The Magna Carta Murders (The Ralph Chamers Mysteries Book 12) Read online

  “Nothing of the sort,” Katie assured him. “We loved it. We knew you’d be busy accepting accolades and we didn’t want to cramp your style, that’s all.”

  “They had all manner of hors d’oeuvres laid on afterwards,” Peter said, “but I am a bit peckish.”

  The men ordered roast beef sandwiches and Katie had a grilled chicken salad. They all had hot chocolate.

  “It’s not a bad hotel,” Peter observed as he looked around the plush furnishings. “I doubt they’re original Queen Anne, but they’re nice reproductions. I could live with some of these chairs in my house.”

  Ralph was well aware that his friend Peter and his wife could afford the real McCoy if they wanted. No doubt that’s what he and Katie had sat on when they’d had dinner with their friends only a few days earlier.

  “You’ve got a point there Peter, old son. But the experts want it to be authenticated just in case someone wants to buy it.”

  “It’s all about provenance Ralph. Like those sandwiches. Who knows where the damn bullock came from, and who cares? You two enjoy. I’m off to call Marcia. I must be getting domesticated because I can’t sleep until we’ve had our chat. Oh, am I still getting a lift back?”

  “Of course. We’ll see you in the morning, Peter.”

  “Sleep well,” said Katie.

  _______________________

  Chapter 9

  It was a short journey back from Salisbury, and having dropped Peter off, Ralph drove Katie to her home in Chelsea. He had called Stigart and said that it was important that they meet as soon as possible. Nowadays he was never sure if the line was secure, and where there was any degree of secrecy involved, he preferred to meet face to face. They had agreed that the Colonel would set up a meeting at Scotland Yard for the next evening and alert Renton that someone from the Home Office should attend.

  Ralph still had what Katie often jokingly referred to as his ‘day job’, and tomorrow he was teaching from 9 till 5.

  He had sorted out his lecture notes and was thinking of getting to bed when the phone rang. He knew that Katie was out with one of her colleagues and no one else would be calling at that hour. It was Brendan Ogilvy.

  “Sorry to phone so late, Professor, but I had to tell you.”

  Ralph could anticipate what was coming.

  “You were right about the manuscript at Lincoln. Angela Winthrop-Jones, the curator there, allowed me to use the imager on the manuscript. It was the same as Salisbury: Elias Factor – 2015. It’s a fake; that makes two.”

  “And she agreed to keep this to herself, for now?”

  “Yes, and I contacted Dr Wilkes. I’m driving straight there tonight.”

  “It’s nearly eleven and the Library’s closed. Won’t it keep until tomorrow?”

  Ogilvy agreed that it was best if he drove home now and went in to do the tests in the morning. Ralph wished him a good night.

  So if it’s Mankovich, then he has two, and possibly a third from the British Library. As Martha Wilkes had said, the other one was damaged and impossible to replicate, Ralph mused. The meeting with Renton should be quite lively, he thought. Still, with the Colonel as referee, at least it would be a fair fight.

  The next day, while he ate lunch at his desk, Janice came in with a message.

  “A Dr Ogilvy called while you were teaching. He said it was not necessary to call back but just to tell you that you were right.”

  ***

  Rush hour had passed its peak. The train to Waterloo was practically empty, and as Ralph sat drinking a coffee that he had grabbed at McDonalds, he slumped in the seat, although he resisted the temptation to put his feet up on the one opposite. It had been a long day and he was not looking forward to a knockdown drag-out fight with Renton. He looked around the carriage. An empty Coca-Cola can rattled around as the train rocked and swayed its way towards London. There were pages of discarded newspaper left on seats where their readers had glanced at the latest scandal or news story about the government or ISIS murders in Iraq. No doubt the cleaners at Waterloo would tidy it up for the travelers on their way out of the City to the suburbs. He could just imagine the usual assortment of people on the late night run: couples who had been to a play or the opera and jaded business people who found going home more difficult to face than going to work.

