The Complete Kate Benedict Cozy British Mysteries

by Carrie Bedford

  “Thank you,” Lake said. “So back to Ethan Hamilton. Has he been behaving unusually in any way? Said or done anything that might suggest he had problems?”

  “Like what?”

  “Break-up with a girlfriend, money problems, worries about his job? Sometimes those details can be very helpful.”

  “Nothing that I’m aware of. Well, yes, his father died six weeks ago. He was killed in a car accident. Ethan was very distressed.”

  “Distressed enough to harm himself?”

  My head jerked up. “What? No. Of course not.”

  And yet there was that aura. It meant Ethan was in serious danger. Could he really be a threat to himself? I thought not. It didn’t fit. Ethan had been upset, but not depressed. When I’d seen him for drinks a couple of weeks ago, he was doing fine. Still grieving, of course, but beginning to focus on his work again.

  I shifted on my chair. After all that sitting, my back cried out for relief, and the unforgiving wood dug into my thighs. Detective Lake watched me with the expression of a schoolteacher resigned to dealing with a recalcitrant student.

  “I’m positive that Ethan means no harm to himself,” I said, leaning across the desk to make my point.

  A sudden racket erupted outside the office, someone shouting and the sound of handcuffs jingling. The air grew ripe with obscenities. While Lake waited for the noise to die down, he rocked back and forth on his chair. When it was quiet again, he came back to level. Seconds later, his door opened and Cooper poked his head in. “Need you when you have a minute, sir.”

  Lake nodded. The door closed.

  “You said a window was open in Ethan’s office when you arrived?” Lake asked me.

  “Just a few inches, but yes, so I shut it because it was letting the rain in.”

  “And you saw no one outside when you closed the window?”

  “No, but there are no street lights in the alley that runs along the back of the building.”

  “And you say there was a break-in at his flat?”

  “Yes. I went there to see if he was home. His landlady’s concerned. We think the intruder climbed out through a window. You’ll probably find footprints in the flower bed—”

  “Was there any damage or anything taken?”

  “No. The landlady lives alone, though. She doesn’t know yet that Ethan’s missing, but I think it would be a good idea if you could send someone over to take a look. It would put her mind at ease.”

  Lake wrote another note. “We’ll do what we can,” he said. “But Dr. Hamilton is an adult and seems to have no cognitive or medical issues. I expect he will turn up soon.”

  He put his pen down. I sensed our interview was over. How could I convince him that Ethan was in danger without mentioning the aura? If I tried to explain, he’d probably hustle me out of his office and tear up the missing person report. Most normal people reacted that way, and I couldn’t blame them.

  “Do you have Dr. Hamilton’s phone number?”

  “Of course.” I gave it to him, and he jotted it down. Then he handed me a business card.

  “If you hear from him, please ring this number— it’s my direct phone line.”

  “But…” I stopped, realizing there was no point in arguing.

  Lake tapped his pen on the desk, his lips pursed. Finally, he lined up his pen parallel to the writing pad in front of him.

  “I appreciate your concern, Miss Benedict. It’s clear that you are genuinely worried. Be assured I will file the report. But I think you’ll find that Dr. Hamilton will turn up very soon. And he’ll probably be embarrassed that he missed your dinner date.”

  He stood up, making it clear that it was time for me to leave, and stuck out his hand to shake mine. “Try not to worry,” he said. “Call me on that number.”

  “But you’ll check out his apartment? Make sure the landlady is all right?”

  “Yes.”

  I put the book back in my bag and buttoned my coat before heading to the exit, where I paused on the steps before stepping outside. The wind had picked up, driving rain horizontally along the street. Although I was wearing boots with heels and clothes more suited to sitting in an office than hiking the streets of London, I trudged to the nearest Tube station with the determination of Scott tackling the Antarctic. Scraps of paper blew along the street, one piece wrapping itself around my leg. I peeled it away and kept moving. I was wet and cold and couldn’t wait to get home. My phone was dead, but I held it in my hand, tucked deep into my coat pocket, its silence mirrored by the empty streets. It was as though the apocalypse had struck and I was the only human left alive.

