Quid Pro Quo

Chapter Fourteen

"So, what happened after the battle?" I asked, enthralled. Martha had spun the story like a web and I felt as if I had been there.

"The legionary's letter is damaged and illegible in places, but my father pieced together the remnants with other sources and a bit of deduction," she replied, closing the book and letting it lie in her lap.

"You said some scholars thought that the story was a myth," I probed.

"Well, we know from the records of Suetonius Paulinus that the fourth cohort suffered enormous casualties and had to be completely withdrawn from active service and reformed, but the documents don't record in which battle, or where.

No physical evidence of a clash of this size has ever been found. The commander, Titus, was mentioned in a letter from Paulinus to the Emperor, he was reported as having died while doing his duty for the Empire and so on."

"So, the dispute is whether the battle took place as the legionary described?" I said, pressing a little more firmly.

"Indeed, and if the golden votives of the Ordovices actually exist. One of the factors contributing to the confusion is that Paulinus went on to lead an invasion of Anglesey, Yns Mor as the ancient Britains called it. That assault is widely acknowledged as one of the most savage and bloodthirsty campaigns the Romans ever undertook in the British Isles. Casualties were extremely high on both sides and it is just as likely that the fourth cohort all died on Yns Mor tying to stamp out the hotbed of the druidic culture," Martha said, her emerald eyes sparkling with zeal.

"What does your father claim happened?" I asked.

"He believes that after the battle on the plateau, Titus gathered together the remnants of the fourth cohort, numbering about a hundred and fifty men all told. They took Caiius' head, the votive sword and shield that he had used in the fight, and many hundreds of coins and other artefacts from the Ordovice encampment," Martha explained.

"Gold?" I interjected.

"Most likely coins and jewellery. Titus tried to rejoin Paulinus before the invasion of Anglesey. He found the way blocked by large groups of Ordovices who had heard of the death of Caiius and were rallied against the Romans.

Titus must have felt that he didn't have the men to punch through the Ordovice warriors, and in any case the survivors of the battle were too weary to fight again so soon.

As the option to fight was removed, Titus tried to lead them to safety. His men were in no condition to clamber up and over the countless valley sides of North Wales. He was cut-off deep within hostile territory, and so he did what he thought best. He retreated eastwards, away from the legion and back towards Roman-held areas in what would be the modern-day border of England and Wales," Martha smiled, tiny dimples appearing high on her cheeks.

"Shropshire?" I confirmed. She nodded in response.

"My father believed that the fourth cohort had two options; try to get out to the North and the Roman city at Chester, or to head more eastwards and to come through what is now Oswestry."

The latter option would, I mused, have taken them right through this area.

"They had been marching only a few days when they began to be harassed by small numbers of druids and warriors who had learned about the taking of the votive sword and shield. Constant attacks, wounds and exhaustion meant that the number of his men dwindled as Titus neared Roman territory.

One night, he decided that his men could march no more. Instead, they camped and erected a simple picket fort on an old barrow. The Romans were formidable on the battlefield, but it was off it where they won their campaigns. Constructing fortifications was their particular strength and Titus' men would have been able to build a small fortified camp in their sleep," Martha enthused, her face and upper body became expressive as she relished imparting the tale. I didn't think there was any question now as to in what field Martha Wimple was a doctor.

"Titus sent a messenger to fetch help. Two days later, my father believes, the fort was attacked by a large band of Ordovices who had been tracking them. Each and every Roman was killed."

"That was here, in Pebble Deeping?" I asked. She nodded with a smile.

"The treasure?" I continued.

"It was never recovered. The messenger returned with reinforcements before the druids could find it."

"What about the legionary who wrote the letter, how did it get out?" I felt a small connection with this guy.

"The soldier must have died in the fort, the messenger that was sent for help took a bundle of tablets with him. The legionary's note to his wife, the primary source for all of this, was found in the 1960s in a ruined monastery close to Shrewsbury," Martha concluded, folding her hands in her lap.

"How sad." I had kind of hoped that he would make it.

"Everything is relative, Satchmo. There are few goodies in history. The Roman conquest of Wales, and the suppression of the druids, involved the brutal and bloody slaughter of men, women and children in the tens of thousands," Martha chided me, her voice school-teacher stern but her eyes smiling.