  He closed his eyes and thought back to the trip to Salisbury. He and Katie had enjoyed themselves in spite of the revelations about the manuscript. If only I could get some angle on this Mankovich, he thought to himself. Then he remembered the address that he had written down when he had seen the prototype container at Kirby’s factory. He looked through his pockets but it wasn’t there. He figured that he must have dropped it when he was at the hospital getting his head stitched up, or possibly he could have left it in Katie’s car.

  The train pulled into Waterloo and he felt the slight vibration as it kissed the buffers. It was time to get a taxi across to New Scotland Yard. I can call Katie and get her to check if I left it in the Morgan later, he thought, as he pushed through the crowds to the taxi rank. There was an endless queue.

  He decided to walk. It would clear the cobwebs and set him up for the meeting. As he strode along the Embankment he passed the old GLC offices, now converted to a smart hotel, and then over Westminster Bridge. He heard the familiar chimes that people around the world had listened to on the radio during those dark days of the war. He looked up at Big Ben and was thankful that at least some constants still existed in the modern world. He sprinted across the road, but remembered to slow to a sedate walk as he approached the armed officers who guarded New Scotland Yard. It struck him as ironic that such a landmark building had been sold a few months back to an Abu Dhabi based finance group for just under 400 million pounds. Soon it too would be just another London hotel.

  He glanced at his watch as he was shown in to a small conference room. Five minutes late; not a good start.

  “Professor Chalmers. Good to see you again.” Renton stood up and pointed to a chair at the far end of the table. This has all the hall-marks of an interrogation interview, Ralph thought, as he sat down.

  “You haven’t met Larry Fielding from the Home Office, Professor Chalmers,” said Colonel Stigart. A tall, fit-looking 30 year old stood and reached over to shake Ralph’s hand.

  “So, shall we get started?” suggested Renton. “You called the meeting, Colonel.”

  “Yes, I did. First, for the record, let me remind everyone that Professor Chalmers is working for MI6 on this case. The lines with MI5 have been cleared with your Minister.” He turned to Fielding who smiled. Ralph recognized that Stigart was stamping his control on the meeting and attempting to minimize any inter-departmental rows.

  He continued.

  “That said, can I ask you to bring us up to date on your investigations, Professor?”

  Ralph saw Renton’s jaw tighten. He knew that no matter what the Colonel said, the Commander still saw him as a civilian. Ralph ploughed straight in. It was no different than when talking to Granger or the VC at the University. They were not really interested in the detail and only listened to figure out if what you said impacted on them. It was a bit cynical perhaps, but Ralph was no novice, and it was an all too familiar scene.

  He explained what he had discovered when speaking to T24 at Slough, the visit to Imperial College, seeing the prototype container at Kirby’s factory and then about Ogilvy’s using the imager to discover the fake at Salisbury. He kept to the essentials and said nothing about his scuffle at Maidstone. He waited.

  “The manuscripts at Lincoln and Salisbury, have they been checked?” Asked Fielding.

  “Yes. Both are fakes. Also one at the British Library. The other manuscript at the British Library was obviously in such a bad state that the forgers no doubt saw it as not worth attempting. All three had the same marking – Elias Factor-2015 - on them,” Ralph replied.

  “I’m trying to be helpful here, Professor Chalmers, but did you or the Colonel think of letting u
s know about the container you mentioned?” asked Renton somewhat sarcastically. “You see the local police found a body that they believe to be that of Alan Kirby, the CEO of a firm called Engineering Solutions. He died in a fire at the premises of his factory in Maidstone.” He stared at Ralph.

  “I admit that in hindsight it would have been prudent to report it, Commander. But at the time, there was no indication that the manuscripts had been tampered with. I wanted to ascertain the significance of the container before we started any hares running. It turned out to be a good decision. We now know that Mankovich has the original manuscripts, that the courier from T24 was involved and most likely the man from the British Library who was killed at Euston; unfortunate about Mr Kirby. But I presume it was an accident?”