  The bright lights of the Tube station in the distance shone like a beacon, drawing me in. I rushed inside, glad of the respite from the rain. Although the escalators down to the platforms seemed longer and slower than usual, a train pulled in just as I reached the platform, and I took a seat in the overheated carriage as the doors hissed closed.

  The adrenaline wave that had carried me through the last couple of hours began to fade and suddenly I felt exhausted. I peeked at the book inside my bag, reaching in to touch the leather cover. Although I knew it was the motion of the train, I was sure I felt the tome trembling under my fingers.

  4

  The strange book and Ethan’s bizarre behavior made me jumpy and tense for the rest of the journey. I was happy to unlock the front door of my building and step into the small entry hall, reassured to hear the sound of a television floating from my neighbor’s ground floor apartment. I almost ran up the three flights of stairs, anxious to reach the refuge of home. Inside, I went around turning on every light and lamp, gradually calming down in the familiar warmth of my own space. I loved my flat, with its olive green walls and cream sofas, its sleek, modern kitchen and long views over slate roofs.

  After turning on the kettle, I took a mug from the cabinet. In times of crisis, we Brits turn to the nation’s favorite beverage; a nice cup of tea is the universal antidote to whatever it is that ails us. But now I changed my mind. I needed wine, not tea. I poured myself a glass of Pinot Grigio and took a gulp before plugging my phone into its charger.

  As soon as that was done, I carefully pulled the book from my shoulder bag and set it down on the counter. Under the glow of the kitchen’s halogen lights, the cover of the book shone like burnished metal. I sat down and ran my fingers over the smooth, brown hide. The spine was two inches thick and decorated with four raised bands. On the front, the title, Della Pittura, was embossed in gold leaf, which had flaked off in places, leaving only a faint indentation. Underneath was the name of the author, Leon Battista Alberti. I knew some of his work, having studied his treatise on architecture at university. But this one was about painting, and I’d never read it.

  Carefully, I lifted the front cover, surprised at its weight. The inside was lined with velvety tan vellum, which hung slightly loose. I realized that it had been cut across the top with a knife or a razor. With care, I probed inside the space between the cover and the lining, but there was nothing. What had been stored in there? And who had cut it open? Ethan perhaps. The knife cut was clean, with no sign of wear and tear, which made me think it had been done recently.

  I turned my attention to the first page, which was of a delicate, ivory-colored paper and covered in dark handwriting. The script had been written in different hands, and the ink was rusty with age. The distinctive smell of old paper reminded me of Latin lessons at school. I peered at the looped script and realized that the words were names, all of them Italian, and each one had a date next to it. Unless I was misreading it, the first date was 1762. No wonder Ethan had kept the book in a safe. It had to be valuable.

  I enjoyed the feel of the fine, gilt-edged paper on my fingers and flipped through the pages. To my surprise, I found that the pages at the back of the book had been cut to create a shallow box, which held a small package, a leather pouch, soft like kidskin, secured with a braided crimson thread. I undid the knot and opened the pouch. Inside was a k
ey. Not the kind you’d use to open your front door. This was heavy and ornate, with a long, narrow shank and a shallow three-toothed bit. At the other end was a solid disc engraved with an image of flames and a letter C.

  Intrigued, I stood up and paced the kitchen with the key in my hand. Why was it concealed in an antique book? Who’d put it there? Was the Della Pittura simply a hiding place or did it hold a significance of its own? I set the key on the table and looked again at the lining on the front cover, carefully peeling it back a little more to check I hadn’t missed anything.

  Had the book held a secret, one important enough to drive Ethan into hiding?