The whiskey still ran warm in my veins and I gazed at her face a little longer than I should. She caught me looking and averted her gaze. There was a familiar feeling deep in my chest, but I fought it down.

"What are you suggesting I do, if I really am in danger?" she said, her whole demeanour changing.

I hadn't thought that far ahead; Captain Spontaneous stumped by the fiendish logic of Practicality Girl.

"You could come and stay at Ty's place," I proffered, somewhat hopefully.

She looked at me in a way I did not fully understand; like a wise owl who had advised Adam against making apple pie.

"I don't think that's a good idea at the moment, but I appreciate the offer. Please do tell me anything else you find out," she replied.

Following her indication that the conversation was over, I rose to leave. If I'm honest, my macho pride was a little dented knowing that she seemed to feel safer alone.

"If you need anything at all, we are just down the road." I was feeling very paternal and just couldn't help myself.

"I know that Satchmo," she said as she showed me out.

*

I was halfway back to Ty's farm when there was a familiar tinkling in my pocket as my mobile phone rang. I answered it and was pleased to hear the gruff voice of Sam Gerart.

"Satchmo, son. How are you keeping?"

There were lots of things that I wanted to say to him. Not least that I had found a brutally murdered man and was now a little worried about the continuing safety of those around me. Instead, I forgot all of that and answered briefly and straightforwardly.

"I'm well, Sam. It's good of you to ring."

"Ah, well, about your man Edge..." he began to speak.

"Yes, did you find anything interesting?" I asked, relieved to have the temptation to spill the beans removed.

"I'm afraid not, Satchmo. I took Ernie out for a few pints and asked him to let me have a look at anything they had on the case," Sam responded.

"You didn't say why did you?" I checked nervously.

Using force contacts for personal gain could get us both into trouble.

"Course not, son! I didn't come down with the last shower of shit you know! Morgan Edge's name had come up in connection with another case and I simply asked my colleague on a neighbouring force to supply me with any information regarding his death," Sam scolded me like my father used to. Perhaps they taught that tone of voice on a police training course.

"Sorry Sam, I didn't mean anything by it," I said.

"I know lad. Now let's see here..." I heard him rustling some papers. "Morgan Edge died in an RTA. No other vehicles present, no signs of leaving the scene, no indication of misadventure. The investigating officers' notes indicate that it was just a case of an old man driving too quickly and hitting a tree. Seems the car caught fire and was totally burned out with Edge still inside," Sam's tone suggested certainty.

"Nasty way to go," I said, thinking aloud.

"Yes, but the lab report says he was most probably killed by the impact as the burning and position of the body didn't indicate that he had tried to get out of the car. The body was very badly burned but was the correct height and approximate weight of Edge. He was identified by personal items found in his wallet and was pronounced dead at the scene," Sam finished the report.

"The wallet was not destroyed?" I asked him.

"Guess not Satch, else how would they have got any ID out of it?" he responded with a rhetorical question; another nugget of police training no doubt.

"That's great Sam, thanks very much," I said, mulling over what he had told me.

"Open and shut, son. See you soon, we ought to catch up," Gerart replied before I hung up.

I found Edge sitting outside the cowshed in a patch of sunlight. His face was expressionless, but I noticed that he had changed his trousers and a small bonfire burned in the fire pit. I sat next to him and gazed out over the meadow, watching a haze of small insects flit about above the long grass.

"Ty, I'm not entirely happy about this thing with Jonah. We absolutely should go to the police," I tried to tell him how I was feeling.

"You have too much faith in the boys in blue," he responded without looking up from the fire.

"My father was a policeman," I snapped back a little viciously. Ty paused.

"I'm sorry," he said without managing to sound particularly contrite.

Deep down, I knew he was right. There was no chance of the police investigating our claims of a series of murders committed in pursuit of two-thousand-year-old treasure. The most likely scenario would see us having months of trouble. My licence would disappear and with it my job and the last connection to my family.

"What did you do with the body?" I asked.

"Don't ask questions the answers to which place you in an invidious legal position," Ty gave me a hard look; the old ask me no questions and I'll tell you no lies bit.

