by steve higgs
‘How are you feeling?’ he asked.
I sat up, prising two sleeping Dachshunds off myself in the action. Having rested they were ready for walkies, so both plopped onto the floor for a stretch and limber up. ‘The headache is gone thankfully.' I performed my own series of stretches, mostly to see what hurt and what did not. All systems reported back that they were operational, if not necessarily one hundred percent. ‘I'm okay.' I finally concluded as he was pouring the hot water from the kettle.
‘Did you get a look at them?' Clearly, he meant whoever had hit me on the head.
‘No. At least, I don’t think so. I cannot remember anything about them. I think it was their intention to strike the back of my head, but the blow landed just as I was turning around to face them.’
‘Any idea why?’ It was a good question.
‘Not yet. My gut tells me I was poking around and spooked someone. I heard a name though, Edington Hungerford.' I took the steaming cup as my Father offered it and explained about the drones and about the conversation I had eavesdropped. While I was talking I searched for Edington Hungerford on my phone search app. I expected to find him immediately. However, the unusual nature of the name failed to help: There were no results found at all apart from it matched the name of a town. Disappointed I put my phone down, then remembered the drone pilots and searched for them instead.
I did not have much to go on. Drone pilots from maybe Bristol and one of them was called Mike, or Michael. Inevitably, I drew a blank on that as well. I had hoped that there were competitions where drone pilots got to pit their skills against one another and might have pictures and names of past winners. It was a stretch, really quite a stretch. However, there were such pictures and names but none of the search results helped.
I called Jane. ‘Jane, can you find someone called Edington Hungerford for me. I cannot find a single listing for him.’
‘Who is he?’ she asked.
‘I don't know.' I replied chuckling. ‘Sorry, Jane. As usual, I don't really know what I am doing, or what I am looking for. I overheard the name being spoken by two chaps I have reason to believe are involved in whatever is going on here. For that matter, I also need to find the identity of a couple of drone pilots. They might be associated with Mr. Hungerford, or they might have just met him. I don't have anything to go on other than they had Bristol accents and one of them is called Mike.'
‘That’s pretty thin, Boss. I’ll do my best and let you know what I find.’
She hung up. I turned to my father. ‘Dad I think the landlady and her sister are caught up, or possibly even behind the events here.' His eyebrows went up at the news. ‘I think Mum is safe enough. Actually, my theory is that they have invited her out so they can pick her brains about me, find out what I know perhaps. I am not sure how deep this goes, or to what extent they are involved, but it could be that Tilda murdered her own husband and the ghosts are part of the cover-up. Or the ghosts have another purpose and Tilda took the opportunity to murder her husband.'
‘What about Roberta?’ he asked. Dad always asked the best questions.
‘I don’t think she knows.’ I hoped she didn’t. ‘She does not strike me as someone that would let a family tie affect her judgement.’
‘How sure are you?’
Dad was trying to make me consider that my theory might be clouded by my feelings regarding Roberta. He might even be right but thinking about what I knew as objectively as I could I saw no behaviour from Roberta that suggested she knew what her Mother and Aunt were doing.
I shook my head. ‘Let us assume she is innocent for now.’
‘Okay. So, what are they up to? Also, how are they making the pirates appear and what about the ghost ship?’ These were great questions. Before I could answer them, someone knocked at the door and the dogs started barking, the sound cutting through the barrier imposed by the painkillers to once again take a saw to my brain.
Covering my ears to dull the sound out, I waited for Dad to shush the daft pair of furry attack hounds. The ache in my head distracting me, I failed to call out for him to check who it was before he opened the door.
‘Rebecca Franks, Channel six news.' The reporter delivered as she burst into the room, sweeping past my father and bringing a cameraman and a boom guy with her. A half second to take in the scene then directly across the room to me where I was sat on the bed. ‘Tempest Michaels? Famed paranormal debunker? What can you tell us about the ghosts?'
The microphone was thrust under my nose. I had no desire to tell her anything and no wish to be interviewed. My worry, however, was that I was already being filmed and thus there would be footage of me no matter what I said, which they might run regardless to push me into a proper interview should I elect to eject them from the room now. Their invasion though was both rude and inconsiderate.
I gathered my thoughts and gave Rebecca my best smile. I was going to polite her into the ground. ‘Miss Franks, why are you in my room? Do you not think it rude to just burst in on a chap? My father and I were enjoying a quiet cup of tea.’
Whatever response she had been expecting, this was not it. ‘Tempest…’ she began again.
‘Tempest? I do not believe we have been acquainted, yet you address me as if we are old friends. You have invaded the privacy… the sanctity of my parent’s bedroom with nary a word of apology and demanded I answer your questions. Why are you still here? Be gone please.’
‘Mr. Michaels.' She started again catching on fast and certainly not put off yet. ‘You are here to uncover the mystery of the Cawsand pirates and catch the killer. How is your investigation going so far?'
‘Miss Franks. If you do not leave my parent’s room right now and make an appointment to speak with me at a time that I find convenient, I will eject you and your colleagues. Using force if necessary.’ I finished, dropping the polite tone and standing up. I was the tallest person in the room by a couple of inches and Rebecca was taller than the two men she had with her. My barely concealed threat hit home. Rebecca still had her microphone under my nose, but the boom guy had already backed out the door which my father was graciously holding open for them.