  The heating was on, but I couldn’t stop shivering. I was wet through. I took another sip of wine before heading to the bathroom, where I stripped off my clothes and dumped them in the laundry basket. Ignoring my usual concerns about wasting water or electricity, I stood under the shower for ten minutes, waiting for the cold to dissipate. Finally, I felt warm enough to venture out, drying myself vigorously before going to my room to put on my PJs. I sat on the edge of the bed, pulling on some socks, suddenly tearful. I wished my boyfriend were home. Josh was the calm and practical one. He’d have some ideas on how to contact Ethan. But he and our boss, Alan Bradley, had left a week earlier on a trip to Hong Kong and Shanghai, to study super tower structures. Alan had put together a crazy schedule, crammed with tours and meetings so, apart from a few emails, Josh and I hadn’t been able to communicate much. I missed him.

  We’d been dating for two years now and Josh had unofficially moved in with me the year before. He still had his own place, but he didn’t spend much time there except when I was away, usually visiting my dad or going out with my best friend, Anita.

  I pulled at a loose thread on my sock, my vision blurred with tears. I wasn’t a weepy kind of person usually, but the night’s events and Ethan’s aura had rattled me. I put my head down on the pillow on Josh’s side of the bed and breathed in. But I’d changed the linens a few days ago. There was no lingering scent of Josh to be found.

  I stood up. Lying around crying wasn’t going to solve anything, so I padded back to the kitchen and checked my phone. I grabbed at it when I saw that another message had come from Ethan.

  “Take contents to LS. I’ll be there.”

  It was even more enigmatic than the first message he’d sent earlier that evening. I had no idea what he meant, but I sent a reply asking him where he was. Again, there was no response, and I realized he could have sent the message an hour or more ago, when my phone had died. I glared at the screen for a full minute, trying to decipher the message. Why was he speaking in code?

  Leo would know. In fact, I’d promised to call him back and I hadn’t. I checked my watch. It was almost midnight but I guessed he’d still be up. When I rang his number, though, he didn’t answer.

  Feeling lonely and rather dejected, I thought about eating. I’d been starving all day, after eating only an egg sandwich at my desk as I worked through lunch. Usually, I loved to cook, and Josh and I made dinner together most evenings, relaxing together in the kitchen after stressful days at the office. But with Josh away, I hadn’t been as motivated to shop and cook. Now, staring at the sad contents of the refrigerator, I decided I wasn’t hungry after all, but I put some cheese and crackers on a plate and carried it with my wine glass into the living room. I put my mobile down on the cushion next to me so I could look at the enigmatic text while I ate. But I finished all of my food and most of my wine without making any sense of it. What was Ethan trying to tell me?

  Ethan was eccentric in an endearing sort of way. Apart from his obsession with organizational perfection, he always wore accessories that matched— yellow tie, yellow socks, and yellow designer reading glasses. Smart like my brother, he’d been educated at Cambridge and Harvard and had worked in the US for five years. That had been hard on Leo— he missed his friend— so we were all delighted when Ethan had come back to work in London eighteen months ago. Now I saw him fairly often. Even though he was the same age as Leo, three years older than me, I felt like his protector. His mind always seemed to be on something else and I worried constantly that he’d get run over or lost. He might be a genius analyst of global affairs, but he was remarkably unworldly.

  I wished I could talk to my best friend, Anita. She was working an emergency rotation on the pediatric ward at her hospital, which meant that she might be on duty or asleep, depending on which shift she was covering. Either way, I couldn’t disturb her.

  I jumped when my phone rang.

  “Sorry,” said Leo. “The boys insisted on giving me a line by line account of the movie when they got back. They’ve just gone up to bed.”

  I smiled, thinking of my young nephews, whom I adored.

  “So what’s going on?” Leo asked.

  “I found a book in the safe in Ethan’s office. You were right about the password.”

  “Naturally,” he said. “What kind of book?”

  I described it and the key in the leather pouch. “But there’s more,” I said. “Ethan never showed up at the restaurant, but I got another weird text from him. I’m really worried, Leo. His behavior is bizarre.”

  “What does the second text say?”

  “Take contents to LS. I’ll be there.”

  “And that’s it?”