"How was Dr. Wimple?" he asked.

"She seems to be coping with her grief alright, but I think the whole situation is a shock to her. The death, the burglary and now the possibility of her being in danger have all hit her in close succession." I ruffled my hair thoughtfully, trying to dislodge an image of those green eyes from my mind.

"How good of you to scare her!" Ty said.

That was a little unfair. I was concerned and thought she ought to know all possibilities.

"She told me the story of the gold and her father's work," I changed the subject, before relating a brief version of the tale she had told me.

"Roman fort?" Ty looked down the meadow to the mound that the remains of the fourth cohort had supposedly occupied two thousand years ago. "So, where's the treasure?" he asked.

"She doesn't know. Her father's latest papers are missing, and she doesn't think the burglar got them," I replied.

"She says she doesn't know. She says that the papers are missing. If she had either of them, or thought there was any chance people were being killed over them, then why would she tell you anything?" Ty said.

It was hard to fault his logic. Not for the first time, I felt like an amateur.

We sat in silence, each lost in our own thoughts. My head was alternately filled with images of a flame-haired priest wielding a golden sword, the blood encrusted corpse of Jonah twisting in the breeze, and the face of Dr. Martha Wimple.

"Don't get too attached to the good doctor, Satchmo."

I turned to stare at the side of Ty's head. How did he do that?

"I beg your pardon?" I replied; innocence personified.

"You know precisely what I mean. To go giddy over her now would be the worst possible timing. It's also not very professional," Ty said in that flat emotionless tone of his.

"She is only a girl," I tried my best to sound indignant, but realized it was pointless. "Is it that fucking blatant?"

"Satchmo, if it were any more obvious you would trip over your own tongue. What's more, we really don't know what her role in any of this is, yet," Ty smiled.

"You can't be suggesting that she could be involved in any of these deaths?" I was indignant on Martha's part, realizing too late that this was just proving Ty's point.

"Youth, intelligence and beauty do not preclude the ability to do great harm, Satchmo. In fact, I have found that in many cases those traits in reality facilitate it," he lectured.

Wonderful, I thought, more potted philosophy from a guy who lived off-grid in a garden shed. I had already formed my opinion of Dr. Martha Wimple and was categorically certain that I didn't want it disrupted by anything quite so terminal as the potential for her to be a scheming and manipulative murderer.

We were interrupted by the sound of a car grinding down the drive. We rose and walked to the front of the farmhouse where an enormous maroon Rolls Royce had just pulled up. The paint was so highly polished that it resembled a huge red mirror and chrome trim gleamed in the sunlight, dazzling me.

The driver's door swung open and a gargantuan man got out, a chauffeur's uniform that was many sizes too small was stretched across his chest. He burst from the jacket in bulges like meat from a split sausage. I immediately recognized him as one of the two behemoths that had attacked us several days ago, an observation that was confirmed when the hulk limped to open the back door of the roller.

Tweedledum held the door as the occupant of the back seat climbed out and brushed some creases and imagined specks of dust from his very sharp suit. Tweedledum turned around and saw Ty and me watching him, he pointed a meaty arm in our direction and said something to his boss. The man patted Tweedledum on the bicep and strode towards us, his enormous and incongruous chauffeur lumbering a respectful distance behind.

The man approaching us looked shifty. First impressions count for a lot, and this man looked like an egg-eating snake in a bird's nest.

His suit was immaculately tailored to hide the suspicion of a paunch, and waves of grey hair were slicked and combed back across his head. As the man came closer, he held his right hand out in offering, a heavy gold curb chain hung from the wrist and two large sovereign rings adorned his third and little fingers. He flashed a predatory smile and I swear I saw fangs.

Neither of us took the hand. Ty looked at it as if the man had just wiped his arse with it.

"Martin Michaels Jnr." he said. "Which one of you fine gentlemen is Tyrone Edge?" Realizing that no one was going to shake his hand, he dropped it casually to his side, the rictus-like smile never leaving his lips.

"I am," Ty said.

"Is there anywhere we can go to discuss a little business?" Michaels asked.

"Discuss business? After those goons attacked us?" I blurted incredulously. Was this man insane?

