A Debt Is Finally Paid (A Marsden-Lacey Cozy Mystery Book 2)

by Sigrid Vansandt

  Two days later, Maria made it to her lovely home and installed her family, servants and body-guards in the Ai-Todor Palace. Immediately put under house arrest, she was subject to nighttime searches of her room, removal of her personal letters and bible, and even stripped of her family photos. The boat full of her things never reached her. She stayed a prisoner in Ai-Todor for almost another year before she was finally forced to leave Russia forever.

  Chapter 3

  Flower Pot Cottage, Marsden-Lacey, England

  Present Day

  ALL DAY LONG THE AUTUMN wind whipped noisily around the cozy cottage belonging to Martha Littleword. Trying to wreak havoc with what was left of her flowering summer vines and naughtily rattling the window’s wooden shutters, it occasionally would sneak up on the unlatched gate to the walled garden around her house and slam it with a great gust. Amos, her five-pound scraggly watch dog, would bark terrifically from the clang of the gate against the metal latch causing Martha to nearly jump out of her skin.

  In between hushing Amos, cursing the wind, and periodically shuffling back and forth between her desk and the coffee pot, she tried to focus on a project she and Helen were currently involved in for a client. Martha was still wrapped in her favorite fluffy robe and on her feet she wore an oversized pair of Garfield slippers. Her wavy red hair was pinned up in a clip with a good number of wispies flying about her head.

  It was her job to put the finishing touches on a spreadsheet detailing a collection for The Grange, a rare-book museum in Marsden-Lacey where she and her new best friend, Helen Ryes, recently met. Both Helen and Martha had been mixed-up in a terrifying murder investigation that nearly put a lethal end to their friendship before it even began.

  Happily, they’d not only survived the ordeal but decided to work together in Helen’s book conservation and restoration business. Their new partnership was only two months old, but it was proving to be a busy one which made it necessary to sometimes room together at Flower Pot Cottage while they were in Marsden-Lacey or at Helen’s home in Leeds.

  For the second time that afternoon, Martha was searching for her mislaid reading glasses when Amos went into another fit of barking. She scratched and growled at the front door wanting to be let out. Forgetting about the glasses, Martha went over to the door and peeked out its small half-moon window. She wasn’t able to put her finger on it, and perhaps it was the wind blustering about all morning, but a weird feeling kept needling her and it was hard to shake.

  Seeing the coast was clear, she opened the door and Amos bolted outside barking as viciously as five pounds would allow her to be.

  “Don’t you leave the garden, Amos!” Martha yelled as the furry force of nature zipped out past the gate making a beeline toward the opposite side of the street.

  A horn blared and tires screamed.

  Martha’s heart pounded against her chest. She ran toward the garden gate, terror giving wings to her house-shoed feet.

  There in the middle of the cobblestone alley, she found Chief Merriam Johns holding the tiny body of Amos. His gaze flashed up to meet hers. Complete horror waxed across his face.

  “Oh my God! Is she okay?” Martha asked the Chief of Marsden-Lacey’s Constabulary.

  “Come on. Get in the car. I’ll get her to the veterinary clinic,” Johns said as he handed the limp, white furry body to Martha. Amos was her baby and her constant companion for the last ten years. Together, they’d weathered her husband’s terrible death from cancer and the departure of Kate, her daughter, for college.

  Johns grabbed Martha and guided her to the other side of the police vehicle. He grabbed a blanket from the back of the car and wrapped them both. Getting in, he turned on the police vehicle’s blue flashing emergency lights and headed to the other side of Marsden-Lacey and the only veterinary office in the village.

  While the car moved through the tight village streets, Martha watched Amos’ breathing. Blood matted the fur on her shoulder and she could tell the small dog was in pain. Tears welled up in Martha’s eyes and she tenderly told Amos it was going to be okay. Johns never said a word but he would occasionally blare his siren to warn off oncoming traffic or pedestrians.

  In less than five minutes, they arrived at the veterinary clinic. Martha gingerly lifted the tiny dog and hurried into the office. Johns opened the door and bellowed, “Need a doctor. Now!”

