‘This note… it is not written like the rest, it is different,’ started Juraj. ‘Did you write the others to me as well?’
‘I did, Mr Teralov. Apart from what I had been instructed to communicate to Jozef, I received further command that was very specific in detailing a letter of warning to yourself. I believe you have worked out by now how I got the letter into your possession?’
‘No doubt the same way you retrieved the brooch from Edgar?’
‘Correct.’
‘I see,’ Juraj sighed.
The entire situation was relentlessly complex, a tyrant at the helm, leading a charge of hidden soldiers, an army with no name or purpose other than self-preservation. Were they any different than himself? Martin, Jozef, Milos… all victims in a web of lies and deceit, an affliction that spanned the entire city of Prague and reached farther beyond than anyone could have possibly imagined.
‘If you did not kill Peter, then who did?’ Juraj spoke, with futile hope and expectation.
‘I am truly sorry, but this I do not know.’
‘And if Vladislav was not your brother, whom do you suppose he meant by the one he loved most?’
‘Once more, Mr Teralov, I cannot begin to imagine—somebody who lingers in the shadows, I suspect.’
The porter looked out across the city. It was beautiful and majestic from this vantage point, birds flying high above, darting through the clouds endlessly, a picturesque view of a proud city, full of prouder men and women. In the distance, the black spires of St. Vitus Cathedral could be seen. It dominated the skyline and reminded them both of men’s great accomplishments, and yet weakness at the same time.
‘I want you to know something, Mr Teralov—not that it means anything now.’ He turned to face Juraj, who looked back at him as a child would at their mother when they had stolen something insignificant from the cupboard and been caught—innocently guilty, yet fully apprehensible.
‘My actions are not ones I am proud of. But I had contributed one clear directive to this undertaking. The note I had received made one incorrect assumption. I had not yet heard of the death of Peter, and I had in fact seen him leave the hotel that late afternoon. But of course, at the time, I thought nothing of it, as he would often go for walks by the river at such hours. When I received the letter some hours later, I knew what I had to do. I assumed the worst and made an anonymous call to the police. I hoped for the best, Mr Teralov, I truly did. But when I heard that the police found the body by the river, and with no suspect in mind, I panicked and followed through with the instructions, for fear of my own life. Whoever is behind all of this, they are a truly terrifying force.’
Juraj felt an understanding rise from within himself—this man was no longer his enemy. The fear and penitence within his voice demonstrated that he had already suffered a far greater punishment than he, or the hand of law, could possibly inflict upon him.
‘And what of the brooch? What did you do with it, after you stole it from Edgar?’
‘I did as I was instructed, Mr Teralov. A final note arrived, dictating for me to perform one final action and to also seemingly traumatise you further. I had been told to deliver a parcel to the Teralov Mansion. The instructions were very specific—return the brooch to its rightful home.’
‘The Teralov Mansion, my mother?’ Juraj spoke with aghast and estranged disbelief.
‘Not specifically addressed, but yes, Mr Teralov, the brooch was delivered to your mother’s home,’ he replied, resoundingly calm and assured.
‘And you did not think to tell the police and to take this information to them?’ Juraj spat, angry once more with the porter’s role in the disarray.
‘Mr Teralov,’ the porter began, ‘when one fears for their life, what good does it to run to the authorities of this state? You know it all too well, had you not been grateful for the services of Edgar yourself, the ineptitude of our own kind.’
Juraj sighed, the splitting juxtaposition of emotions equally severed between him. Half of him felt sorrow and pity for him, the other wanting to hold him accountable and finally quench the thirst of revenge. But he had made a valid point. And although rage raced through his blood, his fight was not with this man. He had played a role in the death of his brother without doubt, but by that same accord, Juraj was also responsible for the death of Edgar and Milos, both innocent of such undeserving ends.
20.
Upon arriving at the Teralov mansion, Juraj remained calm, ensuring he did not reveal his hand.
