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

by Sigrid Vansandt

  The bell rang again.

  “For Pete’s sake!” Perigrine snipped. “It’s not seven o’clock and that bell hasn’t stopped ringing since I walked in the door.”

  Comstock went for another lap to the front, voicing this next greeting as vociferously as his last. At the door a finicky looking, immaculately attired gentleman stood stock-still staring directly into the window. His expression was stoic, absolutely mask-like. Alistair swung the door open and for a second time that morning something was thrust into his arms. This time however, the item was a bit unwieldy.

  “I am to tell you this is a gift…” The courier cleared his throat in a way that indicated his difficulty in getting the word to trip from his tongue believably, “from a friend. He hopes it will meet with your favor.”

  Alistair cocked his head to one side, his own expression thoughtful.

  “May I?” he asked the man.

  The dignified personage lowered his eyelids once.

  “By all means,” he assented.

  Alistair took the rectangular form and sighed blissfully at the first sight of the exquisite gem that was revealed once the brown paper it was wrapped in was removed. A lovely oil painting of a seacoast, probably along England’s southern shore by no other than the same painter, Peter De Wint. It was not the original one Alistair had lost when the police impounded the stolen art from Lars Rundstom’s auction house, but equal in many ways.

  “Your friend would like to know, if this piece will conclude any preexisting deficiencies you may have had regarding the err… umm… situation?” the man asked, still without emotion of any kind emanating from his hound dog-like face.

  Alistair, delighted with his treasure but not wishing to be anything less than regal himself, nodded once and said, “You may tell my friend the matter is concluded.”

  The man turned and walked to the waiting Rolls slowly. He got in and drove away. Alistair and Comstock went once again down the hall to the kitchen. Perigrine’s left eyebrow arched at seeing the oil painting propped up in the window directly beside the breakfast table.

  “Nice,” Perigrine said. “Constable?”

  “No. De Wint.”

  “Exceptional! Better get it valued and insured. The kind of people running free these days. One can never tell,” Perigrine said with a roguish tone to his voice.

  They both chuckled and snorted at their own joke.

  “So,” Alistair finally said, “have you won the right to drive the last leg at Le Mans?”

  It was true that Perigrine was close, but it also appeared that so was Alistair. They both needed to be sure of the two scoundrels’ departure from Marsden-Lacey first.

  Perigrine closed the newspaper and laid it down upon the table. Taking one last sip of his coffee, he stood up and crossed to the kitchen’s backdoor.

  “I’ve got to see a man about a horse,” he said and let himself out.

  Alistair continued munching on his toast and picked up the paper to finish reading about Perigrine’s exploits the night before. After finishing, he looked down with fondness upon Comstock’s spiky furred head and said to the dog, “He’s close, dear old Comstock, very close, but we have to make sure our little bird has flown before victory may be ours. How about we stretch our legs with a walk?”

  Comstock’s ears pricked up at the word “walk” and his tail wagged. Soon, both man and dog had left the homey kitchen and were on their way to see a woman about an ass.

  Chapter 31

  Marsden-Lacey

  Healy House, Early Morning

  Piers Cousins sat in his Japanese soaking tub with hot water up to the bottom of his stubble-covered chin. The smell of eucalyptus permeated the entire room. Breathing deeply of the head-clearing scent, the man shut his eyes with a low groan. He was sick, tired and confused. Mostly confused.

  “I’ve got no time for this damn cold,” he grumbled, sinking deeper into the steaming water. “Where the hell is Helen?”

  The worst cold he remembered had descended on him the night Helen left for London. They’d argued over George and she’d indicated she didn’t want to be bothered while she was gone. Her last words were, “I love you Piers but there are some difficult things George has brought up and I need some time to think. I’ll call you.”

  Since then, they hadn’t spoke once. He’d tried to call three times and was sent a heart emoji for an answer. With eyes still shut, he furrowed his eyebrows and crinkled his nose. Helen wasn’t the heart emoji type. Piers knew Martha must be feeling sorry for him and had quickly sent the most succinct response to ease his hurt. She was doing it without Helen’s knowledge and then probably deleting the text. It was her attempt at keeping things on an even keel between Helen and him. This actually unnerved him even more.

  Piers pushed the growing fear of losing Helen to the back of his aching skull. He tried to focus on something that of late had given him great pleasure: how to rid himself of George Ryes forever. Lots of ideas streamed up from his consciousness. A smile spread across his mouth as he envisioned having George abducted, tossed in a private plane and dumped somewhere like Antarctica…without a coat.

