The Complete Kate Benedict Cozy British Mysteries

by Carrie Bedford

  “Did Falcone tell you about the Madonna?” she asked. “The one that Dante had given me?”

  I shook my head, measuring tea into a pot.

  “I gave it to Falcone,” she said. “It wasn’t mine to keep and I wanted nothing to do with it. He discovered a bug attached to the back of it. A listening device that meant Dante had been able to hear all of my conversations in my apartment.”

  “That would explain how he knew that Ethan had found the Della Pittura in your father’s safety deposit box.” I looked at her in horror. “Good grief, that’s awful.”

  “It made me physically sick. To think he was eavesdropping on me for weeks, listening to me talking to my dad, my brother, my friends. And to you, when you came with the key. He knew everything, at least until you and I left the apartment. That messed things up for him.”

  I put a mug of tea down in front of her and sat down.

  “What about your ghost?” I asked to change the subject. “Did you see him again in the Vasari Corridor?”

  A smile lit up her face. “He’s gone. I believe he was waiting for his portrait to be discovered and made public. I’m glad they found it, although we may never understand the whole story of who he was or how he came to have his portrait painted.”

  We’d both listened to Falcone and his art expert, Pedretti, debating how long the Botticelli portrait had been stored in the vault. Given that there was no mention of the painting in any historical records, Pedretti believed that it had been acquired and hidden by the Custodians not long after being completed in the late 1490s. But we’d never know for sure.

  The doorbell rang and I went to answer it, expecting it to be Valeria, who planned to join us for dinner. Instead, wrapped in the Stewart tartan scarf I’d given him for Christmas, was Josh. His eyes were the color of the Mediterranean sea in the spring and, when he leaned forward to kiss me, I smelled the faint and familiar scent of wool and aftershave. He dropped his briefcase and overnight bag on to the step and flung his arms around me. “God, I’ve missed you,” he said.

  “It’s been twenty hours. I only left yesterday evening,” I said with a laugh. “But I missed you too.”

  I’d got a late night flight with Leo, Olivia and the boys while Josh had paid a fleeting visit to his parents’ house to celebrate his mum’s birthday. But now we’d have the rest of the long holiday weekend together. He lifted me in the air and hugged me tight. Then he set me down carefully and picked up his bags.

  “Who’s here?” he asked.

  “Almost everyone. Valeria will be here soon. And Patrizia is coming. She got out of the hospital a few days ago.

  “Quite a gathering. But it’s you I really want to see.” He raised an eyebrow. “Do I get to sleep in your room like last time I was here?”

  “Yes, but we’re sharing it,” I said, and laughed at his crestfallen expression. “Bianca’s moved in. Last night she slept on the bed with me.”

  We stepped into the hall, where he hung his jacket and scarf on the coat-rack before giving me another hug. This time I felt the warmth of his skin through his shirt.

  He and Alan had got back from Shanghai on Monday, four days after I’d arrived back in London. I’d been sitting at my desk when Alan walked in, looking as though he’d trekked back from China on foot, with a crumpled suit, spiky hair and a distinct droop to his shoulders. “Bloody British Air,” he’d muttered.

  I’d told him it was lovely having him back, but my sarcasm was totally lost on him. I’d rather hoped that he would have a life-changing experience in China, some enlightening encounter with the Buddha perhaps. But that was too much to ask for. The good news at least was that he’d been too jet-lagged that morning to bring up the subject of my missing days. By the time he’d got around to it, I’d completely caught up with all my work by staying until midnight three days in a row.

  There had been other good news in the last week. Detective Lake had cleared Ethan of all involvement in Ben’s death and no longer regarded me as a person of interest. Falcone and Lake had worked together to identify and charge the killer, one of Dante’s men.

