Murder at the Treasure Hunt

by David W Robinson

  “Too easy,” Joe said.

  Maddy read the clue and frowned. “It is not easy to me. Bite worse than bark? A breed of dog?”

  “Look at the first line,” Joe suggested, “and make yourself a promise that you’re going to start doing cryptic crosswords.”

  Maddy was no wiser. “All right, smartarse. That first line makes no sense to me, what does it say to you?”

  “It’s an anagram of Count Dracula. This is pointing to the Dracula Experience along the harbour front.” He waved vaguely back towards the east bank of the river, its parade of shops and restaurants a part of the busier Whitby economy.

  Maddy could only gape in admiration. “Oh my God. You’re right.”

  “When am I ever wrong?”

  As they made their way back towards the town, Maddy laughed again. “I’ll check with Sheila and Brenda. I’m sure they’ll be able to tell me plenty of times when you were wrong.”

  “You see, one of the problems of arguing with women is they use unfair tactics.”

  “Like telling the truth?”

  “Like telling the truth. Anyway, there’s precious little point in talking to Sheila. She’s been very secretive about what’s happening this weekend.”

  “We all have our secrets, Joe.”

  He promptly disagreed. “Not between Sheila and Brenda. Whatever it is, it has to be pretty deadly for her to keep Brenda in the dark.”

  Maddy chewed her lip for the moment. “A man?”

  Joe laughed sarcastically. “Sheila? With another man? Never in a million years. She is one hundred percent dedicated to the memory of her husband. No, whatever’s going on, it can’t possibly be a man, so it has to be something really dark.”

  “I’m sure she’ll let you know in her own good time.”

  As they walked back, Joe concentrated on the East Cliff, and the bulk of the Abbey towering above St Mary’s. Like most of his members, he had been to Whitby many times, but he knew next to nothing of the real history of the Abbey. He knew it was the site of a Goth Weekend held twice a year, once in April, once in October, but he had the idea that the Goth culture descended upon Whitby because of its association with Dracula.

  “If only Bram Stoker had known what he was getting into.”

  “You disapprove, Joe?”

  “No. Not really. These kids have an identity, and when I think back to the late sixties and early seventies, we had our own identity then. I missed mods and rockers, but I was in time for the disco set.”

  They ambled along in silence for a few moments, until Maddy broke it. “Kim.”

  Joe showed no hesitation in replying. “Do you really want to get involved?”

  “Like you, Joe, I disapprove of murder. Disapprove is the wrong word. I hate the thought of anyone taking another person’s life, no matter how rotten that person might have been. Kim was a class one cow, but she didn’t deserve that. But this Detective Dalkeith—”

  Joe interrupted forcibly. “Detective Inspector Dalkeith. This is Great Britain, Maddy, not an American cops and robbers series. Our police are identified by their rank.”

  “Don’t be picky. You know what I meant. She’s too stubborn to see what’s under her nose. She will go for the obvious. But something tells me there’s nothing obvious about Kim’s murder.”

  Joe sighed. “Then you’re as bad as her.” He caught Maddy’s irritated glance, and promptly apologised. “I’m sorry, but you’re making the very mistake you believe Dalkeith will. Assuming. Don’t assume anything. Someone walked into that room late last night or in the early hours of this morning and stuck a knife in her back. We have no idea of the motive, and we have a range of suspects, all of whom are quite obvious.”

  Maddy accepted his gentle rebuke, but not without a comeback. “All right, Sherlock. What do we do?”

  “The same as we did when we first met in Windermere. The same as we did in Burnley when we were working for Sir Douglas Ballantyne. We get to each of the suspects, eliminate them one by one. We can eliminate Sheila and Brenda. I’ve known them since we were all kids, and I know they can both be snappers, but they wouldn’t hurt anyone.”

  They came to the landward end of the concrete pier, and ambled further along, past the Whitby Lifeboat Museum, busy with souvenir hunters and holidaymakers. As they moved further along, various fast-food stands on the left saw crowds flocking to them, and opposite the long, low shed of the fish market, there was a familiar queue outside the Magpie Café.

  “You know, I’ve never yet come to Whitby and seen that place without a huge queue,” Joe said.

