Murder on Exmoor (The Ralph Chalmers Mysteries Book 11) Read online

  MURDER ON EXMOOR

  BY

  P.J. THURBIN

  Copyright 2015 P.J. Thurbin, All rights reserved.

  This is a work of fiction. All characters and events are a product of the author’s imagination. Where public figures, historical events or places are used they are used in a fictitious way. Otherwise any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  This book is dedicated to the Members and Friends of The North Devon Archaeological Society Who Give Their Time and Support to Discovering and Documenting the History of Exmoor National Park

  Acknowledgement:

  My appreciation, as always, to my wife, Daisy, for her tireless editing and advice, without whose efforts this book could not be produced. She remains my harshest critic, my staunchest fan and my constant helpmate.

  Chapter 1

  The rain clouds swept in across the wild open moor as the two friends tried to keep their backs to the wind. What had promised to be a pleasant September day searching for that illusive find that would make their fortunes was turning into a test of endurance. “This bloody iron ore’s a pain in the butt. I’m getting signals everywhere I go. Let’s pack it in, Joe. It’s not worth carrying on. There’s a pub down the lane. We passed it coming up through Brayford. I could murder a pie and a pint.” He wiped the rain from his face with a muddy hand. “I’m soaked.”

  Joe ignored him. He was engrossed in trying to decipher the sounds that pinged in his earphones.

  Bruce Ansell and his pal Joe Minton had been prospecting for treasure. It was their hobby. They had spent a lot on their metal detectors, but so far they had little to show for two years of scouring farmers’ fields with the hope of hitting what they jokingly called the mother-lode. It was an expression they had picked up from Treasure of the Sierra Madre, the old film where Humphrey Bogart and Walter Huston go prospecting for gold.

  They had concentrated on Romano- British sites in an attempt to narrow their search for relics, but it was still like looking for a needle in a haystack; Exmoor National Park covers almost 270 square miles.

  In their first year it had gone well. They had found a gold bracelet and a silver bowl, which they guessed were Roman. A friend of Joe’s who ran a jewellery shop in nearby Barnstable had bought them for a good price. No questions had been asked and the money had come in handy. Since then all they had to show for their efforts was a collection of Roman coins and a few iron-age pins that they kept in a cardboard box at Joe’s cottage.

  Bruce was Australian born. He had only planned to be in England for six months before returning to Australia and the farm where he had been raised. But he had met and married an English girl while working at a pub in Exeter. One year after they married, Joan died of a rare blood disease; Bruce had been devastated. He had confided in Joe that in a strange way he was glad that they had not had a child. After Joan’s death he had moved some 60 miles to Lynton, a small seaside town in North Devon, where he rented a run- down cottage. To make ends meet, he worked on building renovations and took any farm work that he could get.

  Joe was a confirmed bachelor. Known for his short temper and essentially a loner, he had few friends besides Bruce. He lived by himself in a small cottage on Lord Farleigh’s estate near Dulverton, where he maintained the farming equipment.

  “Did ya see in the paper what those buggers from Exeter University said,” Joe shouted over the sounds of the wind. “They said it was a big Roman iron smelting factory and that pile over there is the slag heap or whatever. But whoever ran the place must’ve been paid and probably in silver or gold,” shouted Joe as he struggled to keep his balance against the gusts that followed each fresh burst of rain.

  He cupped his hands to his mouth and made a howling noise. “Now we can see if that Conan Doyle and his story about that bloody Hound of the Baskervilles is true or not.” He laughed as an angry gust tried to pluck him from the hillside. “Catherine and that bugger Heathcliff of ‘ers would’ve been inside bloody hours ago.” He shouted to his friend.

  “You’re going bloody loony, you silly bugger. Look, I’m givin’ it another fifteen minutes and then I’m packing this spot in,” Bruce said. “I wanna try over on the other side of the hill. I heard that the Brits grabbed what they could when those legions buggered off back to Rome. If they buried it, it’s gotta be here somewhere.” The tall rangy Australian walked off into the gloom.

