The Ravenhoe Cauldron

By Rebecca Yount

The garotted corpse of a notorious antiquities thief and forger is discovered in an excavation pit at an archeological site near Colchester, on England's east coast. Despite being on parental leave to care for his infant daughter, Deterive Inspector Michael "Mick" Chandra is put in charge of the case, his leave suspended by New Scotland Yard's commissioner.

The victim is identified as Stanislaw Janus, a once highly respected curator of pre-Roman British antiquities at London's Brititsh Museum. Years earlier, Janus turned to a life of crime by forging and fencing his forgeries on the international antiquities black market. Prior to his murder, Janus had engineered the theft of the priceless Ravenhoe Cauldron for the Colchester Museum. The nearly 2,000-year-old gold vessel had been unearthed by archeologists in the very pit where Janus' corpse was later dumped. Coincidence?

Mick and his partner, Sergeant Elizabeth Chang, enlist the help of the Yard's Arts and Antiquities Unit to investigate the case.

The story races like a runaway train, carried by a cast of colorful characters. Among them is Jessica Beaumont, Mick's great love, who was introduced in the first book in the series, A Death in C Minor, and is now his wife.

As Mick delves into the theft, he increasingly realizes that he and Elizabeth are being dogged by someone who is willing to kill, if necessary, to keep them from finding the cauldron.

And what is the meaning of the rusty key shoved through Mick's and Jess' mail slot with a note reading: "The key to the Ravenhoe Cauldron?"

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Jun 30, 2013
• ISBN: 9781467559348

Book preview

Impressions

Chapter One

Mick Chandra's cell phone went off at 8:23, shattering the morning's comfortable routine. Grasping a diaper in one hand and his four-month-old daughter's feet in the other, he tried to ignore the interruption.

"This is not good, Sarabeth," he groaned to the infant who waited with exemplary patience on the kitchen's butcher block table. A disturbing primordial instinct told Mick that the call was from New Scotland Yard. Having inherited some of his Kerala Indian grandmother's psychic abilities, he could usually tell if a yet-to-be answered call was from a friend, a bill collector, a local political candidate soliciting a contribution, or from the office.

Go away, Mick muttered to the persistent ring as he lifted Sarabeth's bottom.

Butt raised and feet up in the air, Sarabeth responded by discovering her toes.

He continued to delay answering the call, savoring his role as Mick Chandra, father, before relinquishing it to Detective Inspector Michael Mick Chandra, one of the brightest stars in Scotland Yard's firmament.

What the hell took you so long to pick up, Chandra? a voice barked at the other end.

And good morning to you, too, Superintendent, Mick replied.

Don't get shirty with me, Inspector. You don't have to keep proving that you're the male diva of the CID, the Super growled, referring to the Yard's Criminal Investigation Department. "Have you seen the front page of this morning's Times?"

Mick glanced over to the far corner of the kitchen where the paper lay neatly spread out on the floor underneath his Scottish terrier's dog dish.

'Can't say that I have.

Well, read it, dammit -- page one, column one. A homicide has been discovered at an archeological site outside Colchester. The Commissioner wants you to get up there immediately.

Hold on a second. I'm on family leave, or have you forgotten.

Not anymore, Chandra. Read the story, then haul your arse up to Colchester.

Bollocks, Mick spit, slamming the cell phone down on the table next to Sarabeth, who immediately made a grab for it.

No ma'am, he said, moving it away from her. We need to cover your bare bottom. Have you no modesty, lady?

Deftly adjusting Sarabeth's diaper, Mick reflected on how little he had missed the inter-agency politics of Scotland Yard during the past month. Nothing so exemplified this than the Superintendent's transparent envy, and resentment, of Mick's mutually respectful relationship with the Yard's Commissioner. As for his Chief and Commander, the two men had long since resigned themselves to Mick being a department unto himself.

The fact that Mick, an Anglo Indian, had climbed up the Yard's ladder to become one of its most sought-after and respected detective inspectors exacerbated feelings of prejudice and resentment among some of his white colleagues as well as much of the Yard's hierarchy. Mick was a rarity on a police force that could claim scarcely ten percent minority representation.

That the Superintendent had beaten the Commissioner to the punch and called Mick first was par for the course, a not-too-subtle reminder that Detective Inspector Chandra was expected to answer first to the Super, and only second to the Commissioner, an expectation he often bypassed. After years of experience, Mick had learned to blow off his detractors.

