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

by Sigrid Vansandt

  He remembered driving toward the house and seeing most of the lights were out except the one in the entryway. Disappointed, he had decided to wait in his car for Haimon’s return. The house, backlit by a crescent moon hovering off to the west, had sat dark and quiet. A truth stirred inside him. He wanted her.

  The thought had burned his brain with desire. For an hour, he wrestled with the idea, but in the end he couldn’t help himself and, stepping free of the car, he entered the front door soundlessly.

  Hearing nothing as he walked up the stairs to the upper level, he made his way to the bedroom door where he knew Patricia lay. As he turned the knob, he held his breath. The door swung open and Max saw how the white light from the nighttime sky gently hung in the room.

  Haimon’s wife turned over in her bed, obviously disturbed by the opening door.

  “Is that you?” she asked.

  Her question completely arrested his movement and gave focus to his mind.

  “Is that you, Max?” she asked again.

  It was his name she used. He walked into the room.

  “Yes,” he had said, finally letting out the air he’d been holding in his lungs.

  Nothing else was said and nine months later, Haimon had a son.

  Max had never asked Patricia if the child was his. He didn’t want to know. Almost immediately he'd wished her dead, but killing his brother’s wife had its difficulties. At any point she could turn on him. She, on the other hand, had acted perfectly happy to never say a word. Once the child came along, Patricia had kept her distance from him and slowly pulled away from Haimon as well.

  A semi-truck blew past the car’s left-hand side, spraying the windshield with water and bringing Max back to the present. Shaking his tired head, he blinked and yawned. Fatigue was settling in. He needed strong coffee. Better to focus on the task at hand than dig too deep into the past.

  He was to hunt for two women, both Americans, one a redhead and one a brunette, who Annalena Kirchner had entrusted to locate the da Vinci manuscript. Their first stop was in Czech at a place called Jince about half way between Pilsen and Prague. Haimon would wait in in a place near Tübingen with the other three until he returned.

  Things had a way of catching up with a person. Somewhere deep within the familial foundation he and Haimon had built their lives upon, Max had felt the hint of a sinister and cataclysmic tremor building the moment he dragged Tom into Annalena Kirchner’s living room. Haimon had demanded to know who the man was after the old woman passed out. It had come as a shock when he introduced himself as Thomas Keenes.

  Max had to smile as he remembered the look on his brother’s face. Even Haimon was at a loss of words for a moment. The resemblance between himself and Tom was easy to see, and knowing Haimon like he did, Max understood it was only a matter of time before Haimon put two-and-two together realizing Tom’s true parentage.

  Max ran his hand through his dark, thick hair, trying to imagine life without his brother. There was a sensation of a burdensome weight lifting from his soul. If he didn’t return, Haimon would hunt him down and kill him. Max had insulted his brother’s ego and for that there was no forgiveness. There wasn’t a chance of redemption by delivering the manuscript or asking for understanding either. Max didn’t want that anyway. His soul’s first feeling of lightness was the second crack in the old sibling foundation as well.

  With the manuscript or without it, he would finally deal with his brother. For once, he, Max, would come out on top.

  Chapter 29

  A moldering Bohemian castle in the Czech Republic

  “Thank you, thank you, I’ve always loved to dance, but I’m really very tired. Should we take a break?” Martha panted as she tried desperately to disengage herself from Count von Wallenstein’s overwhelming and garlic smelling embrace. One of Johann Strauss’ more playful waltzes, ‘Wine, Women and Song’, echoed through the Great Hall as Count von Wallenstein twirled Martha for the tenth time like a redheaded doll.

  For the last fifteen minutes, the diminutive, elderly count had been waltzing her around a massive library while Helen surreptitiously dug through piles of books and manuscripts, stacked shoulder high on long, heavily built side tables. Randomly placed throughout the cluttered room, each table was a treasure trove of rare tomes, pamphlets and atlases.

  The very air smelled of dust, decay and old fur. Up above the fifteen-foot shelves and rising another twenty feet into a timber-framed ceiling, were a legion of prized stuffed animal heads affixed to the walls. Their cold, glass eyes watched Martha and the count’s chaotic dance below with a mixture of surprise and wonder.