  “We don’t think so,” said Renton. “We think he was murdered. When the fire-brigade got there a bull-dozer was parked across the gates. By the time they could get in, the place was an inferno. We think it was deliberate; someone wanted to silence Kirby. From what you say, Professor, whoever it was were also determined to destroy any evidence and possible connection to Mankovich.”

  “We have the container that the Professor managed to obtain while he was visiting Kirby at Maidstone a few days ago,” said Stigart. Ralph noticed Renton’s jaw tighten further.

  Ralph was about to say that he had an address in London that might provide a link to Mankovich, but he held his tongue. He had not yet asked Katie to check and see if he had left it in her car. Even if he had, it could easily have been thrown out. She had tossed the blood covered sweater that he had used to protect the seat into a bin as they had left the hospital. Larry Fielding broke into his train of thought.

  “Your efforts seem to have been most fruitful, Professor Chalmers. I assume that the people who’re aware that the manuscripts have been switched have been told to keep quiet?”

  “Of course. They know how important this is, and they’re all professionals.”

  He noticed Renton wince. He could almost hear him say ‘more bloody amateurs’ even though he had said nothing aloud.

  “I alerted Larry a few months ago that there might be a problem if someone got hold of one of the manuscripts. If Mankovich has three, it looks as though we have an even bigger problem on our hands than we had anticipated,” said Stigart.

  “Quite so,” said Fielding. “You see, we’re dealing with two issues here: the economy is one. I’ve spoken to the Parliamentary Under-Secretary for Sport and Tourism. She’s most worried about the impact on tourism if there’s a glitch in the Magna Carta celebrations. Tourists spend some 20 billion pounds a year in the UK, and there’s no way we want to jeopardize that by some leak to the Press. If people started to think that some of our other treasures might also be fakes, then we could be in real trouble.”

  “You said there were two issues?” Asked Ralph.

  The note of sarcasm in his voice was hard to suppress. He just hoped that it might have something to do with the deaths of three people, an attempted bombing and the theft of a National Treasure. He was annoyed that the only real concern seemed to be how all of this might impact on tourism generated income.

  “The law, of course,” said Fielding. “Commander Renton’s investigating three murders and a serious theft.” He had that slightly surprised look that students have when their integrity is questioned over plagiarism or cheating in an exam.

  Renton nodded.

  “It’s not on our patch,” he said, “but from what Colonel Stigart’s told us, the FBI have linked the murder of a man in Washington to this Elias Factor organization.”

  Ralph was about to explain what Ogilvy had told him about Factor being Latin for a middle man and that meant it could mean that Mankovich’s ego might be key in all of this more than its just being a straightforward heist. Ralph also wondered if his ego might be his downfall. But one glance at Renton told him that this was not a good time to make this point.

  “Well, whatever the people at Whitehall might think about the economy and tourism, my Commissioner wants me to solve these murders and catch the terrorists who attempted to kill American tourists and a couple of top judges at Runnymede. We’ve drawn a blank at T24 and the British Library. There are no witnesses. We believe that they were both silenced, most likely by this Mankovich and his underlings. We think it was Mankovich who organized the swap, and now he has the manuscripts. We won’t be able to keep this quiet forever. It’s bound to get leaked to the press and the media sooner or later.”

  “We’ve taken steps to stop any movement from that quarter, at least for the time being, Commander,” said Fielding. “We have a window of opportunity, but if we haven’t recovered the manuscripts and returned them to their natural homes within 2 months, then we’ll release the news ourselves. By that time most of the celebrations will be over and the impact will be minimal.”

  “What’s our response if, or more likely, when, Mankovich demands a ransom or suggests a deal of some sort, Larry?” Asked the Colonel.

  “We have a budget for recovering National Treasures. Of course it’s impossible to put a real value on something like that, but it’s has been mooted, and we could go as high as 100 million pounds.”

  The meeting ended with Renton requesting that the Colonel kept him more closely informed of any further developments. It had not gone unnoticed that when he said it, he had looked directly at Ralph.

