The Chaplin Conspiracy Read online

  He had already taken a break three bodies ago. His request to use the bathroom had been granted, since it didn’t present an escape risk: the window was jammed, tiny and overlooked a precipice that fell away more than sixty feet down the steep, rocky side of the hill. But Winnifred wasn’t as stupid as she looked and sounded. She had frisked Rocco when he collected the next body, ensuring he hadn’t secreted a length of pipe or some other item that might potentially help him to break out of the crypt. So Rocco had believed there to be no chance of obtaining anything from the chateau that might be of assistance. Only now he thought otherwise. Winnifred would pat him down again, he knew, but she wouldn’t think of groping the stained and putrid clothes of the elderly lady that he was going to collect on his next trip.

  The walk back through the tunnel was worse each time. Grooves had appeared in the dust on the floor, carved by the lifeless legs of the people he had dragged, and now the dust was congealing into lumps and stains where unsightly fluids had spilled from their hosts. Rocco stepped through the doorway into the dungeon. He looked around for signs of the crowbar or anything that could perform a similar function. The squalid room was devoid of content, comprising nothing but the limestone blocks from which it was constructed, tinged with a hue that glistened as though the walls were alive.

  The spiral stairs spread the echo of his laboured breathing as he climbed.

  ‘He’s back again!’ called Justina.

  Rocco was used to this routine now. Whoever was guarding him would watch him closely and report his comings and goings. He reached the top step. Justina was waiting for him in the draughty corridor that led to the kitchen. The remaining bodies lay here already, waiting in turn for him to take them down.

  ‘I really need some water,’ gasped Rocco, exaggerating his state of exhaustion, though not by much. ‘Just a little break.’

  ‘Winnifred! You hear that? You got water for him?’

  Winnifred appeared from the kitchen with a glass of water. ‘How many left to do?’ she asked him.

  ‘I think there are seven more,’ he replied. ‘It is very physical work. Perhaps if I could be permitted to sit and rest for a few minutes?’

  ‘Sure,’ Justina replied. ‘We’re not monsters. You’re doing great work, bud.’

  Rocco eased himself stiffly onto the floor of the hallway, adjacent to the row of bodies. Opposite was a table on which sat the crowbar, the hammer and the chisel. Justina returned to the kitchen, Winnifred was still cleaning and decontaminating, rendering the crime scene spotless, working in a methodical way that suggested this wasn’t her first time. Neither woman paid attention to Rocco as he sat, sipping his water and contemplating his next move. He could see the knife that Winnifred always carried, strapped menacingly to her waist. Its serrations and curves glinted at him in the dim light, threatening to disembowel him at the first opportunity. He sensed Justina was not only in charge, but far less inclined towards violence than her associate. However, he wasn’t convinced he could take advantage of her weakness; a brute force escape via the crypt was still his best option.

  Or was he being stupid? It suddenly occurred to him how utterly idiotic he was being. The tunnel to the crypt was the only one accessible from the dungeon, but it wasn’t the only tunnel beneath the chateau. He had seen three others in the orbital scans. One led down to a water course and offered a highly discreet method of escape. The only question was where in the castle did it originate? If not from the dungeon, perhaps from another cellar room or a hidden staircase beneath a turret?

  He considered a risky dash to the derelict corners of the chateau in the hope of finding the entrance to the preferred tunnel, but was paralysed by second thoughts. It was a flawed plan. He didn’t know the layout of the castle. If he even found another passage it would be bricked up at one end or the other. No, he had to grab the crowbar and hide it in the clothing of the old woman who was next in line for his funereal services. The second Winnifred’s back was turned, he did precisely that, before announcing his intention to return to work and inviting her to frisk him.

  ‘Not this time,’ she replied, unwilling to touch the unsavoury stains that by now covered his clothing.