  “That’s where reputation gets you. Isn’t The Lazy Luncheonette the same every morning? You and Brenda and Sheila always told me tales of the draymen from the Sanford Brewery queuing outside the door, waiting for breakfast every morning.”

  Joe did not answer. He was distracted by the sight of Alan Foster and his son, Ben.

  They were seated on a low wall 30 yards further on, Alan’s head bowed, barely looking, as if he didn’t quite know where to look, how to behave.

  Maddy was still chattering on the queues outside the Magpie and other cafeterias, and the crowds surrounding the burger bars, seafood stalls, and ice cream stands. Only half listening, Joe quickened his pace to join the Fosters, and when she registered their presence, realised where Joe was heading, Maddy hurried to keep up.

  Joe hinted that Ben should move up and give him room to sit next to Alan. The teenager, his lip curling in contempt, got to his feet, strode across the road and disappeared into The Pier pub.

  “Sorry about that, Alan. Didn’t mean to upset the kid.”

  “It’s not you, Joe. It’s me. He can’t understand why I’m so down.” Alan sat up straight, and sniffed back potential tears. “He thinks I should be cheering because Kim’s dead. He reckons it’s a chance for me and Tracy to get back together. He doesn’t understand.”

  Maddy sat the other side of him. “I don’t want to sound unkind, Alan, but I don’t understand the attraction either. I didn’t have much to do with Kim, but she always came across as a total bitch.”

  Alan dug into his pocket, came out with a handkerchief and dabbed at his eyes. “That’s because you didn’t know her, Maddy. Yeah, I know she was a cow with people, but that was down to what happened with her mother. You didn’t see her in her quiet moments. You weren’t there in the bungalow when we were alone. She was a solid, kind, faithful woman.”

  “Who stole you from your wife,” Joe pointed out.

  “Gar. Nowt of the kind. You’ve been listening to Tracy. Fact is, mate, we were on the down slide long before Kim turned up. I’m not bitter. Not these days. But I have to tell it like it is. I worked the trawlers back in the day, and I could be away from home for days on end. Tracy was too quick to let her knickers down when I wasn’t there. That’s the real truth, Joe. And when we split up, she ended up in all sorts of trouble, and it was a good couple of years before she got herself sorted. I had to take custody of Ben. That cost me my job, and I was unemployed until he was old enough to take care of himself after school. But he doesn’t know much about all that. He was too young to remember. He still thinks the sun shines out of his mother’s…” He trailed off.

  “I get the picture,” Joe said. “And then you met Kim, eh?”

  “Yeah. And this was before she won the lottery. I’m telling you, Joe, she was the best thing that happened me, I don’t care what anyone else says or thinks. I spent most of my time apologising for her behaviour, but it doesn’t change how I feel about her.”

  “So when it’s all sorted out, does everything come to you?” Joe did not intend for the question to sound so abrupt, but experience told him that it had to be asked and there was little to be gained by wrapping it up in pretty ribbons.

  Alan glared at him. “I don’t know. It depends what she’s put in her will. But even if it does, what of it? I didn’t kill her. I wasn’t even here last night. I was in Cragshaven, packing boxes, ready for the big move when s
he took over the hotel.”

  “And her will was with her at the hotel, was it?” Joe demanded.

  “No. Most of her important papers are at home, but her will is with the solicitor. Now, if you’ve done invading my privacy, do you mind if I carry on grieving for her?”

  Chapter Seven

  Maddy watched Alan storm across the road and into the pub. “That wasn’t very tactful, Joe.”

  “How tactful do you think the police will be? Because they’ll ask the same questions.”

  Maddy did not answer and they went on their way.

  A few yards further along, Pier Road became Haggersgate, a narrow street running away from the river’s edge. Joe and Maddy kept to the left, and down onto the quayside where pleasure craft, the kind that took daytrippers on a tour of the sea immediately beyond the harbour, were moored and taking on the next contingent of passengers. Chalkboards advertised the standard fare, and carried an advisory note that if the seas were too rough, the boat would sail in the opposite direction, upriver. Joe wondered how far up they could go. His knowledge of the local geography was not good, but he had the idea that the River Esk was not the broadest or deepest inland waterway in the North of England.

