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

  “Frank’s had his lunch,” the young woman explained when Ralph checked with Reception. “He’s over there by the trees.” She gestured through the large picture windows with views out over the grounds. “Shall I take you across?”

  “No, I can make my own way,” Ralph said; “but thanks.”

  “We serve afternoon tea at 3.” The young woman in the smart white uniform added as she smiled at him.

  For a moment he felt 100 years old. No doubt she viewed him as a perspective patient there in the foreseeable future. He walked across the immaculate lawns to where Dobson sat reading a book. If this man managed to produce those fake manuscripts I’ll eat my hat, thought Ralph. Here he was about to interrupt this old man’s tranquility simply because someone in the police had discovered that he had taught palaeography in New York. This Elysian scene seemed a far cry from bustling New York. It occurred to him that someone must have made a mistake. This is nothing but a wild goose chase, he thought; blast Stigart.

  “You must be from the book shop. Did you manage to get a copy?”

  Ralph was taken aback for a moment as the old man made to get up from his seat.

  “Sorry, no. I’m Ralph Chalmers. A friend of mine at the British Library told me that you were here.”

  “Not from the book shop?”

  “No. I’m afraid not.”

  He felt like an imposter. Dobson reminded him of his grandfather whom he had idolized.

  “Oh. My mistake. I’m Frank Robson.” Dobson put out his hand but did not stand up.

  Ralph was surprised that the older man had a firm handshake in spite of his obvious frailty. He pulled an empty chair over next to Dobson and sat down. Dobson needed little encouragement to start talking about his former life. Ralph was fascinated as Frank described some of the manuscripts that he had deciphered while at the British Museum and as a consultant to a top auction house in New York.

  “Medieval period. That was my fiefdom. But not much call for it now that they have all this modern equipment to do it for them,” Dobson said. “I only use my laptop for keeping in touch,” he explained.

  “So you don’t do any writing these days?” Ralph asked. It was obvious that while Dobson’s body may have failed him, his mind was still in excellent working order.

  Ralph knew that he was guilty of probing, but he had had a rethink. Now that he had discovered just how switched on Dobson was, there was at least a remote possibility that he had been involved in producing the fake manuscripts after all, even if it had not been his hand who actually drafted the copies. His hands were gnarled, and he could hardly stir the tea that the young nurse had brought.

  “I explained that to the men who came to speak to me.”

  “Someone approached you here about doing some writing?” Ralph asked, in surprise.

  “No need to shout. I may be old, but my hearing is perfectly clear,” he smiled good-humoredly. “They offered to pay whatever I asked, but I doubt they were serious.”

  “Did they say what it was they wanted you to write?” Ralph asked.

  “All they said was that it was in Latin and that they could give me the piece they wanted me to copy. They told me that they worked for a collector who wanted a copy that he could show to people. It’s a common thing. A lot of the top collectors keep the original in a vault so that it won’t get stolen or damaged.”

  “They didn’t by any chance show it to you?” Ralph asked.

  “No, although they did show me a scrap of paper with some Latin writing on it that they said was along the same lines.”

  Ralph remembered that he had Jack Evan’s notes in the car. Among them was a photo-copy of the Magna Carta manuscript. It might just be that Dobson would recognize the writing. If Mankovich had tracked Dobson down to try and enlist him in making the fakes, it could bring him a step nearer to finding him. Explaining to Dobson that he had something to show him, he excused himself and went to fetch the file.

  The old man put on a pair of wire framed glasses. “Magna Carta. I saw one of the originals at the British Library some years ago now.” He said as he peered at the photo-copy.

  “Was the writing anything like this?” Ralph asked as he held his breath.”

  “It was only a scrap of paper, and it only had a few words on it.” Dobson said. “But why don’t you just ask them yourself?”

  “But how can I? I don’t know who they are,” Ralph replied. Then he realised that Dobson had pointed to a photo of the co-authors of a magazine article that was in the file with the photocopy and his notes. Ralph was stunned. It was a photo taken of Henry Gunter and Jack Evans at the Bodleian.