  Rocco dragged the body down the spiral steps, carefully holding the crowbar in place to ensure it wouldn’t fall out and crash loudly down the staircase. At the foot of the stairs he spread the body out on the steps so as to cause an inconvenient blockage to any pursuers. Not an insurmountable obstacle, but an unpleasant and unwelcome hindrance nevertheless. With the crowbar firmly in hand he sprinted along the tunnel to the crypt and turned the bricked up exit into rubble within minutes. The layer behind the bricks did indeed turn out to be plasterboard, and a few whacks smashed a ragged hole through which he could squeeze. Behind this hole were stone steps, rough-hewn and steep, leading to a trap door above his head. He climbed a few of the steps and reached up. The texture of the door proclaimed its antiquity: rough oak planks braced with cold, black iron. He pushed hard. It refused to move.

  Attacking the trap door with the crowbar had no effect. It was as if an almighty weight stood upon it. Then he heard something: a voice in the tunnel, Winnifred’s angry tones bouncing around the walls. Rocco turned off his torch and pushed upwards with all the force he could muster but the trap door remained secure. He glanced down at the hole in the brickwork that led back into the crypt. In the blackness he saw, at first, nothing. Then a hint of silver shot through the space. A blade, cutting the darkness in two. He deduced that Winnifred was climbing through from the crypt and there was no indication that Justina was around to mitigate her violent streak. Winnifred’s torch brought the base of the stairwell into dazzling relief. Rocco blinked rapidly, and the slashing of Winnifred’s knife took on a strobe effect as she advanced through the hole and up the steps towards him. With adrenaline surging through his muscles, giving him strength the like of which he had never known before, Rocco lined up his fists for one more push.

  ***

  Charlie’s pockets were bursting with souvenirs. Not the official kind that tourists were sold in the museum gift shop, but the real thing: priceless, irreplaceable artefacts from Saunière’s domain. He was standing in the priest’s ‘secret room’ at the side of the church wondering what to steal next when the floor beneath his feet began to vibrate. It was most disconcerting. He wondered if he had been spotted climbing under the rope barrier across the nave of the church and letting himself through the unmarked door which had led in turn to this tiny and peculiar space, barely larger than a closet. Had security officials activated a defence system designed to punish errant visitors? It was unlikely. The church contained three security cameras, feeding through to monitors in the ticket office by the gift shop. He’d seen those monitors: none of the cameras was working. He had nothing to worry about.

  But the banging beneath his feet didn’t stop. He looked down and could see the outline of a square hatch in the wooden floor. For someone of his generous proportions, entering such a trap door was not an option – Charlie was not designed for squeezing into tight spaces – but someone must be down there and it sounded as if they wanted to come out. He stepped off the door. The hatch flew up, carrying with it, on a wave of unstoppable momentum, the unexpectedly odorous Rocco Strauss.

  ‘What happened to you, man?’ asked Charlie, recoiling from the maelstrom of foul smells that seemed determined to invade his personal space. ‘You been checking Saunière’s sewers or something?’

  ‘Quick! Close it! Stand on it!’

  Charlie did as instructed using only one hand to close the hatch in the floor, the other being preoccupied with the need to squeeze his nostrils tight. ‘I gave up waiting for you in the restaurant,’ he said. ‘They didn’t sell donuts and I was getting bored. Had to get my reserve stash from the van.’

  ‘Those American women who bought the chateau – turns out they didn’t buy it, just murdered the owners. And now they’re after me,’ Rocco panted. ‘We need to run to your van. On the c
ount of three. Ready? One, two—’

  ‘Hey, wait a second, dude. You’re not coming anywhere near my wagon smelling like that.’

  ‘Charlie, this is life or death. Those women are crazy.’

  ‘Women, huh?’

  ‘No, Charlie. Don’t even think about it.’

  ‘You get yourself cleaned up. I got this.’

  ‘She has a knife, Charlie. She’s an escaped convict. She’s not going to be charmed with an offer of a stale donut. We have to leave Rennes. Now!’

  ‘Well you’re gonna ride at the back in the bathroom and as soon as we get down to the river I’m throwing you in.’

  ‘Whatever, Charlie. Let’s just get out of this madhouse.’ Rocco pushed at the small door that led out of the secret room. It didn’t move.

  ‘Push harder,’ said Charlie, his feet once again sensing forces trying to lift him off the trap door. With three hundred pounds of body weight on his side, not to mention the various stone and metal items that bulged from his capacious pockets, he wasn’t going anywhere until he was ready.