With Sarabeth securely ensconced in her Infanseat perched on the butcher block table, Mick went over to the corner and pulled the late edition of the morning Times out from under the dog's dish. This prompted the Scottie to shift into terrier mode, seizing the paper in her mouth and attempting to jerk it back into place.

Stop it, Nessie, Mick commanded, pulling it away but not before leaving a portion of page one in the dog's unrelenting jaws.

Damn! Now look what you made me do. Give it up, Nessie. I need that part.

Ears back and tail down, the dog relented.

That's my good girl, he soothed her, taking the paper and torn piece back over the table.

While absently rocking Sarabeth in her Infanseat, Mick restored the torn piece to its proper place and perused the front page story:

ART FORGER FOUND DEAD IN PIT

Apparent Murder May Be Tied to Missing Artifact

The nude body of Stanislaw Janus, internationally known art forger, was discovered yesterday morning at an archeological site in the village of Ravenhoe, outside of Colchester. The victim's hands were tied behind his back, and he appeared to have been garroted. His corpse had been dumped into an excavated pit at the site.

Mr. Janus appears to have been ritualistically executed in a style practiced by the local ancient Celtic tribe, known as the Trinovantes, said Dr. Gill Metcalf, director of the excavation, who discovered the body. Dr. Metcalf, a professor of archeology at University College London, went on to explain that the ancient Celts practiced human sacrifice. Typical modes of killing their victims were either by cutting their throats or by garroting -- strangulation with a rope or iron collar. Also, they often beheaded their victims.

Whoever murdered Stanislaw Janus knew something about ancient Celtic culture and practice, Metcalf went on to say.

This appears to be an act of blatant revenge, stated Marcus Elwood, Colchester's Chief Constable. Whoever wanted Janus dead also wanted to make a point. Exactly what that point is, we won't know until a complete investigation of this homicide is carried out. Elwood added that he has requested help from Scotland Yard in investigating Janus' apparent murder.

The Polish-born Janus, 53, was known as one of the world's most notorious art thieves and forgers, specializing in ancient Celtic artifacts. He had been suspected in a rash of thefts and forgeries, including a forgery of the famous Battersea Shield, the original of which is now in London's British Museum. He is believed to have eluded Interpol authorities by assuming a variety of identities.

Janus was most recently linked to the theft of the priceless Ravenhoe Cauldron, a nearly 2,000-year-old gold artifact discovered at the Ravenhoe site. The cauldron was recently discovered missing from the Colchester Museum's collection and has yet to be found. Cauldrons served many purposes in Celtic culture, one being to catch the blood of sacrificed victims whose throats had been cut. Chief Constable Elwood believes that Janus' murder could be linked in some way to the missing Ravenhoe Cauldron.

To some, Stanislaw Janus was a romantic figure -- the stuff of legend, added Dr. Gill Metcalf. But to me, he was just a common thief who compromised, even endangered, England's cultural heritage.

Hmm, the stuff of legend, eh? Mick mused. He could feel the old itch coming back -- that compulsion to leap back into the fray of homicide investigation. Mick Chandra was second to none in the CID for solving the unsolvable murders. Cases that had gone cold typically landed on his desk, and he took on every challenge with relish. It gave him the kind of rush that cocaine gives an addict. Perversely, Mick already hoped the Janus case would be one of the tough ones.

While Sarabeth dozed in her Infanseat and Nessie polished off the remaining kibbles in her dog dish, Mick picked up the cellphone and dialed the number of the elderly Greek widow who lived at the end of the block. Known affectionately in the neighborhood as Ya Ya, she served as Sarabeth's surrogate grandmother and Nessie's favorite dog sitter.

'Allo? came a woman's voice from the other end.

Ya Ya, it's Mister Mick. I know this is last minute, but could you possibly babysit the angel and the monster until their mummy returns home later this afternoon?

Mummy was Mick's wife, Jessica Beaumont-Chandra, an American expatriate who was a celebrated concert pianist and a adjunct professor at London's Royal Academy of Music. Today she was in Liverpool at the music school established by former Beatle Paul McCartney, presenting a master class on Beethoven's late sonatas.

Meester Meek, sure, I be der immejutly, Ya Ya chirped.

After thanking her profusely, Mick left a note for Jess telling her he had been called to Colchester and that he had to take her Volkswagen Golf. While on family leave, he had lost the use of an official Yard car. Fortunately, Jess had taken a commuter flight to Liverpool and would be taking a taxi home from the airport, so her Golf wouldn't be missed. He left the note for Jess and Ya Ya's payment in plain sight on the kitchen butcher block table where Sarabeth still slept, unaware that her papa had been called back into action.