  Dante remained in custody, awaiting formal charges to be made against him. Falcone said the list of charges was long, and the Italian legal system works slowly. Dante was calling in all sorts of favors from friends in high places, including the police department and the judiciary. I hoped he’d go to prison for a long time, but Falcone wasn’t so confident. The contents of the warehouse had been impounded, though, and the provenance of every piece was being verified. Falcone was optimistic that many of the missing artworks he’d been tracking down for years would turn up in the collection.

  I thought back to my phone conversation with Colin Butler, my journalist friend who’d researched Dante for me and only found that he was a bona fide art dealer. He’d be devastated when I told him what Dante had really been up to. I still owed him a drink— I’d buy him extra beer and crisps to soften the blow.

  Josh gave me a long, slow kiss. “You taste of sugar and spice,” he said.

  “I’m making an Easter cake,” I told him before kissing him back, leaning into him, running my fingers through his dark hair.

  He glanced at his watch over my shoulder. “I think the rugby’s started,” he said.

  “Why don’t you watch with Ethan and Leo while I finish baking,” I suggested. He didn’t need a second invitation. He couldn’t miss watching a Scotland match if he tried.

  Back in the kitchen, I was beating eggs and sugar together when Bianca started whining at the door. I rinsed my hands at the sink and went to let her out. The weather had improved, the rain replaced by soft sunshine, the air still cold but fresh and clear.

  Dad’s garden glowed in the pale light. Blue iris bloomed, yellow daffodils nodded on tender stalks, and white crocus rose from the deep red earth. On the other side of the lawn, an arbor covered in wisteria sheltered a stone bench. It was my favorite place to read a book in the summer.

  Bianca ran towards it, barking.

  For a second, my skin prickled. But Dante and his henchmen were in custody. No one could do me harm, so I set off across the grass, my shoes sinking into the damp soil. When I reached the arbor, I saw a figure sitting on the bench, with Bianca panting at her feet. Stopping dead, I held my hand to my chest to quell the pounding of my heart. The woman wore a nun’s habit and sensible black shoes, her face turned up to the sun.

  Sister Chiara. She was the one who’d first explained my aura-seeing gift to me almost two years ago. She’d died not long after our encounter, and I’d met her again once since then.

  Looking over at me, she patted the bench. “Come sit with me for a moment,” she said. “How are you doing?”

  I took a breath and sat down next to her. The stone was warmed by the sun, but I felt the chill emanating from Chiara’s skin.

  “I’m fine,” I said. “How are you?” I laughed nervously. It was a silly question to ask someone who was dead.

  She smiled back at me. “Surprisingly well. And how are the auras going?”

  “I’m still seeing them,” I said. “But I’m managing better with them, most of the time anyway.”

  “You are. You’re helping people, Kate. I hope you understand that.”

  I turned on the bench to look at her. She appeared just as she had on the hillside when I’d first talked with her, her face lined with age, but her dark eyes still bright and alert.

  “You’re aware of the latest… incident?” I asked. “Three people died, Ben, Simon and Santini.” Not that I cared about the cardinal, but I didn’t tell Chiara that. She was a nun after all. “And there was a boy on a train. He had hazel eyes and wild hair. I never even tried to save him. I couldn’t.”

  “You can’t save everyone. But three people are alive, thanks to you.”

  I gazed at her, biting my lips, remembering the boy and so many others that I hadn’t helped.

  “Look at me,” Chiara said. “What matters, Kate, is your willingness to take risk
s to save others. There are some who might have been endowed with your gift who wouldn’t know how to use it. Or they would use it to benefit only themselves.”

  The sound of fluttering wings caught my attention as two birds settled on the bird table to peck at the seed. Today there were no masked robber raccoons around to steal the food.

  “I’ve always thought that the next time I saw you, it would be for you to tell me that I’ve seen enough auras,” I said to Chiara. “That my gift was being revoked.”

  I patted Bianca on the head. Her brown eyes were directed straight at the nun. It was obvious she could see her as well as I could.

  Chiara gazed into the distance. “Not yet, my dear. Not yet.”

  I bowed my head and took a deep breath, letting her words sink in, acknowledging that I would see more auras, with all the fear and anxiety they brought with them. And I would do my best to thwart them.

