They enjoyed an exceptionally good pub lunch. When Ralph went to pay the bill he asked Rob, the publican, if he had seen the recent article in the papers about Daniel Kaminsky and the arrest of James Bradley. At first he was taken aback by such a direct question, but once he got past his initial reaction, he was only too happy to talk about ‘local goings on’, as he put it.
“I know it’s ill to talk of the dead, but that Kaminsky lad was trouble with a capital ‘T’; drunk and ready for a brawl when he weren’t chatting up the ladies, he were; fancied himself that one; only a matter o’ time before someone took a crack at ‘im.” He paused as he served a customer.
“Right Mick remember me to your wife and hope she’s better soon.” He turned back to Ralph.
“You think it was more than an accident up at Sherracombe, then?” Asked Ralph.
“I’m not saying that. I told the police all I know. But that bloke what came in, James Bradley, the one what got arrested, I recognized him when they showed me his picture. It was all in the papers. I told Sergeant Jones that he was havin’ a right go at Daniel. But then sometimes when Daniel had been on something, he could flip. Charmin’ the ladies one minute, then bang he was off. Rumour ‘as it that he dabbled with the weed, and well, it don’t mix with the drink. I’ve seen it before.”
Ralph said nothing about knowing James: albeit through Marian. He paid the bill and left a tip for the young girl who had served them.
“You seem to be getting along alright with mein host,” said Katie as they walked back to the car. “Anything interesting?”
“Seems he was the one that told the police about James. He also said that our Mr Kaminsky was a bit of a romancer and most likely a regular drug user. But that expression you used just then reminded me of my schooldays,” said Ralph.
“What expression? I never said anything.”
“You did. You said, Mine Host.”
“So what’s that have to do with Daniel Kaminsky?”
“We were forced to read Keats at school. That was a phrase in Mermaid Tavern:
“I have heard that on a day
Mine host’s signboard flew away.
Nobody knew whither, till
An astrologer’s old quill
To a sheepskin gave the story,
Said he saw you in your glory ----“
“Anyhow, I forget the rest.”
“Small mercies,” said Katie. “Come on, Mr. Poet, where’d Lance and Cynthia disappear to?”
They found them outside in front of the building. Lance wanted a photo of Cynthia standing in front of the pub sign.
“Come on you two, one of you take a shot of us together, then we’ll find someone to take a picture of all four of us. Maybe you could get one of those locals inside to do the honours, Ralph.”
“They didn’t seem all that friendly, Lance. But I’ll get one of you and Cynthia and one of you two with Katie, and then we need to be off.”
“Why do you suppose it’s called The Bell?” Katie asked as they pulled out of the car-park.
“Most pubs have signs with pictures on them because the villagers couldn’t read. You just said ‘see you at The Bell or The Horse’s Head’,” Lance said as they drove down the narrow lane towards the main Tiverton to Barnstable road.
“Horse’s something Lance, but I’m not sure it was the head,” Cynthia laughed.
“Steady on, Cynthia,” said Ralph. They all laughed as Ralph swerved to avoid a pheasant.
“Let me tell you about the pheasant plucker, “said Lance.
“I told you; one pint of cider and he’s incorrigible. You should’ve warned me what he was like before I married him, Ralph.” Cynthia gave Lance a little hug to show him that she was just being playful.
***
Ralph eased the Jag down the steep road leading to the main street in Lynton. Many of the villages were accessible only if you were prepared to drive down the narrow twisting roads. North Devon motoring was definitely not for the faint hearted.
Joe Minton had phoned to say that the Morgan was ready to be collected. The garage was about an hour from Clovelly, but the fact that there were no other options had made it an easy decision; a ‘no brainer’, as his students would have phrased it.
The garage looked like a scene straight out of a 1920’s film. The double-doored tall building opened onto the main street. Inside, the bare brick walls were painted a light grey and adorned with old metal signs advertising oil and other automobile requirements from companies that had long ceased to exist. The sun shone down through what used to be called Northern lights that all factories employed to save on electricity bills when industry was booming in Victorian times. As the light beams filtered down through the dust, it gave the impression of being in a church. ‘A cathedral to real motoring’ was a phrase that crossed Ralph’s mind.
Katie nudged his elbow as Joe Minton climbed out from an inspection pit where he had been working on an immaculate Bentley. A Rolls Royce sat straddled across another. They picked their way through tools and equipment that littered the garage floor to where Joe stood wiping his hands on a rag. He led the way into a small office.
“So what’s the verdict,” Ralph asked as Joe indicated two metal chairs against the wall opposite the cluttered desk.
“Bit tricky getting through the High Street,” Joe said directly to Ralph. “Like I said on the phone, it’s ready to go. I blew out the petrol lines and put new track rods on the front. Managed to get them from a place up in Bristol; they still make them, you know,” Joe said as he gave a sidewise glance in Katie’s direction.
“The Morgan belongs to Katie,” said Ralph in answer to the unspoken question.
Katie waited patiently and