I'll miss you very much, Little Precious, he whispered, bending down to leave a soft kiss on Sarabeth's forehead. Nessie came over and sat at his feet, thumping her tail.

You, too, Loch Ness Monster, he said, petting her.

After Ya Ya had settled in with the babies, Mick bolted from his century-old Stoke Newington terrace into the cold November air and jumped into Jess' Golf to begin the two-hour drive to Colchester.

Damn, I hate to leave, he admitted aloud as he negotiated the congested north London traffic, making his way to the M25 that would put him on the A12 to Colchester.

Still, Mick couldn't deny the quickening of his pulse.

Chapter Two

This time of year, Inspector, the sun sets in East Anglia by five in the evening. When my team vacated the Ravenhoe site at the end of the workday, I assure you there was no body in the main excavation pit. How Stanislaw Janus' corpse managed to greet us yesterday morning is quite beyond my comprehension.

Mick was standing in a tent at the Ravenhoe archeological site with Dr. Gill Metcalf, director of the excavation. A hard, chilly mid-November rain was hammering the canvas tent, making Mick all the more glad for shelter from the storm, even in a tent that looked worse for wear.

Sorry about the tatty tent, Gill apologized. Funds are tight.

What about National Trust money?

Some, he answered ruefully. But not nearly enough. I'm still very dependent on handouts.

Do you have overnight security for the site? Mick asked.

Metcalf snorted. Hardly. Grants for archeological projects rarely cover costs for security. No, the best I can do is set up a schedule for my various diggers to come by during the night to check on things. But diggers being volunteers, I never really know whether they've checked or not.

That's hardly a fail-safe process.

It comes with the territory, Metcalf shrugged. If I had to wager a guess, I'd say the diggers were probably sleeping it off after a night at the local pub when Janus was garotted and tossed into the main pit.

Gill Metcalf was a genial-looking man of indeterminate age. He could have been 40, 45, or even a well preserved man in his early 50s. Tall, gangly -- he was probably an inch taller than Mick's 6'1" -- Metcalf had an open boyish face and a full head of light brown hair cut close to his skull. The youthfulness of his face was given a modicum of gravitas by his intense tobacco-brown eyes flecked with gold. Like many men who spend their lives outdoors, Metcalf's face sported a tan even in the winter, but without the attendant lines or wrinkles. Dressed in chinos and a light blue madras shirt under a tan storm coat, Metcalf looked every inch the academic archeologist. Mick could have pegged him in a heartbeat had he spotted him on the campus of the University of London.

Had you ever met Janus? Mick asked, shifting his weight to his other foot.

No. I wouldn't be caught dead in the same room with that ratbag.

Mick smiled like a Sphinx. 'Sounds to me like you're glad Stanislaw Janus is dead, Dr. Metcalf.

Call me Gill. And, no, you're quite wrong. I don't wish anyone dead. But I continued to hope that Interpol would apprehend Janus before he could garner even more lucre on the antiquities black market.

You're referring to the Ravenhoe Cauldron, I assume.

Metcalf took a pipe and pouch of tobacco from the pocket of his storm coat.

Yes. The theft of an antiquity like the Ravenhoe Cauldron is an archeologist's worst nightmare, he said, concentrating on stuffing tobacco into the pipe's bowl. It's almost like having one of your own children kidnapped.

Mick pondered that for a moment, unable to equate Sarabeth with a dented and worn 2000-year-old pot, even if it was solid gold.

Would you show me the pit where you discovered Janus' body?

Certainly, Inspector. You know, the hell of it is, we can't resume excavating in that pit until the police forensics team completes its search, Metcalf said, grabbing a large umbrella that had been leaning next to the tent's entry flap. And we've only eighteen months left to complete our work.

Mick turned up the collar of his trench coat. Why is that?

Because a development corporation has purchased this site and plans to build a shopping center on it. When they brought in their heavy equipment to begin site preparation, the machinery unearthed a slew of ancient Celtic artifacts, Gill explained. According to British law, the developers were required to cease and desist building until my team could assess the historic value of the site. We were barely able to negotiate a three-year moratorium on construction so we could extract sample artifacts. As it is, we're half way through that time period.

But three years is a pretty long time.

Not nearly enough. God only knows how many other burial pits there are here, and we won't have sufficient time to excavate all of them. It's a damned pity if you ask me, Gill fumed, ducking through the tent flap.

As Mick followed the professor through the flap, he was immediately hit with a horizontal curtain of rain.

Jesu, how do you work in this soup?

We don't, Metcalf shouted above the deluge. All we can do is wait it out, and that costs us even more precious time.