  A voice broke the silence. Claire strode across the lawn towards me, her red hair gleaming in the shimmering light.

  “Are you and Bianca enjoying the sunshine?” she asked.

  I looked up. The bench beside me was empty. Sister Chiara had gone.

  <<<<>>>>

  THE END

  Dedication

  For James, Madeleine, and Charlotte

  With Love

  Acknowledgments

  To Cathy Feldman, Maryvonne Fent, and Lyn Mitchell, thank you for taking the time to be beta readers, and for your excellent feedback. The book is far better for your suggestions.

  Effusive thanks to Susan Garzon, Maryvonne Fent, Diana Corbett, and Gillian Hobbs for your insight, comments and friendship. And a special thank you to Julie Smith and Mittie Staininger for your expert guidance. It’s always a pleasure working with you and I’m proud to be on your author roster.

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  We’ll give you your money back if you find as many as five errors. (That’s five verified errors— punctuation or spelling that leaves no room for judgment calls or alternatives.) Or if you just don’t like the book—for any reason! If you find more than five errors, we’ll give you a dollar for every one you catch up to twenty. Just tell us where they are. More than that and we reproof and remake the book. Email mittie.bbn@gmail.com and it shall be done!

  The next Kate Benedict mystery is

  THE SCOTTISH CONNECTION.

  Also by Carrie Bedford:

  NOBILISSIMA: A Novel of Imperial Rome

  The Kate Benedict Paranormal Mystery Series

  THE AURA

  DOUBLE BLIND

  THE FLORENTINE CYPHER

  THE SCOTTISH CONNECTION

  About the Author

  CARRIE BEDFORD grew up in London and has since lived in Switzerland, France, Spain, and Italy. An enthusiastic traveler, she draws on her experiences in her writing. She wrote her debut novel, Nobilissima, while living in Italy, where she researched the life and times of the Empress Placidia. The Kate Benedict Mysteries are set in England and Italy.

  Carrie now lives in California with her husband, their two daughters, two yellow labs, and a calico cat who assists in edit cycles by taking random walks on the keyboard.

  After winning a Greater London Essay Competition in her teens, Carrie has written for both pleasure and for business. Over the last twenty years, she’s published many articles in leading computer and technology magazines. She was editor for a small magazine publisher for several years, and more recently co-owned and managed a public relations and marketing firm in Silicon Valley. She has an Honors degree in English Language and Literature from Manchester University in England.

  booksBnimble Publishing

  New Orleans, La.

  The Scottish Connection

  Copyright 2018 by Carrie Bedford

  All rights are reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  eBook ISBN: 978-0-9973630-8-1

  Print ISBN-13: 978-0-9998131-1-9

  www.booksbnimble.com

  First booksBnimble electronic publication: January 2018

  1

  The fog that delayed our flight into Glasgow airport swirled around the rental car, limiting visibility to only a few yards. After two hours of driving north on increasingly narrow and winding roads, my tense muscles relaxed when Josh pulled up to a set of massive wrought iron gates. He pressed a code into a keypad and the gates swung open, revealing a red gravel driveway that curved away into the mist. I caught glimpses of lawns, fountains and topiaries and then, suddenly, the castle loomed over us, grey and forbidding. Josh stopped the car at the base of a three-story crenellated tower, which was constructed of rough stone blocks, mottled with yellow lichen.

  I got out of the car, shivering in my skinny cardigan while we gathered our bags from the boot. Josh took off his jacket and draped it over my shoulders, tactful enough not to mention he’d warned me that autumn in Scotland could feel like winter in London. We rolled the cases towards the entry, the sound of the wheels on the loose gravel muffled by the fog. As we climbed the short flight of limestone steps, I noticed that the black paint on the massive front door was peeling in places. Above the entry was a stone carving. Worn by rain and wind, the edges of the shield had crumbled. In the center, an image of a hand gripping a sword had become softened and indistinct.

