chat and plan our strategy for tracking down Horton,” said Ralph.
Later that night after Ralph and Katie were back at the cottage they picked up a message on the answering machine that his colleague Peter, and his wife Marcia, were planning to visit them the following week. Ralph knew that as Professor of Music at Kingston University, Peter often gave lectures and recitals to passengers on Cruise ships during his summer break. His message said that they had left their Range Rover at Portsmouth Docks and as soon as they had disembarked they were planning to drive over to Hartland.
“That sounds like fun,” Katie said. “You and Peter get on well, and I like Marcia, although I only met her a few times when I was at Kingston. Who knows, they might even help to unravel some of the mysterious goings on around here. It’s always good to have fresh input. Who knows, it might even take your mind off of Rachel, the femme fatale of the West Country, and your fantasies about painting the twins.”
Ralph just grunted. He knew that it would be a long time before he lived that one down.
-----------------------------
Chapter 10
Ralph was awakened by a shrill ringing noise. The early morning sun was streaming through the half open shuttered window as he raised himself on one elbow struggling to locate the source of the irritation. Grabbing the bedside phone he fell back onto the pillow. He recognized the voice of his friend Peter Cavendish on the other end of the line. “Peter? Where are you? What time is it anyhow?”
“Well nothing like a friendly welcome. I thought that by now you would have ploughed the back field and milked the cows.”
“Very funny,” Ralph replied as he peered at the digital clock and saw that it was not quite eight. “Are you and Marcia in Hartland already?”
“No. Just moored at Portsmouth, but I wanted to give you some advance notice about our ETA. As soon as we get through customs and immigration we’ll retrieve our car from the pound and be on our way. I expect we’ll get there around lunchtime, presuming the ship has its paperwork in order and they let us all go ashore. Marcia checked out the accommodation in Hartland on her Ipad and I’ve phoned ahead and made reservations at the Lamb.”
“Sorry Peter. We had a late night at the local hostelry and must have slept in a bit. But you know all about that, I’m sure,” Ralph said with a laugh. It was good to hear Peter’s voice and recall the many occasions when he had received a late night call to collect him from some club or other where he had been partying into the wee hours. Peter was an enigma. A world renowned and respected musician and Professor of Music at Kingston University who specialized in 16th Century organ music, he was much loved by his students and a host of females of all ages. His wife Marcia had been a top fashion model and forgave him his indiscretions for years. But when she finally gave him an ultimatum, he took to his role as constant husband surprisingly well.
“Well, that’s great, Peter. It’ll take you about 4 hours to get here. I hope you’ve got a sat.nav. Some of these little villages aren’t even on the map. Once you get to Clovelly we’re easy to find. You’ve got the address?”
“No problem. Marcia is a whiz with the old map reading. So get yourself sorted out old mate and we will see you sometime this afternoon.”
It was early afternoon when a blast from Peter’s Range Rover announced their arrival.
“My gosh this is a pretty spot you’ve found, Ralph,” said Marcia as she climbed down and stretched her legs.
“Old Marco Polo here did a great job getting us through the hinterland,” said Peter as he flopped himself down on the seat by the front porch. “You two look as though you’ve gone native. It suits you, although I half expected you to be chewing on a piece of straw.” They all laughed.
Having heard about Peter’s escapades as a shipboard entertainer and the latest gossip from the college, they went into the garden where Katie had laid out an alfresco style lunch.
“So have you managed to persuade any rich matrons to endow a scholarship or two at the Music School?” Katie asked as she served some crab salad.
“Well you would be surprised to hear that Peter is thinking of taking early retirement,” said Marcia. He’s been offered a post at a University in Singapore on a two year contract basis and he’s thinking seriously of taking it up.”
“You’re too young to think about retirement,” Ralph exclaimed. “Maybe Kingston would give you a leave of absence instead. Have your cake and eat it too, so to speak.”
“It’s a thought. But what about you? Any deep dark mysteries to solve in this sleepy little corner of England?”
They chatted on about how things change as new opportunities arise in life and it was not long before they got around to Ralph’s sleuthing pursuits. He told them about Wakely and his theories about the links to the shooting of the fishermen and the smuggling.
“Well I knew it wouldn’t be long before you two were up to some of your old larks,” said Peter with a laugh. “You and Katie have become the Sherlock and Watson of the South. Or perhaps Tommy and Tuppence is more apropos. But seriously, it all sounds a bit dangerous to me. If whoever is behind all of this mayhem thinks you are getting a bit close to the truth then it could turn nasty.”
Ralph explained how close he felt they were to finding Wakely’s killer and that Clarissa Horton was the link that he was working on. He figured that if she could be persuaded to talk to Wakely’s daughter, Margaret, then that might be the breakthrough that would pull all the pieces together.
Having finished lunch, Katie and Marcia explored the recently created garden and admired the views over the bay while Ralph and Peter sat back in the deep chintz covered armchairs in the parlor savoring some freshly brewed coffee.