His mother was curious and intrigued to know how his journey to Bratislava had gone. Juraj revealed how he had spent time in the city, including his visit to Borlog’s Winery and the encounter with Lenka. As he and his mother sat there, drinking from the tea the maid had prepared, he carefully watched his mother’s reactions and demeanour, gauging and deciphering for any sign of guilt or omission of her involvement in the plot. Finding none, he decided to unveil the ultimate demise of Milos and Edgar.
‘Both were slain, Mother,’ Juraj began, gritting his teeth in an unbearable torment, his every being dying to unleash his fury and anger. The brooch was the key to the mystery, and he knew it existed somewhere nearby. What is mother not telling me?
‘Edgar was earmarked for death as soon as he learnt too much and was sent to Bratislava as part of a wider plan for the killer to hide their tracks, to evade capture.’ He spoke clearly, unable to look his mother directly in the eye.
‘Terrible, Juraj, just terrible. And Milos, too? That poor boy took the fall and suffered the same fate?’
‘Yes. He was as much a victim as any. Do you know, mother, whoever responsible for this placed my own life in great danger. The person behind this risked my life to fulfil their agenda.’
Startled and shocked, Baroness Teralova embraced her child, clasping and comforting him like he was a boy again.
Anita had stood silent, watching them both converse. Her face was strict as always, sparing Juraj no glimmer of affection or condolence. The air was stale and bitter, the Baroness no closer to redemption as she wept in Juraj’s arms.
‘I cannot bear the thought of losing you too, Juraj,’ she cried, tears streaming down her face as she patted and stroked his hair. He felt weak and defenceless. Who could he possibly trust anymore? He sensed that the whole world around him was in on the ultimate conspiracy—he the fool, forced to dance to the merry tune of destruction.
‘I would never have allowed you to go with Edgar if I thought for one moment that danger could have crossed your path, too. In fact, I was sure you would be safest by Edgar’s side. No one in the world had more motivation to protect you in such times, no one more than myself. You are all I have left, Juraj. Please, won’t you look at your mother? Has sorrow emptied your heart fully now? Will you not look at me, Juraj?’
Unable to draw the strength, Juraj’s mind raced between states of disbelief and distrust, and then back again to reassurance and familiarity. The game now being played within his head was the same toing and froing that had occurred similarly with Milos. A disposition of innocence, guilt, and then innocence once more, although only in his death was his liberty truly unveiled, like a suspect witch made to drown, only to find redemption in death when it was all but too late. His mother’s eyes were red and sore, her face frail and less strength existing than there had been the last time he saw her. Yet, it was undeniable—there was still an underlying kindness within her eyes and, under the circumstances, it utterly terrified Juraj.
Now and then, Juraj caught Anita’s eye but once again, she would not flinch or spare him the slightest inkling of a smile. It was as though he did not exist. The coldness and uncertainty of the situation were overbearing, and even more so overwhelming.
After some time, Juraj excused himself from his mother, saying he needed to collect his thoughts in private.
‘Of course, my dear boy. I am here for you, anything you need, please do not hesitate to ask,’ she insisted resoundingly, her lips pert and back straight, a
s always.
Juraj made his way past Anita who, much to his disdain, would still not offer him a passing glance. How can she act this way?
He moved into the hallways, painted stark white with royal golden paintings planted on the walls, from a distant era of Hungarian royalty—proud and sharp, watermarked and colourful. It was a grand setting, the finest of ornaments and wooden oak chairs and small desks lining the passageways. Although there was a feeling of relief to be back home, the yearning for his brother lingered deeply within Juraj’s heart. He truly felt alone, nostalgic for things to return in the simplest of ways that there were before.
Checking behind him, making sure no one was there, he swept a sharp right turn and into a closed room that was left unlocked, as he had expected.
The room was smaller and darker than the rest. A little window had rosy pink curtains drawn to the side, offering an honest view of the grounds and gardens outside, enough to comfort and please the eye. He could feel, still, from this position, there would be a longing and need to see more—to learn more, all for the world which awaited and livened outside. There was a small wooden desk—not made of oak like the rest of the furniture in the building, but one of more simple timber construction. This was a common desk built by a woodsman, not like the grand, finely crafted works of art that littered the rest of the home.
