Moffat's Secret

by J. C. Williams

  Henry remained silent waiting for more. Hoping for more. Some assurances.

  “Besides, Dr. Clark, Henry, if you know what it is ‘exactly’, as you put it, then you know more than I and probably more than Mr. Haskin.”

  Henry weighed the words and all the other signals he was receiving. There was always something about Boyer, something held back, something Henry distrusted. Thirty years of listening to excuses from his students gave him a practiced ear and eye to recognize lies.

  Boyer was astute as well and was concerned about Henry’s silence.

  “Henry, whatever it is that you find, Haskin, me, Stella Enterprises, all of us, expect it to be important to the scientific community, the religious community, and the world. Sharing it in the right way and at the right time is a given.”

  The right words, but delivered too late, thought Henry. He let the matter drop. His mind made up.

  “The second reason that I wanted to meet is security. I believe I may be followed. I have uncovered information that makes me think there are other parties interested in my research. I fear that our phones may not be secure.”

  “Henry,” Boyer said, “I am sure there are many that would be interested in knowing what you have learned. Have you shared anything with anyone?”

  Henry noted the continued use of his first name and the slightly condescending tone. Boyer was fishing. Henry decided that he would not tell Boyer about Archer.

  “I agreed in the contract to keep all of the information I gather to myself. And, of course, with you. I uphold my contracts.”

  “I’m sorry, Henry, I was not implying that you didn’t, I was just trying to see what may have caused an interest in your work, and your security concerns. I was hoping to also get a written report from you. We haven’t had anything this last month. You had been good at keeping us posted weekly. You still maintain your daily journal, don’t you?”

  “My journal is intact. Has been for thirty years. I believe there is a group who is watching this quest. I don’t think I am the first to make the quest.”

  “Henry, you are correct in that you are not the first. There has always been the myth of protectors and watchers, ever since the Knights Templar. It’s probably that, that and your imagination as you are getting closer.”

  “Could be. However my imagination has taken the form of seeing the same couple in Mexico, Israel and yesterday in England.”

  Boyer’s phone buzzed.

  “Excuse me Dr. Clark, I must take this. It’s about my meeting tomorrow.”

  “Don’t get up, Mr. Boyer. I need to get a refill. You?” Even as he asked, Henry noticed the beer was not touched.

  At the bar, Henry chatted with one of the older patrons, as he waited for the bartender’s attention. They exchanged the pleasantries of - you are from America – what state - I’ve visited Disney World twice – I lived here all my life.

  Henry returned to the table with his second double Bushmills. He didn’t bring a beer.

  “Dr. Clark. Would you feel better if I put someone to watch your back? To protect you?”

  “I don’t know if that is necessary. I don’t expect a confrontation. Not one that requires protection.”

  “I’ll do it anyway. It will help if you do not try to be evasive in your actions. You may lose my man but not your couple. I would also ask that you take precautions with your journal. Use the safe in your room or if there is none, use the hotel safe. Where is your journal now?”

  “In my room.”

  “Well, you know what you need to do.” Boyer lifted his beer and drained it. “That is very good,” he smiled. “I think I would like another. Henry, would you mind getting it, while I alert my ride and the pilot?”

  “Sure. I’ll use the restroom while I am up. Take your time.”

  Henry went back to the bar and asked for a half-pint. Boyer drank part of it. A few minutes later, Boyer’s phone buzzed.

  “Henry, my ride is here. Sorry that I need to go. Perhaps, before I leave England we can meet for dinner. How long do you expect to be in York?”

  “Just a few days. I’ll let you know Mr. Boyer.”

  Boyer left, carrying his umbrella and taking his attitude with him. Henry leaned back, relaxed, and drank his whiskey. Perhaps the meeting had him on edge, more than he realized. Perhaps the second whiskey was kicking in. Whatever it was, Boyer’s departure left Henry feeling lightheaded.