He turned a cold gaze to me. "I don't believe I've had the pleasure, Mr?..." Michaels' eyes never left my face.

Tweedledum leaned close and whispered something into his ear. "Ah yes, Mr. Turner."

Interesting, I thought. How the hell had they managed to identify me?

"You see, Mr. Turner, my associates here were merely defending themselves from your vicious and unprovoked attack. We have the records from the hospital that specify just how vicious,"

I nodded slowly, a blatantly unveiled threat.

"Inside," Edge pointed to the farmhouse. "But King Kong stays out here."

Michaels waved off the gorilla in the chauffeur suit. "Wait in the car, Norman."

Norman? I was expecting something more brutal somehow.

*

We sat around the kitchen table. Michaels kept his arms in his lap; afraid of the dust on the table.

"Let me get straight to the nub of the issue Tyrone. I can call you Tyrone?" he had a smile fixed to his face like an old surgery scar.

"You may call me Mr. Edge," Ty responded, his eyes flashing dangerously.

Michaels' smile twitched at this and then continued, unruffled. "Tyrone, there's a lot of your uncle in you. Let me fill you in on some background. I am a property developer, I develop property."

"No shit!" I muttered under my breath, attracting a sharp glance from Michaels.

"You will be aware that the current property I am developing is on land in Burrell Deeping," he paused and reached inside his suit jacket to retrieve a glossy pamphlet.

This was the development we had heard the villagers discussing, the cause of so many of them having sold-up and leaving Pebble Deeping.

"My plot in Burrell Deeping is a beautiful tract of land. Land, in fact, that butts up to this property."

"My property," Ty corrected him.

"Yes, indeed, for now," Michaels left that hanging in the air for several seconds before continuing. "Some months ago, I made an exceptionally generous offer to your uncle for this land. An offer that, I am afraid to say, he turned down most rudely. Now, I am not a man to hold a grudge..." Michaels laid the tips of the fingers of both hands onto the tabletop and began to inspect the nails.

"So, now that he's in the ground, you'll make the offer to Ty," I chipped in, attracting a glare from Michaels.

"My, my; you have a way with words, Mr. Turner. Perhaps that has something to do with the parlous state of your business?"

I gaped in response. No snappy comeback here.

"Let me tell you, Mr. Turner, I am in a position to make a very appealing offer to Tyrone. My offers are always appealing, one way or another, and many people from Pebble Deeping have seen the wisdom of accepting them."

"Which part of your offer involves the two chaps we had the pleasure of meeting a few days ago? 'Not welcome here' wasn't it?" I said. He didn't so much as blink at that.

"Your offer is declined," Ty said, his voice flat and his eyes hard.

"Now Tyrone, don't make the same mistake as your uncle. You haven't heard the price yet. Nobody wants any unpleasantness," Michaels responded. His face had become icy and a flash of vitriol crossed his eyes.

"Is that a threat?" I blurted.

Self-control was not my strong suit. I mentally scratched professional poker player off the list of potential fall-back careers.

"The last bit unpleasantness of yours we encountered, we broke off and stuck up your arse!" I jabbed a finger in his direction.

"Your offer is declined," Ty repeated.

"I hope you don't regret this, Tyrone," Michaels said as he rose from the table, shaking his head slightly.

"If anything causes you to change your mind, please don't hesitate to contact me," he said, dropping a card on the table and marching stiffly out to the waiting Rolls Royce.

We followed him out and stood on the doorstep in the golden glow of the setting sun. Norman cast us a look of menace personified before turning the car around and driving haltingly towards the road.

"Satchmo, if you ever become tired of the private detection business, I think you should seriously consider the diplomatic service," Ty said as the rear car vanished out of sight.

"Hilarious," I replied.

"Or maybe a stockbroker, you show such composure in high pressure business transactions. 'Stuck it up your arse'..." he laughed.

On reflection, I concede I rather lost my cool.

I looked out at the sun dipping below the forested hill, the sky aglow like burnished copper and streaked with pink and purple. The air smelled sweet out here. If I owned this land, I wouldn't sell it to a sharp-suited shitbag either.