  Lizet, the woman who the girls had followed up the rough, pine forest track to offer help, had asked them to stay and have something warm to drink after they’d lured her uncle, Count Dominik Alexander von Wallenstein, back inside. Now, they were doing a bit of adult sitting while his niece had excused herself to go to the kitchen and prepare coffee for everyone.

  As a precaution, she’d explained she would have to lock the door but not to worry as Uncle Dominik was harmless. Helen and Martha had nodded with uncertain but polite smiles as she left them.

  With Lizet’s departure, Helen had leaned over and whispered into Martha’s ear.

  “This has to be the library.”

  “Either that,” Martha had mused out loud as she scanned the cavernous hall, “or it's where all books come to die.”

  “I’m going to look around. You keep him busy.”

  “Why me?” Martha had squeaked.

  “’Cause he keeps throwing you winks and waving at you. You must be his type,” Helen said with a mischievous grin as she had left Martha’s side and slipped quietly over to a stack of over-sized volumes piled upon an enormous table.

  Martha had smiled weakly at the white-headed Don Juan. With a roguish smile, he had slicked the unruly sprigs on the top of his pate back into place and had hopped down from the stool he’d been sitting on. Hurrying over to a cupboard, he had worked at something inside.

  A deafening “SSSRREEAKK” sound erupted from speakers hidden somewhere in the shadowy vastness of the room followed by joyful, light music that boomed forth filling the space with a Strauss waltz, ‘The Blue Danube’. Count von Wallenstein, doing some one-two-three foot movements and smiling waggishly at Martha, glided towards her.

  She did a quick scan of the room to see Helen mouth the words, “Dance!”

  What would it hurt, she told herself? And when he offered his hand, she smiled kindly and accepted. For every turn and twirl, Martha wondered how long it could possibly take to make coffee and when they could expect Lizet back. But the dancing was giving Helen time to look through the collection undisturbed.

  Count von Wallenstein looked up at Martha from his vantage point near her clavicle. Every so often, he attempted to hold her closer, but she had managed to thwart every surreptitious move or sliding hand. That was until gazing up at her with a not-so-innocent twinkle in his eye, he squeezed and patted her bottom.

  “Okay, we’re done!” Martha said and disengaged from his embrace. As he mumbled something in Czech and reached for her again, she gave a quick glance over to where Helen was engrossed in a thick volume. At his touch on her hand, she raised one eyebrow and gave him a ‘nice try but fun times are over’ look flicking the offending hand away.

  A door opened at the side of the room and Lizet finally entered carrying a well-ladened tray. Count von Wallenstein clapped his hands together like a happy child obviously forgetting his rebuff and cried, “Báječný!”

  He ambled over to the sitting area and tried to pull at the edges of a delicious looking cake. Every time he took a stab at it, he’d get his hands slapped gently by Lizet.

  “He can be a handful at times,” Lizet said with a sigh as both Helen and Martha joined them at the table. “But I love him, and since he has become so much like an innocent child…”

  “That’s debatable,” Martha thought, thinking about the firm squeeze on her der
riere only minutes ago.

  “I am so terrified when he gets free from the castle,” Lizet finished.

  “Do you have much help with his care?” Helen asked.

  “Yes, every day he goes to a special facility where he can be with other older people who are adjusting to the loss of their memory or dealing with confusion. He swims and loves to dance…”

  Martha and Helen nodded encouragingly.

  “And he has a female partner who he favors with most of his attention. They play cards and have the one meal together each day. She, too, has red hair,” Lizet said with a shy smile, “though of course at age eighty-two, it must be from having it dyed.”

  Martha laughed and said, “So, Count von Wallenstein loves redheads. I kind of gathered that.”

  All three women turned their gazes briefly towards the sweet looking cake eater who returned to them a cheery, crumb-covered grin and exclaimed, “Báječný!”

  Everyone laughed together.

  “What does ‘báječný’ mean?” Helen asked, still smiling from the shared, humorous moment.

