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

by Sigrid Vansandt

  “We have sixteen. Do I hear seventeen? Seventeen, ladies and gentlemen. Surely for a piece by the great master, Dante, we might achieve more than a mere sixteen pounds?”

  To be truthful, sixteen pounds was an enormous amount of money to be paid for an antique volume in 1861. An English family would have been able to live in a nice home with one or two servants for the same amount for an entire year. But the collector needed his fix and so the greatest of nature and man’s accomplishments must have a price and be fought over in gaming houses and auction galleries alike.

  The bids shot up and both paddle number 112 and the lady, number 127, fought diligently for Dante until they’d raised the price to over thirty pounds.

  “Ah, I see we have another interested party in the back, number 206,” Wentzle said in his perfect English accent. “The absentee bid takes us to thirty, ladies and gentlemen. Do I have anyone for thirty-one pounds?”

  The newest guest, a tall, elderly man rose his paddle, number 206, and said, “Forty pounds.” His accent was hard to place but most likely Eastern European. This was an outstanding sum and neatly shut down his competitors. Poor number 112 wiped his dripping brow and no longer kept eye contact with Wentzle.

  Around the entire gallery a collective murmur erupted and someone would have had to look extremely close to see any alteration in Mr. Wentzle’s expression, but it was there in the gleaming excited flash of his eyes.

  “I have forty in back. Do I hear forty-five?”

  The crowd was quiet. Their eyes flitted around the room to see if anyone else would take the bid. Mr. Wentzle knew when he’d reached the tip of what might be expected for an item. He raised his gavel in a warning to those who might be hesitating to speak. It was the time to play your hand, if you wanted to take the prize. The audience remained quiet. No one took the bait.

  “Going with forty pounds with the gentleman, number 206. Going… Gone!” He brought down the gavel and everyone in the room cheered. It was a new record for a work by Dante and even Mr. Wentzle beamed a regal smile upon the gentleman holding paddle number 206. But he never hesitated when things were going so well and the room was hot. Wentzle gave his assistant another knowing nod. The young man walked out with another leather-bound manuscript, but this time he cradled it upon his outstretched hands.

  “We will follow up that magnificent round of bidding tonight with an exceptional work, an unprecedented opportunity to purchase one of art history’s greatest master’s private notebooks. Ladies and gentlemen, I give you Leonardo da Vinci’s, Trattato della Pittura and Rigola di Prospettiva.”

  This time the room filled with exclamations of wonder at such a rarity being presented for sale. Most would only ever see something so extraordinary in a museum. Wentzle waited for the manuscript to resume its place upon the stage and clearing his throat for effect, he began.

  “Again, there are multiple absentee bids on this masterpiece. We will start the bidding at one hundred pounds.”

  Not a whisper was uttered at such an outstanding price. Instead, a delicately built lady dressed in a beautiful silk dress raised her paddle and said softly, “One fifty.”

  The auction broke loose with that one gesture, that one statement. For a solid ten minutes, the bidding continued to build until the very air within the gallery pulsated with a taught energy. Every heart beat as one. Every nerve feeling the same excruciating surge of thrilling electricity.

  Wentzle was enjoying the ultimate thrill as an auctioneer. When the crowd caught fire, the feeling was unlike any other. He steered the bidding upward into an almost dizzying height.

  “I have five hundred and fifty pounds with the gentleman, number 165.” He turned his gaze back upon the original opening bidder, the woman, paddle number 197. She was stock still, seeming to wage war with herself internally over whether to continue. With a terse shake of her head, she declined to up the bid. Wentzle’s eyes sought the other contender, a man neatly dressed like a clerk, probably some wealthy person’s agent. His paddle number was 317 and he, too, seemed torn to proceed.

  “Five hundred and fifty pounds with number 165. Do I have six hundred?” Wentzle asked. He raised his gavel. “Going with five hundred and fifty pounds with the gentleman… going, going…”

  “Six hundred,” came a man’s voice from the back of the room. Every head turned to see who might have the means to offer what it took most people their entire lives to earn. A simple looking man, dressed in clothes befitting a menial worker or tradesman. The gallery went wild with speculation. Wentzle heard one man say that he must be a mad man for acknowledging a bid from someone so obviously unable to meet the terms.