  ‘It’s stuck!’ shouted Rocco, now putting all his weight against the door, to no avail.

  ‘Did you think we would just let you go?’ called a muffled voice.

  ‘Is that you, Justina?’ asked Rocco.

  ‘I wanted to apologise for the way you’ve been treated,’ she replied.

  ‘Er, right. Can we go now?’

  ‘I am a researcher, like you, Rocco. I came here, just like you, intending to solve a mystery, that is all.’

  ‘But, unlike you,’ Rocco replied, ‘I didn’t choose a psychotic killer to help me. My associate is an obese university dropout with minor kleptomaniac tendencies. You might have to lock up precious artefacts when he’s around, but he wouldn’t hurt a fly.’

  ‘A fly? Sure I would,’ protested Charlie. ‘But not a lizard.’

  ‘I know,’ said Justina. ‘I’ve made a big mistake. She’s not my friend. She’s just an expert at digging tunnels. Things got completely out of control as soon as I started to trust her. Now I’m scared and I want out.’

  Rocco heard a scraping sound as Justina dragged away whatever item of furniture she had been using to block the door. The door opened. Justina stood before him, palms open, submissive and saddened.

  ‘This one of the chicks, huh?’ asked Charlie, noting that the vibrations beneath his feet had ceased.

  ‘I want to get away from Winnifred,’ explained Justina. ‘She scares me. I didn’t poison that family – that was her doing. I just wanted them drugged for a couple of hours so we could check out the secrets of their castle. Winnifred went too far. I covered by telling the guy in the souvenir shop opposite that we’d bought the place and sent the family to America, thinking that would buy us some time. Then you showed up and I panicked. I didn’t know what to do with you. Please, Rocco, you have to believe me.’

  ‘Donut?’ offered Charlie, reaching into a pocket and producing a paper bag that sprayed sugar dust onto the floor as he pulled it open.

  ***

  The yachts of Hayling marina gently throbbed on the pulse of the sea. Ruby gazed at the neat rows of gleaming white sailing yachts and the sexy motor boats with an instinctive expression of disapproval. Most of these expensive toys probably stayed put in the marina for fifty-one weeks of the year. It was the kind of decadence she could only dream of.

  ‘Which one is your friend’s boat?’ she asked Scabies.

  ‘I’m waiting to hear from him. Don’t know if he’s decided yet.’

  ‘Why do I get the feeling that we’re heading away from lawfulness?’ she sighed.

  ‘Need I remind you, Ruby,’ said Scabies, ‘that you’re already wanted by the police and are on the run. If you happen to hitch a ride in a borrowed vessel, it’s not gonna make things any worse for you. Let’s just get ourselves to France, spend a few weeks getting pissed and climbing into caves and graves, and by the time we get back the whole Stiperstones skeleton business will have been sorted out.’

  A phone buzzed in Scabies’ pocket. He looked at the message.

  ‘Well?’ asked Ruby.

  ‘He says it’s the white one.’

  ‘But they’re all white!’

  ‘Just kidding. It’s a motor boat called Dumpling Stew.’

  ‘Dumpling Stew? Doesn’t sound very fast,’ she mocked. ‘Anyway, which one is it? I can’t read all the names from here. Why doesn’t he show us?’

  ‘Well, as it turns out, he’s not going to be able to join us,’ said Scabies, ‘but he assures me Dumpling Stew is fuelled and ready and capable of getting us to Normandy. And more importantly, he’s left the keys on board and filled the fridge with sandwiches. Top bloke.’

  ‘There’s the old girl,’ said Ratty.

  The others looked at where he was pointing.

  ‘What, behind that floating rubbish dump?’ asked Ruby.

  ‘Sorrowfully not, old sea salt. Can you see the name on its side?’

  ‘Ratty, the whole boat is almost on its side. It’s listing horribly. And what’s it made of?’

  ‘Plywood, by the look of it,’ Ratty replied.

  ‘Yes,’ added the Patient. ‘It was the common boat construction material of the sixties and seventies, from which era this craft appears to date.’

