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

by Sigrid Vansandt

  Martha and Helen nodded yes and watched Johns leave. Once he was gone, Martha turned to Helen and said, “Let’s give Michael the slip and go to Barbel Bridge. What do you say?”

  Helen gave her a wicked smile and answered, “You do like the adventurous life, don’t you?”

  “It’s in my blood now, Helen. Up for some excitement? We’ll stay very discrete. They’ll never know we’re there.”

  “Let’s go. We’ll take my car. It’s bigger so we’ll have more room for the zoo and our luggage,” Helen replied.

  Helen and Martha grabbed the cats and their overnight bags. Amos was tucked into her blanket again and once they were in the car, they gave Michael the sign they would follow him.

  The cars pulled out together. About halfway out of the village, Helen slowed down enough to let another car get in between her and Michael’s police vehicle. When they reached a stoplight, Helen again hung back and Michael pulled through but the girls’ car had to wait, effectively distancing themselves even more.

  “Let’s back track to the bridge and see what’s up,” Martha said.

  As they approached the area, they saw the Barbel Bridge but it was quiet as death. Not a soul was in sight and the few street lights were too feeble to illuminate the area clearly. Stopping the car at the edge of the road, they scanned the landscape for signs of life.

  “No one, anywhere. What do you make of it?” Helen asked in an almost whisper.

  Martha didn’t get a chance to answer. Three men dressed in black from head to toe, scrambled up the side of the embankment. They were dragging a fourth man along in front of them, hunched over and barely walking.

  The girls gasped.

  Helen whispered frantically, “It’s Piers! What do we do? Where’s the Chief?”

  “He’s probably watching from somewhere or waiting for backup. Give it a minute.”

  They watched as the men dragged Piers up to the top of the bridge and talked among themselves. With the men illuminated by the light from the bridge lamps, Martha and Helen saw the shoulder holsters tightly fitted to their chests.

  “They’re going to kill him, Martha. We’ve got to do something.”

  “Ram ‘em, Helen. Turn the car on and hit the accelerator. Go in with your horn blaring.”

  Helen’s head jerked around with an expression of horror on her face. “What?’

  “You heard me. I’ve got my stick and I’ll jump out and nail ‘em. Hurry! They’re laying him over the railing!”

  Helen flipped on her lights, punched the gas and laid on the horn. As the car jolted forward, Helen and Martha screamed and Amos barked in chorus. The men turned around, dropping Piers who lay in a heap on the pavement.

  The car roared up onto the bridge and the men, completely startled by the sudden arrival of a flying black Mercedes, turned and began to ran.

  “Yeah! Run you creeps!” Martha yelled.

  She rolled down the window and brandished her stud stick, hitting one running man in the head. He tucked and rolled. The rest of the men ran down the other side of the bridge and jumped into a car. Helen hit her brakes and turned around in her seat. She put the car in reverse and pressing the gas hard, she went backwards to where Piers lay along the wall.

  The car’s brakes squealed as she came to a stop. The girls jumped out. Martha ran over to the man still lying on the ground and hit him again on the back. He groaned but went limp. Suddenly, two Volvos arrived and Sergeant Cross jumped out of a car and an angry Chief Johns came marching toward Martha who stood next to her bad-guy trophy.

  “What the hell are you doing?” he yelled.

  “I’m saving Piers from being killed,” Martha said with a proud swing of her cricket bat.

  Chief Johns went over to Martha and stared down at the man on the ground.

  “Knocked him in the head going about thirty miles an hour. I think he’s out for a while.” Martha tapped the bat on the tip of her high heel shoe and smiled cheekily.

  “You’re not in the old American wild west, Littleword. You’re going to have to come in for assault with a deadly weapon,” Johns said shaking his head.

  “Chief!” Cross called. “We’ve got an ambulance coming. They’re setting up a road block along the two main roads leaving the village.”

  Johns turned away from Martha. “You know you are in legal trouble? Do you have a good solicitor?”

  “I stopped a man from being killed. Where the hell were you? And yes, I do know a very good solicitor. Calling her right now.”