A single-sized bed occupied most of the space in the room, made of metal, with an awkward-looking mattress, full of springs and dated—uncomfortable was an understatement.
Juraj passed his eyes around the room: what am I hoping to find here?
A quill rested on the desk, its white feather planted neatly next to white parchment, a blank pot of ink beside it.
Curiosity had gotten the best of him, as a drawer within the desk called on him to open, to pry and snoop—to satisfy his suspicion. Unable to resist the temptation, he grabbed the handle and quietly tugged at it to open.
Drat, locked.
He looked around the room, trying to figure out where the key would be hidden. He burned with anticipation, desperate to know what secrets hid within. Everything else in the room was freely available, even to enter was no challenge, yet this held something that was not to be easily discovered or found.
Searching about the place, he checked under the pillow, shaking it, hoping for a small key to fall free, but alas, there was none.
He got down onto his knees, peering under the bed—no sign of anything there at all; everything was clean, spotlessly so.
With his hands on his hips as he stood, Juraj sighed, ready to give up and forfeit his excursion. Only then in that moment did he notice the lip above the door of the room, the slightest of shelves proceeding above. It was high enough that most would not notice, nor care about, for that matter.
He moved forward with bated breath, rising onto his toes to stretch fully. His fingers danced across the top of the lip, meeting dust and other fine particles. He slid them over, gliding along the shelf… as hope began to dwindle as they neared the edge, he felt the twang of a metal object placed there.
Clutched within his hand, he brought it down and revealed a little black key.
Giddy with worry, he placed it into the lock of the desk draw and turned—the click that proceeded was a sound of most satisfaction to Juraj.
The drawer slid open easily, and what he then found inside confirmed his deepest fears and suspicions. He had desperately hoped to have been wrong.
Taking the object from inside, clutched inside his hand, he opened it to reveal a most magnificent brooch, bronze and bright. It had a perfect golden pin.
Engraved into the enamel deeply, it proclaimed: Pro toho, koho miluji.
‘There you are,’ spoke a voice behind him, soft and sweetly.
He heard the door close shut, and as he turned to greet the voice he slipped the brooch quietly into his pocket.
‘Anita,’ he spoke with a slight gulp, feeling the sweat profusely begin to build up under his clothes.
‘My dear Juraj, my love—I missed you so.’
Anita’s blue eyes were wide and full of joy and glee, her arms opened, cooing and inviting him fondly to embrace her.
Shocked, Juraj obeyed.
‘Juraj? What is it?’ she quizzed, her face fraught now with concern for his lack of affection and excitement now they were alone.
‘I—’ Juraj starting, shaking at first… afraid, frightened, but then suddenly, with a burst of courage and strength, he spoke more clearly, more directly—intently he looked at her directly in the eyes, his face stern and serious. ‘I didn’t know you had a brother.’
Her wide smile slowly retreated into a flat grimace. Sweeping her hand through her blonde hair that rested just above her shoulders, she gave him an apathetic look of confusion.
‘Brother?’ she questioned, playing the part of the fool, as she did not yet know what Juraj did. He had seen too much, been through too much, and had long grown tired of the cat-and-mouse game. The chase was over.
‘You…’ he began, his voice raised with temper, flushed and hot, his collar becoming all the more tighter. Heart beating faster, his pulse raced and the world started to spin dizzily. ‘You have no idea, do you? The pain you’ve caused, the suffering…’
Anita looked genuinely shocked. ‘Juraj, my sweet, everything I have done, I did it for you—for us!’ she spoke with a twisted look of satisfaction in her eyes, stroking her arms, unsure of his reaction and what may happen next.
‘Milos is dead,’ Juraj started. ‘Edgar is dead!’ Each word more pronounced and forceful than the last. ‘And,’ he said, looking at her with full force and speaking with absolute certainty, ‘Vladislav is dead.’