  Joe grunted to himself and hunched his shoulders as he scanned the rock and heather strewn hillside. The light was fading as the clouds closed in. He gave an involuntary shudder as he clasped the headphones to his ears and began swinging the metal detector over the rough ground.

  Although Joe and Bruce enjoyed being out in the open and shared the excitement of a discovery, there were other areas where they violently disagreed. Bruce wanted to turn everything they found over to the authorities and settle for the treasure trove fee. Joe’s philosophy was: ‘finders keepers, losers weepers’. “Damn the government and a bunch of old fogies who want to put things in glass cases for people to gawp at. I want the money,” he muttered. Years of having to doff his forelock to Lord Farleigh and the fear that he might lose his job and the small stone cottage that came with it, had made him bitter. He was just about to give Bruce a shout and concede that the pub was their best option when his friend came running through the squelchy mud.

  “We’ve made it. By god this is the one, Joe.” He put his hand on Joe’s shoulder for support.

  Bruce stood there with rain streaming from his cap. In his muddy hand he held what looked like the lid of a frying pan.

  “It’s gold, Joe. Bloody gold. I knew it. Just under an old sheep wriggle. Them sheep must’a been walking over it for years. That’s why those blokes from Exeter missed it.”

  Joe took a rag from his pocket and wiped off some of the mud and soil. He could see that it gleamed in spite of having been in the earth for nearly 2000 years.

  “It’s bloody silver, Bruce. It’s not gold. Look, once we get this green stuff off, it’ll shine like it was bran’ new.”

  “You’re right. A bloody silver plate.”

  “What else you got over there?” Said Joe, as he tried to keep the tremor from his voice. But Bruce was already out of earshot. Joe watched him stagger through the slippery mud back to the gap in the stone and slate wall that a farmer had constructed to allow his sheep to squeeze through into the next field. Joe caught up to him and they both scraped away at the muddy soil. In less than 10 minutes they had unearthed what looked like two decayed wooden boxes made of oak or ash. Someone had packed them with enough gold coins, ornate shields and silverware to fill the two hessian sacks that the prospectors carried for such a moment. When they were finally filled, it was a struggle to lift the sodden sacks.

  “We’ll have to tell the police or the local council about this, mate,” Bruce gasped. “It’s worth a bloody fortune and there’s probably more.” Bruce shook with a mixture of excitement and fear. He looked around but there was no one out on such a day. The discovery was their secret.

  “Steady up, Bruce. Don’t rush me. We need to think this one through. It’s our one big chance to change our lives. No one knows we found anything. We could hand some of it in and keep the rest; no one’d be the wiser.” If there was one thing that Joe knew, it was that no one was going to get their hands on their find if he could help it.

  As they waded through the rain and mud to his truck, Joe thought he saw a figure move among the trees. He stopped and stared into the mist and rain.

  “Some bugger’s out there,” he whispered. “Watchin’ us.”
/>   “Might be a ghost,” Bruce laughed. “Come on mate. You need a drink. Next you’ll tell me that you saw a bloody Roman legionary or that ruddy bloodhound you keep prattling on about”

  They laughed as they staggered and slipped down the hillside.

  ***

  The North Devon Archaeological Society held their spring meeting early in April in the Village Hall at Simonsbath. Like most old wooden buildings, it smelled of damp and floor polish. The local dance school met there on Wednesdays and insisted that the floor was waxed and then polished.

  Mary Richardson fingered the thin cord that attached to her glasses and glanced across at the Secretary, John Wilkes. She knew that there was a full agenda to get through that evening. In previous years they had worked on a number of joint projects with the University of Exeter, English Heritage and the National Trust. The Society members were all volunteers who gave their time to help preserve the Exmoor National Park heritage, and to meet with friends.

  The moor covered a large area and their resources for excavation work were limited. The teacups clinked as the members tried to muffle the sounds as they chewed on their custard cream biscuits. Those who were confident about their teeth tackled the ginger snaps. Supplying biscuits at meetings was something that Mary had used as a way of getting the parents and staff at her school to like her. It had been only marginally successful. She called the meeting to order.