  “Bringing the Calvary is where I’ve been, Littleword. Sorry, I wasn’t here to see you in action.”

  “I’ll let you get on with your job, Officer.”

  “Chief,” Johns said firmly.

  Martha gave him a wink and a nod then began dialing a number on her phone and walked away toward Helen’s car.

  Johns watched her confident retreat and the sashay of her backside. Averting his eyes and forcing his unwilling brain to shift gears, he said, “Good. Let’s get this guy cuffed.”

  He walked over to Helen and Piers who were sitting on the ground. Piers sported a couple of cuts and bruises on his face. Helen sat beside him holding his hand.

  “Mr. Cousins are you okay to talk?” Johns asked.

  “Chief, call me Piers. I think we’ve been through enough that we can be on a first-name basis, don’t you?”

  “Let’s get you up, Cousins. Did you have a chance to hear anything the assailants said?”

  “They were speaking Russian. At least I’m pretty sure it was Russian. I couldn’t make anything out. Wish I could be more help, Chief.”

  Martha, done with her phone call, joined them.

  Johns gave Piers a hand and got him to his feet. He turned to Helen and Martha.

  “I don’t know how to communicate with you both. You defy orders, you throw yourself into dangerous situations, get in the way of police procedures and as if these weren’t enough to deal with, you’ve assaulted a man. His friends will come back and that’s where it gets sticky for you.”

  “I’m hungry,” Martha said. “We’d better not make your mother wait on us any longer. She said she was making a pork roast.”

  The three gaped at Martha like she was a crazy woman.

  “What? I’ve not eaten since noon and it’s seven o’clock.”

  Piers walked over to the paramedic who checked out his wounds while Helen peeked into her car.

  She said, “I think we’d better get our zoo over to the farm, Martha, or take them for a short walk. Your menagerie would be happier anywhere but in my backseat.”

  “Yep, let’s go. Merriam, can we give our statements tomorrow? I want my solicitor present,” Martha asked Chief Johns.

  “No.”

  “Excuse me,” Martha said. “My solicitor has asked that I wait until she is present to discuss my actions this evening. That goes for Helen, too.”

  A smile played along the corner of Johns’ mouth. “Okay, Mrs. Ryes and Mrs. Littleword. Tomorrow meet me with your solicitor at the constabulary for a statement but until then, please get to the farm. My mother is not happy waiting for people once she’s cooked them dinner.”

  Johns scanned the busy surroundings of the bridge. “Michael! Come here!” he yelled.

  Michael came over and grimaced at Helen and Martha.

  “You girls want me to lose my job?” he asked.

  Feeling contrite, they said, “Sorry, Sergeant Endicott.”

  Put out with men being bossy and needy, Martha opened her car door and settled herself inside. Turning to both Johns and Michael, she said, “If we hadn’t come over here, Piers would no doubt be dead.” Shutting the door hard, Martha put an end to any further debate on the subject.

  Helen got in the car and turned the key. The engine hummed into life and they drove the entire way to Polly Johns’ home following Michael’s car at a perfect distance.

  “You know what makes me want to scream, Helen?” Martha asked finally, breaking her ten minut
e silence.

  “What?”

  “Not one single person said, ‘Nice job, girls. Way to jump in and fearlessly save your friend’s life.’”

  As Martha talked, she got more ramped up and dramatic. “We were amazing, Helen. You drove this car like a stunt driver!”

  Helen nodded in agreement and turned to Martha. They both raised their eyebrows and their faces broke out in big, wide-open grins. For the rest of the drive, they relived their crazy moment on the bridge causing much wild laughter and the occasional good humored screaming fits.

  It was a happy but tired crowd who finally pulled into Polly’s gate. They ate a delicious meal, slept snuggled under big, fluffy duvets and dreamed their own fantastical version of the evening’s experience.

  For the men, who later in the deep of the night, came lurking again around Martha’s Flower Pot Cottage, they found flyers taped to a few of the windows saying:

  “The women are gone. The document isn’t here. It’s at the Police Station. Come on by. Be happy to show you around.” - Chief M. Johns

  Chapter 12

  EARLY THE NEXT MORNING POLLY was busy in the wonderful old inglenook kitchen making a hearty farm breakfast of eggs, toast, sausages, and fresh ground coffee. Johns’ mother was never happier than when she was hosting, cooking or brewing beer.

