Death Drinks Darjeeling (A Helen and Martha Cozy Mystery Book 4)

by Sigrid Vansandt

  Helen sighed and said, “They may be unwilling to tell you, Mrs. Kirchner, if they’ve already found the manuscript. It’s worth more to sell on the private market than to return it to either the Pinacoteca Ambrosiana or the Bibliothèque nationale de France. I wouldn’t venture to guess what it's worth, but the last one sold for over thirty-million dollars twenty years ago.”

  “It’ll be tricky, but it’s not technically the present owner’s legal property either. It’s been stolen by conquerors or thieves and sold under false pretenses many times throughout history. One thing is certain, Leonardo’s manuscripts have been well travelled and, as a professional who adheres to strict codes of conduct, it is your responsibility to return the stolen item to the correct authorities. That’s why I think you’re right for this job. I don’t think you’ll be easily put off by…”

  Martha finished Annalena’s thought in a dry tone, “By people who want to kill us.”

  Annalena shrugged again for the second time since her story commenced.

  “If you find it and split the finder’s fee three ways: one for you, one for me and Sabine, and one for the actual owner, expect at least something in the neighborhood of five million US dollars. Museums often give substantial rewards for the return of stolen artifacts. A Leonardo would be one of the greatest lost treasures returned to mankind. It would be a momentous world event.”

  Martha’s jaw dropped at the sum and Helen’s hands slipped from her knees as she slumped back in her chair. Annalena’s wizened face cracked into a grim grin.

  “Exactly,” she said. “And that’s a low number.”

  Helen pulled herself back into a more upright position and flicked a look at the still staggered expression on Martha’s face.

  “Where and who are the two families?” Helen asked. “We’ll need a number to reach you and an address for the place you’re staying in Copenhagen. I’ll also need your notes.”

  “Helen!” Martha exclaimed. “Do you know what you’re saying? You’ve got a wedding in two weeks. We don’t have time for chasing a lost manuscript around. We only agreed to this when we thought it was already here. It’s not. There are people, dangerous people, hunting it. It’s only…” Martha swallowed hard and continued, “money, a lot of money to be true, but…”

  Both Annalena and Helen turned in unison at Martha’s comment and studied her much like a schoolteacher will when a student misses the point of the lesson. It was Helen who answered.

  “It’s not the money, dear. We have to save something so extremely precious that if we don’t try to find it, bring it back and preserve it, we won’t be able to live with ourselves. It’s a da Vinci. It’s priceless. The other people who want it will sell it to some collector and it’ll never see the light of day again. It belongs to all of humanity not just one person.”

  Martha and Helen’s eyes locked and unspoken truths, faster than light-years, streamed along an invisible pathway between them.

  “Your wedding…”

  “It’ll be dangerous…”

  “We might not find it…”

  “We might… We have to…”

  Like an eternity in a second, Martha finally said, “If you feel this is right, we have to go tonight. I promised to have you back in one piece in two days and I always stick by my promises.”

  Helen nodded.

  “Good,” Annalena said firmly. “I knew I had the right two people.” She reached down into a satchel attached to her wheelchair and pulled out a slim notebook. “I believe it is in one of two places. Here are my notes. I have never shared these notes with anyone. In this you will find names, address and phone numbers of the families. Also, there is a description of what you are looking for, along with specific references from Napoleon’s curator, Pierre Daunou. If the manuscript is in a fragile state, you will need to be prepared to safely handle and transport it.”

  Another young woman came into the room, causing Annalena to smile affectionately at her entrance. She made a signal for her to come over.

  “This is my daughter-in-law, Sabine,” Annalena said, introducing her.

  Both Helen and Martha smiled up at the pretty brunette.

  Cara stood up from her seat and walked around behind the sofa then carried over to Martha a sturdy, plastic portfolio with a handle and a long strap.

  “Guess you had a hunch we’d accept the gig,” Martha said.