  Doctor Selby bustled out of the back after hearing the commotion to see a big man dressed in a tailored brown suit and a frazzled robe-wearing red-head holding a tiny, white dog wrapped in a blanket.

  “What have we got here?” he asked lifting the blanket to see the bloody shoulder. “Give her to me. I need to get her out of pain first and then we can see what damage there is.”

  The vet took the furry accident victim to the back. Looking around, Martha and Johns realized there were only three seats in the waiting room and these were occupied by as many people with their various pets.

  No one spoke for a few minutes. Martha caught sight of her reflection in the reception window. She then stared down at her robe, strange foot attire, and reached up to poke at her tangled, messy hair. Her anger began to boil and something caught fire in her mind. She turned to Johns slowly raising her index finger, and pointed at his chest.

  “You-hit-my-dog.” Her finger stabbed him in his sternum with her voice growing louder. “I can’t believe it. You ran over my Amos.”

  “Martha,” Johns said backing away from her, his voice still soft and gentle. Acutely aware that everyone in the waiting room was watching him, their Chief of Police, being poked by a woman who only came up to his chin. He tried to explain what happened.

  “I never saw your dog, Martha. It was an accident.”

  She bent her head down wearily and looked at her Garfield house slippers. With a sigh she turned around to see the other pet owners and the overweight pug return her gaze with wide-eyed stares.

  In a low, menacing tone and with her finger again pointing directly at his heart, she said to Johns, “That dog better not die.” But with the last word, her emotional bottom dropped out and tears again filled her eyes.

  Hesitating momentarily, he cautiously approached the valentine-robe-wearing spectacle and tenderly wrapped her in his arms. At first, she was like holding a rigid piece of lumber, but slowly she melted into his embrace and allowed him to comfort her.

  After about two minutes like this, the waiting room erupted into a brawl. The big-eyed pug, weighing down his human’s legs, growled at the long-haired cat comfortably ensconced on a middle-aged woman’s lap. The fur flew and the two owners, not without incurring some personal pain unto themselves, managed to separate the combatants. When the hoopla was at its highest pitch, Martha shyly pushed Johns away.

  The man with the pug decided it was safer to stand against the farthest wall away from the still glaring, irritated cat owner. Offering Martha his seat, he lifted his hefty dog with a grunt and moved to the other side of the room flashing a nasty look at the long-haired feline being comforted by its owner with soft murmurings like “poor baby” and “that bad, bad dog.”

  “I don’t think you’ll be taking your dog home today, Mrs…?” Doctor Selby asked, coming back into the waiting room. “She’s in pain and her shoulder is dislocated.”

  Martha, feeling a trifle awkward what with the night clothes and the public display of emotion, opened her mouth to talk but didn’t get a chance to say anything. At that moment, Helen barged through the office door with a worried expression.

  “I heard Amos was hit by some idiot in a swanky Volvo. Is she okay?”

  Martha and Johns exchanged quick looks.

  Johns cleared his throat. “That idiot would be me, I’m afraid.”

  Helen stopped in mid-stride toward Martha. “Sorry, Chief. That was sorely put.” Turning back to Martha, she asked, “How badly was she hurt?”

  Dr. Selby was still waiting for a reply, but Martha answered Helen instead. “She’s in pain and they don’t know enough
yet. She’ll need to stay. If something happens to that dog, I’ll never forgive myself. Kate will be heartbroken.”

  Kate was Martha’s daughter and was also extremely attached to Amos who lived a spoiled life when Kate was home from attending Oxford. Wrapped in blankets to protect her from the cold and fed too many treats, the furry beggar was Kate’s first pet and oldest friend.

  “Mrs…?” Dr. Selby interjected, “does the dog have a previous injury to her hind leg?”

  Martha, quietly hoping she might get out of the vet’s office without everyone knowing who she actually was, turned to the Doctor and spoke in a low voice. “Littleword. My last name is Littleword. No, Amos was never previously injured in the leg but was born with a deformity. It doesn’t slow her down.”

  “Okay. I’d like you to come back in the morning and I’ll call you this evening with what I know after we do some work on her. Please leave your number with reception.”

