Stick in the Mud: A riveting murder mystery

by Leo McNeir

  “Would I be right in thinking …?”

  “I’m Anne, Anne Price.”

  “Donovan Smith.”

  “Gerald Parfitt. Good to meet you.”

  Parfitt nodded towards the pub’s door. “Is this okay for you? They do a rather good Sunday lunch.”

  “Are there vegetarian options?” Donovan asked.

  “Of course.”

  Anne smiled. “Thank you. It’s fine.”

  Parfitt led the way inside. The pub was cool and beamy, and even though it was barely noon, the place was filling up. Parfitt found a vacant table near the inglenook fireplace, which at that time of year boasted a huge display of summer flowers. The menu was chalked up beside the bar.

  “We can leave some things here to keep our table.” Parfitt placed his briefcase on one of the chairs. “You’re my guests today, by the way,” he added, in a tone that was almost apologetic.

  “Oh no, really –” Donovan began.

  Parfitt raised a hand. “No arguing. I insist. You’re here at my invitation.”

  He walked off towards the bar, and the discussion was at an end. After placing their orders, Parfitt held back while Anne and Donovan took their places at the table. He joined them a minute later clutching a bottle of wine and three glasses.

  “I’ve got the house red. Is that all right? If you’d prefer something different …”

  Agreement was unanimous, and Parfitt began pouring.

  “It’s good of you to agree to meet us,” Donovan said.

  “And to offer us lunch,” Anne added. “That’s very generous of you.”

  “Not at all. You said you wanted to talk about possibly doing some filming for a university project? I’d be happy to help.”

  They clinked glasses and drank to each other’s health.

  “Actually …” Donovan said, “we’d like to talk to you about Dick Blackwood’s project.”

  “Oh yes? Which one?”

  “Which one?” Anne repeated.

  “Well, there’s the Saxon find in London,” Parfitt said, “and his doctoral research topic, concerning revolts against the Normans in the wetlands hereabouts.”

  “What about the King John’s lost regalia project?” Donovan said.

  “Okay …” Parfitt looked thoughtful. ‘… though I’m not sure how much I can help you with that one.”

  “Could you tell us what you do know about it?”

  “Certainly, but you may find my knowledge rather limited. You really need to talk to Dick for the details.”

  “That’s just it, Dr Parfitt –”

  “Call me Gerald.”

  “Right, Gerald,” Donovan continued. “Dick seems to be away at the moment, and I’d like to prepare myself for working here before we begin.”

  “I can understand that from the filming point of view. The light up here is very … how can I put it? … extraordinary luminosity … big skies and all that.”

  “Could you fill us in on some of the background, perhaps?” Anne said.

  Just then their food arrived. Parfitt topped up their glasses and they began eating.

  Donovan said, “We understand you spoke to Zoë Tipton about Dick’s discovery of part of the king’s treasure.”

  “Oh well, I couldn’t really say much about that,” Parfitt said hastily.

  “Do you mean to us now or to her then?” Donovan asked. “We do understand about the need to respect confidentiality, especially in relation to something as major as this. But if there’s anything you feel you could tell us …”

  Parfitt looked up from his meal and fixed Donovan with a stare. He took another forkful of roast pork before replying.

  “I’m not sure what to say. How much do you know already?”

  “That you helped Dick with his research on the rebellion that took place in this area at that time …” Parfitt nodded. Donovan continued. “That you provided him with documentary material to show how the land had changed over the centuries …”

  Parfitt glanced down at the briefcase on the floor beside him. “That’s right, and I’ve brought some things to show you.”

  “That’s great,” said Donovan. “We also know that you went out in your boat with Dick …” Murmurings of agreement from Parfitt. “That you possibly involved marine archaeologists from your university that led to Dick bringing up artefacts that have since been identified by experts as part of King John’s regalia.”

  Parfitt put down his knife and fork and took a mouthful of wine. It was difficult to read his expression.

  “Are we on the right track so far?” Anne said.