  “Yummy, marvelous, or that something is beautiful,” Lizet said, watching her uncle’s face. “He is precious to me. I wish I was certain of our finances. I’m afraid we won’t be able to go on much longer in this way. Money is very tight.”

  “Lizet, do you know very much about this collection? We came to this house because a woman we are working for, Mrs. Annalena Kirchner, believes there may be a valuable manuscript here by da Vinci. Would you or another person in your family be willing to discuss that possibility?” Helen asked.

  “Oh, I know the name of Annalena Kirchner,” Lizet replied. “She called us on many occasions, and there is no one besides myself to go through the collection. I don’t have the time and, even if I did, I wouldn’t know what to look for. You see, I studied engineering at university.”

  Helen nodded.

  “Lizet, if you would give me some time to look through the library, I should be able to locate it, if it’s here. Are there other places in the schloss where books are kept?”

  “Not that I’ve ever seen. There’s an old safe with a combination lock over there.” She pointed to a door covered in shelves of books. “I do know where the code is kept. Perhaps something so valuable would have been kept there. Would you like to see it?”

  “Absolutely,” Helen answered.

  Lizet got up, went over to a desk and pulled out a drawer. Taking a well-used notebook, she went to the door she’d moments ago indicated, and pulled the shelves, which swung open on ornate metal hinges. A tall, antique looking metal safe was revealed with a combination lock on the front. Lizet turned the dial back and forth until there was a ‘pop’ sound. She pulled the heavy, thick door open.

  “Here you go. Mostly papers, some books and a few family items. You’re welcome to dig through the mess. I need to take the tray to the kitchen. May I leave Uncle with you for a few more minutes? He’ll be content playing his records.”

  Martha, making sure Lizet didn’t see, shot the waltzing Wallenstein a cynical look. He looked truly innocent nibbling on his big cookie. Catching her eye, he puckered up his crumb-covered lips and winked at her.

  “If I may finish a few things until Uncle Dominik is ready for his ride into Pilsen, then we can go look. May I leave him here a few more moments? Please feel free to look through the collection here in the library.”

  “Oh, no problem,” Helen said solicitously. “We will keep an eye on him. Thank you for opening the safe.”

  Lizet stood up and, collecting the tray, walked out of the room leaving Helen and Martha to begin their search with Uncle Dominik wandering off towards the stereo again.

  “I forgot my phone down in the car. Did you bring yours?” Helen asked.

  Martha pulled her phone from her pocket without looking at its face.

  “Yep. Why?”

  “It’ll make me feel better. It’s like we’re cut-off from the rest of the world up here. I’ll get to work looking for the manuscript, but give me your phone. I want to call Piers.”

  “Good. About time. Poor man has been having to make due with heart emojis.”

  Martha put the phone into Helen’s hand and walked away.

  “Oh God!” Helen exclaimed arresting Martha’s departure instantly.

  “What? What is it?” Martha croaked.

  “We’re being followed,” Helen said looking up from the phone’s face with a look of shock.

  “Who, who is following us?”

  Helen shook her head.

  “Annalena’s text says…” Helen looked down at the phone’s face and back up at Martha finishing in a whisper, “that he’s dangerous.”

  “Dangerous? Like coming after us and going to hurt us for some reason? I KNEW that woman was up to something! She was like a tiny, steely, wizened con-woman! She set us up, Helen! Can’t help appreciating her moxie though.”

  “We gotta calm down, Martha,” Helen hissed, looking over her friend’s shoulder and seeing the count digging in Martha’s purse and finding her lipstick.

  “How close?” Martha asked.

  “Annalena says he left two hours ago from Tübingen.”

  Martha turned around just in time to see Count Dominik using her lipstick on a life-sized marble bust of the composer, Wagner. She sighed and smiled thinking how Wagner would have been mortified.

  “Let’s get to work,” she said. “I’ll dance and you hunt. We don’t have much time.”

