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

  “Look, Mr Masters, why don’t we meet up somewhere? If I could see the book, I’m sure I could give you better advice about who to ask than simply by speaking to you on the phone. You could probably get your book in the shops in a matter of a few weeks. If it’s convenient for you to get into town, we could meet at the George Inn. It’s in the Borough High Street. It’s an old coaching tavern, you can’t miss it. Shall we say lunchtime tomorrow?”

  Things were moving so fast that Ralph barely had a chance to catch his breath, let alone to think it all through. He knew it was a long shot, but if it was Mankovich then he would have realised that someone was on to him as soon as Ralph mentioned The Elias Factor. On the other hand, why take a chance and suggest a face-to- face meeting? For all the he knew, Ralph could be a blackmailer who had heard about him from the man at T24 or the man at the British Library, or he could even be the Fraud Squad setting a trap. Whatever the man had in mind, he seemed keen to play the game to the full.

  __________________________

  Chapter 11

  Borough High Street, Southwark, like many areas in London, is steeped in history. Once it was a wide avenue lined with palatial mansions where Bishops held court alongside the Clink, the infamous prison. It is the gateway to the City of London and only a stone’s throw from the magnificent Southwark Cathedral and the modern open markets. The area is now a Mecca for tourists. In earlier times visitors were greeted with the severed heads of traitors impaled on poles all along the wooden bridge across the Thames. It was meant as a gruesome reminder of the fate that awaited people such as Wat Tyler, leader of The Peasants’ Revolt, and others who found themselves on the wrong side of those in power.

  The George Inn, where Ralph was to meet Heinrich Mosel, had a less sinister history. Built in the 17th Century, it had first become a coaching inn for travellers journeying to and from Canterbury, Portsmouth, Birmingham and Bath. In its day it was the equivalent of a modern day railway terminus. Famous now for being the only remaining galleried inn in London, it was popular with tourists from around the world.

  As Ralph turned and walked down the alleyway leading to the Inn, he could see why Mosel had chosen it as a meeting place. It was an ideal spot from which an escape might be made. It was close to London Bridge railway station, the river walks, and a network of twisting lanes and streets, all of which were teaming with pedestrians and traffic. He was convinced that Heinrich Mosel and Mankovich were one and the same. If his theory was correct, he would need to be extra vigil in this rabbit warren of hiding places, Ralph mused.

  In the centre of the courtyard, groups of people sat and talked at oak tables. The familiar chatter interrupted by bursts of laughter echoed around the oppressive walls. It must have been even noisier in the coaching days as horses were hitched to stage coaches and people took their last swig of ale before risking their lives along muddy and rutted roads frequented by highwaymen, Ralph thought: a perfect setting to enjoy a beer with a man who threatened to jeopardize his mission. Could this Mankovich even be mad? Ralph wondered. He would find out soon enough.

  He looked up at the wooden balcony. A man in a smart pin-striped suit waved at him and then stepped back out of sight. Ralph assumed that this was Mosel and waited.

  “Robert Masters?” The tall elegant gentleman strode purposefully towards him and proffered an outstretched hand. “I see that you forgot to bring your book along,” he laughed as Ralph stood up and shook his hand.

  Ralph detested him at once.

  “Doctor Mosel?”

  “Why don’t we stop the charade, Professor Chalmers. Let me introduce myself properly. My name is Ernst Mankovich. German mother, Hungarian father.” He stood back and laughed so loudly that it caught the attention of drinkers at a nearby table. “Come on, let’s go inside and I’ll buy you a pint of their special ale and something to eat. I’m famished how about you, Professor?”

  For a moment, Ralph was what his tennis coach at school used to call caught ‘flat footed’.

  As he followed Mankovich in through a beamed doorway to what he guessed had probably been the original taproom, he knew that he had lost the advantage. This was a supremely confident man who was capable of murdering at will. What troubled Ralph even more was that Mankovich recognised him on sight and knew him by name.

  “You look like a trencherman, Professor. Take a seat while I get our drinks and something to eat. Pie and mash is the special.”