  Parfitt placed the glass carefully beside his plate and frowned.

  “Sorry, but I haven’t the faintest idea what you’re talking about,” he said.

  Several seconds passed in silence. Anne realised she was gaping and shut her mouth so quickly that the snap of her teeth could be heard at the next table. Even Donovan was momentarily lost for words. He took a sip of wine before speaking.

  “Which part don’t you know about?” he asked. “You did go out in the boat with Dick?”

  “Yes.”

  “And the marine archaeologists?”

  Parfitt’s frown deepened. “I don’t know where you got that idea.”

  Donovan looked at Anne as if asking for help.

  “Was it Dick who told us that?” she said uncertainly. “Or Zoë perhaps …”

  “Dr Parfitt …” Donovan began, ‘… Gerald … can we go back a step or two? I’m not sure now where our understandings diverge.”

  “I think that would be a good idea,” Parfitt agreed.

  “You went out sailing with Dick. That much is fact.”

  Parfitt nodded decisively. “Correct.”

  “And you produced material about the changing nature of the landscape up here during the period in question?”

  “Yes.” Parfitt picked up the briefcase, opened it and produced a bundle of maps and other documents. “These are the things I showed Dick.”

  “And he used that information to work out the route King John took on what was to be his last journey.”

  Parfitt looked bewildered. The corners of his mouth turned down and he shook his head.

  “You don’t know about that?” Donovan said.

  “Absolutely not. What made you think I did?”

  “You’re making me doubt if that is in fact what I heard.” Donovan looked back to Anne. “I didn’t imagine it all, did I?”

  Anne shrugged. “Perhaps … actually, now that you mention it, I’m not sure any more what Dick said and what we were left to guess.”

  Donovan turned to Parfitt. “I found out from LBU sources that you and Dick were involved in a project together and that you’d been staying in a bed and breakfast somewhere between Wisbech and King’s Lynn.”

  “You’re right. That was last autumn.”

  “And you’ve not been involved since?”

  “How could I?”

  “I’m sorry, Gerald, I don’t follow.”

  “I’ve been out of the country for half a year, seconded for a semester at the University of Roskilde in Denmark. I’m deputy director of the Danelaw project. That’s a joint Anglo-Danish study of the invasion of England and its impact on the economy of Zealand in the ninth century …”

  Parfitt went on describing the work of the project and his part in it, but for Donovan and Anne all their thoughts were on their misconceptions about Dick Blackwood and his big discovery. Could Zoë be right? Was Dick’s story about the find of the century – of eight centuries – a fabrication from beginning to end?

  As they continued their meal, Anne and Donovan feigned interest in Parfitt’s work in Denmark while he explained it in some detail. When the table was cleared and they waited for coffee, he opened out the maps and photographs he had produced for Dick and showed them how the wetlands along the coast of the Wash had ebbed and flowed down the ages.

  It was small wonder that no-one had ever located the lost treasure
. The baggage train could be anywhere in a vast area covered at different times by water, marshes, mudflats and farmland. It could lie buried beneath twenty or thirty feet of soil either on the seabed or under fields planted for grain or beet.

  Had the dream of making such a discovery preyed on Dick’s mind like an obsession? Not unlikely, they thought. Perhaps that gleam in Dick’s eye held a glint of madness or at least fanaticism.

  Coffee arrived. Parfitt gathered up the papers and put them back in his briefcase.

  “I suppose you’ve no idea, Dr … er, Gerald, where Dick might be?” Anne said.

  “None at all, I’m afraid.” He closed the briefcase and set it down on the floor. “Mind you, one odd thing has happened. One of the other boat-owners in the marina did say he saw Dick recently.”

  “At Whittleham?”

  “Yes. He assumed Dick was there checking over Arabella. He’s been keeping an eye on her during my absence.”

  “Do you know where Dick lives?” Donovan asked.

  “Of course, but I’ve tried phoning his mobile without success. … the usual voicemail reply: caller-not-available. I’ve left messages for him in the department at LBU. No response.”