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes. I’m pretty sure.”

  Ralph’s mind was racing. He could not believe that his lifelong friend could be mixed up with Mankovich. There must be some misunderstanding. Perhaps they simply needed an expert to help with their work at the Bodleian. After all, Frank had already told him that he only saw a scrap of paper with a few Latin words on it. He was probably jumping to conclusions about it. More than likely it had nothing to do with the Magna Carta at all.

  One thing was certain; he needed to find out. He could just ask Jack. If he was involved, then there had to be a simple explanation and there might be some way that Stigart could help out before the police officially became involved. There was one last question.

  “Frank. What did they say when they realised that you couldn’t help them?”

  “But I did help them.”

  “What do you mean? I thought you said that you told them you couldn’t copy the document for them?”

  “I put them on to my star pupil. Alvaro was a Latin scholar as well as the only palaeography student I’d permit to critique my work.” He struggled to reach into the pocket of his linen jacket and pull out his wallet and a crumpled postcard. “Statue of Liberty,” he said as he handed it to Ralph.

  On the back under a few lines of writing he saw the signature: Alvaro Caminah – to the Magister.

  “What’s this ‘magister’ he refers to,” Ralph asked.

  “It’s his way of making a compliment. Magister means master, or teacher. I always joked that his being Portuguese helped with the Latin,” he laughed. But Ralph could see that Alvaro was Frank’s link to his own youth. The old man wiped a tear from his eye and blew his nose on a large red handkerchief. Then he carefully put the card back in his pocket.

  “Did you give these men Alvaro’s address, Frank?”

  “Yes. I had the return address from the letters I got from him when he first moved to Washington to set up his studio. I think he did well and was getting regular commissions, but I haven’t heard from him in a while.”

  Ralph recognized the name. Caminah was the man that Stigart had told him the FBI had found murdered in Washington. Ralph made sure that the old man was comfortable and thanked him for the chat. He had no intentions of spoiling Frank Dobson’s memories of his star pupil.

  _____________________

  Chapter 10

  Janice had thoughtfully left a small pot of tea and a plate of biscuits on the table by Ralph’s desk. He had just finished three straight days of teaching interspersed with interviewing potential postgraduate students and felt a bit drained. Compared to when he was in fulltime consulting, his workload appeared comparatively light, but that did not take into account the stress of University politics and the constant drama that students habitually dumped in his lap to sort out. He poured the tea and sat back and wondered why he was so tired. As a consultant he had, to a large extent, been in total control. Clients often came to him with difficult issues, but there had always been that element of mutual respect. With teaching, one had to earn respect with every new group. Ralph had always likened teaching to the role of a stage actor who had to win each new audience’s approval.

  Over the years, the applicants for the postgraduate programmes that he ran had become more confident that they would be accepted. They were now having to pay what Ralph consider
ed to be exorbitant fees. Nothing like those at Harvard, or Oxford and Cambridge for that matter, but for a University in the lower quartile of the National rankings, it seemed a lot of money. With so many Universities competing for students, he felt at times like a vacuum cleaner salesman. Potential students expected a hard sell from the college rather than the other way around. The result was that after a day interspersed with interviews, Ralph felt as though he had been through the proverbial wringer. He promised himself that tonight he would have a swim at his health club followed by a meal at The Black Lion, his local pub.