  Ralph had seen that sort of schoolboy bravado before. Often colleagues behaved that way when they were unsure of themselves. Mankovich is playing some sort of bizarre game, he mused as he watched him lauding it over the barkeep. He looked around at the faded scenes from Dickens’ books that graced the walls as he waited for his luncheon companion to return.

  Mankovich placed two pints on the table. “Here’s to good health,” He said as he tilted his glass in Ralph’s direction before he took a long draught of his beer.

  Ralph waited until Mankovich sat down.

  “That one caught my eye,” said Ralph pointing to a picture depicting a scene from Oliver Twist.

  “And why’s that, Professor?” Mankovich asked.

  “Actually it brought to mind a sentiment that Dickens penned:

  To do a great right, you may do a little wrong; and you may take any means which the end to be attained will justify.

  But I think that Dickens would argue that by stealing the Magna Carta manuscripts and murdering those people who got in your way, you ran somewhat counter to his sentiment.”

  The barkeep placed the plates of food and cutlery wrapped in paper napkins on the table.

  “Mustard and brown sauce are on the condiment table, gentlemen.”

  Mankovich nodded. “Thank-you.”

  He was silent as he unwrapped his napkin.

  “In one way I envy your naivety, Professor. On the other, I see you as a man who will achieve nothing great in his lifetime. That I find sad and a touch pathetic.”

  “Oh, I don’t know,” Ralph said calmly, “Unmasking you for what you are and seeing you brought to justice could be seen by some as an achievement. In some small way, it might also bring solace to those whose lives you’ve ruined.”

  Ralph realized that he had been drawn into a verbal slanging match with a man who made his living through drugs, prostitution and fraud, not to mention that he was a cold-blooded murderer into the bargain. Peter had told him on more than one occasion that arguing with a villain was like ‘peeing in the wind’; a complete waste of time. In his consulting days Ralph’s mantra was ‘Focus on the objective and avoid sweating the small stuff’. Today he had two: uncover the whole story about the stolen manuscripts, and obtain evidence that tied Mankovich to the killings and the attempted bombing at Runnymede.

  Mankovich put down his knife and fork.

  “I assume that you’ve not told your friend Colonel Stigart or Commander Renton about our little luncheon date today?” He didn’t wait for an answer. ”No of course not. I’ve seen how you work, Professor. I think you must’ve read too many school boy thrillers when you were young: leaping in at the last minute, capturing the villain and then the police arrive to sort out the paperwork while you get the applause.” He smiled. “This time I’m afraid that you’ll go home empty handed.”

  Ralph recognized that there was an element of truth in what Mankovich said, but this time he was too far in to even think of backing out. He wondered if flattery might entice Mankovich into providing some answers as to why he had stolen the documents, and why he had murdered innocent people to do so. Of course Mankovich would deny anything incriminating that he confessed to Ralph, but at least it might buy him a bit of crucial time.

  “Pretty impressive the way you swapped the manuscripts. I doubt anyone would have found out if I hadn’t walked into Alan Kirby’s workshop where they built the cases with the changeable trays. But why the Magna Carta?”

  He detected a slight colour rise to his adversary’s cheeks. Mankovich had taken t
he bait.

  “Yes, it was pretty ingenious. It took a great deal of planning to get it exactly right. You probably wouldn’t understand that not everything is about money. Not that I’m against it either,” he smiled. “In fact, your Commander Renton will find a letter in his in-tray when he returns from his lunch this afternoon demanding 250 million pounds sterling for their safe return. I’ve wanted to get my revenge on the British justice system for a long time. And of course the money is an added bonus. That’s the way a ‘factor’ makes his living. But then you’d know all about that, Professor.” Mankovich smiled again.

  “Revenge? I don’t understand. Revenge for what?”