  Before we could ring the bell, the door opened, revealing a middle-aged woman in a sensible tweed skirt and heavy wool sweater.

  Josh dropped his case and threw his arms around her. “Mrs. Dunsmore, it’s good to see you.”

  “Master Josh, welcome back. It’s been far too long since your last visit.” She released him and smiled at me. “Ye must be Kate.” She had a broad Scottish accent that I barely understood. “What a beauty ye are.” I felt my cheeks flush, but she carried on. “Goodness, Josh, ye’ve grown another three inches, I swear. Come in, come in.”

  She waved us into an immense entry hall. Dark wood paneling covered the walls and a vaulted ceiling soared high above a black and white tiled floor. An oak bench, like an old church pew, ran along one wall, facing a marble fireplace on the opposite side. Above the mantel, several stag heads mounted on shields peered down at us with round, glassy eyes.

  “I’ve put tea on and the chief is waiting for you.” She leaned forward towards us. “Before you see him, I should warn you he’s been a wee bit stressed recently.” She lowered her voice to a whisper. “With everything that’s happening.”

  “What’s going on?” Josh asked.

  “Och, he’ll tell you himself. It’s not my place.”

  Before Josh could respond, she went on. “Kate, I’ve put you in the blue bedroom in the tower.” She smiled at me. “There are lovely views from the windows there, across the valley towards the loch. Josh will be right next door in the green room. I’ll call for Lachlan to bring up your cases if you leave them here.”

  “We can take them up, Mrs. Dunsmore,” Josh said. “There’s no need to bother Lachlan. I know my way around. We’ll freshen up and find some warmer clothes for Kate.” He winked at me. “And then we’ll come straight back for tea.”

  “I’ll take the tray to your uncle’s office then. You can join him there when you’re ready.”

  She hurried away, and Josh picked up my case. “It’s a bit of a trek,” he said. “The quickest way is along the portrait gallery that connects the tower to the main house.”

  “Okay then. Lead on, Macduff.”

  He laughed. “You know that’s not the correct version of the quote.” He paused at the bottom of the wide staircase, where a faded red carpet softened the dark wooden treads. “It’s actually ‘Lay on, Macduff, and damned be him who first cries ‘Hold! Enough!’ ”

  “And then Macduff kills Macbeth.”

  “Yep, he cuts off his head.”

  “You’re a bloodthirsty lot, you Scot
s,” I teased, running my hand up the polished wood banister. The stairs brought us to a wide landing and, to the left, the gallery, aptly named for the scores of gilt-framed pictures hung along its walls.

  “I won’t bore you with the family history now,” Josh said, “but many of these portraits are of ancestors of mine. This castle’s been in our family for over three hundred years.”

  I glanced at the oil paintings as we walked, our steps muffled by the teal carpet that unfolded like a river in front of us. Old men with beards, bejeweled ladies in elaborate gowns, young men in uniform with rifles propped against their shoulders, little girls in pastel silks and boys in sailor suits; the array was stunning, like walking through a wing of London’s National Portrait Gallery.

  “What’s all this?” I stopped in front of a glass case, filled with ornate swords displayed on racks. Some of the hilts were decorated with gold and silver and one gleamed with inlaid gems.

  “My great-grandfather put that together. He was quite a collector of weapons, books, and paintings. Apparently, he had a good eye and made some canny purchases over the years. I’ll show you his library later.”

  The carpeted picture gallery led to a square, travertine landing. To my right, a spiral staircase wound upwards. To the left, another stairway curved down. “The tower was redesigned internally in the eighteenth century,” Josh said. “There are six bedrooms downstairs and six up. We’re going up to the top floor, right below the ramparts.”

  I looked at the two stairways and then back to the gallery. “How on earth do you know where you are? This place is huge.”

  “Yes, but I spent a lot of time here when I was little. It was a kid’s paradise, running around and hiding in these corridors. There are so many rooms that many are never used.”