  “Far enough to keep the punters quiet,” Maddy commented as they drew near to the Dracula Experience. “Lot of canoeing, kayaking, and that kind of thing further upriver.” Her face split into a broad smile as she recognised two people hurrying towards them. “Brenda and Stewart. Where are they going?”

  Neither of them appeared happy, and Brenda in particular was wearing her most severe grimace. Dalmer, however, greeted Joe and Maddy with a half-smile. “How’s it going?”

  A tall, rangy individual who had been a member of the club for several years, Dalmer was a former tutor at Sanford Technical College, and one of the more middle class members who rarely turned up at either meetings or on outings, but when he did, he seemed to be in permanent opposition to the management trio of Joe, Sheila and Brenda. Which only made it all the more surprising that Brenda would accept him as a partner on the treasure hunt.

  “The treasure hunt is easy,” Joe said, “but Kim Ashton’s murder isn’t quite so clear cut. We’ve just been talking to Alan Foster and he reckons Tracy isn’t telling it like it is.”

  Brenda bestowed an intense stare on him. “I thought you were keeping out of this, Joe?”

  “Well, you know how it is.”

  Deliberately changing the subject, Maddy asked, “Where are you two going? Have you finished your five clues?”

  Brenda fumed. “This Wrigglesworth man is an idiot. You’d think when you set up a treasure hunt that the clues would all lead in a single direction, no matter how many twists and turns they take. But no. We’ve just read clue number four…” She glared at Joe again. “I’m not going to tell you what it is and I’m absolutely not going to give you the answer. But we’ve just read it, and it means that we have to go back to the bottom of the steps leading down from the whalebone arch and wait for the bu…” She trailed off. “Nearly gave it away there.”

  “Maybe he was trying to get us all back close to the hotel,” Joe suggested. “After all, you do have to check out with them so they can register your time, so it’s not like you could solve the five clues and then dash off for the rest of the day, enjoying yourselves, is it?”

  Brenda gave the matter a moment’s thought. “You might have something there, Joe.” She nudged Dalmer. “Come on, stewpot, let’s get a move on. Don’t want these two catching us up.” She winked and grinned at Joe and Maddy. “See you later.”

  They hurried off and Joe chuckled after them. “Some things will never change.”

  Maddy was not listening. “I wonder what they meant, wait for the… whatever she was going to say.”

  “She thinks we’ll struggle to get whatever answer they’ve arrived at.” He gestured towards the Dracula Experience. “But we’ve another clue to solve before we get that far.”

  Sporting a shop front finished in the drab, stone grey of a supposed Transylvanian building, most of the signage finished in blood red, it looked every inch the set of a Gothic horror movie. The window sported souvenir beakers augmented with dummies clad in Count Dracula’s familiar black, red-lined cape, and inside the reception area the eyes of a life-size dummy glowed a hypnotic red.

  “Very spooky,” Joe commented. “But isn’t it a bit unfair expecting us to pay to go in here just to get the clue?”

  Maddy tutted irritably. “We don’t go in, Joe. Read the clue from the lighthouse again. Look at the lower window and learn where you should go.” She pointed to the lower, bright window at the familiar treasure hunt card taped to the inside pane.

  She took out her mobile phone, crouched on her haunches, and brought the camera close to the window pane, before pressing the shutter. It took three attempts before she finally got a photograph clear enough for them to read the next clue.

  Make way for the jolly boatman

  In the style of Mr Goodman

  The gatekeeper holds lots at bay

  But he’ll help you on your way

  Joe’s brow creased once more. “The jolly boatman? I thought he was in Skegness.”

  “He’s the Jolly Fisherman.” Maddy’s clear brow frowned, too. “Who’s Goodman? John Goodman? He’s an actor isn’t he?”

  “The only other one I can think of is Sylvia Goodson, but it’s not Goodman, is it?”

  “Benny Goodman, I suppose. The musician.”

  “King of swing,” Joe replied.

  Maddy’s face lit up. “Of course. It’s the swing bridge.”

  Joe delivered an annoyed, “tsk” and gave her a quizzical look.

  Maddy spun to face the open river, and pointed to the bridge a couple of hundred yards from them. It was obvious to anyone that the clearance beneath the bridge was insufficient for anything but the smallest boats.