The professor led Mick several yards across the saturated plain, passing a parcel of excavated pits of various sizes and depths. Equipment and tools lay on the ground exposed to the elements -- drenched whisk brooms, trowels, shovels, sifting screens, pick axes, and stacks of boards used to secure the pits' inner walls. When they arrived at a vast deep, tiered depression surrounded by police tape, Gill paused.

This is it, he said.

The two men ducked under the bright yellow tape and moved to the edge of a pit that Mick estimated to be about twelve feet wide by twenty feet deep. It had been expertly graded with tiers the workers could utilize as natural steps to get to the bottom. Looking down, Mick could see that the pit was already pocked with deep puddles of water.

You don't keep a tarpaulin over this hole? he asked Gill.

Certainly we do. Three of them have torn or blown away in heavy storms over the past month. I don't have money in my grant to buy an infinite number of tarps.

Mick glanced over at the professor. But you do have a tent.

Right. And it's an Oxfam special -- secondhand goods.

Mick turned his attention back to the water-logged pit. Well, I'll tell you one thing, Gill. Forensics isn't going to find much in that bog. Whatever evidence may have been left behind has already been compromised or washed away.

'Think so?

  Worthless.

While Gill held the umbrella over him, Mick squatted to get a better look over the rim.

Where was Janus' body located when you discovered it?

Gill pointed. At the very bottom.

And you say he appeared to have been garotted.

Oh, he definitely was.

You could see that from here?

No, but I observed the coroner's team as they brought Janus' body up. When they put him on the gurney, I could see that his hands had been tied behind his back and that the rope was still around his neck.

Who has the rope now?

'Don't know. Probably the Chief Constable.

And how did you know the victim was Stanislaw Janus? You said you'd never met the man.

Oh, believe me, anyone who works with British antiquities knows what Stanislaw Janus looks like, the professor answered. Interpol routinely sends us profiles and photos of forgers and thieves of antiquities.

So, from your observation, Janus had been ritualistically murdered.

Definitely, Inspector. It's an ancient Celtic method of execution or human sacrifice. They tied the victim's hands behind his back, then garotted him with a rope. Sometimes they would cut their victims' throats. Interestingly enough, the local Druid priestess would typically be the one who performed the execution.

Mick stood, brushing mud from the cuffs of his trousers, then faced Gill.

You don't say.

Gill nodded. In Celtic culture, women enjoyed equality with the men. Besides being powerful priestesses, they were also tribal leaders and even queens of tribal nations, like Boudica, he said, referring to the first century Celtic queen who gained a brief moment of glory when she defeated the Roman garrison at Colchester.

So they also enjoyed equal opportunity in carrying out executions.

True, Inspector, if somewhat colorfully put.

Do you know whether the forensic pathologist has established a time of death?

A preliminary one. He believes Janus was killed during the pre-dawn hours, Gill said. But I've not been informed of an exact time of death.

Okay, I'll get the coroner's report and I'll try to interview Constable Elwood before I leave here today.

Gill hunched his shoulders against the penetrating damp chill. Can we get out of this bloody rain now, Inspector?

Lead the way, Professor.

The two men sprinted across the field, their feet sending up sheets of water. Mick was glad he had thought to wear his ankle high, waterproof-leather Clark's before leaving Stoke Newington.

Tea? Gill offered as they re-entered the welcome refuge of the tent.

Please.

Already piping on a portable camp stove was a kettle of steaming water. Standing at the small stove with its back to the two men was a figure dressed in a heavy, camouflage-print rain slicker.

Ah, Miss Woo, Gill greeted her.

Turning around, a stunning Eurasian woman in her late 20s faced the two men. Even the baggy, unflattering slicker did nothing to detract from her drop-dead gorgeous looks. With a complexion the shade of creamy latte, she had a face a man would die for. She fixed her black, almond-shaped eyes first on Gill, then on Mick, looking at him with the kind of detachment unique to a woman aware of the power of her beauty. Her high cheekbones and full, tawny mouth were the stuff of fantasy. At the same time, she had clearly constructed an electric fence around herself with a sign posted on it that read, Look, but don't touch. That is, until I give you permission. Pulling back the hood of her slicker, she revealed her long, glossy black hair neatly pulled back in a ponytail. Her eyes didn't flinch from Mick. Like the archeologist she was, the oriental beauty studied him as she might examine an ancient pottery shard.

No one spoke until Gill nervously cleared his throat and emptied the sodden contents of his pipe into the palm of his hand, pitching the lump into a nearby rubbish bin.