  However, Wentzle was no fool. He recognized the unremarkable man immediately and was shocked to see the gentleman out in so public a venue. Never one to look a gift horse in the mouth though, the auctioneer found his voice and pushed forward.

  “Six hundred with the gentleman at back. Do I have six hundred and fifty?”

  No one spoke. Number 165’s face was the color of summer raspberries. He shook his head uttering the words, “I’ll be damned. Of all people, a socialist.”

  “The bid is with the gentleman at six hundred. If I have no other offers, the folio by Leonardo da Vinci is going, going… sold! To our distinguished visitor…”

  But Wentzle saw the man raise his finger to his lips in a gesture for the auctioneer to keep his name from the public.

  Instead, he said, “Thank you ladies and gentleman. I believe we reached a new record for the price of a manuscript. We will take our accustomed break for refreshments and resume the auction in thirty minutes. Thank you.”

  Wentzle walked with restraint and dignity down from his podium and directed his steps to where the winner was waiting for him in the antechamber the auction house used for an office.

  Once in the room with the door closed, he made a courtesy bow to his guest and said, “My Lord, it’s an honor.”

  The man replied, “Excellent collection of that unscrupulous Libri. Wouldn’t miss it and take the chance of sending my secretary, Blevins. He might have made a mess of it. I’ve given my check to your colleague and would like to take the folio with me tonight. There is one condition of my purchase, however.”

  Mr. Wentzle nodded. “Certainly, My Lord.”

  “I want my name stricken from the record of purchasers. I don’t want my name in the newspapers.”

  “It is done,” the auctioneer said with a firm nod of his head.

  And so it was. History was never certain of the identity of the man who paid a prince’s ransom for Libri’s stolen Leonardo folio. But though Wentzle kept his secret, only noting the buyer's initials in his accounting log, a lady present at the auction wrote later in her own diary of the momentous day. It was the tiniest of clues and it would take three tenacious women to wrench it from history’s dusty clutches.

  Chapter 8

  Healy House

  Present Day

  “Mr. George Ryes, sir,” Tidwell, the butler, announced at the library door.

  Helen and Piers turned to wait for her ex-husband to appear and as his name left Tidwell’s lips, Helen’s stomach flipped making her feel slightly nauseous. She knew the potential for absolutely anything happening once George had made it through the gates of Healy.

  He walked in looking his typical extremely handsome self. Over six feet tall, lanky with salt-and pepper hair, George Ryes resembled those retired pro-basketball athletes who go to work on sports’ channels and discuss the plays of the players on and off the court. A superb dresser, he knew how to wear whatever he wore to his best advantage. Today, he was going for power. A grey suit, tailored to fit him perfectly by the best talents Savile Row, was mixed with handmade Italian shoes probably made in Milan. George dressed for success. He smiled with relaxed charm as he strode across the room towards Helen.

  “My dear, you look beautiful,” he said, his eyes never leaving her face for a moment and ignoring Piers entirely. He walked to where she sat a
nd bent over to take her hands pulling her up to a standing position. Then turning to Piers, he asked, “May I?”

  Not waiting for Piers’ reply, however, George wrapped his long arms around his ex-wife, lifting her up off the floor and gave her a hug.

  Helen was completely taken off her guard and struggled as the hug went on a bit too long.

  “George! Put me down,” she said, feeling like an awkwardly moving doll being swooped about by an overly affectionate ape.

  He put her back onto her feet and turned to Piers, who was looking like a man who was using all of his mental and physical resources to restrain himself from crossing the room and punching George out. That’s when George offered his basketball-sized hand for Piers to shake and shake they did. Helen thought it lasted an unnaturally long time and when they finally broke, so did their unflinching stare.

  “George, I hate to be rude,” Helen began, “but what has brought you all the way back from Florida?”