“So you seem to have changed your modus operandi, Ralph. What with painting nude ladies, offers of repeating that performance with ‘the twins’ and helping young Margaret Wakely, a damsel in distress. Not quite the aloof Professor of International Business that we all knew only a month or two ago.”
‘You know me better than that, Peter. This smuggling business is serious. Whoever is behind the whole affair is ruining peoples’ lives. Even if it’s not drugs, we’ve all seen what excessive drinking and smoking can do.”
“Steady on. I take your point, but a lot of famous artists and composers in the past, let alone nowadays, have done pretty well on the odd excursion into the world of stimulants. And besides, you can’t set yourself up to stop people indulging in habits which are not illegal.”
“I agree, but we’re talking thousands of people who aren’t likely to be famous for anything. I can’t see any way in which smoking and over drinking can be caricatured as good, healthy, modern or whatever label the movers and shakers want to use. For me it is evil and mainly attracts the gangsters and the wealthy opportunists who prey on human weaknesses.”
“Wow I can see that you are really wound up about this, Ralph. The next thing you’ll be telling me is that you’re going to chuck it all in and become a social worker or take up the cloth. But you do have a point. I suppose my tendency to imbibe too much is a similar thing, although I’m not doing it to make a profit at someone else’s expense. For my money I think you are barking up the wrong tree. Let the Excise and Revenue blokes find the smugglers. It’s what they get paid for. If it were me I’d just stick to painting Rachel down at the Methodist Church Hall, it sounds much more fun. But if you want to spend your holiday tracking down the killer of this Wakley fellow tha
t’s up to you.” They both laughed and Ralph realized what a good friend Peter had been to him over the years. Perhaps he should stop worrying about the smuggling and just enjoy this idyllic place before it was time to pack up and return to the routine and bustle of University life. It really was not such a big deal after all, and any revenues the Government recovered would probably only be spent on developing new military weapons or worse.
It was late afternoon by the time Peter and Marcia headed off to their hotel. They had agreed to rendezvous in the lobby around six thirty so they could take a look at some of the other local landmarks before dinner, so they barely had enough time to shower and change.
***
It was a glorious summer’s evening as they drove down the valley, passing Hartland Abbey which stood stark against the wooded hillside.
“It is nice and peaceful down here,” Peter admitted as they sped along the winding country road. “Perhaps we should buy the Abbey and set it up as a music school for wealthy kids.”
“No chance. The Stuckley family have lived there since the mid 16th century,” said Katie.
“It looks awfully familiar,” Marcia said. “Didn’t they use it for one of those BBC films?”
“Sense and Sensibility,” Katie told her.
“I read that it was built by Augustinian monks back in 1157 and when Henry VIII knocked it down during the reformation he gave it to the sergeant of his wine cellar.”
“Now that’s the sort of reward I should be getting for having reformed the Music School at Kingston,” Peter said with a laugh. “Quite a long commute for the poor bloke if Henry wanted him up at Hampton Court sorting out his wine, though.”
They drove on through winding lanes until they came to a sign advertising the annual music festival of St. Nectan of Hartland. Ralph parked under a large plane tree at the back of the car park and the friends walked up the gravel pathway to the church where they were met by the Vicar, Clarence Welk. Ralph introduced Peter and Marcia and the Vicar explained that normally he would be out and about the parish at this time of day but that today he had to tend to some details at the Church.
“Funeral service here tomorrow,” explained the Vicar. “One thing we can’t really plan for in advance. Did I understand that you bought the Wakely cottage?” he asked Ralph. “Nice person, Wakely. Pity so few of the locals attended the funeral, although I did see Robin Jakes sitting at the back. He was the one who found him, you know. It must have been quite upsetting.” The Vicar was starting to ramble on. “Of course it was heavily attended by people from out of town, mostly other people from the horse world. I said something about that as part of the service.” He stood there staring into space wringing his hands.
“Is there any history about St. Nectan’s? I’m afraid he’s not a saint I’m familiar with,”
asked Marcia. The Vicar repeated a story that he had probably told a thousand times.
“Well, we believe the church is 12th century, but we know that St. Nectan lived during the 6th century. He was one of 24 children and came here from Wales. He lived as a hermit in a cave over there by that spring,” he said pointing across the church yard. “It seems that he had been given two cows then some robbers stole them. He tried to preach to the two men about Christ but they got angry and cut off his head. He picked it up and walked a half mile back to his cave, by that spring, where he laid it down and then died, or so the story goes. The poor man that killed him went mad but the other one buried St. Nectan. Since then miracles have taken place near the spring. And people say wherever Nectan’s blood fell, foxgloves grow. You can see them as you approach the church,” he said, as he made an arc with his arm in the direction of a swath of purple flowers surrounding the bubbling spring.
“Hope there’s no parallel between what happened to St. Nectan and Wakely’s murder,” Katie whispered to Ralph.
“Peter here is an accomplished organist and specializes in ancient music, Vicar,” interjected Ralph. “Would it be alright if he played something?”