  Doctor Selby gave Martha and company a pleasant good day and excused himself.

  Grinning thinly for her waiting-room audience, Martha moved toward the reception desk. “May I check on Amos before I leave?”

  “Of course,” the lady wearing pink scrubs with dog bones all over them said. “Follow me. I’ll show you back.”

  Once in the back, Martha gave words of encouragement through teary eyes to Amos as the veterinarian tech gave the little dog a shot for pain. Within thirty seconds she relaxed and her eyes shut.

  “Is she asleep?” Martha asked hopefully.

  “Yes, she’s out of pain. You can go now and we’ll call you after the Doctor has a chance to really check her out.”

  With a heavy heart, Martha found Helen and Johns waiting for her in the reception room.

  “Helen, would you take me home? Amos is sleeping and they’ll call me later. I don’t think I shut the front door when I ran out of the house.”

  “I closed it so don’t worry. Mrs. Cuttlebirt, your neighbor, told me what happened.” Then with a mischievous smile, Helen added, “She said you left with sirens blaring and lights flashing. She was terribly excited.”

  Johns turned to Helen and, changing the subject, he said, “Mrs. Ryes?”

  “Chief, please call me Helen. I think we can desist with the formalities.”

  “Helen,” he said again, “we've some new visitors to Marsden-Lacey today and they want to talk with you. I’ve asked for them to meet with you at the constabulary. Would you have any time in the next day or so for a meeting?”

  “Sure, Chief. What time?”

  “Nine o’clock work for you?”

  “I’ll be there.”

  Johns walked around to the passenger side and motioned for Martha to roll her window down. With the office hug still fresh in her mind, she gave him a sheepish smile.

  “Martha, I'm sorry about Amos.” His eyes flashed with emotion.

  “I know it was an accident, Merriam. Thank you for everything you did.”

  She watched him walk over to his car. Helen got in beside her and started the engine. Turning to Martha, she studied her friend closely.

  “Did I interrupt something between you and Johns?”

  Martha watched Johns’ Volvo slide into traffic and disappear.

  “No. You didn’t,” she said more to herself than to Helen. “Let’s go home. I think it’s time for something more than tea to drink.”

  Helen laughed and patting Martha reassuringly on the hand, she put the car in drive and headed home.

  Chapter 4

  Kiev, Russia

  April, 1917

  IVAN IVOVICH LYSENKO, THE LOYAL Cossack bodyguard of the Dowager Empress Maria Feodorovna, moved quickly through Kiev alleyways trying to stay as inconspicuous as possible. He knew if he was recognized, he would be stopped and probably thrown in prison.

  His family was originally from the Kuban river region in southwestern Russia. His training to be a Cossack began at birth. Tough, excellent fighters and intelligent, the Kuban Cossacks, over the last two centuries in Russia, rose up to become the fierce bodyguards of the Russian royal family. They weren’t well liked by the Bolsheviks wanting to eradicate the Romanovs from Russia forever.

  Lysenko’s training allowed him to go for days without sleep or food. Discomfort from lack of shelter didn’t bother him. With his Empress’ things secreted in his overcoat, his first priority was to return them to her.

  After leaving the barge, he intended to make his way south to join up with the Empress’ retinue but the route was dangerous, so he had formulated another plan. He’d returned to Kiev to either hop another barge or a train heading south. It was important for him to be as inconspicuous as possible.

  The Russian countryside was riddled with battling factions of White and Red Army battalions. Cossacks were seen as loyal to the Romanovs and therefore were given two choices: death or pledge their allegiance to whoever captured them. Either route was unacceptable. He was loyal to the death to his Empress.

  Lysenko bartered for a change of clothes from a bargeman he met along the docks in Kiev. His shashka, or curved military saber that all Cossacks carried, hung on his belt without a scabbard. He slid it around to hang closer to his hip so it wouldn’t be easily seen under his long overcoat and give him away.