I was brought out of my reverie by a deep and thunderous rumbling of my stomach. I realized that since returning my fish lunch so violently to the land, the only sustenance I had enjoyed weresome hefty belts of whiskey. Ty obviously heard the protestations of my neglected gut because he headed to the back of the Land Rover.

"Let's eat. We have some things to discuss." He jumped into the back of the 'rover and rummaged momentarily. A camouflaged stuff sack flew from the back and landed on the ground with a thump. Ty followed with a broad-bladed axe in his hand.

"I'll chop some wood; you sort the dinner out," Ty called, setting about some logs with his axe, making a pile of firewood about a foot long and as thick as your wrist.

I delved into the stuff sack. Among the variety of foodstuffs I found a large bag of paella rice, onions, carrots, garlic, some chicken stock cubes and a dried sausage that looked like a preserved donkey penis. In a little pouch in the bottom was some herbs and spices, I dug out salt, pepper, basil and what looked suspiciously like saffron.

"What are we eating?" Ty asked, he was using his pocketknife to cut curls of wood into one of the pieces of firewood, making it look like a little Christmas tree.

"Hmm, well it looks like we're going kind of ersatz Spanish," I replied, sniffing the sausage distrustfully.

"Sounds like a contradiction in terms," Ty smiled.

I took a cooking knife from the bag and chopped the onions, carrots, garlic and donkey dick sausage into fine pieces. Ty had constructed a fire and had set light to it by scraping the back of his knife against a little piece of metal to produce sparks. The lit kindling caught his little Christmas tree and soon the whole pile was ablaze.

"I need to boil some water," he said cutting a notch in a sturdy stick and stuck it into the ground over the fire.

I poured some water into a jerrycan and added some stock cubes. Ty passed me a large frying pan from the back of the car, which must have looked like a tinker's yard, and I set to frying the sausage in it.

"So, what do we have to talk about?" I asked. The light had almost gone, and the dancing flames were becoming faintly mesmeric. "Besides finding a man murdered, scaring beautiful women and being threatened with harm by a puffed-up estate agent from Birmingham?"

The oil had begun to run from the sausage and smelled wonderful. I threw the onions, garlic and several large handfuls of rice into the pan, coating it all in the orange oil.

"There is an aspect of the appearance of Mr. Michaels Jnr. that begs a question," Ty said.

I seasoned the pan and poured a good glug of the boiling stock into it. "How a loving God can have created such a turd, and then given him wealth?" I joked, throwing in the carrots and more stock as the rice absorbed it.

"Honestly, Satchmo. The man as much as threatened us with violence when I refused his offer. Morgan also refused his offer," Ty concluded pointedly.

The rice was nearly cooked, and I poured the last of the stock in.

"So, it is reasonable to assume that he threatened your uncle as well," I agreed with Ty's assertion.

I finished the dish with a generous pinch of the saffron. It was thick and creamy, and I motioned to Ty that it was done.

"Exactly, and probably a number of other villagers who subsequently sold and left. Now my uncle is dead," Ty muttered. I saw his connection, but it sounded a little far-fetched.

"There is another factor to consider," he continued. "This land backs onto the development site in Burrell Deeping, so does Professor Wimple's cottage and its gardens..."

"...and now the professor is dead," I finished his sentence for him. It was a hell of a coincidence.

"It might have absolutely nothing to do with the gold or some crazed ancient history buff thief," I said, explaining things to the fire in case it was having trouble keeping up.

"It could just be all about this bastard getting more land for his development," I pondered aloud.

We both tucked into the food straight from the pan, and it was bloody good if I say so myself, which I do.

"Well, Sherlock, it seems we have some leads for you to sink your teeth into now," Ty smiled.

We scraped the pan clean in record time and I lay back in grass, growing wet with dew and letting out a contented sigh.

I was considering this turn of events in the light of the info I had received from Gerart about the death of Morgan. Perhaps the crash had not been an accident. I didn't want to broach the subject with Ty unless I had something more solid to go on.

"Wasn't that nice?" I sighed, Delia Turner seeking praise for the normalcy of the evening repast. "A meal for which you didn't have to hunt anything, pull anything out of a hedge, or scrape anything off a road?"

Ty smiled and looked at me with his deadpan eyes.

"You don't want to know what's in the sausage, then?"