  “My grand-parents came from Hungary to England in the 1920’s. They were Jewish. They set up a business in the City. Then when the second world-war broke out they were interned and classified initially as ‘high risk’. Suspected of being spies for Hitler. Later they were classified as ‘doubtful’ cases by the tribunal court and in 1941 they were sent to the Isle of Man where they, along with many others with similar backgrounds, were kept in a compound. They lost their business and both died from Tuberculosis. My father was eventually taken in to a home for children who had lost their parents. So you see, all of this nonsense and hypocrisy about freedom and liberty under the law has to be exposed!”

  Ralph could see that all of this talk about his family history had Mankovich quite worked up. He decided to push him a bit further.

  “But isn’t that exactly what you’re doing? You destroyed other people’s lives just because you had some warped notion of exacting revenge; and you did it solely for your own gain.”

  “As I pointed out before, Professor, you are quite naïve. The courier at the security firm and the man at the British Library were easy to recruit. And don’t for a second think that there aren’t hundred more exactly like them. The people I employ as drugs couriers and pimps are seemingly ordinary hard-working people. I’m well acquainted with top financiers in the City, your so-called respectable pillars of society who happily launder money every day. They all do it for greed. No, Professor, my customers and clients aren’t the low-life on the streets. Oh, no. They’re politicians, judges, police, and the nouveau riche. So please, don’t act sanctimonious. We’re both too intelligent and well-educated to believe in that malarkey.”

  It was obvious that Mankovich had rationalized his actions for everything from the drugs and prostitution ring to murder. But Ralph still needed to find out if his friend Jack at the Bodleian, was one of Mankovich’s men.

  “I still don’t see how you managed to produce such good fakes that they’d fool the experts,” he said.

  “Don’t patronize me, Professor. You’re as transparent as a plate glass window. But as there are no witnesses to our chat, it amuses me to tell you that my nephew, Henry played a key role.”

  “Do you mean Henry Gunter who works at the Bodleian Library?” Ralph asked.

  He was stunned. If Gunter was in on this, then Jack could be as well.

  “Oh, of course, you’ve met my nephew.”

  “But surely the people he worked with knew what he was doing,” Ralph said in the hopes that Mankovich would answer his question about Jack.

  “The others at Oxford, Lincoln, Salisbury, not to mention the British Library and prestigious museums and collectors around the world; they were all fooled. They see Henry only as a harmless and trusted scholar. He’s been able to feed me enough information about the treasures held in those places to help us become one of the richest families in the world!”

  “But surely your nephew couldn’t have produced the copies. That requires specialised skill. Was that why you tried to get Frank Dobson to do it?”

  Mankovich explained that Dobson had been their first choice until they realised that he was in no condition to do the work. He told Ralph that when he and his nephew visited Brighton, Dobson had told them that Caminah was very possibly the only person in the world who could produce the manuscripts.

  “So you tricked Dobson into telling you about Caminah and how to contact him. Then when he was no longer of any use, you had him killed.”

  “Professor, you sound so harsh,” Mankovich replied.

  “And Kirby? I presume you had him killed as well?”

  “Ah, Alan Kirby. He was a fool as well as a mean-minded man. You see, he thought he could blackmail me. But I must thank him for one thing, it’s how I discovered that you were on my trail. My caller ID on my cell phone confirmed it when you called me the other evening.” He laughed. “Shall we have some coffee, Professor? All of this soul baring has been a bit tiring.” He called to the bar-keep. “Decaf for me and regular for my friend here,” he said.

  When the waiter bought the coffees to the table, Ralph noticed that Mankovich gave him two fifty pound notes. “Keep the change; and thank-you. We thoroughly enjoyed our meal.” The waiter smiled obsequiously and pocketed the notes before he slipped away.

  “Now that you have everything that you wanted, you’ll not harm Frank Dobson?” Ralph asked.

  “Of course not, Professor. I’m neither a monster nor a madman. Dobson’s an old man. There’s not much chance he would remember us. And I doubt any of the staff at the home would remember us either. Alvaro is no longer around to tell anyone anything, as you know. But I know how you love details, Professor so I’ll tell you how he got the finished manuscripts to us. He used UPS. A nice touch, don’t you think? He simply shipped them to a rented warehouse in South London where no one could trace us. Our man at T24 collected them and took them to Kirby where we put them in cases identical to the genuine ones. The rest you know.”