She allowed the microphone to drop to her side, looking back up with imploring eyes. ‘Tempest…’
I chastised her once more with my eyes. I had the upper hand against an attractive woman for once, so I was pressing the advantage home. Burst into my room? What was she thinking?
‘Sorry. Mr. Michaels, I need this story. I apologise for the intrusion. I am just a little desperate. If I don't get something juicy soon they will put me back at a desk.' So, it was career driving Miss Franks to be impolite. Perhaps she had her sights set on being the anchor in the studio one day and needed to be the bright star of the outside broadcast first. It was hardly my problem, but her desperation pulled at my pathetic need to come to a lady's aid.
‘Miss Franks. I am here on vacation, nothing more. However, if I have a moment of inspired insight and can reveal what is happening here I will let you know and give you an exclusive interview.’ Her eyes lit up and she opened her mouth to start asking me questions again.
I held up my hand to silence her. ‘Not now, Mis Franks. Give me your card and I will call you when it is time.' Meekly she complied. I closed the door on her face as she stepped back over the threshold then I slumped against it.
I could hear the crew walking back along the corridor and start to make their way down the stairs. It was safe to speak.
‘You are not a fan of the press then?’ Dad asked.
‘Not particularly. I don’t like the way they think everyone’s business should be available for public record.’ I probably would have spoken to her if she hadn’t barged into our room. ‘Anyway, enough of that. Something occurred to me while she was annoying me. Do you not have an old Navy buddy in Plymouth somewhere working in a library of some kind?’
‘Old Warty Bartrum?’
‘I could not tell you, Father. I only remember that he exists. Details su
ch as names were never my strong point.’
‘Well, I haven’t spoken to him in some time but, yes when he retired he took a job as head curator at the Royal Navy Archive in Plymouth and so far as I know, he is still there.’
‘Got his number?’
The Royal Navy Archive. Wednesday, November 2nd 1512hrs
Plymouth was almost spitting distance from Cawsand if one ignored the body of sea that got between them. The road distance wasn't far either but in Cornwall, with the tight, winding roads it took far longer than one might think to get from A to B. Dad drove, since he didn't trust the blow to my head to not affect my reaction time, so I sat happily in the passenger's seat observing the countryside for once. I rarely got to look around as I was always driving. The route took us along the coastline, where, through gaps in the trees, we could look across at Plymouth on the other side of the estuary. The sun was shining, although there was plenty of cloud about and Plymouth itself was bathed in bright light making the green open plain of the Hoe attractive. I could just about make out tiny dots of people walking their dogs or taking children to the swings and slides.
Once we passed over the Isambard Kingdom Brunel bridge and into Devon, Dad began to recognise and point out landmarks that he remembered from being posted here several times in his Royal Navy career.
‘Why Warty?’ I asked. It had been bugging me since Dad had said it.
‘Hmmm?’
‘The chap we are going to see, why is his name Warty? I am guessing that it is a nickname and I probably do not wish to know, or could just guess the reason, but curiosity demands I ask.’
‘Young Oscar Bartrum caught a nasty case of genital warts in Singapore back when we were both Sub-Lieutenants. It stuck with him, at least among those of equal or higher rank. I doubt he gets called it very often now though. When I retired he was already two ranks ahead of me. He got all the way to Rear Admiral before he got too old.’
The Royal Navy Archive was part of the Royal Navy Museum, where there was a car park that visitors did not have to pay for. This seemed like a good deal since we were not going to pay for entry to the museum either. There were passes waiting for us in reception, but they were not at the desk. Instead, they were being held by a lady in a business suit who introduced herself at Lorna Sweetland. She was the Rear Admiral's granddaughter. Her hair was tied back into a very neat bun that had a pen sticking out of it. She smiled as she introduced herself showing off perfect white teeth. I guessed her age at twenty-one or twenty-two, her skin still had the flawless gift of youth and she was vibrant in the way only a young person can be.
We shook hands and she led us through a portion of the museum before we came to an unmarked door. It opened with a large mortice key that disappeared back into the pocket it had appeared from as we went through it.
‘Here we are, gentlemen.' She announced as we took a right turn and arrived in a very large room that had bookshelves on every wall stretching up thirty feet. It was circular, two ladders with wheels on the bases were set on opposite sides of the room for access to the upper shelves and I saw then that there was an upper floor visible above the bookshelves.
Before I could take any more in there was a roar from across the room.
‘Floppy!' A pensionable aged man had appeared from a doorway to our left. Dominating his face was a mustache that would shame a walrus. There was barely a wisp of hair anywhere else on his head.
‘Warty! You old bugger.’ My father roared back as he crossed the room. The pair shook hands with the deep affection that only shared hardships can engender. I recognised it.
‘Is this your boy?’ Warty asked, peering past my father’s shoulder.
I stepped forward smiling, to shake his hand. ‘Pleased to meet you.’