Miss Woo, this is Detective Inspector Michael Chandra from Scotland Yard. He's heading the investigation into the Janus murder. Inspector, this is Alissa Woo, our site supervisor. Miss Woo is one of my doctoral candidates at the university.

'Pleasure, Miss Woo, Mick said, offering his hand.

Inspector, she responded coolly, touching his fingers, before quickly withdrawing her hand.

In his pre-Jess days, before he had become a happily married man, thirty-five-year-old former lady-killer Mick Chandra would have immediately begun plotting how to get a challenge like Alissa Woo into bed. It had typically been easy for Mick to get women to tumble for him. His dusky Anglo-Indian good looks, highlighted by his alert onyx-black eyes, chiseled cheekbones, straight nose, short-cropped coal-black hair, and muscular physique were, as one colleague of his put it, Babe bait. But his days of seduction and taking home pub doxies on Friday nights were over. Mick didn't miss that part of his former life one iota.

Well, tea for everyone? Gill offered, taking some mugs from a table next to the camp stove.

Alissa waved off the offer.

Please, and lemon if you have it, Mick said.

Sorry, old chap, we don't do lemon at archeological sites. I'm afraid all I can offer is powdered creamer.

In that case, just a little sugar.

Mick then turned his attention back to Alissa Woo, who had moved to the far side of the tent where she studied a computer printout. Sideling up to her, he decided to grab the rabbit by its ears.

So, tell me, Miss Woo. When did you first learn about Janus' murder?

When everyone else did at the site -- yesterday morning, after Dr. Metcalf discovered the body, she answered flatly without looking at him.

What were your thoughts?

She raised her eyes from the printout. Thoughts?

Yes. After all, Janus was a notorious art thief and forger.

Looking away, she shrugged. Janus was a slag. He got what he deserved.

Alissa…! Gill sputtered.

No, it's okay, Gill. She's just being honest, Mick said, turning to the professor, then back to Alissa. Do you know anyone who might have wanted Janus dead, Miss Woo?

The Eurasian beauty released an impatient sigh. Inspector, anyone who cared about British antiquities would have wanted Stanislaw Janus dead. He was a threat to this country's cultural heritage. He pinched, and probably fenced, the Ravenhoe Cauldron, for God's sake.

Gill joined them bearing two cups of steaming tea and handed one to Mick.

Miss Woo has been very distressed about the missing cauldron, Inspector. You see, she was the one who discovered it here at the site.

Without taking his eyes from Alissa, Mick took a sip of tea.

I'm sorry to hear that. Rest assured, I'll be working closely with the Yard's Art and Antiquities Unit and we'll do everything in our power to recover the cauldron.

Ignoring his remark, Alissa turned her attention back to the printout.

You might wish to speak with Dr. Palmer at the Colchester Museum. She's the museum's director and chief curator, Gill suggested.

Mick glanced at his watch. It was already a few minutes past noon.

Maybe I could offer to buy her lunch.

Gill chuckled softly. Oh, she'll definitely take you up on lunch. If there's one thing besides antiquities that Cass feels passionately about, it's food.

She won't tell you anything, Alissa muttered, still focussing on the printout.

Sorry? Mick asked.

Alissa only means that…well…sometimes Cass… I mean Dr. Palmer protects what she knows, like a lot of us academicians. You know, 'knowledge is power' and all that rot.

Mick took a long pull on the tea, letting its warmth trickle down slowly to ward off the bone-numbing chill.

Well, I'll wager she'll talk to me after I flash my badge and ID.

Gill frowned. Inspector, I wouldn't attempt to tell you how to do your job but, in this particular case, it would be better to attract with honey rather than vinegar.

I shall be the paragon of sweetness.

Brilliant. Just go slow with Dr. Palmer, Metcalf advised. She's a tough nut to crack.

Mick grinned at the affable archeologist. Tough nuts are my specialty.

"And Dr. Palmer identified Janus' body," Gill added.

She knew Janus?

Oh, yes. For many years.

Well, well. How 'bout that? Mick muttered.

Chapter Three

Following Gill Metcalf's directions, Mick drove into central Colchester and kept his eyes peeled for an 11th century Norman pile constructed of old Roman rubble. Gill had informed him that the Colchester Museum was housed in one of the few completely intact Norman castles left standing in all of Great Britain.

It was impossible to miss. The massive Norman fortress with its round watchtower loomed like a behemoth over the town center. The castle was set like a rough, antique jewel in a park around which the original first-century Roman wall still presided as a backdrop for picnics, jogging, dog walking, frisbee throwing, and snogging.