  The structure and routine of work had given him time to think about his visit to Brighton at the weekend. He was still trying to come to terms with the idea that Jack might be involved in anything so sinister. Once or twice he had almost phoned Stigart, but each time the thought of throwing Jack, and he had to admit it, even Henry Gunter, to the wolves, had stopped him. He rationalized that it could not benefit the FBI’s investigation to know that Alvaro Caminah was a forger. The man was dead; killed by some flunkey that Mankovich had no doubt hired for the job. It was probably the same with the man from T24 and the poor bugger that was pushed under the train at Euston. He stood up and walked to the open window. He looked out at the stand of shiny green rhododendron bushes across the drive-way and listened to the screech of the squirrels as they searched for that elusive nut that they had hidden the previous autumn. Thankfully his lectures and all the politicking had finished for the day and he could enjoy the lovely English summer’s evening. The tranquility was like a drug as he momentarily closed his eyes and let the calm wash over him. He jerked forward as a knock on the half-open door startled him.

  “Professor Chalmers, I thought I might find you in.” It was Inspector Linham.

  “Inspector. I’m afraid you caught me daydreaming on the job,” Ralph apologised. Come on in.”

  Ralph felt a mixture of relief and pleasure as he shook the Inspector’s hand.

  “The tea’s still warm.”

  “Don’t mind if I do. I’ve just been over at the ivory tower having a word with your Dean.”

  “Nothing too onerous, I hope,” said Ralph as he poured the Inspector a cup of tea and walked around his desk to hand it to him. “Only half a cup, I’m afraid, but there’s plenty of milk and sugar.”

  The Inspector sat down in one of the two easy chairs and stirred his tea.

  “I sometimes wonder what police work is coming to these days. Your neighbors along the Hill are concerned about the noise the students are making at the weekends. You know how it is with those young people with their parties on the lawns in front of the Music School. No doubt Dean Granger will soon be putting the message around. How about you, Professor? Any new developments over the ruckus at Runnymede and that Magna Carta business? It seems to have all gone quiet.”

  Ralph was a great believer in fate. He sat down opposite Linham.

  “Something has come up, Inspector. If you have a few minutes, I’d like to bounce a few things off you.”

  “I’m finished for the day, Professor. So bounce away.”

  “I’m afraid that some of this I haven’t even shared yet with Colonel Stigart,” Ralph explained before he went on.

  “I’m sure it’s just a question of timing and priorities, Professor.”

  Ralph had always found it best to be direct with the Inspector, and now he just came straight out with it.

  “Commander Renton, Colonel Stigart and the Home Office are all aware that three of the four originals of the Magna Carta were stolen and the ones on exhibit around the country are fakes. The good news is that we have 8 weeks to retrieve the originals; the bad news is that we don’t know where to look.” The Inspector nodded. If he was surprised at the news, he did not show it.

  “My hunch is that now you’re going to tell me that you’ve found a link between this Mankovich and the stolen documents, but that the next step would mean you had to compromise your principles.”

  Ralph starred at the Inspector. “Just about. But how did you guess?”

  “A long time in the force, Professor, that and having known you for a number of years. I don’t know the details of the case, but I’m sure that Commander Renton’s doing all that’s possible. But from what I’ve heard, there are three murders and an attempted murder of a number of innocent people at Runnymede. And further, your dear lady, Professor Eggleton, could easily have become a victim.”

  Ralph took the Inspector’s point.

  “But what if it means accusing your friends of being involved in a crime when your proof is tenuous at best.”

  “I’ve seen mothers turn their sons and even their daughters in. You either believe in up-holding the law or you don’t. You either trust that the police will be unbiased in giving evidence, and the courts will conduct a fair trial and sentencing, or you throw your lot in with the anarchists and villains.” He set his tea down on the desk and leaned back. “Sorry about the lecture, Professor.”

  The two men sat in silence for a while. Eventually Ralph spoke.

  “You’re right of course, Inspector. But sometimes a bit of a reminder doesn’t hurt. I’m close to finding the last piece to this puzzle, and if I’m right, I can hand the whole thing over to the Commander and Colonel Stigart.”

  “My wife spends ages doing her puzzles and I’m then asked to look for the last piece. It’s usually right there under the table.” They both laughed and the tension that had been building was broken. “I hope that you’re not putting yourself in danger, Professor. You’ve sailed pretty close to the wind on a number of occasions that I’m aware of.”