‘Meet me? I used to bounce you on my knee. I don’t think I could manage that anymore though, you got a good deal bigger. I understand you broke the family tradition and joined the Army. The senior service not good enough for you?’
‘Leave him alone, Warty.' Chided my father. ‘He served with honour and made me proud.' I had half expected the senior service nonsense to come up. It was the only argument the Navy had. I was well practiced at ignoring their goading.
‘I dare say he did.’ The old man said nodding, then slapped me on the shoulder. ‘Care for a drop of Port?’ The question was addressed to the whole room.
‘Grandfather, you know you are not supposed to drink.’
‘Oh, nonsense, Lorna. A little Port is good for the soul.’
‘Well, none for me, thank you.’ She replied.
‘Nor me. I doubt it will mix well with the drugs I took earlier.’
‘All the more for us, eh Floppy?’
The two old comrades retreated to his office where I soon heard the glug, glug, glug of liquid leaving a decanter.
‘Grandfather said you wanted to look into the history of a battle in 1641? The Merchant Royal, isn’t it? I got started already.’
‘Oh, thanks.' I replied, surprised that some of the work had been done for me.
‘What exactly are you looking for?’
‘Honestly, I am not sure. I want to learn whatever there is to learn about the treasure that was on board the boat, look for any information pertaining to the pirates that are alleged to have stolen it and what they might have done with it.’
‘Is it for a research paper you are working on?’ she asked as she led me to a computer table.
‘Not exactly. I am investigating the ghost pirates that are terrorising the village of Cawsand.’
She laughed politely, then paused. ‘Oh, my God, you’re serious.’ Her mouth had formed a surprised O shape.’
‘I'm afraid so. But, just to be clear, I do not believe there are any dead pirates risen from the depths of the sea to attack the locals.'
‘Well, I should think not.’ She replied as she clicked the mouse to bring the computer to life, ‘They were all hanged.’
Hanged?
‘Show me please.’
Lorna had gathered several letters, a ship's log, and several historians papers into a folder for me. One document was the diary of a Midshipman from HMS Cruelty, a Class 2 Frigate that had been the lead ship pursuing the pirates. In his account, they were bound for Plymouth having recently returned from the Canary Islands where they had been engaged in a brief battle with a Portuguese warship. They required some minor repairs. The Merchant Royal was seen to their North, a mile to starboard but was soon lost to sight when a sudden squall blew in and forced all hands to re-rig the sails less the ship be further damaged by the sudden winds in her full sails. As they came out of the weather they were confronted by flotsam and debris, then the forward lookout spotted a man in the water, clinging to both a barrel and his life. Rescued, he recanted the tail of the pirate's faster ship bearing down on them and barraging their ship with cannon fire until crippled, they surrendered. He died before he could complete his tale, whereupon the Captain, knowing the likely cargo of the Merchant Royal set course for the coast in a bid to trap the pirates and win back the stolen loot.
The crew was enthused, the promise of even the small share of bounty each would receive in comparison with the Captain sufficient to set their hearts ablaze with fighting fervour. They chased after the likely direction the pirates would have gone, the Captain's guess proving accurate, but they arrived too late – the pirates had already made shore, near a small fishing village that bore no name. The Captain's brilliance once again showing through as he dispatched jolly boats bearing Royal Marines to the shore on either side of the village creating a three-pronged attack that pinned the pirates in place. The pirates had arrived at night and murdered several villagers before HMS Cruelty and her two subordinate ships could make land and trap them.
The report went on to state that a short battle with the pirates resulted in two Royal Marines dead but the pirates all but annihilated. Those left alive were hanged while the villagers cheered on. Of the treasure, there was no sign, the pirates
refusing to give up any information despite terrible torture to loosen their tongues. The only bounty gained was the value of the pirate ship itself. The Merchant Royal had sunk in deep water.
A rip of laughter from my Father tore through the silence of the room, making both Lorna and I jump.
‘This is great stuff, Lorna. What else have you got?' What she had turned out to be conflicting reports from other Officers on HMS Cruelty and the two other ships involved. The Captain's log gave yet another report of the event. All went along a similar theme of chasing the pirates to shore, fight with them and hang them but the story of the treasure and what might have happened to it varied in each retelling.
‘It is me? Or is this suspicious?’ I asked Lorna. What I was reading made me want to believe they had found the treasure, kept it for themselves and lied about the whole thing.
‘I thought exactly the same, so I looked into some of the men aboard the ships at that time. Almost all hands on board HMS Cruelty and the other two ships were killed less than six months later in a terrible storm in the Caribbean. There were some rich widows though. Even families of the lowly crewmen were able to move out of the inner-city slums.’
‘So, you think they found the treasure.’ I stated.
‘Only some of it. At today's value, the full cargo would be worth around five hundred million pounds Stirling. If they did take the treasure, they only got a portion of it.'
‘Then where is it? That is the question I think someone is still trying to answer. Either it went down with the Merchant Royal or it came ashore and its location went to the pirates’ grave along with their bodies.’
Another guffaw split the air. Both men were laughing hard, probably retelling old stories and having a great time. I needed to visit the smallest room, so I excused myself and went to check on my Father while I was up. Crossing the room, I checked my watch: Over an hour had passed already.