  “Yep. Any ideas? Where the heck is LS?”

  Between us, we ran through a list of places with those initials.

  “Little Snoring,” Leo said.

  “There’s no such place.”

  “There’s a Great Snoring, so I’m pretty sure there must be a little one too—”

  “Okay, seriously. What about Lower Slaughter? Isn’t that in the Cotswolds?”

  “Yes, but what does that mean? You can’t go traipsing off to a village in the west of England with no address or other information. What would you do when you got there? Besides, there are probably another half dozen village names with LS as the initials, maybe more. Hang on… I’m looking online. Little Staughton, Little Stretton. How would you know which one to go to?”

  He was right. Ethan’s message was a shining star of misdirection. But he wouldn’t have sent it if he didn’t think I could unravel it. I stood up and carried the remains of my feast into the kitchen, tucking my phone under my chin as I rinsed the glass and plate. Leo continued typing and giving me more place names.

  As I reached up on tiptoes to put my glass away in a cabinet, I realized what LS meant. Little Sister. Ethan’s younger sister Claire was three inches taller than he was, so he always called her Little Sister just to annoy her. But Claire lived in Florence, where she did something in art restoration at the Uffizi art museum.

  Seconds later, Leo also worked out the LS reference. “He wants you to go to Florence? What the hell is he playing at?”

  “I have no idea,” I said. “But I wouldn’t mind a trip out there. I could see Dad for a while. He’d like that.”

  My father lived in Tuscany, in a small village just outside Florence. He and my Mum had bought an old villa years ago, using it for family holidays until retiring there three years earlier. Since my mum’s accident I went over as often as my work allowed to keep Dad company. We enjoyed indulging our love of Italian art, architecture, and food together.

  “It seems unreasonable for Ethan to expect you to go all that way,” Leo said. “I think you should wait until you hear from him again.”

  “I don’t know if he’ll contact me again. I’m really worried…” My voice caught in my throat.

  “Is there something you’re not telling me?” Leo asked.

  “He had an aura.”

  “Damn,” Leo said, which was quite benign for him.

  “I’m sorry.” I don’t know why I always felt compelled to apologize for seeing auras, but I did.

  “Kate, we need to talk about this. You can’t go running around putting yourself in danger every time an aura appears.”

  “I don’t,” I argued. “I see them all
the time and I rarely intervene.” I thought back to the boy with spiky hair on the train. “But this is different. This is our friend. I can’t just ignore it.”

  “I know. But I… well, you know I’d be mad as hell if you let anything happen to you.”

  That was as close to soppy as Leo ever got, and a little wave of warmth flooded my chest. I enjoyed the sensation while I opened a new box of chamomile tea and put a teabag in my cup.

  After a pause, Leo spoke again. “Why does Ethan want you to take this book to Claire?”

  “I don’t know,” I said. “Maybe she’ll be able to cast some light when I see her.”

  “I don’t think you should go, not until we find out where Ethan is and why this book was important enough to be locked in his safe.”

  “I really don’t mind going to Florence. Josh is away so, honestly, I have nothing better to do this weekend. And I have some air miles I need to use before they expire.”

  “Why don’t you take the book with you when you visit Dad at Easter?” he asked. “We’re all going then anyway.” He sounded tired, which wasn’t surprising at this late hour.

  “We can’t wait until Easter. That’s a fortnight away. We have to assume that Ethan’s on his way to Claire’s now. To be honest, the sooner I hand this over to him, the better.” I glanced my watch. “I should go in the morning.”

  “I don’t think—” Leo began.

  “Professor Benedict, it’ll be fine. If I had to go somewhere like Transylvania or something, you could be justifiably concerned. But it’s Florence. It’s home. And Dad’s there. Nothing will happen.”

  Leo was quiet for a long time. “You know what? I’ll come with you. I want to see Ethan. Olivia will understand.”

  She probably would. She was the most pragmatic, unruffled person I’d ever met, the polar opposite of Leo’s mercurial first wife.