  Chapter 14

  Archer must have slept. Perhaps as much as two hours of the seven-hour trip. The cabin lights came on with the announcement of a small meal.

  “Good morning, Chad,” Vivian said.

  “I guess I slept,” he yawned. “I’m hungry.”

  “How long is your layover?”

  “About an hour and a half.”

  “I have to wait that long as well, before my train leaves for Cambridge. Why don’t we skip this caloric snack and I’ll show you a more proper English breakfast.”

  “Deal. If I can buy.”

  “No worries,” she said. That sounded proper British, Chad mused.

  ----------

  The two travelers had different lines through customs. One for British passports. One for non-British. Vivian was waiting for Chad as he emerged onto the concourse for connecting flights. The airport restaurant was called Brighton’s Best. At six in the morning there were only two tables occupied.

  “This is still airport food, Chad, not the best representation of a good English breakfast, but it will give you the idea. You need to come my house some morning, you and your friend. Then I’ll show you what breakfast really can be. Speaking of your friend, tell me about him. I am single you know.”

  Chad laughed. “I don’t think he would be your type, Vivian. He’s a bit set in his ways. Been on his own for fifteen years.”

  “How old is he?”

  “Fifty five.”

  “H-m-m-m. A young one. My friends may even classify him as a boy-toy.”

  “He’ll enjoy hearing that.”

  “Do you have pictures?” she asked nodding toward his laptop with a leer. He showed her pictures while they waited.

  The breakfast came.

  “Those are called bangers. Ah, and proper bacon. Not the fatty thin stuff you get in America.”

  “It looks like a piece of country ham. Baked beans? For breakfast?” Chad said as he poked around the food.

  “Heinz. Officially they have to be Heinz. Or, homemade. I do my own.”

  “Tomatoes for breakfast are different. What happened to the toast?” he asked.

  “It’s not toast. It’s fried bread. Bacon drippings, a little lard and butter.”

  “I recognize the fried potatoes, and of course, the eggs, but what’s that other thing?”

  “Black pudding. Sliced. It’s not like your pudding at home. I’ll tell you what’s in it later.”

  “Okay. Well, I’m digging in.”

  “Good. I’m going to give you my phone number. I live just outside of Cambridge, in a village called Trumpington. It’s small. There are just eight thousand of us. Perhaps you and Dr. Clark could establish an excavation there? We were in existence since the year 1086. Not me personally, Chad. I know what you were about to say. There were thirty peasants living there then.”

  “Perhaps we could visit. How far are you from Derbyshire?”

  “A couple hours. Is that where you and Dr. Clark are going to be?”

  “We were there on a dig several years ago.”

  “A pretty area,” she said. “If you are staying in York, that’s less than three hours from me. You must come visit.”

  “If we can, Vivian. I don’t know his plans. I’ll try.”

  The two parted ways after breakfast. Chad left one of the sausages, most of the black pudding, but ate all of the eggs, the bacon, and the potatoes. Chad went one direction. Vivian the other. She gave him a hug.

  Chapter 15

  Archer walked wearily into the Charles House Inn after another hour flight to Leed
s and a fifty-minute drive to York. Red cushioned armchairs and matching two-seat sofas beckoned guests to hang about. Large oil paintings adorned the walls, displaying portraits of people that Chad did not recognize, one of which he was sure would be the Charles of the Charles House Inn. Two people staffed a dark oak reception desk, one a man, one a woman, both elegantly dressed in well-pressed clothes and matching smiles of welcome. They stood guard in front of a wall of keys. Real keys hanging below room numbers. Chad didn’t know that the keys were for show, the hotel having gone to plastic more secure electronic locks five years earlier.

  “May I help you?” the man asked, his hands resting on top of the desk.

  “Hi. I’m Chad Archer. Dr. Clark has reserved a room for me.”

  The man didn’t change expression. “Ah, yes. Dr. Archer. We are expecting you. Can you wait just a moment? Our manager wishes to have a word.” He exchanged a look with the other desk clerk.

