St. Stephens went pale. He made a gurgling sound in his throat as his mouth dropped open. The mail icon flashed and Johns, looking innocent, said, “This is odd. Give me a moment, Sir,” and clicked ‘open mail’.
With a rush at Johns, St. Stephens reached across the desk yelling, “Wait! Stop!”
Johns reeled back with mock surprise upon his face.
“Sir?” he said, dropping his fingers from the keyboard. “What’s wrong?”
“Huh? Nothing! It looks like it might be a mail virus that’s been going around. Lots of people have been hit by it. Don’t open it, Johns. Delete it immediately!”
Johns shook his head slowly and brushed St. Stephens’ hand away from his computer keyboard.
“Please, sir, don’t touch my computer. Protocol demands that mail never be deleted. Our Internet security system scans for viruses. This may be,” he let the word drop with emphasis from his lips, “someone who wants to offer evidence regarding a case or anonymously offer information in some kind of illicit activity. You should know that.”
St. Stephens crumpled backward into the same chair Perigrine only minutes early had vacated. He looked stricken with horror. Johns knew, the commissioner was frantically trying to find a way to handle the situation. The larger than normal mail icon flashed like a beating heart demanding attention. Johns reached over once again for the keypad.
“No, Johns,” the now withered bureaucrat across from him said softly. “You do know someone broke into my home and,” he paused, clearing his throat, “stole private information from my laptop. I believe, whoever they are, they’ve sent you, and perhaps others, that information. It is extremely delicate in nature.”
The chief swiveled his chair to face the commissioner. It was no longer a pompous bully but a deflated criminal sitting across from him and Johns knew well how to handle the situation from here.
“Commissioner, if there is anything in this email that in any way incriminates you and other officers or personnel within the force, it is my duty to turn all evidence over to my superintendent. Would you like to explain yourself?”
As St. Stephens blanched, a fresh spring breeze wafted in through the open window. The two men sat perfectly still watching each other. With an effort to lift himself up from his chair, the commissioner stood up, turned and opened the door to Johns’ office and walked out. No other word was spoken between them. A few minutes later, Johns’ phone buzzed.
“Yes?” he asked.
“Sir, the commissioner just left,” Constable Waters was saying. “The audit went so fast. Did everything go okay? Are we all good?”
“Perfectly,” the chief said softly. “It went absolutely perfectly.”
Chapter 39
Vaulion, Switzerland
“I’m sorry Herr Wittener, to have taken up your time,” Helen was saying. “It was very gracious of you to let us see your collection. I wish we’d found the da Vinci here.”
“Mrs. Ryes, it is I who should thank you. I’m not a bibliophile so learning that our library is home to such rare documents and manuscripts has come as a pleasant surprise. If you would be open to representing me and brokering a sale of some of the items, I would be extremely grateful. At present, a monetary shot-in-the-arm wouldn’t be met with indifference. Our research is always in need of financing.”
“We would be delighted,” Helen replied. “I do have one last question.”
“Anything.”
“Would you have a diary by your Aunt Verena? I didn’t see anything in the collection. Since we unfortunately didn’t find the manuscript we were hoping might be here, I was thinking perhaps there is a chance that if your aunt kept a diary, she may have recorded the night of the auction. Possibly, she saw who purchased the manuscript we’re looking for.”
Herr Wittener thought a moment and his expression brightened like someone who’s been invited to play in a scavenger hunt.
“I may know of a place. Come with me ladies.”
They followed him up to the highest point of the house into a room with sloping ceilings.
“This is the attic.” He pointed to some trunks sitting near the walls.
“Shall we?” he asked.
Thirty minutes later, Martha called the other two over to where she was working on a wooden box full of mementos, books and old photographs. She held up a small volume to Helen who took it and flipped to the inside cover.
“It’s hers all right,” Helen said, pointing to the signature of Verena Wittener written in the upper left corner. “Unfortunately, it’s written in German, but each entry is dated so that should help.”