Mick parked on a side street and walked across the castle's forecourt toward its imposing entrance, framed by a Norman arch. Crossing a wooden drawbridge set over the fortress' protective earthen mound, he reflected on the many school field trips he had enjoyed as a boy. Those adventures still held a certain magic for him: visits to the British Museum and its enigmatic mummies frozen in time; the mysterious, monolithic stone circles of Avebury and Stonehenge; Hadrian's Wall, with the ghosts of Roman soldiers still patrolling its battlements; and Ludlow Castle, the gem of the Welsh border, with its stunning view of the River Severn. Anticipating the secrets and treasures of Colchester Castle, Mick felt like that boy again, if only for a fleeting moment.

On entering, he spied the museum's gift shop to his immediate right and went in to ask directions to Cass Palmer's office. A friendly volunteer directed him to the rear section of the museum's ground floor. Passing numerous exhibits of Celtic artifacts, Mick paused briefly before a display of curved iron axe heads. The legend on the case explained that they were part of an ancient Celtic axe called palstave, some of which were 2,500-years-old. As much as he wanted to linger, he had to move on, determining to spend more time over the Celtic exhibit on his next visit. For now he had business to conduct with the museum's director.

Guided by the volunteer's instructions, Mick wended his way around a medieval exhibit complete with an effigy of a man locked in a pillory.

'Know how you feel, mate, Mick said, patting the dummy on its head. Just what the Yard's Super would like to do to me.

He stumbled upon the director's office in a short, dark hallway crowded with empty display cases. Knocking softly on the door bearing a small plastic plaque that read Dr. Cassandra Palmer, Mick waited for a response. None came. He knocked again, louder this time, and waited until he thought he heard someone say yeah? on the other side. Mick took the liberty of letting himself in.

Sitting at a battered desk in the cluttered, claustrophobic office was a heavy-set woman who appeared to be in her mid-50s. Her wispy greying hair was carelessly pinned back from her face with a wide tortoise shell barrette. A shapeless, denim tent dress draped her massive form. The heavy pouches under her small pale eyes gave Dr. Palmer a hard, cynically-weary countenance that announced, I may be past my prime, but I'm tougher than you are. Turning in her chair to get a better look at the intruder, she suspiciously narrowed those eyes.

Who the hell are you? she asked, dragging on a cigarette.

Mick displayed his badge and ID. Detective Inspector Michael Chandra, New Scotland Yard. I'm heading the investigation into the murder of Stanislaw Janus.

She scanned his credentials, clearly unimpressed. Old Stosh's murder, eh? So, am I a suspect?

No, ma'am. But since the Ravenhoe Cauldron was stolen from your collection, Dr. Metcalf suggested I speak with you.

He did, did he?

Yes, ma'am.

Mick was beginning to feel like that schoolboy again, only now he was standing before the headmistress waiting for punishment to be meted out. It was time to gain the upper hand.

Look, Dr. Palmer, he said, shoving his badge and ID back into his inside jacket pocket, "it's past noon. I'm tired, cold, wet, hungry, and cheesed off that my superiors have suspended my family leave to put me on this case. Believe me, I'd much rather be at home with my four-month-old daughter, my Scottish terrier puppy, and my wife than be here with you. But here I am and here you are. Now, I'm going to go to lunch. You can either join me or you can stay here smoking like a chimney in a non-smoking building, taking another five years off of your life. So, what will it be?"

She emitted a wheezing chuckle. You're cheeky, Inspector. I like that.

Let's dispense with the compliments. Are you joining me or not?

At Dr. Palmer's suggestion, they walked to a nearly cozy Italian cafe where the fettuccine Alfredo was, she declared, second to none.

They both ordered the fettuccine, then preceded to savor frosted glasses of Peroni beer.

Drinking on the job? she asked.

As far as I'm concerned, I'm still on parental leave until I receive official notification that it's been suspended.

Cass quickly downed more than half of her beer, then took a breather.

So what can I tell you, Inspector?

How do you know Stanislaw Janus took the Ravenhoe Cauldron?

I never said he was the one who did.

Meaning?

Before answering, Cass drank the rest of her Peroni, then set the glass down.

"Stosh didn't actually steal the cauldron. He arranged to have it removed from the collection by an intern who was working at the museum."

When?

This past April. At the time it happened, I was on holiday in Spain.

The cauldron wasn't protected by a security alarm?