  Martha’s nose woke her up, so she quickly dressed and grabbed Amos. First things first, a fresh morning stroll for Amos to scout the outside perimeter and a quick check on the cats who’d been tucked into one of the barn stalls the previous night.

  The morning air was so fresh and crisp that Martha stood for a long moment drinking in the view and breathing deeply. The Johns farm was rural England at its most charming and beautiful. Rolling pastures, medieval farm buildings and old brick stables beguiled the eye and brain into thoughts of a bucolic history only an anglophile can summon up in their mind.

  Martha had removed Amos’ medical cone for her walk. The dog’s pleasure was clear with all the sniffing and snorting she made at all the smells her nose turned up. They came through the huge doors of the old barn and headed toward the stalls. Martha saw an older woman bending down and petting her cat, Gus.

  “He’s a love. Never met a stranger,” Martha said in a friendly manner to the woman. Gus threaded in between the legs of the standing lady.

  “Your cat likes his new home,” the woman said.

  Martha cocked her head, thought for a moment and, laughing, asked, “Did he tell you it’s only a bed and breakfast?”

  “No, he told me he loved the smell of all the mice and the hay. Your other cat is scared and won’t come out of the stall. I tried to give her a bite of my egg but she won’t have anything to do with it,” the woman said.

  “You’re so good with animals,” Martha said. “Do you live here, too?”

  The old woman didn’t answer Martha’s question, instead she said, “I’ve got to get back. My family is waiting for breakfast. A bit of advice about the black cat still hiding in the stall. She lost her first mother and she needs to be told by you that you will not leave her behind. Okay? You understand?”

  Martha’s eyes locked with the woman’s. She understood perfectly. “I most definitely will do that. Thank you. Can I know your name, please?”

  “Miri. My name is Miri.”

  She whispered something to the cats and Gus mewed loudly and rolled over on his back playfully.

  Martha was surprised by Gus’ behavior. “I’ve never seen him do that for anyone but me.”

  “I told them they had a good human to watch over them and they needed to stay put, not run away. I must go. Have a good day.”

  She watched Miri head out over the pasture and, in a few minutes, disappear below the rise of the hill.

  WHEN HELEN CAME DOWNSTAIRS, POLLY was laughing and having a conversation with two men. As she got closer to the kitchen, the smells of breakfast tantalized her nose reminding her of her aunt’s wonderful southern cooking.

  “Good morning!” Helen beamed at the spread on the long farm table. There, warmly ensconced in two comfy wingback chairs on either side of the solid Aga stove, were Perigrine Clark and Alistair Turner. The two of them smiled cheerfully at Helen and got up to shake her hand.

  “Why, Mrs. Ryes, how are you? We heard you’re being hunted by gangsters? Scared much?” Alistair asked coolly.

  Polly pursed her lips tightly and turned back to the stove busying herself with a pot of something in the oven.

  “Well, I didn’t know they were gangsters,” Helen said, starting to lose her appetite.

  “Oh, dear, don’t pay any attention to these two busybodies. They were at the post office this morning and heard about the excitement last night. Grimsy was up at the crack of dawn this morning, getting the villagers acquainted with your daring exploits, Mrs. Ryes,” Polly said, clanking around on the Aga.

  “There’s a neighborhood crime watch meeting to take place at the Village Community Center tomorrow. We hope you’ll come and tell your story,” Perigrine said.

  “Yes, I think Martha and I would both like that very much. Thank you.”

  Polly bustled over and put more biscuits on the table. “Dear, you take your mind off those Romani for a while and eat something. You’re too thin. Eat! You don’t need to bother with that silly neighborhood watch meeting tomorrow. They’re a bunch of nosey busybodies, if you ask me.” Polly gave Perigrine and Alistair the evil eye. She put down some honey on the table and busied herself with digging in the pantry for marmalade.

  “Polly,” Perigrine said in a diplomatic tone, “of course we want these two brave women to come talk to our Neighborhood Watch meeting. They epitomize the kind of take charge, fearless attitude more villagers should aspire to.”