  “I just need to make a couple of phone calls before it’s time, as you say, for the Commander to take over.”

  “I don’t think that he’d be too pleased if he heard you put it that way, but I know what you mean. I realise that our chat was between friends, Professor, but I’m obliged to remind you that it’s a crime to withhold information from the police in a murder enquiry.”

  “Duly noted. Oh, and thanks, Inspector.”

  The Inspector made his apologies for having barged in and said that his wife would be expecting him for his supper, and left.

  Ralph tucked his lecture notes into the side compartment of his briefcase. He went into Janice’s office and put the tea tray on a side table; she was a stickler for tidiness. As he started to shut his office door, he suddenly remembered that he had not checked his voice mail. He recognized Katie’s voice.

  “Ralph I’m just off to Birmingham to that conference. I found a crumpled note in the car. You must have dropped it.” She read out an 0207 number which he knew was a London exchange. “The last few are hard to make out.” He wrote down a series of numbers. “Then there’s an address in the Old Kent Road. Could be 67. It’s all scribbled. Hope it’s not some femme fatale. Anyhow, take care and I’ll phone when I get there. Love you.”

  He checked the numbers that he had written down before pressing ‘erase’. So that could be where Kirby sent the invoice for a part for that prototype, he mused; or it could be nothing. He decided to wait until morning to try the numbers. The talk with his friend Linham had confirmed his resolve. He promised himself that if he failed to get anywhere with a phone call to the address in the Old Kent Road, he would tell Stigart the whole story. As the Inspector had said, it was a murder enquiry. For now he was off for a swim at the gym and then supper at the Black Horse.

  ***

  It was not until after 4 the next afternoon that Ralph found time to make the call. He tried a number of combinations before he spoke to a woman with a strong accent, West Indies from what he could tell. She told him that the number he had reached was for what had been a printing works and then a warehouse before it had closed. She told him that she was there cleaning the offices as the place was up for sale. He managed to stop her ringing off by telling her that he was thinking of buying the premises and would be looking for cleaning staff. He asked her to look on the desk and see if there was a teleph
one number for the agent who was handling the property, or the owner of the premises. After what seemed like hours, she came back on the line.

  “No pad or anyfin. But there’s a note scribbled on the blotter. A Mister Mosel. I can’t read his ‘uver name. ‘haitch’, ‘he’, ‘eye’, ‘hen’, ‘ar’, ‘eye’, ‘see’, ‘haitch.”

  “Heinrich?”

  “I dunno, spose it could be.”

  “Is there a phone number?” He tried to keep calm and hold his frustration in check while she laid the phone down a second time.

  She read out a mobile number and then said that she was Rachel and had to get on with her cleaning. He thanked her and said that he would ask for her when the deal had gone through. She never asked who he was.

  He glanced at his watch before he tapped in the number that Rachel had given him. The phone rang for ages and he realized that it could be a small business of some sort. For all he knew, it might be a plumber or a hairdresser who had closed up shop for the night.

  “Doctor Heinrich Mosel speaking,” said the accented voice that finally picked up.

  Ralph hesitated for a second. Then he took a gamble.

  “I was told that you print books. I’ve written a book about the Magna Carta that I want to get printed in time to catch the market while the 800th year celebrations are going on. It’s called The Elias Factor.” He held his breath and waited.

  “Unfortunately I am not in a position to help you. Who am I speaking with please?”

  “Robert Masters,” said Ralph almost through clenched teeth.

  “Well Mr Masters I have recently closed my printing works, but I have a few contacts. If you could be a bit more explicit I might be able to direct you to someone who may be able to help. By the way, how did you get my number?” He asked pleasantly.

  “A friend who lives in Maidstone,” Ralph replied.

  He waited and in the silence he wondered if Mosel had hung up on him. He knew that if the stentorious voice on the line was Mankovich, then that would have to do. He had pushed the boat out as far as he dare.