  “Welcome back to another exciting year, everyone.”

  There were murmurs of agreement.

  “I know that you have all read the schedule of sites that we’ll be working on this year. The first one’s at Sherracombe Ford over near Brayford.”

  She paused as the members murmured among themselves. Her years as Head Mistress of the local school had taken its toll. Country villages were a breeding ground for gossip, and her tendency to think everyone was waiting for her to fail had grown over the years. She drew a deep breath and remembered that it made your voice carry if you spoke in a deep tone. She gave a nervous cough.

  “I know that we’ve done a lot there in the past few years, but at last we’ve managed to gain national recognition; or we will have soon.”

  “What’s the mystery, Mary? Get to the point. We all read the papers. A couple of blokes using metal detectors find some Roman treasure and we all go crazy. They should’ve been locked up fer trespassin’. Damn vandals. As Chairman you should’ve made a formal complaint at the Coroner’s inquest.”

  She tried not to rise to what she saw as an attack on her character. Seth Raines was a cantankerous old man, she thought. It was only one of several expressions that she used when anyone annoyed her.

  “Thank you, Seth.” She tried to change the grimace into a smile as everyone in the room watched her intently; cups had been put back in their saucers and the munching had stopped.

  “The Coroner declared it treasure trove. Under English Common Law the treasure belongs to the Crown. The two men may have been wrong in digging it up and disturbing the integrity of the site, but the British Museum decided they wanted the treasure and so they paid the men a fair reward.”

  “Not moy point,” Seth mumbled.

  Mary heard him but ignored his remark. She had some good news that she hoped would reestablish a sense of decorum.

  “We received a letter today from the Parks Authority advising us that Mr. Tony Robinson from Time Team and his crew are coming down to make one of his TV programmes.”

  “E’s too noisy fer me,” said Seth. “Keeps runnin’ aroun’ from one trench to t’other. Never seen ‘im dig. Just sits in that brand new Land Rover waitin’ fer us to come up with a find. And why are they interested in a bunch of slag heaps what the Romans are supposed to ‘ave left be’ind? It’s all ‘bout money now’days.” He sniffed and reached for another biscuit.

  “Well anyway, that’s our first dig of the season so I expect you all to be there,” she said in an effort to pick up the pace of the meeting. “The TV people are going to bring in some big equipment and expand the site. The notion being put forward by the Park’s archaeologist, Wendy Jenson, is that it’s just possible that we’ll be able to find some of the buildings where the people who managed the iron works lived. It’s what the team of researchers from Exeter describe as a footprint.”

  At the mention of Tony Robinson and a TV programme some of the members had started to show an interest and her hopes of getting through the rest of the agenda were looking up.

  ***

  It was a beautiful spring day and the hedgerows were covered in pink and white buds. Wild flowers dominated areas where no one had recently trodden. The first dig of the season for the North Devon Archaeological Society was in full swing. The site was busy with people wandering about between the marquees that had been set up for the television crews. Many stood around and drank tea from large china mugs. Some had found the tent where hot sausage rolls were being handed out. Mary and the other Society members were out in force. They were slightly overshadowed by the experts from Exeter University and a collection of academics from other Universities who hoped to promote their image through being seen at the dig. Time Team was a big draw and the TV ratings showed that it had wide appeal. The discovery of a Romano-British hoard the previous September had been front-page news in all of the mainstream newspapers. Everyone hoped to see more treasure, or at least for the discovery of signs that a Roman settlement had existed there. Unfortunately, they were disappointed.

  “Stop," said John Greggs, the Exmoor Parks Director as he stepped down into a trench that the large yellow mechanical digger had been carefully excavating. “Get Wendy over here quick; and call Tony Robinson.”

  The stone wall at the edge of the field had toppled into the trench. They could see what looked like a leather boot similar to those worn by police motor bike riders. As Wendy Jenson bent down she could see that the boot was attached to a leg and a claw-like hand that seemed to be reaching for help stuck out of the mud. Two of the excavation team from the University jumped into the trench. One of them threw up.