  The fastest way to reach the Black Sea and the Empress Dowager was to jump on one of the trains still running despite the revolution. Waiting in Kiev’s busy railway station, he checked destination and arrival boards. He found a train departing for Simferopol, a city in the middle of the Crimean Peninsula but his instincts told him there would be too many chances for him to be caught if he chose this longer trip. Instead he chose the direct train heading for Odessa on the coast of the Black Sea. From there, he would get a job on a ship heading for Yalta and the Ai-Todor. The Royal party with the Empress Dowager should be there by now.

  Seeing a woman with a cumbersome trunk, two bags, and a small child, he offered to carry her luggage onto the train for her. She was relieved to get the help. He saw her settled in a compartment and carried her trunk to the luggage car to the rear of the train. The porter guarding the door was a scrawny young man of about twenty. Lysenko waited patiently until all the other passengers storing luggage departed. He approached the porter carrying the trunk easily in both his arms. The young man regarded the trunk and gave a sigh.

  “I’ll put it in the car,” Lysenko offered.

  Since the revolution began, families were fleeing south and cramming as much of their belongings as possible into their luggage, and having one less heavy trunk to lift put a smile on the porter’s face.

  Stepping aside, he watched Lysenko put the trunk down. With a swiftness ingrained from years of military training, Lysenko whipped around and dealt the young porter a well-executed punch to the back of his head. The boy-man never saw it coming and crumpled to the floor, unconscious.

  Lysenko quickly stripped the man of his porter jacket and hat. He carried him to the rear of the car as far away from the door as possible. Binding the man’s arms and legs, Lysenko also gagged him.

  Like a rolled carpet, Lysenko surrounded him with various bags and trunks to hide him from view. Taking the keys out of the porter’s pocket, he locked the door from the inside. Lysenko made himself comfortable, and ate the delicious baked bun filled with cabbage, or a piroshki, he bought in the market earlier. If and when someone came to the back for something, he would pretend to be the porter. Only the other train staff would think it odd, but he would say the first porter became ill and he was his replacement.

  Two days passed uneventfully. When the porter woke up, he grumbled but Lysenko threatened to hit him again. Handing him food and water, he got the young man quieted down. Once they reached Odessa, Lysenko left the train with the door ajar to the luggage car. The first passengers trying to collect their things would find the young porter and free him.

  The Odessa waterfront named Primorsky (Seaside) Boulevard, ran above the port of Odessa. Shaded by acacia trees first
imported from Vienna in the eighteenth century, the lovely, old boulevard overlooked the Black Sea. The weather was cool but the southern seaside landscape brought to mind happy days he’d spent with the royal family during their stays here.

  Shaking off thoughts of the past, Lysenko made his way to the ships tied up at the waterfront hoping to find passage to the Crimean Peninsula.

  There talking with other sailors, he found a boat leaving that evening. The voyage would take about four days and would end at Sevastopol, the main port on the Crimea. From there, he would go overland to Yalta and the Ai-Todor Palace.

  One of the sailors he spoke with along the docks said he’d heard the Tsar was under house arrest in Tsarskoe Selo and that the Empress was also under house arrest in the Crimea. A brigade of sailors kept her prisoner and no one was allowed in or out.

  Lysenko understood then that it was impossible to ever reach the Dowager Empress again. There would be no way to get to the Ai-Todor Palace now. His long military experience served him best in moments like this. Another man less accustomed to the vicissitudes of war could be slowed or crushed by news so grim, but not Lysenko. He stayed focused.

  There was only one way to return the valuables hidden in his coat. He would have to get to London or Denmark. In London, he would return the objects to her sister, the Dowager Queen Alexandra of Britain, or if he made it to Denmark and Hvidøre, Maria’s private home near Copenhagen, he would be able to see her brother, the King.

  He made up his mind. There were fabulous sailing ships from almost every country in the world heading to the Mediterranean. The war made his choice easy as to what kind of ship he should work on: a Spanish one. Spain’s neutrality allowed her ships to sail unencumbered by constant stops and searches. It took a month of delicate enquiries but by the end of May he left Odessa on a boat carrying grain to Barcelona. If he was lucky and found other ships to work on along the way, he would be in London in half a year.