Palmer sighed. "We were in the process of installing a state-of-the-art security system for it right before the cauldron was taken. I was much too over-eager to display it, knowing that the Ravenhoe Cauldron would bring in the crowds. Now, of course, I regret my impatience very much. But keep in mind, Inspector Chandra, that in its many decades of existence, the Colchester Museum had never before experienced an attempted theft, much less a successful one."

Then how do you know it was Janus who commandeered the cauldron's theft?

Cass wheezed, prompting a smoker's cough that came up from the soles of her feet. Mick patiently waited for her coughing fit to pass.

Stosh made certain that the word got out to those of us in the antiquities world that the cauldron was in his possession. Our world is fairly small, so news travels fast.

'Sounds like boasting, Mick said.

"He was boasting. Janus loved working in plain sight, so to speak. If a priceless artifact went missing from any collection between here and Mongolia, he'd take credit for it."

Where do you think the cauldron might be now that Janus is dead?

Palms turned upward, Cass shrugged helplessly.

Well, hopefully the Yard's Arts and Antiquities Unit has some leads on that, Mick said, trying to shift to a more comfortable position in the hard, straight-back chair. Who was the intern who took the cauldron?

Ignoring the plastic no smoking sign propped on the table, Cass lit a cigarette.

A kid of Russian descent who has since vanished. Interpol has reason to believe he's hiding somewhere in the Urals now. Or maybe it's Bosnia. I don't know, she answered vaguely.

Name?

Frowning, Cass thought for a moment. Ivan something. I don't remember. Interpol has a profile on him.

Okay, Mick said, his voice registering frustration over her selective memory. I'll get that. But don't you vet interns before you allow them to work around priceless antiquities?

Of course I do, she bristled, flicking the ashes on the floor, prompting the waiter to rush over and remind her that smoking was not allowed in the cafe. She handed him the lit cigarette.

Dispose of it then.

Cass and Mick watched as the flustered waiter departed, holding the cigarette away from him as if it were a bomb about to detonate.

Where were we? she asked, turning her attention back to Mick.

Interns. Do you vet them?

Sure, she repeated. But our interns are not paid, Inspector. Unless they have a previous criminal record, you take what you can get.

Fair enough. Do you have a working relationship with Gill Metcalf?

Cass shook her head. Not as such. Gill rents some work space at the museum where his volunteers catalog the artifacts excavated from the Ravenhoe site.

Where are the artifacts stored once they're cataloged?

In a secure area in the museum's basement.

And do those artifacts automatically become part of your collection?

Ah…yes and no, she hedged. Let's just say I get the pick of the crop.

Like the Ravenhoe Cauldron.

Cass nodded. And don't think that didn't cheese off Alissa Woo.

Why would it?

Oh, please, Inspector! You've much to learn about the egos that populate my world. Alissa didn't want the cauldron to end up in some provincial, backwater collection. Only the British Museum was good enough for the Ravenhoe Cauldron. I took the liberty to remind Miss Woo that the Colchester Museum has won a brace of citations and national awards. She didn't like that one bit.

I see. So would you say there's some bad blood between the two of you?

Let's just say I wouldn't give Alissa Woo one of my kidneys if she needed it.

Mick polished off his Peroni, trying to decide whether he should have another. He opted to wait.

Who are these volunteers who do the cataloging?

Just about anyone Gill can get, Cass said. Locals mostly -- housewives, secondary school students, retirees.

"Are they vetted?"

She lit another cigarette. "Oh, hell no. Look, Inspector, we're not a multinational corporation. Gill and I have to operate on a shoestring. I'm out there begging for money daily -- and I mean daily -- to ensure my museum's future. Gill Metcalf's grants barely cover his costs. Like me, he must rely on volunteers. Otherwise, we'd both be out of business."

The waiter brought two steaming plates of fettuccine to the table.

"Dr. Palmer..!" he admonished.

I know, I know.

Again, she handed over the lit cigarette.

And we'll both have another Peroni, Mick said, glancing up at the waiter. But don't you have national lottery funds? he asked, looking back at Cass.

"We applied for lottery funds, but I don't think we've a chance in hell of getting a grant."

Why?

Cass pulled out another cigarette and began distractedly rolling it between her thumb and forefinger.

It's known as the curse of legacies, Inspector. The Colchester Museum is owned by the local borough, which received a massive bequest in the late 19th century from the filthy rich family that used to own the castle. So the perception of the lottery people is that we don't need any money. Truth be told, we don't need it today or even tomorrow, but we will definitely require funds for the future. Otherwise, I'll be remembered as the director who presided over the museum's slow but certain demise. And if you think I'm going to play that role, think again.