  ‘So,’ said Ruby, ‘it’s made of soggy, leaky, old wood. Might as well be made of sliced bread. And every other boat in the marina is made of glass-reinforced plastic that never rots. That tub wouldn’t even make it out of the harbour. Why can’t we take a different one?’

  ‘You want to pay to hire a legit boat, Ruby?’ asked Scabies. ‘You’d have to show your passport and prove you’re a competent skipper.’

  ‘Beggars can’t be wotsnames,’ pointed out Ratty.

  The four of them approached Dumpling Stew. Scabies gave it a nudge. Its lines creaked. He unzipped the canvas that covered the rear of the open cabin and climbed aboard. The deck creaked too. ‘Come on. We should go before we miss the tide,’ he called.

  ‘Is it about to turn?’ asked Ruby, climbing aboard with delicate steps.

  ‘Is what about to turn?’ asked Scabies.

  ‘The tide.’

  ‘How the fuck should I know? It’s just the sort of crap sailors spout, that’s all.’

  ‘So does anyone here have the foggiest about seamanship and navigation and all that flimmery-flam?’ asked Ratty as he became the third person to make the deck groan under the unfamiliar weight of passengers.

  Ruby and Rat Scabies looked at each other and shook their heads. Then they turned expectantly to the Patient.

  ‘I think I can be confident of delivering us to Cherbourg before dawn,’ he declared, still standing on the floating dock.

  ‘Before Dawn? She got a slower boat, then?’ quipped Scabies.

  The Patient looked at him blankly. ‘I was referring to the length of the sea crossing, which from my recollection of the charts of this part of the world amounts to about ninety nautical miles, taking us six hours at an average velocity of fifteen knots, so if we leave just after sunset we would arrive—’

  ‘You sailed before?’ interrupted Scabies.

  ‘No,’ the Patient replied. ‘I don’t recall ever being this close to a boat, let alone piloting one, but I am fully versed in the theory of yacht skippering and navigation by the stars and mechanical engineering and the rules of the sea. It also happens to be the case that I am well read in matters of seaworthiness and timber rot and the statistical chances of a boat such as this suffering a catastrophic failure on a voyage of this length.’

  ‘What are you suggesting, old seadog?’ asked Ratty.

  ‘I am suggesting that you forget about travelling to France on this craft,’ he replied. ‘I studied the sea conditions in the forecast pinned to the door of the clubhouse. A weather front will pass by soon after the sun sets. We are going to encounter winds up to force six. If you allow a margin of error in the prediction and assume it could be as bad as force s
even, the stresses on the structure of this old wooden boat would be too great. One wave hitting the beam would split the boat at the seams and send us to the bottom of the ocean before we knew what was happening. And I can see that there is no life raft on board. This boat is not equipped for use out of sight of land.’

  Ruby, Ratty and Scabies re-joined the Patient on the dock.

  ‘So how the fuck are we getting to France?’ asked Scabies.

  ‘We have the greatest chance of success against an agitated sea if we take the largest vessel available,’ the Patient said, pointing at a gleaming, seventy-foot superyacht.’

  ‘Wow,’ exclaimed Ruby. ‘But we don’t have the keys to it.’

  ‘Or the sandwiches,’ pointed out Scabies.

  ‘I have a rudimentary knowledge of nautical electrical and security systems,’ said the Patient. ‘This yacht has two engines, a life raft, enough mass to ride a force ten storm, and, if it has sufficient fuel in its tanks, then I suggest we take it.’

  ‘That’s frightfully impressive, Patient chappy,’ said Ratty, ‘but do you think there’s a possibility that we might attract a tiny amount of attention from the Gendarmerie upon our arrival?’

  ‘I have already considered that scenario,’ the Patient replied. ‘This yacht has a tender capable of seating all four of us. We must drop anchor a kilometre off shore and take the tender to the beach. No need to get anywhere close to a marina or any officials.’

  ‘I’ll get the sandwiches from the floating death trap,’ said Scabies. ‘You get that gin palace fired up. I hereby appoint you captain, Mr Victim or whatever your name is. Deal?’ He spat in the palm of his hand and held it out for the Patient to shake.