  Annalena ignored Martha and said, “Inside you will find an inner envelope and an outer envelope. I’m sure you’ve seen these before. This three layers will keep the manuscript safe in transport.”

  Helen rose and Martha followed suit.

  “We will do our best, Mrs. Kirchner. If we have questions, we will of course call you. I have your number,” Helen said, leaning over and offering her hand to Annalena.

  Martha also shook her hand and, giving the frail bird a knowing wink, she said in a low voice, “Why do I get the feeling there’s more to this story?”

  “I’m sure I wouldn’t know why you would think so,” Annalena said looking up into Martha’s expectant face. “Perhaps you have a suspicious mind,” she finished curtly.

  Martha leaned back up into a straight position and, eyeing the dainty, warmly wrapped senior lady, she couldn’t help wondering who was dancing to who’s tune.

  “Goodbye, Mrs. Kirchner. We will be in touch,” Helen said, heading for the front door.

  With assistance from Sabine, Annalena was pushed to the front door in a wheelchair. As she waved at them from her entryway, Annalena called after them, “Good luck!”

  Helen and Martha waved one last time getting into their car and drove away. The two women left standing in the doorway, one older and one younger, watched as the car’s tail lights were finally lost as it turned a corner. Going back inside, Sabine secured the lock and a young man walked out from where he’d been listening in the kitchen. For a moment no one spoke but Annalena rallied.

  “Cara you need to go home and stay there. It’s not safe anymore in this house. Tom take Sabine to the train station and go to Copenhagen with her. I think your father and uncle will make their move tonight. Their letter indicated as much. It’s only a matter of time.”

  Chapter 24

  Marsden-Lacey

  The moonless darkness afforded Alistair the perfect cover for watching his quarry as it sat comfortably chatting up the pub’s attractive twenty-year-old female bartender. The flax-haired girl resembling Botticelli’s Venus, however clothed, gave every indication of wishing George Ryes would go away. Instead George was laying down another five pound note and smiling a smarmy smile. As he was leaning in closer over the bar and invading her space, he tried to tug at her sleeve making her flick his hand away with a look of utter annoyance.

  Alistair, disgusted but also unsurprised, rolled his eyes heavenward. He always found men like George comical. The strutting, the manly-man posturing and the firm belief that women responded to a predatory nature never ceased to amaze Alistair when it came to the way some men went about wooing the opposite sex.

  He might have offered these misguided souls some advice, but most of them were frankly too in love with themselves to be interested in learning the art of charming a woman. Besides it was more fun to see someone like puffed-up George get taken down a few notches by a horrified college girl, shocked that some old man would even think he had a chance.

  Alistair had done his research and found that George was staying at a nearby inn. When he called the place, the owner had said Mr. Ryes had gone out for something to eat at one of the local pubs. That meant Ryes had to be in one of four pubs in the village and only three of those were currently open for business. The rest had been easy.

  As he watched George attempt to reach for the girl again, he saw her lean back and slapped his cheek. Alistair decided the timing was finally good to run some interference. He walked into the pub and tapped a red-faced George on the shoulder.

  “Buy you a drink?” he asked in a way that meant it wasn’t an optio
n.

  George grunted his assent and, picking up his glass, followed Alistair to a corner nook away from any ears who might want to listen.

  “What can I do for you?” Ryes asked, slouching in the booth and gulping down some of his beer.

  “Lars Rundstom sends his greetings,” Alistair replied.

  The waitress delivered Alistair’s ale at the same moment. Taking a drink, he waited for George to speak.

  George’s reaction was far more delicious than the beer. Choking on the drink halfway down his throat, Ryes went into a coughing spasm. In a short time, he regained his ability to breath and he flashed a cringing-pup like expression at Alistair.

  “Who?” he hissed in a whisper. “No, don’t say it again. I mean, how do you know Lars?”