“Find the entries you want and I’ll translate them for you,” Herr Wittener said, his obvious enthusiasm for the hunt growing with the new discovery.
Helen flipped through the diary until she came to Thursday, April 25,1861.
“Here it is, the day of the auction in London.”
Taking the old, well-worn volume, Wittener opened it and read aloud, reorganizing the words into a familiar sentence structure for Helen and Martha:
“Today was extremely exciting. I managed to purchase the work I came for, Libro Di Rimedii E Secreti Di Medicina. It was expensive, but I am looking forward to learning what our predecessors understood about the benefits and healing properties of plants. This little volume, upon perusal, also has assorted other treatments for a variety of illnesses.”
Wittener stopped and continued to scan the page and then finally resumed.
“There was a great bidding session tonight. It was for a manuscript purported to be one by the Italian master, Leonardo da Vinci. An enormous amount was offered for the final bid. I spoke with Mr. Wentzle, the auctioneer. Though polite, he refused to name the gentleman who purchased the folio. However, the unhappy loser was overheard grumbling that he wished Lord Wallace might spend more on his wardrobe and less on his collection of Renaissance works on paper. An English Lord? Certainly an eccentric one. He was dressed more like a common workman.”
“She continues on about her travels to Paris, but there’s nothing more about the auction,” Herr Wittener said, handing the diary back to Helen.
“That fits doesn’t it, Helen?” Martha asked. “Annalena wrote in her journal that Wentzle, the auctioneer, recorded the initials ‘VW’ as the buyer for the Leonardo folio.”
Helen, not taking her eyes from Martha’s face, nodded. Her face brightening into a brilliant grin.
“Take my phone, Martha, and do a search for Lord Wallace in England.” Turning to their host, “Herr Wittener, I hate to drag you into this, but we may need your help.”
“Mrs. Ryes,” Wittener said with sheer excitement in his voice, “ask anything. I haven’t had this much fun in years.”
Helen swallowed and dove in. “We’ve got to get home. I’ve got a feeling the person who drove us here may be someone… well, in all honesty, someone dangerous. Is there another way out of here?”
“I hate to interrupt,” Martha interjected, “but, Helen, you’re right. Look at this message from Piers. He says he didn’t arrange a car to meet you, but he’s heading to Geneva,” Martha looked up with a laugh and finished, “he’s coming with Merriam!”
“Oh, my God!” Helen blurted out. “Hand me that phone!”
She zoned in on the screen, texting something back.
“We need them to stay in England. We’re going to need their help. Martha look out the window over there and see what the driver is doing.”
Martha slipped through some boxes and other things to get to the window.
“He’s not in his car,” she said, her tone anxious. “What if he’s in the house?”
“Ladies, come with me. I think I have an idea,” Herr Wittener said, sounding every bit like a man who was about to route the invading hoards. He reached over and grabbed an old squash racket and a box of some tiny, rubber balls. “I know how to get you back to England.”
“Herr Wittener,” Helen said grabbing his arm, her voice rising. “This man
may be very dangerous. Please, don’t do anything that might get you hurt. I’m so sorry.”
The tall, gracious Swiss man smiled and laid his hand comfortingly over Helen’s, which still rested upon his arm. “My dear Mrs. Ryes, do not fear. I served in the Papal Guard for ten years as a body guard. Stay with me, I’ll see you get to England.”
Martha and Helen exchanged incredulous looks. With a slight shrug, Martha said, “Karl, we’ve got your back. I’ve got one tiny favor to ask. There’s some cheese in the car and…”
“Oh for God’s sake!” Helen huffed. “Really? You want us to risk our lives to go back to the car for your CHEESE! I have my suitcase with my clothes in there!”
Looking taken aback, Martha pressed her lips together.
“Clothes are one thing, Helen, but that CHEESE, you are referring to, was some of the best cheese Switzerland has to offer. There’s a massive round of Swiss Raclette in that car. A true thing of beauty that will bring joy to so many,” Martha huffed back.