Anita gasped, clutching at her chest. Tears started to well up from within her and they swiftly proceeded to manifest out of the corners of her eyes. She looked around the room helplessly, desperate for anything to assure her it was not so.
‘It hurts, doesn’t it, Anita? To know your brother is dead,’ Juraj bellowed, his voice stronger now than ever before. The rage inside him was untamed, vengeance growing stricter within him, replacing any prior feelings of affection or attachment to the monster before him. Her eyes now displayed the same fear and futility Vladislav’s had. Juraj recognized them clearly now. The deep blue wells of crystal shards within spoke the same expression of acceptance and inevitability.
Dropping to her knees and arms flayed to her side, swinging without purpose, she looked up at him with a merciful plea.
‘How?’ she whispered.
‘He died to protect you, Anita… to hold your secret, our secret.’
‘Vladislav was only meant to update me of anything he might have overheard… to warn me if Edgar worked it out,’ she cried, her face reddened and wet.
‘That is not how it played out, Anita,’ Juraj spat. ‘Edgar had you figured out. He was onto you and about to inform Moscow, but your brother put a stop to him first. He protected your secret, and then took his own life to preserve it.’
Anita sniffed, wiping her nose with her sleeve, processing the nobility of her brother. A murderer nonetheless, but a noble hero to her mind. Dying to protect me, she thought, how wonderful his love for me was.
Juraj grabbed her by the shoulders and forced her into standing upright. Hands still gripped tight on her, he looked at her directly once more. A furnace burned a searing white-hot fire within his eyes—a monster may have been born within Juraj yet.
‘There is still one part of all this I don’t understand. Why Anita? What wrong had Peter done to you?’
Anita gave a slight smile, sadistic and tortuous, her eyes beaming with delight. He had no idea. ‘My dear, sweet Juraj,’ she began, ‘I was protecting you from Peter.’
Juraj felt the blood leaving his face, his world spinning around himself once more. What madness did she now speak?
‘Liar!’ he protested. ‘Do not dare curse his name with such falseness. Peter loved me dearly.’
Still clutching her, he sh
ook her as he spoke, but he began losing control of himself. Feeling weak, he quickly sat on the bed, squeaking and hawking as he did so.
‘Juraj,’ she started gently, almost with a whisper, ‘Peter was madly in love with me—everybody knows this. He was never shy of professing to people this false reality.’
Placing a hand on his arm, she spoke comfortingly to him, and he knew she was right. Peter did profess such tales to the distress of everyone else around him.
‘He came to me you see, to this very room. He threatened to oust me to Lady Teralova, have me sent back to where I came from if I didn’t forget my love for you and run away with him instead.’
‘What did you tell him?’ Juraj remarked sheepishly, in disbelief of what was unfolding.
‘What do you think I told him?’ she barked strongly. ‘I told him no, of course.’
‘And his reaction?’
‘He said if that were to be the case, that he would kill you, Juraj.’
The small box of the room shrank further still, compressing and tightening, a vice grip hold upon his being as his chest tightened in tune to the scene. His senses were acutely aware now of the dust filling his nostrils and the faint taste of iron and copper invited itself upon his tongue. Every breath started to become heavier as a sense of fear gripped him, daring him to take one step further into a darkness that seemed to approach quicker and quicker. The light of the room had all but faded and his mind searched for sound reason or rhyme as to what was going on around him. The face of a woman he most loved started to blur and fade into distorted gradients of distant pixelated nothingness.
‘So, you—you…’ Juraj wavered, unable to speak the words.
‘Yes, I did what I had to, to protect you, to protect us.’
She spoke with a smile, glancing at her lover, holding him close within her arms now, embracing him with all her might.
‘He snatched my birthday present to you away from me, but it was already too late for him by then. I’d poisoned his tea: there was no other way—no time to act otherwise,’ she said, her face still and resounded. ‘I did not plan it, I swear it Juraj. He would not listen, and I have no doubt he would have told the world our secret, perhaps even worse. What if he dared to take his anger and vengeance on you?’
The Affliction of Praha: A gripping murder mystery set in 1920s Czechoslovakia Page 12