  “Bought a painting off him last year. Probably during the time you were riding the whirlwind of easy cash. What would you call those times, Ryes? Your Green Phase? I suppose that would be the most appropriate color, since it must have been an extremely affluent time for you.”

  Alistair’s sipped his own drink. His mind going back to the day before. It had taken only a little time after he’d left Healy to realize he wanted to see George Ryes removed from Marsden-Lacey’s landscape forever. He did some digging on Ryes’ early business activities and it seemed that Helen’s husband at the time had used his connections with the art world to broker deals that weren’t exactly on the up and up. Some people had been burned. Some had gone to prison but not George. After his last financially successful scheme, he’d suddenly found love in the arms of a much younger woman and ran off to Orlando.

  George sat staring at the contents of his glass. From the look on his face, Alistair wondered if Ryes was watching a black and white version of his future doom playing on his own internal brain screen. It took George a moment to collect himself but when he did, to his meager credit, he tried to pull off some semblance of innocence.

  “Lars had it wrong. I didn’t know those paintings were fakes. I can’t say who I bought them from but I showed Lars the copy of my invoice before he put them up for auction for me. You have to understand,” George said, his voice sounding dry, “I lost my shirt on those paintings.”

  “If that were true, why didn’t you go to the police once you knew what they were? Or did you? Besides, George, don’t tire me with your false allusions the paintings were forged. The paintings were hot, not fakes, and Lars was your patsy. He sold those painting and someone called Interpol. Poor old Lars had that tiny gambling problem and needed to make good on some of his own debts, so he never had the money to make restitution to the buyers. They sent him to prison.”

  George looked furtively around the pub’s interior.

  “I… I… didn’t set out to screw Lars,” he hissed.

  Well,” Alistair continued, “maybe you did and maybe you didn’t, but he was your fall guy. He went to jail but he’s not the one I’d be scared of, if I was you. Mona. His wife. She’s the real threat.”

  Helen’s ex-husband appeared to have sobered completely from his earlier slatternly self. His eyes never quit scanning the room. Alistair smiled inwardly. He was feeling all warm and happy inside.

  “I lost my money, George. Had to send the beautiful Peter De Wint I purchased from your consignment to Lars’ auction house with the London’s Metropolitan Police and, to this day, I’ve never received one pound in return for what I paid. But that’s not the most interesting part of this story because according to a friend of mine, you received a hefty settlement from the original owner’s insurance company. Correct me if I’m wrong, you handled stolen goods, arranged to have them sold, pocketed your percentage of the sale, moved to Florida almost within days and received a kick-back from the insurance firm to boot.”

  George started to move out of the booth, but Alistair reached over and, laying his hand on the man’s arm, said, “No, you’re going to sit here and listen because if you don’t, I’ll have to signal to the two men playing darts over there that you’re not being cooperative. Do you understand?”

  Alistair didn’t truthfully know the two beefy rowdies, but one had to use what resources were available in these kind of ticklish situations. Once he had George resettled in his seat, Alistair explained how he wanted things to go.

  “I have one question for you, George. Why are you back? Not exactly a safe place for you…ever.”

  George was sullen for a time, then heaving a sigh, he snapped, “What do you want? Get to the point. This is feeling like some kind of shake-down.”

  “Answer my question.” Alistair stated.

  “I made a mistake leaving Helen. I want to make her mine again and then we’ll go live maybe in southern Florida. Lots of wealthy Americans there who have money to burn on art collections. Besides, I love her.”

  Alistair laughed heartily at what he assumed was a witticism on George’s part. Composing himself, he took a drink from his glass.

  “Yes, I witnessed your deep devotion to her a few moments ago. By the way, Simone, the girl bartending tonight, dates one of the boys playing darts over at the board.”

  George shrugged indifferently.

  “You are going to go back to Florida but before you do, I want you to reimburse me for the painting that was brutally stripped from me and deposit fifty-thousand pounds anonymously in Mona Rundstom’s bank account.”

  It was George’s turn to guffaw loudly.