“If I may say something,” Wittener softly interjected, “Mrs. Littleword is right. Cheese isn’t something that should ever be left behind and certainly not abandoned to the clutches of villains.”
Helen, completely agog, looked back and forth between their earnest faces.
“Fine! Get the damn cheese, but if we get killed because of some hunk of stinky Gouda, I’ll… I’ll…”
“Die happy?” Martha offered naughtily.
“Time’s wasting,” Wittener said, his tone serious. While they’d been hashing out the question of whether to save the cheese, he’d been texting on his own phone. “Follow me.”
They made their way down slowly and as quietly as possible to the first floor by a series of backstairs. Herr Wittener came to a side exit and, without speaking, pointed through the window of the door at where the car they’d ridden in was sitting. The driver was nowhere to be seen.
“Go grab your cheese Mrs. Littleword and you, Mrs. Ryes, do you see the seaplane sitting down on the water?”
Helen and Martha both nodded in unison.
“Go to the plane. There is someone there who will fly you to wherever you want to go in England. You must hurry. I’ll be your rear defense.”
Martha smiled wickedly and Helen caught the gleam in her sidekick’s eyes.
“Don’t say it. Please don’t say it,” she mumbled in a low, terse mutter.
Herr Wittener opened the door and motioned for them to move. Helen took off in a trot towards where the plane was docked while Martha ran, full steam, at the Mercedes.
As she opened the car’s door, Martha saw Helen’s small suitcase. She grabbed it and threw it free of the car. It bounced and rolled down the sloping hill into a ravine.
“Maybe Wittener can mail it or something to her,” she mumbled while loading herself up with her bags of Swiss delicacies. In the middle of mentally congratulating herself for being a thoughtful friend, a voice came from behind her. She froze.
“Where’s the other one?” the man asked sounding conflictingly American.
Martha didn’t turn around. Looking down into one of the bags, there sat the Swiss Raclette. Her gaze focused intently on the heavy, hard round of cheese resting innocently in the large, white paper bag.
The voice, when it came again, was closer and more demanding.
“Where’s the other one? Did you find the manuscript?”
Martha lowered her eyelids and inside her mind, she tried to calm herself and think through all of her anger management mantras. It was critical to be unhurried, in control and focused. Then it happened.
A strong-looking, hairy hand clamped down on her right shoulder. In one movement, she reached down and grabbed the Raclette. Sucking in as much air into her lungs as possible, she turned around and with a yell Boudicca, the first century Celtic warrior queen, would have been proud of, Martha hoisted the great round of Swiss cheese high in the air and brought it down squarely upon Max’s head. He stumbled from her blow and fell backwards holding his head and groaning. With bags in both hands, she took off running like the demons of Hell where behind her.
The duty free bags rattled and billowed beside and behind her as she sprinted towards the waiting seaplane, its prop engines already in motion.
“I’m coming!” she yelled, but with a quick check behind her, she saw the man was up on his feet and running. Out of nowhere, a volley of squash balls pelted Martha’s pursuer. Stinging thud sounds and cries of human pain spurred Martha to run faster.
“Hurry!” Helen shrieked from the plane’s passenger window.
As Martha made the dock, her own feet pounding the wooden boards like drum beats, Helen threw the door open. With one great shove, the redhead, crammed all of her bags inside and jumped in.
The plane’s engines roared and moved away from the dock. Herr Wittener was still swinging his racket from a second story window at the driver who was rapidly crossing the lawn towards the dock.
“Hold on, we’re going to take this faster than normal,” a teenage girl said from the pilot’s seat.
“What’s your name and how old are you?” Martha yelled over the roar of the engines.
“Johanna! And I’m plenty old enough to fly,” came the cheeky response.
As the seaplane lifted from the waters of Lac Brenet, the Alps revealed themselves in all their glorious majesty. Snow tipped and regal, they pointed to a safe retreat upward and away from the danger on the ground left behind.
“So, where to, ladies?” the wonder girl pilot asked.
“Near Oxford. How close can you get us?” Helen yelled over the roar of the engines.