  “And Runnymede?”

  “A botched job. For once you thwarted my plans, Professor. So I suppose if you need to justify your wage from MI6, that would be it.” He gave a low appreciative chuckle at his own remark. “Drink your coffee before it gets cold, Professor. At least you’ll have a fascinating story to tell your grandchildren. That is if you marry that charming lady of yours. Professor Katie Eggleton, isn’t it?”

  Ralph felt a surge of anger that a cold blooded swine like Mankovich would even mention Katie’s name. Then he noticed that Mankovich’s face seemed out of focus. He leant back in his chair and closed his eyes as a dull pain spread across the back of his neck.

  “Relax, Professor. Just let yourself go. You’re in good hands.”

  Ralph could hear Mankovich’s voice, but he felt as if he were at the bottom of a deep well looking up towards the light. He tried to talk but his lips had no feeling.

  “Be a good man and call a taxi,” he heard Mankovich say to the waiter he had given the 50 pound notes to. “My friend has trouble with strong ale. If you could just give me a hand to get him outside --------.”

  Then everything was muffled as he felt himself falling.

  _______________________

  Chapter 12

  Inspector Linham put down the phone.

  “That was Professor Eggleton.”

  “The last time I saw her she was in court for that Gypsy Hill case. Did 3 years in Holloway, if I recollect.”

  Linham sighed. “Thank you, Wilson. I was there too, if you recall.”

  Sergeant Wilson recognized the tone and regretted his kneejerk reaction.

  “Sorry, Sir.” He waited. “Tea, Sir?” There was no response.

  “Professor Chalmers has gone missing,” the Inspector said. “That’s what Professor Eggleton was calling about.”

  “How long since she spoke to him?” Asked Wilson.

  The Inspector was not listening.

  “The trouble is, when I spoke with him the other afternoon, I sensed that he was onto something, although he was playing his cards pretty close to his chest.”

  “Shall we send someone around to his place, Sir? And what about his secretary at the College?”

  “Miss Eggleton’s already done that, and she called his cell phone and he’s not answering. She says he sometimes forgets to turn it on.”

&nbs
p; “What about that tracking app?”

  “She says he doesn’t have it.”

  “Could be he’s visiting an old flame and doesn’t want to be disturbed,” Wilson suggested.

  “We’re talking about Professor Chalmers, Wilson, not some bloody Gigolo. And we could do with some tea.”

  ***

  “We lost him, Colonel. There must be a back way out to Guy’s Hospital. One of those alleys leads from the George. Should have covered it, Sir.”

  “Who was he with? Did anyone get a picture?”

  “It was Mankovich alright. We matched it to the one we had from G9. He looked a bit smarter in a suit than when he was with Mossad, but it was him alright. The people at G9 told us that he was thrown out of Mossad when they found that he’d been taking bribes and had set up a drugs syndicate. They’ve been after him for a while now, but he always stays a step ahead of them by switching identities and countries.”

  Stigart looked at the photograph. He had contacts with Israel’s Secret Service agency: if they’d failed to catch Mankovich, then he must be damned good.

  “Who’s the other man in the picture?” He peered at the grainy black and white enlargement. All he could see was a man walking behind Mankovich.

  “Don’t know, Sir.”

  “Anyone at the George see anything?”

  “Yes, we collared the bloke behind the bar. Eastern European. Says he’s a student from Croatia who’s come over to study computing at Westminster University.”

  “And?”

  “It didn’t check out, Sir. He’s an illegal. He must have slipped in by train through the Channel Tunnel. The manager at the George says the bloke was standing in for a friend who went sick.”

  “And?”

  “The bloke recognized Mankovich from the photo. He said that he was with some Professor. He thought he caught the name Chambers or Channers. According to him, the two men had some sort of row before the other bloke had to be carried out to a waiting taxi. Too much to drink, the other man said.”