  “I want to shake that man’s hand,” Martha declared from the kitchen doorway. She continued into the big room with Amos wobbling at her heels. “You are obviously an excellent judge of character.”

  Perigrine bowed elegantly to Martha and replied in a stately manner, “And you, good woman, are a rare example of spirit in the face of menacing evil.”

  Polly said, “Okay, if we are all done with spreading the fertilizer around, how about we eat.”

  ONCE THE GUESTS WERE DONE with the delicious breakfast and enjoying their coffee around the long oak table in Polly’s kitchen, Perigrine and Alistair managed to extract all the gossip about the Romani family, the mysterious document and how the same document may need to be translated by a man in Nottingham named Albright. The back door was open to the walled garden for fresh air, so Amos, fat from feasting on bacon, was contentedly sunning her motley furred body in a sun patch that streamed in through the door.

  “Where did you learn to make southern biscuits, Mrs. Johns?” Helen asked. “They are like the ones my Aunt Stacey made when we visited her in Biloxi.”

  “First of all, dear, my name is Polly. Yorkshire people do prefer a respectful reserve when it comes to calling elders by their surnames, but once someone sleeps under my roof, I don’t hold with that notion. It’s Polly, plain and simple.”

  “There was nothing plain and simple about these biscuits,” Martha added. She was liberally buttering her second one. “The last time I ate a biscuit this light was at a cafe in Mountain View, Arkansas. Barely room for six tables in the whole place with a line of people running out through the door waiting to get in for breakfast.”

  Martha took a deep, satisfied sigh. “Polly, I want to learn how to make these.”

  “That can be arranged,” Polly said beaming. She’d been watching Martha in short, furtive ways all morning trying to access her. A mother’s keen sense told her there was a good reason why these women were housed here for safe keeping when it would have been just as easy for Merriam to put them in protective custody elsewhere.

  She ruled out Helen the minute she laid eyes on her. Elegant, classically pretty, academically minded and a smidgen uptight, she seemed an unlikely candidate for her son’s affections. The redhead, o
n the other hand, was the type who would make Merriam want to pull his hair out. She was saucy, opinionated, and had curves like a Scottish Highland’s switchback road. It was pure chemistry, and if Polly understood one thing well as a brewer, it was chemistry.

  “I learned to make those biscuits from a friend of mine,” Polly said. “She married an American serviceman and went home to Athens, Georgia with him. His mother taught her cookery. For thirty years, when she comes home to visit her sisters, she always spends a few days with me and we make something from her southern repertoire. Last year I learned to make Mississippi Mud Cake. I thought Merriam was going to eat the entire pan.”

  “Let Helen and I do dinner some night,” Martha said. “That is if you don’t mind having people messing about in your kitchen?”

  “Martha, I would love to have someone else cook a meal in this kitchen besides me for once. Don’t expect Merriam to be on time,” Polly said with a hint of irritation in her voice.

  Shifting her gaze to the two impeccably dressed men, Alistair and Perigrine, tidily folding their napkins, she said, “Would you boys like to come to dinner tonight? Helen, you invite someone, too. I think I would like to have a small dinner party. Everyone bring something fun to eat and share.”

  The room burst in excited exchanges of ideas and laughter. Martha and Helen wanted to make jambalaya and cornbread hushpuppies while P. and Alistair, in keeping with the southern-cajun theme, were going to bring the cocktails. Polly promised to do dessert.

  Around eight thirty, as they all dispersed from the kitchen to go their separate ways, Martha remembered to ask about her pets. “Polly, if I leave Amos and the cats in your barn today, will they be okay? Your helper this morning said my cat was nervous about my abandoning her. I wanted to make sure they weren’t able to get out, if the doors were shut.”

  Polly turned to Martha with a perplexed expression. “I don’t have a helper here on the farm. We don’t keep big animals anymore or do any farming. Who did you talk to?”

  “She called herself Miri. A nice older woman. She was sitting in your barn but said she needed to get back to her family for breakfast. I’m sorry. I should have mentioned it.”