  “What about his family?” Anne said.

  “There’s no-one in this country, as far as I know. When his father retired, his parents moved to Canada – his mother’s from Toronto – a few years ago to be near Dick’s sister. She moved there when she got married, and there are no other siblings.”

  Anne looked at Donovan. “Could he have left the country?”

  “I was just wondering …”

  After lunch they took leave of each other with handshakes outside the pub.

  “Thank you very much for seeing us, Gerald,” Anne said, “and for your hospitality.”

  “My pleasure. I’m only sorry I couldn’t help you further with your enquiries. I’m sure Dick will be able to clear up any misunderstandings when you see him. There’ll probably be a perfectly simple reason for his absence.”

  “We hope so, too,” Anne said. “Somehow we managed to get it all wrong.”

  They watched Dr Parfitt walking off before they turned back to find the car park. Anne linked arms with Donovan as they strolled along in bright sunshine.

  “What are you thinking?” she said.

  “Nothing fits. We’re none the wiser.”

  *

  Marnie had her mobile switched off in the restaurant, so she missed the call when Anne phoned to report on their meeting with Parfitt. Anne left a message that she would ring back later.

  Although Ralph tried to give his full attention to the chicken tikka masala and Marnie did her best to focus on the lamb tarka dal, both of them found their thoughts wandering.

  Eventually Ralph said, “I wonder how Anne and Donovan are getting on.”

  “They’re on my mind too,” said Marnie. “And I was thinking about Zoë as well. She’s lucky to be alive. The whole Horselydown project is starting to feel doomed.”

  “It’s funny, isn’t it?” Ralph began. “In ancient times in some countries they used to slaughter an animal and let its blood run into the foundations of a building. They still do that in some countries, I believe, a sacrifice to the gods.”

  Marnie got the inference. “Dr Fennimore …”

  “And Zoë, too, almost,” said Ralph. “A sobering thought.”

  Marnie looked down at the succulent pieces of lamb on her plate and felt her appetite fading away.

  *

  The rest of the day lay before them, and they were free to do anything they wished. Anne suggested they head for the sea. Donovan pointed the VW northwards, and they chugged along until they found a broad beach, sparsely occupied, fringed by dunes and pine trees. Although the sky had become opaque and a light haze hung over the coast, they were happy just to unwind and do nothing in the warmth of the afternoon.

  While Donovan spread out the picnic rug on the white sand and inflated the air mattresses, Anne sat in the car and changed into shorts and a skimpy tank top. She walked down to the beach, where Donovan produced sunblock. When he came back after donning shorts, he found her smoothing the lotion on her legs. She passed it to him.

  “Lovely smell,” she said.

  Donovan nodded. “Always reminds me of family holidays.”

  “How do you pronounce the name of it?” she asked.

  Donovan read the maker’s name, Piz Buin, and pronounced it for her. “It’s like Pits Boo-een.”

  “German, of course,” Anne said, smiling.

  “Swiss, I think. Very popular for winter sports holidays … sun reflected off mountain snow and all that.”

  They idled away an hour or two reading magazines. When it was time to rub suntan lotion on each other’s backs, Donovan suggested Anne might take off the tank top. After a moment’s hesitation, she pulled it over her head and rolled onto her stomach. Both of them had naturally pale skin and after lying in the sun for part of the afternoon, they turned an unimpressive faint shade of shrimp.

  Anne looked at Donovan and laughed gently. “Even the Germans, I mean the Swiss, can’t guarantee a Mediterranean tan,” she said, “or even an Alpine one.”

  But Donovan was not smiling. Anne could see that his thoughts were miles away, and she knew what was occupying his mind.

  It was a happy afternoon in spite of all their concerns about Dick Blackwood’s disappearance, and they were relaxed and contented when they carried their beach things back to the car. Donovan said he had noticed a camping site not far from the sea that morning, and they set off to find it. When they arrived, it had plenty of space. The amenities were modern and clean and the charges reasonable.