  Chapter 30

  Marsden-Lacey

  The kitchen smelled of toast and sizzling sausages. Alistair sat with his legs crossed at the table, sipping his tea out of a lovely fine bone china cup as a warm morning sun broke over the hedges on the eastern side of the garden. Rays of light filtered in through the paned windows giving the breakfast nook a cheery feel.

  A clicking sound of four tiny paws scurrying down the hallway told Alistair it was time to put the ‘Marsden-Lacey Times’ down and prepare Comstock’s first meal of the day. The all black schnauzer arrived and sat back on his haunches, raising his front two paws in a greeting to his master. His morning salutations earned him a treat of a piece of sausage.

  “Stay out of the compost, Comstock,” Alistair said, letting the canine prince out the backdoor.

  “I don’t know why you feed him sausage and then let him play in horse…” a voice said from the kitchen doorway but was interrupted by the clanging of the front door’s bell.

  Alistair turned around with a welcoming grin at Perigrine’s entrance, only to see him disappear back down the hallway in the direction of the front of the garden store. Soon, both Perigrine and Comstock came walking into the kitchen.

  “When did he learn to ring the doorbell?” Perigrine asked as he poured himself a cup of coffee. “That’s new, right?”

  “He’s learned to turn on the telly as well. Comstock is exceptional in every way,” Alistair said in between bites of toast.

  Taking his coffee mug to the table, Perigrine sat down across from Alistair and for a few moments neither spoke, but words were definitely being formed.

  “My evening was successful,” Perigrine said smoothly, his gaze resting indifferently on the headlines of the Marsden-Lacey Times.

  Where the newspaper had been turned to page two, it appeared a break-in had taken place at a high-ranking police official’s condominium in Leeds last evening. A cat burglar had entered through a sixth floor window. Interestingly enough though, there was no mention of any description of the burglar. He scanned the entire article and smiled. The pig was in the poke.

  “Any more sausages?” he asked brightly.

  “Three and two eggs still in their shell,” Alistair said thumbing over his shoulder at the counter behind him. The doorbell rang again, sending Comstock into a fever of barking and quick pursuit of the front door’s molester.

  Alistair got up and followed the great protector of hearth and home to the garden center’s main entrance. A young man dressed in
motorbike riding leather waited outside with a legal-sized, brown envelope.

  Unlocking the door, Alistair swung it opened and asked pleasantly, “May I help you?”

  Without a word, the dark-haired youth thrust the envelope into Alistair’s hand then returned quickly to his parked BMW bike, hopped on and zoomed rapidly away. The morning air whipped up by the departing vehicle blew Alistair’s hair to one side and made his robe flutter in the same direction as he stood watching the bike round a corner and disappear. A boyish grin illuminated his face.

  Anyone witnessing the extremely odd event might have wondered at Alistair’s unruffled response at having mail pressed aggressively upon him by surly mutes driving exceptionally expensive bikes.

  However, as most people in Marsden-Lacey were fond of the boys at the garden center, they would have chalked it up to something unique to Perigrine and Alistair’s life before settling in the village. The truth was that everyone was pleased at having such well-dressed, mysterious yet debonair types choosing to live in their quaint Yorkshire village.

  “Looks like Mona got her money,” Alistair mused aloud.

  Peeking into the well-stuffed envelope, he smiled brightly and did a four step jig within his door’s entryway. A note within read, “Dear Ally, any time you’re in Manchester, there is a warm seat by the fire for you along with your favorite Killian’s. Thank you. All my love, Mona.”

  “You’re a dear, Mona my love,” he sang as he walked placidly back to the kitchen, pleased by his hefty windfall. Arriving at the table where Perigrine sat drumming his fingers, Alistair resumed his breakfast ritual, spreading a thin layer of marmalade on his second piece of buttered toast.

  “You were saying something about the evening being a success,” he said taking a bite and noticing a flash drive laying beside Perigrine’s teacup.

  The drumming ceased.

  “Yes, a firm success,” Perigrine answered, flicking his gaze at the flash drive.

  “Is this a win?” Alistair asked without a hint of annoyance, which would have typically peppered his tone in times of eminent wager defeat. Instead, he was exceptionally buoyant in mood.