  Once outside, the Colonel suggested that they pop into a pub for what he called a ‘snorter’. Ralph was already sagging from the rather intense meeting and would have preferred to go straight home. It had been a long day, and the last thing he wanted was to engage in a drinking session with the Colonel.

  The pub crowd were City workers and civil servants from the nearby House of Commons who needed ‘a touch of Dutch courage’ before they ventured home. Ralph knew the type: busy all day in what they saw as important work, injected with a sense of power from their jobs and colleagues, and now the wheel had stopped spinning for the day it was time to face the reality of their lives at home where they must revert to being the person who takes out the garbage or helps get the kids ready for bed. Nowadays it was not just men who fell into that trap. He looked around at the smartly dressed business women who matched their male counterparts in terms of talking and drinking. They might lean more towards wine than a pint, but the end result would be similar. It seemed to him that they had managed to shatter the ‘glass ceiling’ that women had talked about a few years back.

  “I noticed a bottle when I was at your apartment the other month and presume it’s your usual tipple,” Stigart said as he handed Ralph a bottle of Becks and a tall glass. “Don’t look so worried, old chap, the sun’s well below the yardarm, so, ‘cheers.” He nursed his whisky as Ralph sipped his beer. Ralph had to admit that it tasted good after all of the tension of the meeting.

  They chatted on about sailing and how the Colonel had bought a boat that he intended to sail around the English Coast that summer.

  “You know that I’m determined to track down this Mankovich.” said Ralph.

  “Never doubted it, old man, and I think I can help you a bit there. The FBI got a lead on a Frank Dobson. Retired from New York University where he taught palaeography. Evidently he contracted some sort of incurable respiratory disease and came back to England. According to the University he was the leading expert in deciphering medieval manuscripts. My intuition tells me that he could be the man that Mankovich hired to make those fakes.”

  “Does Renton know about this?”

  “I’ll put it in my next report,” Stigart laughed. “I thought you might need a bit of a ‘heads up’ before the local police start climbing all over our Mr Dobson. He could just lead us to Mankovich; that is, if we get to him in time. As you know, Mankovich has a habit of silencing his accomplices.”

  “Do you have an address?”

  “”It’s only a tip from a friend of mine.” Ralph glanced at a card that the Colonel handed him. Green Acres Hospice – B
righton.

  “My shout, Colonel,” Ralph offered.

  “No thanks, old chap. Very decent of you to offer, but I’m staying at my Club tonight. If I find a couple of pals who fancy their chances at a round of Bridge I’ll need a clear head. By the way, Ralph, go easy if you do come across that Mankovich character. Give me a shout before you go barging in with the heroics. I can’t have you taking my job.” He laughed as they finished their drinks and walked out into the cool summer night air.

  ***

  The Saturday traffic was surprisingly light for a summer weekend. He had checked and there was no racing on at Goodwood. Brighton was famous for classic motor rallies and charity cycle races that terminated at the sea front. Its reputation as ‘London by the seaside’ had caught on. Many Londoners who had enjoyed day trips to Brighton both before and after the war, had made it their home. Ralph, along with many other teenagers had read Graham Greene’s book Brighton Rock which had caught his imagination with its description of low life petty criminals. Now he thought about it, perhaps it had sparked his interest in sleuthing.

  He drove slowly past the Royal Pavilion and one time residence of George IV with its mix of Regency grandeur and Indian facades. He parked and sampled an ice cream as he watched families playing on the stony beach. The swish of the incoming tide on the pebbles reminded him of the halcyon days he had spent at the seaside with his father and mother.

  Green Acres was set back from the cliffs and enjoyed magnificent views out over the English Channel. He had phoned and asked the Matron if he could visit with Frank Dobson, passing himself off as an ex-colleague. They seemed delighted. Mr Dobson, he was told, had few visitors.

  The facility had obviously been the property of a wealthy family at one time. Now the interior was refurbished to accommodate elderly residents whose relatives wanted them to spend their dotage in comfort. For many it was a chance to recall a more golden age.