  Her ex-husband’s eyes turned an admiring gaze upon her. Instead of looking annoyed by her pointed question, George smiled brilliantly. The full force of his potent good looks was never lost on Helen or any woman for that matter. Helen felt herself actually sway. She quickly shifted her gaze towards the tea table that had been laid for them to enjoy.

  “May I pour you both a cup of tea?” she asked, her voice unnaturally high. “Alistair should be back in a moment.”

  George waved her offer aside.

  “I came to attend your wedding, my love. Christine told me of course. It got me feeling a tinge of homesickness for England and,” he gave her a long look, “you.”

  “Did Fiona come with you?” Helen asked, catching Piers’ eye to see him most likely assessing the essence of George’s soul. What she saw there made her nervous.

  George ignored the Fiona question and took a seat.

  “Maybe, I should be the one to give you away,” George said good-naturedly. Looking at Piers in his own measuring sort of way, he continued, “Or maybe, Helen, I’m here to tell you I want you back.”

  The last four words hit the room like a bomb. Helen looked dumbstruck. The muscles in her jaw slackened and for an infinitesimal second she wasn’t sure if her mouth was hanging completely open.

  “George!” was all she uttered once she found her voice.

  “You’ve got a bloody nerve!” came Piers’ thick response. He walked over to his desk. “Get the hell out of my house or I’ll throw you out!”

  Helen saw him open his desk drawer. Her brain felt like it was on fire. She’d seen what Piers kept there and instantly she knew George meant what he’d said. He wanted her back and he’d deliberately walked into the lion’s den, unafraid of anything Piers might do. It was his bid for dominance.

  George stood up and dusted whatever invisible debris was supposedly besmirching his trousers, then with a sliver of sarcasm in his tone asked, “You and what army?”

  The library door shut softly, causing everyone to shift their gazes in its direction.

  “Gentlemen, it would be a shame to toss about these exceptionally rare Louis XIV chairs and not to mention a tea table laid with Spode.”

  Like a gallant, extremely well-bred knight of old, Alistair continued, “Besides, I’m partial to having my tea in a cup and not swilled about on the floor.”

  With a poise only known to men of exceptional breeding and intelligence, he walked over to where Helen stood and handed her a beautiful teacup graciously. No one spoke until Helen managed to utter the words, “Thank you, Alistair.”

  George stood glaring at Piers and vice versa. It was George, however, who spoke first.

  “I would like some time alone with Helen,” he said, turning his gaze to her. His tone was actually full of an emotion she hadn’t heard in his voice for over twenty years. It snagged at and dredged up memories of when she’d loved him desperately and he had been passionately besotted with her.

  Helen put the teacup down on the antique damask tablecloth and studied its whiteness briefly. Something about the sheer unspoiled purity of it made her mind flash back to a time when her faith in George was as unblemished as the cloth. But that was gone. She turned to Piers and sighed.

  “Will you please give us a moment alone, Piers?” She walked to him, and in an uncharacteristically publicly affectionate expression, leaned up and kissed him. Helen felt the tension in him waiver. “I will walk George to his car and when I get back let’s go talk to Chef Agosto about the wedding reception.”

  Piers’ eyes compressed into two slits and, to his credit, he never flinched. Looking up over her head at where George stood watching with obvious antagonism at Helen’s display of affection, Piers’ jaw clenched and relaxed.

  “I’ll wait for you here.”

  Helen walked over to George and as she passed Alistair gave him another grateful smile. As the door to the library shut behind them, Piers shut the desk drawer.

  “Tea’s cold,” Alistair said brightly. “Where’s your Scotch?”

  This broke the spell and Piers looked over to where his friend lounged in one of the aforementioned pedigreed chairs. Alistair was grinning at him and holding up his empty cup like an incorrigible but endearing well-bred reprobate.

  With a low chuckle, Piers smiled and went over to the sideboard and filled two tumblers with Scotch. Handing one to Alistair, he sat down. The two men, deliberately mute, studied the half-dead fire in the grate. With an utter lack of emotion in his voice, Alistair offered this comment.