  Almost immediately, a short, mustached man in a three-piece suit, appeared next to Chad.

  “Dr. Archer. Welcome to the Charles House. Could you come with me please? Jeffrey, can you take care of Dr. Archer’s luggage?”

  Great, thought Chad. My room is not ready. He really wanted to get another hour or two of sleep. It was ten, local time, but only six in Boston. Dutifully, he followed the manager to his office.

  “Please have a seat, Dr. Archer.”

  Chad sat. The manager seemed nervous. An empty feeling in his stomach told Chad this was not about the room.

  The manager cleared his throat.

  “Dr. Archer. I have some bad news. Last night, your associate Dr. Clark was killed in a traffic accident.”

  Chad hardly registered the managers next sentence, “The police would like to talk with you.”

  Chapter 16

  Chad’s thoughts raced. “What?” he asked.

  The hotel manager spoke softly, “I’m sorry, Dr. Archer. It must be a shock.”

  “What happened? When?”

  “I apologize. I don’t know the details. The police came by early this morning and asked if Dr. Clark was registered here. I spoke with them briefly. I told them Dr. Clark had made a reservation for you. They would like to see you. However, would you like to rest first or clean up?”

  Chad knew there was something he should say, something he should ask, and something he should do. All those somethings escaped him. He searched for a hold on a reality amid rapidly swirling thoughts.

  The manager waited patiently.

  Finally, Chad focused. “Where are the police? How do I get there?”

  “The regional station is about thirty minutes from here. They will send a car for you. Why don’t you take a moment to clean up? I’ll call them.”

  “Okay,” Chad said surrendering himself to be led away.

  Jeffrey showed Chad to his room. Chad took no notice of the room, the bed, the pictures, the curtains, or anything else except his luggage. He found a clean shirt, washed his face, and shaved. He sat motionless on the edge of the bed. Waiting. His mind churned. Random thoughts. One became clear. Chad clutched it - Julie.

  He looked through his phone to be sure he had a number for her. He didn’t. Maybe he should boot his computer and look up her location and number. His mind was beginning to function. His arms and legs remained still.

  He jumped at the sudden ring of the phone.

  -------

  Staring blankly out of the window, Chad watched as the old part of York gave way to newer buildings. New was anything built in the last hundred years. Finally, the office buildings and apartments were replaced with green grass, planted fields, stone walls, and tidy homes crowding the sides of the road. Farmers were plowing, road construction workers dug ditches, and large trucks advertising their products lumbered past going in the opposite direction. Life went on.

  He saw signs for the villages of Dunnington, Wilberfoss, and Barmby Moor. The number of homes increased momentarily, then the police car swiftly swept past them. The larger village of Pockington materialized swallowing them in a comforting patchwork of flowered yards and country gardens.

  “We’re here, sir.” The constable repeated.

  Chad was ushered into a small conference room. Six hardback, light brown, metal chairs surrounded a bare gray table. Very cold thought Chad. It must serve a purpose. He was considering this when, a tall, thin man with jet-black hair and a bushy mustache entered. Chad noted he was jacketless, wore a white shirt, and a narrow red tie. Shaking his head and clearing his mind, Chad focused. He knew he needed to concentrate, listen, and contact Julie.

  “Dr. Archer. Thank you for coming. I’m Chief Inspector Wellesley. My condolences on your loss.”

  “Thank you. What happened?”

  “If you don’t mind I need to ask you a few questions on how you know the victim.”

  The victim sounded cold, Chad thought. Nevertheless, he responded affirmatively. “Go ahead.”

  “What was your relationship? Business? Friend? Family?”

  “Henry Clark is a friend. He was my teacher and mentor and we’ve known each other ten years.”

  “Thank you. Normally, we would ask a family member to make the identification for us. Would you be willing to do that? It may spare the family a trip? He has family?”

  “Yes he does. He has a daughter. Julie. I should contact her. How is that handled? And, yes, I can make the identification if it helps.”