  “Why should I? I did nothing wrong and when I found out about the pieces being stolen, I worked with the police to make sure it was handled. As for Lars, he should have returned all the money he made from the sell and reimbursed the buyers. Go get your money from him and piss off!”

  Alistair sat serenely watching George much the same way a bird of prey gives nothing away right before it swoops in and rips the throat out of its victim.

  “Oh you’re going to leave, Ryes, and probably as soon as you can get to an airport tonight. You see, I did some digging after my painting was ripped from my hands. The original owner was in a bit of a financial crisis. All you both needed was someone like Lars to auction everything off, get your cut from the sale, have your owner come home from who knows where and scream, ‘Theft.’ From there, it was a simple job of finding some half-wit collector to make the connection and call the police.”

  “You’re trying to put the touch to me for the money you lost. None of that will ever stick and unlike Lars, I have friends in high places who know I’m an above board dealer.”

  “Well your upper-crust, well-positioned friends won’t be able to save you from the kind of friends, or family in this case, related to Lars Rundstom. When you chose Lars’ family-owned auction house to sell the paintings, you were sloppy about your homework. The last people you ever want to stab in the back are the Irish and especially the Irish with mob connections. Mona Rundstom used to be Mona Cavanagh. Ring any bells?”

  George stayed mute but swallowed hard.

  “It’s her very loving brother, Michael, who manages the family business in Manchester. How far is that? About an hour from where we’re sitting right now? But to show good faith, I’ll give you twelve hours to duck and run back to Florida. If you don’t, you’ll force me to call Mona. She’d love to know you’re in town.” Looking down at his watch, Alistair continued, “Time’s ticking, George. You’re not to return to England, ever. Do we have an understanding?”

  “How do you know the whole thing wasn’t Helen’s idea?” George asked, his face beginning to manifest his true inner nature of selfishness and malignancy.

  Alistair felt himself want to reach out and grip the loathsome creature sitting across the table from him around the neck and choke the wretched life from him. George Ryes had already sent a man to prison and, if he could save his own neck by pinning the entire fraudulent double-cross on Helen, he would. Alistair’s composure, however, was glacial.

  “Bad move, George. Now you’re three hours from being a dead man. Should have taken my first offer. I’ll expect to hear from
Mona about her monetary windfall when I talk to her tomorrow and of course you can slip my check in the mail care of the Marsden-Lacey post office,” Alistair said rising from his seat and brushing off invisible particles from his waistcoat. Then taking out his phone, he took a picture of George.

  “Proof,” he said out loud. “Mona will appreciate seeing your back home.”

  He walked towards the door of the pub and chatted in a friendly manner with one of the dart players who shot an ugly, menacing look at George still sitting like a beaten lump where Alistair had left him.

  With a benign grin and a wave, Helen’s champion and George’s worst nightmare sailed out through the pub’s door. The explosive, raucous aftermath his brief conversation with the rowdies incited, signaled a need for Alistair’s imminent departure.

  Without being hit by even one of the flying stools or being soiled by one drop of floating alcohol that filled the contentious space, Alistair slipped quietly outside into the fresh, nighttime air and headed homeward to a delicious bowl of the very best French pork stew this side of Toulouse.

  Chapter 25

  Tübingen, Germany

  Once everyone was gone, Annalena sat waiting for the inevitable. She didn’t go to bed though she was tired. Instead, she reclined in her favorite chair watching the fire burn in the fireplace. Tom had been unwilling to leave Annalena behind. He was such a kind person, but she was firm that if he didn’t leave, they had no chance of their plan working.

  With the two young people on their way to Copenhagen, Cara safely at her own home, the night was complete and quiet. Being alone didn’t bother Annalena, nor did the dark. Both were like old friends. It was easier to think and to let her mind wander. It caught at the thread of a long ago memory and without hesitation, she followed it back to another time when human evil had also lurked and preyed upon the innocent, the weak, and the honest.