  “I’ve always thought if you wanted to get rid of a body, it would be important to know a pig farmer.” The nonchalance, in which this insight was delivered, caused Piers to cast a quick, quizzical look in Alistair’s direction.

  Was the other man insinuating something? He wasn’t exactly sure, but the idea stuck and, as the warmth of the drink trickled down into Piers’ core, he slowly recognized how strong his grip actually was on his glass. For the first time in his life, Piers Cousins understood what it meant to wish someone dead.

  Chapter 9

  Healy House

  Present Day

  Martha pulled her car up to the gates of Healy and put it in neutral. The Head of Security, Adam Buchanan, wearing a semi-automatic stepped out of the gatehouse and told his German Shepherd assistant, Kaiser, to heel. She was glad it was Adam. He was the friendliest of the four men who kept Healy safe from interlopers. With a wave, she waited for the massive steel gates to slide back and for him to walk through.

  Adam’s walk was a natural swagger due in part to his Aussie heritage, the time he’d spent working cattle in New South Wales as a youth, and his many years in Britain’s Royal Marines.

  He had a flirty twinkle in his eye and a smile on his lips as he leaned down into her car window. Martha hoped she didn’t have any lettuce in her teeth from the wrap she’d been eating on the way over. Inwardly kicking herself for not checking the rearview mirror before turning into the drive, she made a quick decision to keep her lips firmly under control.

  “When did you get back in town?” he asked with a friendly boldness. “I was told you and Mrs. Ryes were in New York on a business trip. Mr. Cousins wanted me to be your security detail. Too bad I didn’t get to go. He’s not taking any chances, something might happen to his bride.”

  Martha laughed out loud at the idea of Piers trying to give Helen a security detail and instantaneously wished she hadn’t. “Stupid lettuce wrap,” she thought to herself, trying to check her smile surreptitiously in her mirror.

  “This is the first I ever heard of that plan, Adam. Better luck next time. Helen’s not exactly favorable to the idea of being smothered with protection. Speaking of, is she still here? I got tied up in town. I was supposed to come by to meet with Chef Agosto and the wedding planner.”

  Adam stood up straight into a less familiar position and nodded his head.

  “Another visitor went up about twenty minutes ago. I’ll let you through.”

  He waited for her to drive throu
gh, and then, as if he had something to add to their brief conversation, Adam held up his hand signaling for her to stop. Martha complied.

  “I wondered if I may ask a favor?” he asked, once more bending down by her window to look her in the eyes.

  “Sure, Adam. What is it?” she asked, wishing she could be sure of the lettuce or no lettuce question.

  “The Annual Royal Marine Ball is in two months’ time and I was told you were an excellent dancer,” he said.

  Martha wasn’t sure where this was going. Adam was nice but…

  “I was hoping you would teach me a few of the dances you know. I could go to one of the dance studios in Leeds, but it’s a long drive and that’s tough with my work schedule.”

  She felt a tinge of relief at the word ‘teach’. At least it wasn’t an invitation to go to the dance. Merriam would be upset. He may have had her incarcerated, inflicted Constable Tushing upon her and forced her to pick up litter in a chain gang, but…

  Perhaps it was best to feel-out the dancer/teacher situation before she turned it down and possibly offended one of Piers and Helen’s staff. Best to be polite.

  “Which dances are you wanting to learn?” she asked.

  “I’ve always fancied the tango and it would be good to know the waltz,” he answered.

  Martha nodded. The idea of dancing actually appealed to her. She missed the feel of moving and gliding across the floor to music.

  “It’s going to take some work, Adam. What level of a dancer is your date?”

  She emphasized the word ‘date’. It was important to know he had one.

  “Well,” he hesitated, “I haven’t asked her yet, but she’s supposed to be a wonderful dancer. I’ve been told she even competed at one time in local competitions.”

  Martha nodded, trying to guess who he might mean. “Would I know her? My late husband and I used to dance regularly at the different competitions. What’s her name?”