  “Early this morning, at six o’clock, we notified the American Embassy. We had his passport. You were actually listed as the emergency contact. Coincidentally, when we went to the hotel, we learned you were arriving today. The Embassy will locate his next of kin through records.”

  “I’d like to call her. I don’t want her to get a call from a stranger.”

  “I expect they will use the local authorities to communicate in person.”

  Chad though about that. He recalled that she was on the local school board, so she would be well known to authorities in the area. Still, a local contact might still be a stranger.

  “I’d rather I call.”

  “Fine, Dr. Archer. I’ll get you a private place.” The detective stood.

  “Wait. First I need to know what happened. What to tell her. I also need to look up her phone number.”

  DCI Wellesley sat back down.

  “I’ll tell you what I can. At about fifteen minutes past one this morning, Dr. Clark left the Crossed Arms pub. It was raining. The pub is two blocks from his hotel. He was struck by a car. It occurred in the middle of the block, that is, not at a corner. The lighting there is poor. He was dressed in dark clothes. We think he was looking at traffic in the wrong direction. Unfortunately, that often happens to those accustomed to traffic flow that is different from the UK. Making it worse, the street curves at that point. Dr. Clark appears to have stepped off the curve directly in front of a car. He was thrown several feet and probably died instantly. The driver called the police. An ambulance was called. Dr. Clark was declared dead at the hospital.”

  “Was the driver speeding? Drunk?”

  “Neither. The driver was a single mother, who had just left work at one o’clock. We took measurements. Stopping distance. Position of the body and such. Officially, all of this will be reported at the coroner’s inquest. Unofficially, she was doing the thirty-five mile per hour speed limit.”

  “That was fast enough to kill him?”

  “Dr. Archer, I don’t know how much more you want to know. Are you a medical doctor?”

  “No. Not a medical doctor. However, I’d like to know everything.” Chad was fully alert and taking in all of the details. He was finally able to detach himself from Henry to listen. At least, for the moment.

  “Okay. When Dr. Clark was struck by the car, he was thrown into a parked car with enough force to kill him. The back of his head hit the headlight of the parked car.”

  “You said it was poorly lit?”

  “The streetlight in that section had been broken two
days ago.”

  Chad sensed there was more. “What else?” Chad asked.

  “Dr. Clark was drinking. Heavily. Someone even helped him walk out. Dr. Clark pushed the man back to the pub and said he did not want help.” The detective paused. “Sorry. You asked for everything.”

  “England has an extensive CCTV system. Was this captured on any of the cameras?”

  “No, it wasn’t.”

  Chad registered and filed all of the information.

  “Thank you. Can I use an office now?”

  “Certainly. First, if you don’t mind can you do the identification?”

  --------

  Chad couldn’t help but contrast the room beyond the glass with what he thought was a barren conference room upstairs. The morgue was even worse. The light gray walls, the subdued lighting in the hall, the bright lights in the morgue room, the stainless steel gurneys, and the white concrete washable floor produced an involuntary shudder.

  The DCI waited next to Chad. An attendant on the other side of the glass wheeled a cart covered with a cloth up to the window.

  “Before you look, you should know that his head was banged up rather badly. Are you ready?”

  “Yes.”

  The attendant pulled back the sheet from the face. Chad was surprised. He expected death to be hard, and cold, and gruesome. Henry looked asleep.

  “It’s Henry,” Chad said softly. He turned away.

  -----

  Chad booted his laptop and looked up Julie Stuart in Madison, Georgia. It was seven thirty her time. He took a deep breath and called.

  The phone was answered after three rings. He recognized the voice that answered, but asked anyway. “Julie? This is Chad.”

  “Hi, Chad. How are you?”

  “Julie, I’m in England.” He paused. He assumed she knew Henry was in England. Her silence was deafening and he knew that she knew. This was just like four years ago when the earthquake created the cave-in. “Julie, I have bad news. Your father died last night in a traffic accident.”