“By all means. Our organ is not very old, I’m afraid. It was brought over from the Isle of Wight in about 1910. Clarissa Horton is our regular organist. She was wonderful at Mr. Wakely’s funeral.”
Peter’s playing soon echoed through the ancient church. Pachelbel’s Canon in D Major brought back memories of past weddings, after which he played a couple of hymns. Ralph recognized the strains of Glorious is Thy Name followed by Whispering Hope, an old gospel hymn. Even for Ralph it was an emotional experience.
“The Pachelbel was for you and Katie”, Peter announced, with a chuckle, as they walked out into the sunlit evening. Ralph just grunted as he was well aware where his friend was going with that comment. Waving goodbye to the Vicar they headed off for Hartland and dinner at Chez Liz.
***
Miles Willard was not his usual boisterous self and as he led them to a table by the window he kept glancing around anxiously.
“Your friend Miles seems a bit on edge,” Peter observed once they were seated and Miles had left them to peruse the menu. “He has some fabulous wines, though, and at incredibly reasonable prices, too. With a full house, he should be as happy as Larry. Chez Liz looks like a goldmine to me.”
“It must be a bit of a struggle getting a top chef to stay in a small place like Hartland,” Marcia said, “and in the winter it must be desolate.”
“Rumor has it that the chap is a bit of a gambler. Evidently he likes the horses and ran up some heavy debts while they were living in France,” Ralph confided as they looked over the menu.
“Might be that the debt collectors have been putting the squeeze on and he’s getting a bit rattled,” said Katie.
They had just ordered when an altercation broke out between Miles and two customers who were leaving.
“Those are the two Turkish blokes that I told you about, Ralph. They were up at the riding place where I went the other day,” Katie explained to Peter and Marcia.
At that point one of the Turks pushed Miles and in the process his wife Elizabeth, who had tried to intervene, was knocked against a side table. Peter leapt up and took a swing at one of the men who went down, crashing into a dessert trolley. By then Ralph had also sprung out of his chair and managed to hold back the other man who seemed determined to continue the fight. After a short struggle, Ralph managed to calm things down.
“My people are not terrorists. You think it is all a joke,” shouted the larger of the two men, who had now struggled to his feet and was ruefully stroking his jaw. With that they stormed out of the restaurant. Ralph helped Miles to his feet.
“It’s nothing serious,” gasped Miles as he looked around at the rest of the dinners who, in usual British style, were steadfastly eating their food and pretending that nothing had happened. Ralph got Miles back to his office and sat him down.
“Would you like me to call the police?”
“Oh, no. It’s nothing. I think they just had a bit too much to drink. I should have been more careful” he said trying to steady his hand as he reached for the glass of wine that was on his desk. “I’m so used to joking with my French customers about Moroccans and Algerians and Muslims that I forgot that some people are a bit sensitive about such things.”
Ralph could see that Miles was shaken by the whole affair.
“Look Ralph, I’m not my usual self tonight. If you must know, I’ve had threats from some of the locals. You know, phone calls telling me that I was responsible for those three fishermen that were shot. It’s not true of course, but it’s unsettled Elizabeth to the point that we’re thinking of selling up and going back to France.”
“That’s a bit drastic, don’t you think? Surely you need to contact the police and tell them you’ve been threatened.’
“No. Not down here. I know how these things are handled and the police are the last people I would ask for help. You see I’ve been getting some wine in from France that bypassed the customs checks. I suppose the police would call that smuggling even though
I was only using it here in the restaurant, but it would create a lot of hassle for me and Liz.” He sat there rubbing his hands together.
“But you had nothing to do with the deaths of those three fishermen and that seems to be what the villagers are up in arms about. Surely you don’t want to be seen to be mixed up in that?”
“Look, Ralph, it’s a bit more complicated than it appears. You see, I don’t have direct contact with the people who bring the wine in. It’s done through a third party here in Devon. It’s a bigger operation than you think. I’m just a small player; a few cases of wine and sometimes cigars and cigarettes. If they thought I was going to the police then I would be in further trouble. It’s best if Liz and I just pack up and clear out; start afresh somewhere else. That’s the best plan,” he said as though having a threat made on his life was a regular occurrence.
Ralph could see that Miles had made his mind up and in any event he was too agitated to reason with. Having made sure that he was alright, Ralph went back to rejoin his friends. Peter was already finishing off his crème brule’.
“That was pretty brave of you, Peter,” said Katie. “I’m impressed. That bloke was massive. I’ve seen him lift two heavy saddles in one hand up at the riding yard and for a moment I thought he might do the same to you.”
“He’s just an old fashioned gentleman,” said Marcia as she placed her hand affectionately on Peter’s arm and smiled up at him. “The one thing you can be sure of is that Peter will always rush to the aid of a maiden in distress. When that chap pushed Elizabeth, that was his cue.” Peter almost blushed as he reached for his wine.
Order had been restored, and although Miles did not reappear that evening, Elizabeth made sure that everyone enjoyed a superb meal.
Murder at High Tide (The Ralph Chalmers Mysteries Book 4) Page 10