  They set up the tent together and soon had their temporary home in good order. After their lunch with Dr Parfitt, neither felt hungry, and Anne was taking out a book to read when Donovan remarked that they were not far from the marina.

  “Do you want to go back there?” Anne asked.

  Donovan’s expression was thoughtful. “I wouldn’t mind a second look. You never know, he might be there this time. He has to be living somewhere secluded.”

  “But surely Dr Parfitt would know about it, if Dick was staying on his boat.”

  “Who says he doesn’t?”

  They put the camping chairs inside the tent and zipped it up. A minute later they were back on the road to Whittleham. Taking the turning to the marina, Anne was reaching to unbuckle her seat belt when Donovan continued past the grass verge where they had stopped earlier in the day. He drove straight into the car park, making no attempt to be inconspicuous. They climbed out and walked straight onto the pontoon leading to Arabella. Since their previous visit the tide had turned, and the boat was now resting on its twin keels.

  “Are you expecting things to have changed since this morning?”

  Donovan studied the boat intensely, seeming not to have heard Anne’s question. The halyards were tied to the stays with stretchers; the dinghy was securely in place; the sail was tightly covered and stowed away; the hull, decking and topsides were clean. Everything about Arabella was neat and tidy. The words ship-shape and Bristol fashion ran through Donovan’s mind. Most important of all, the padlock was still firmly in place.

  “Donovan?”

  “Look at the boat, Anne. What does she tell you?”

  “She looks … orderly. Whoever looks after her is very competent.”

  “Does she look to you like a boat that’s been lying idle for most of the year?”

  “Now that you mention it, I suppose she does give the impression of being well maintained … definitely not neglected.”

  “Exactly.”

  “But it doesn’t look as if Dick’s staying on board.”

  “No, it doesn’t. Now I’m wondering if we’ve got the story wrong or if maybe someone’s been paid to keep the boat in good order during Parfitt’s absence.”

  “I think you’re about to find out.” Anne was looking over Donovan’s shoulder.


  He turned to see a man approaching them down the pontoon. He was wearing a check shirt and jeans and had the weather-beaten tan of someone who spent much of his time in the open air.

  “Can I help you?” It was the standard phrase used to demand what you were doing, with the implication that you shouldn’t be doing it.

  “Good afternoon,” Donovan said. “We were rather hoping to find a friend here.”

  He held out a hand, which the newcomer shook with a grip that would bend mild steel. Anne followed suit, trying not to wince.

  “And who might that be?”

  “Our friend is Dick Blackwood. He’s an archaeologist and sails from here.”

  “Oh?” Another standard response, conveying the meaning, I’m trying to give you the benefit of the doubt, but you’ll have to do better than that.

  “My name’s Donovan Smith, by the way, and this is Anne Price.”

  Anne smiled, grateful that the blood was beginning to circulate in her hand again.

  “Guy Horsfall, manager of the marina. So, this friend of yours …”

  “Dick comes here to sail with Dr Gerald Parfitt of the University of East Anglia.”

  “Ah …” This message signified, Okay, you’re on the right track.

  “Arabella belongs to Gerald, of course,” Donovan added.

  “She does. What made you think your friend might be here?”

  “Just a thought. We came by on the off-chance. We had lunch with Gerald today and –”

  “Where was that?”

  “A pub round the corner from the cathedral in Norwich … The Mitre, I think it was called.”

  Horsfall nodded. “I know it. They do a pretty good Sunday lunch by all accounts.”

  Donovan turned and began walking slowly along the pontoon. “I was wondering …”

  “Yes?”

  “Has the boat been laid up for a while?”

  “Arabella laid up? What gave you that idea?”

  “I thought Gerald said he’d been away a lot this year. She doesn’t look as if she’s been abandoned for months on end.”

  “She’s been out regularly.”

  “You’ve seen Gerald quite often, then?”

  “Not exactly,” said Horsfall. “Now I come to think of it, I’m not sure when I actually last set eyes on him.”