I see your point, Dr. Palmer. I'm just trying to navigate my way around this arcane world of yours. I couldn't believe it when Gill told me he can't afford to replace the tarps that are blown off the excavation pits.

Believe it, Inspector, she insisted. Gill is as good as they come, but he has to hustle, cajole, charm, politic, and kiss arse with the best of us.

Are the two of you competing for the same pots of money?

More than we care to admit.

The waiter brought the Peronis and two new, frosty glasses, giving Cass a suspicious look.

"No, I don't have a lit ciggy under the table," she snapped, prompting the long-suffering man to scurry away.

You refer to Janus as 'Stosh.' You must have known him since you were the one to identify his body, Mick said, savoring the first sip of his second cold beer.

Cass busied herself by separating all of the peas from the fettuccine, exiling them to the side of her plate.

You don't like peas?

She grimaced. There must be a different chef on duty today.

Here, give them to me, he said, shoving his plate close to hers.

Gingerly, Cass picked up the peas with her fork, depositing them on Mick's plate. Be my guest.

Mick set his plate back in front of him. You haven't answered my question, he reminded her, mixing the extra peas into his pasta.

Thoughtfully chewing a bite, Cass nodded.

I knew Stosh when he was curator of pre-Roman British antiquities at the British Museum in London. I was assistant curator of the same here at the Colchester Museum at the time, she explained. So when a question arose about the authenticity of a piece, I was usually the one who took it to London for Stosh's verdict.

When was the last time you met with him?

Umm, ten years ago, I guess.

Ten years? And yet the local constabulary asked you to identify his corpse? Mick asked.

Cass merely shrugged.

He was legit when you knew him, right?

Yes. Stosh was a failed artist. He held a fine arts degree in sculpture from the Slade School of Art, but he could never really make it in the art world. I saw one of his pieces in his British Museum office. Although his style was clearly influenced by ancient Celtic design, his overall work was more academic than artistic. Quite derivative, actually.

She paused to take another bite of the pasta, then continued. But because of his vast knowledge of ancient British arts and crafts, he became one of the best fakebusters in the business. Stosh could spot a forgery at fifty meters. And because he could detect all the stupid mistakes that other forgers made, he himself became a master forger of Celtic antiquities.

"Janus knew how not to forge a piece," Mick concluded.

Exactly. Then one day a solid gold, 2,200-year-old Celtic torque necklace went missing from the British Museum along with Stosh.

Reviews for The Ravenhoe Cauldron

[gpangel_1 · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

The Ravenhoe Cauldron – A Mick Chandra Mystery by Rebecca Yount is a 2013 Independently published novel. I was provided a copy of this book in exchange for an honest review. Mick is supposed to be on parental leave when he gets called back in to work the case of an infamous antiquities thief and forger. This leads Mick and his team on a wild chase and puts him in contact with various museums and collectors as well as others who had dealings with the dead man. As the story winds it's way through the murky life of Stanislaw Janus, we find that he has quite a few competitors and enemies and lovers all with an eye on the famous Ravenhoe Cauldron. On a personal note Jess is ready to try out New York again after the tragedy of losing her first child and all nightmare of all that happened there. Elizabeth has a new look and maybe a new boyfriend. This case has Mick in an exceeding amount of danger as the body count begins to rise. The diverse and shady characters all seem so willing to help, but could one of them be killing off anyone with knowledge of the Ravenhoe Cauldron? Schemes and red herrings abound as Mick suffers through seduction attempts to being shot at. As the investigation deepens, Mick begins to think the Janus is still alive and an imposter was killed in order for Janus to fake his own death. True? False? Only time will tell.I confess that this is my first Mick Chandra mystery. It is a British mystery and will put you in mind of say, Elizabeth George of Debra Crombie. This is a very interesting mystery and I was engaged through out. All the characters were fleshed out and the mystery was light without graphic violence or a great deal of foul language. There are some sexual references but nothing explicit. My one complaint is that the author became repetitive at times and seemed to want to hammer home to the reader that Mick was no longer a ladies man. He's found his one true love in Jess and is happy as a man could ever hope to be with his wife and baby daughter and his pets. This statement is made on numerous occasions. It's almost like Mick is trying to convince himself he doesn't miss his days as a single man. It was like “He doth protest too much”. I don't think that was the message the author was trying to convey, it just got a little heavy handed and perhaps a little editing would have helped out here and there. Overall, this was a wonderful effort and I do recommend this book to all mystery lovers but especially to those that enjoy a good British Mystery. This one gets 4 stars