“No problem!” the teenage girl yelled back. “Find me a lake to land on or a good-sized body of water. I need at least fifteen hundred feet of open water. Let me know!” and holding out her phone snapped a picture of herself and texted something as the plane made altitude.
“Don’t you need to keep your hands on the wheel?” Martha called from the backseat as the plane banked hard to the left, causing both women to roll and be pressed upon one another.
The blonde head in the front shook from left to right a hard ‘no’.
Helen and Martha both took deep breaths and exhaled.
“I think I’m going to be sick,” Martha said.
“You’ve got plenty of bags to pick from,” Helen replied. “I’m calling Piers. He can tell us where to land the plane. The map on my phone puts the Wallace estate west of Oxford.”
Dialing the phone, Helen waited and before one ring was complete, Piers answered.
“I know,” she said, “don’t fly here, darling. We’re in a seaplane and our pilot is bringing us as close to Oxford as possible. Will you meet us there? Good! Where would be a good place to put the plane down? Our pilot says she needs at least fifteen hundred feet of water.”
For a minute or two she didn’t speak.
“Got it. We’ll see you there!”
Helen hung up and gave the waiting Martha a cheerful grin. Leaning over the seat to Johanna, she said loudly, “There’s a lake west of Oxford. Piers is sending us the coordinates. It’s called Farmoor Reservoir.”
Johanna gave her the thumbs up. “Sit back and relax, ladies. Next stop, England!”
Chapter 40
Healy House
Piers dropped his cell phone into the pocket of his jacket. Merriam was already on his way. If they drove down to Oxfordshire it would take about four hours, that is if the traffic was good. Better to fly. Taking the phone out again, he tapped in the numbers.
“Charles? Good morning, would you be able to fly me and another guest this afternoon? Oxford. Yes, we’ll need you to wait for an unspecified time until we’re ready to fly back. I was wondering if you would please give me the exact coordinates of Farmoor Reservoir? Yes, please text them to me when you have them. I’ll also need for a plane to land at Farnborough Airport. Will you make the arrangements? I’ll give you the pilot’s number. Thank you.”
He finished his
call as a muffled knock sounded at his door.
“Sir,” it was Tidwell, his butler.
“Yes?”
“Chief Johns is here.”
“Thank you, please show him in.”
In a few moments, Johns stalked into the room, but with a good-natured, congenial grin across his face.
“Got Martha’s text. So they’re on their way home in a float plane. Where are they going land that in the middle of Oxfordshire?” he asked.
“There’s a reservoir a few kilometers out of Oxford but they’ll have to go through customs at Farnborough first. If the plane has floats, they should be able to land also on a tarmac,” Piers said with a half-smile full of humor. “You’re in a good mood. Better fill me in as we drive.”
Johns chuckled.
“I want to be there, Cousins, when that plane lands. I have a surprise for Martha. I talked with her parole officer and the judge today and I’ve managed to get her sentence commuted, if she’ll work once a week with me at the constabulary,” he gave Piers a thoughtful look and paused. “How about you? Are you ready to get married?”
Piers swung around and laughed, shaking his head, “That’s the idea. Since George flew the coop,” he stopped, cocking his head to one side, “Odd that, George leaving so abruptly. I still wonder how that happened. Anyway, yes, I am ready. Let’s hope Helen is on the same page. Are you ready to go?”
“Ready when you are. I feel like a man who’s had a large weight lifted from his shoulders. I’m ready for a road trip. A change of scenery sounds good.”
“How do you feel about flying?” Piers asked.
“I hate it.”
Piers tossed him a packet of pills.
“Better take these. You’ll sleep like a baby.”
“What are these?” Johns asked looking dubiously at the neatly packaged tablets.
“Dramamine. Lovely stuff. Now come on. We’ve got to get to the hangar and meet Charles. He’s going to fly us. You’re riding with me.”
Death Drinks Darjeeling (A Helen and Martha Cozy Mystery Book 4) Page 18