  “My god, it’s modern,” said a solid looking red faced girl who was obviously not fazed at seeing a dead body.

  Tony Robinson ran up as the cameras began to whirr.

  “What’ve we found,” he shouted. “Bones? A skeleton of a Roman noble? Fantastic.”

  The filming was done weeks prior to the programme being broadcast. He knew that there would be plenty of time to edit the film before it went out to viewers.

  “A what?” He gasped. “We’ll never finish by Thursday now. Are you sure, John?”

  “I’m sure, Tony.” John Greggs said. “We’d better get on to the police. It means that the site will be closed, of course. I think we’ve a murder or at least a suicide or something on our hands.”

  ______________________

  Chapter 2

  Everyone at Kingston University, where Professor Ralph Chalmers taught, was anxious to begin spring break. The short winter days were a thing of the past. The time was meant to be used by the students to start their preparation for Finals, but in reality they headed home or abroad and the staff took the opportunity to visit their holiday homes and get them spruced up for the summer.

  Ralph was no different. He and his partner, Katie headed for their cottage in North Devon. Samantha Tulle, their tenant, was on holiday in Greece, so the cottage was not occupied. It was a good arrangement for them and the retired GP who rented it. Ralph and Katie had retained a retired couple from the local village to look after the place and do light maintenance on it when they began letting to Samantha. They kept it in tiptop condition.

  But Ralph was not in the best of moods as they joined the M5 motorway at Taunton.

  “It’s not far to Exeter Ralph we should be there by 12. No doubt Marian will have a splendid lunch ready for us. Are you looking forward to seeing her again?”

  “Not really. You know I’d prefer to go straight to the cottage. Exeter’s a bit of a detour and the traffic will be aw
ful at lunchtime. The place’s a nightmare at the best of times.”

  “Look, Ralph, I know you don’t want to, but she’s a friend of ours. All of that trouble with Alex Shevchenko shook her up pretty badly.”

  Ralph’s mind rushed back to when he had jumped into the icy waters of the River Neva in St Petersburg and how Alex had set a trap with the KGB. Alex had fooled him; that’s what really hurt. Ralph expected to be dealt with fairly and he trusted people. He had got it wrong with Alex Shevchenko and so had a good many others, most especially Marian Watts. At least he had come out of it relatively unscathed. It had not been so easy for Marian to mend a broken heart. Ralph wondered what trouble Alex was stirring up now; probably something in Ukraine or some other hotspot, he mused. But today, as they sped down the motorway, he could see no way to avoid lunch and a chat with Marian. The episode filled his mind as a large articulated truck almost knocked them into the central reservation.

  “Ralph! He did signal,” Katie said. “You were a million miles away.”

  Ralph knew that he had not been concentrating.

  “What did she say she wanted to talk about? You said something about having a fiancé and being blackmailed. That sounds more like a job for the police.”

  Unusually, Katie had been quiet about the purpose of their visit. She did not answer for a few moments.

  “It seems that someone has some photos of her and a man. He’s threatening to put it on Twitter or even the University web site. That’s all I know.”

  Ralph groaned inwardly. He hated getting involved in anything that smacked of being sordid. He knew that people saw him as a bit of a prude, and perhaps he was. But he had decided long ago that what people did in private behind closed doors was their affair so long as it was between consenting adults. And although he was not averse to modern technology, he had strong views about how people behaved when using social networks. He had seen colleagues at the College setting up chat rooms or whatever they called them. The younger staff used them to pour out their feelings about whatever came to mind. He excused the students, after all, they had been brought up to believe that airing their views – ‘letting it all hang’ out was the way they generally phrased it –was de rigueur. Ralph’s view was that emails were no different to letters and should be treated with propriety. He realised that he was in the minority and accepted that very few of his colleagues agreed with such an old-fashioned idea. At least his secretary, Janet was his staunch supporter on this one.