  “It’s a swing bridge,” Maddy explained. “When a boat needs to go through, they close the gates either side of the bridge to stop the traffic. The bridge then lifts on its central pivot, and turns through ninety degrees creating two clear channels for boats to pass through up or down river.” Her eyes burned into him pleading with him to understand. “Can’t you see it, Joe? To make way for the boatman in the style of Benny Goodman, you’d need to swing… the bridge.”

  The light dawned in Joe’s eyes, and they set off along the pavement, weaving their way in and out of the crowds, towards the crossing.

  “I’m very annoyed,” Joe said. “Brenda and Dalmer got that clue – obviously or they wouldn’t be on their way to the next one – but if you hadn’t been with me, I’d have struggled with it.”

  “Don’t beat yourself up, Joe. Abba’s more your thing than Benny Goodman.”

  Silence fell between them again, and as they walked on, Joe’s thoughts automatically turned to those matters he had learned from Alan Foster. He guessed Maddy was thinking about them too, and as if to confirm his ruminations, she spoke up.

  “It’s all very well Alan saying that Tracy was to blame for their separation, and him insisting that Kim wasn’t quite the bitch we all thought, but that doesn’t make him innocent. In fact, if you think about it, he’s probably the prime suspect. He’s the man most likely to get close enough to drive a knife into her like that.”

  “That hadn’t escaped me. Do you know where they lived in Cragshaven?”

  “Off the main road. A couple of streets from me. Her place is a bungalow, like mine.”

  “Do you think there’d be any value in our paying a visit later today?”

  “Burglary?” Maddy shrugged. “I don’t know what we’d learn, and we’d have to be sure that Alan Foster wasn’t there.” She smiled suddenly. “Then again, when you’ve been to Whitby as often as I have, going back to Cragshaven and having a nosy at how the other half lives is positively appealing. When? After dinner this evening?”

  “Consider it a date.”

  They came to the junction wher
e traffic lights controlled the flow of traffic across the narrow, single-track bridge. Looking both ways along the river, there was no sign of any waterborne traffic, and no possibility of the bridge being put to use. Joe expressed his disappointment. He would have liked a video of the bridge moving out and back.

  Maddy was more focused, made her way to the small, white hut by the open bridge gates, and there pinned to the door was the treasure hunt card, which she promptly photographed.

  Doff your cap at stern and bow

  Your queen is here and now

  Close to a right regal transport

  Your next stop you will be taught

  On reading it, Joe immediately checked the river again, and he was surprised when Maddy began to giggle.

  “What’s so funny?”

  “I’m sorry, Joe, I’m just thinking of Stewart and Brenda. They made a mistake. I’m sure they have.”

  Joe leaned on the wall and raised his eyebrows inviting further information.

  “Whitby was home to the only steam-powered bus in the world. She used to do tours of the town. And her name was Elizabeth.”

  Joe’s eyes lit up. “I think I remember it. You catch it at the bottom of the steps from the whalebone arch, don’t you? Just past the lifeboat museum.”

  Maddy shook her head. “No, Joe, you don’t. You used to, but not anymore. They sold the bus to Weston-super-Mare a few years ago.”

  Joe’s jaw dropped. “So what does the clue refer to?”

  “It mentions stern and bow. To me, that’s a boat, and we should be checking out the riverside, or one of the marinas, and I think we’ll find a boat named after the Queen.”

  “Elizabeth, Victoria, or whichever queen.”

  “Possibly even Boadicea.” Maddy led the way away from the bridge in the opposite direction Dalmer and Brenda had taken. “The marina is over this end of town. That’s where we’re most likely to find her.”

  As they made their way along from the swing bridge, passing the replica of Endeavour, moored in a corner of the dock where she was open for visitors, Joe glanced across the road and spotted Sheila.

  She was standing outside a jewellers shop and appeared to be arguing with a tall, slender man, who resembled Stewart Dalmer. In fact, Joe would have sworn it was Dalmer had he not seen the man with Brenda several minutes earlier. The man was untidily dressed in a pair of denim jeans and a dark T-shirt, with shabby trainers on his feet, and Joe, quite contrary to the advice he had given Maddy a few minutes previously, assumed that he was a local beggar. Whoever he was and whatever his status, he was clearly haranguing Sheila.