  Then there was the fantasy of a drunk, scroungy George storming the wedding and Piers punching him out and ordering his removal from Healy’s grounds. This fantasy always got a little out of hand by taking on a spaghetti western feel. Helen would throw her arms around his neck and thank him for saving her from the clutches of the vile mongrel, and then begin showing him her undying gratitude. Piers loved that one. A devilish grin brightened his handsome face. He drummed the sides of the tub and wiggled his toes down in the deliciously, deep hot water thinking about the pleasures of an overly grateful Helen.

  He knew it was corny. Love usually was, to some degree. Piers understood he was a man hopelessly in love. That day in the hospital, not even a year ago, had been the beginning for him. She hadn’t crowded him, hadn’t fawned over him like most women but was honest and then did the one thing no woman had ever done to him: she had walked away. The minute the hospital room door had closed, he was hooked.

  A softer expression moved over his features as he imagined her laying in his arms, having her all to himself, forever. He missed her and the idea of George’s arrogant proposal to have her back, sent him into an internal rage every time the insidious thought reared its head. Two broken tennis rackets and one jammed, extremely heavy closet door testified to these random bouts with temper. Too bad his anger hadn’t the means to attack his head cold. It would have been scoured ruthlessly from his very being.

  Today, he needed to clear his head and go find George. The situation called for a confrontation. His phone rang. Rolling his eyes over to the edge of the tub, he read the incoming number. It was Martha. With an immediate surge of adrenaline, he grasped for the phone, fumbling the grab and into the water went the device.

  “Damn!” he yelled, knowing the phone was most likely useless. Feeling around down at the drain, he retrieved the phone only to see it go dark and the water begin to weave its way between the glass and whatever magical electronic world lay beneath it.

  Only the voice of his manservant from outside the bathroom door came in response saying, “Sir? Do you require something?”

  Piers sat in his hot pot of water staring at his expensive chrome and glass bath toy with the same expression a child would who’s found out there will be no recess because he has to instead make up a math test.

  “No!” he yelled. “I require nothing, Tidwell!”

  “Yes, sir. But if I may, your fiancée is on the house phone. Should I take a message?”

  “NO!” Piers cried trying to scramble out of the tub. “Tidwell, please tell her to hold. Bring in the phone, man!”

  Quickly grabbing a towel and wrapping it around his well-sculpted waist, a dripping wet Piers grabbed for the outreached phone offered by Tidwell.

  “Helen? Are you there, darling?” he prayed more than asked.

  “Piers? Are you okay? You sound sick?” Hel
en’s voice came across the line, making his entire countenance shine with happiness.

  “Yes, my love. It’s a little cold. It’s nothing. Where are you? When will you be home?”

  A soft giggle began her reply.

  “I miss you, too. I’m sorry I haven’t called. It’s been… complicated. I don’t have a great deal of time and that’s why I’m calling. Now listen, Piers, because Martha and I may have stumbled into something, well, for lack of a better word, something sort of edgy.”

  “Edgy?” he repeated, feeling uncertain of where this was going.

  “Yes, a bit edgy. We may be being followed. We’re trying to locate a very valuable work.”

  “That sounds like you’re in something unsafe, Helen. Do you need me to come to you? Where are you?”

  The phone was quiet for a moment.

  “Helen? Are you there?” he asked worriedly.

  “Yes, I’m here. I had to step out of the way. Martha is tired of dancing and I’m trying to ignore her. We’re in the Republic of Czech, Piers. We’re looking for a manuscript, an incredibly valuable manuscript. I can’t say more, especially on the phone, but the real reason I’m calling is that we may not be home today. Probably tomorrow. We’ve taken on a rather difficult situation.”

  Piers felt his adrenaline skyrocket into overdrive. Knowing Helen and Martha it was something much more than “a difficult situation”.

  “Where’s Martha?” he demanded. “Why is she dancing? Please, Helen, be very clear about exactly what is going on.”

  “Oh Martha is waltzing with a…” Helen’s voice dropped to a lower register, “a kind, but loony Count. It’s to keep him busy while I look for the manuscript which I’m beginning to believe isn’t here, although they do have an incredible work by Alighieri Dante which is interesting because it’s one of the pieces noted by Annalena in her journal-”

  “Helen!” Piers barked into the phone, trying to stop her from rambling on about antique papers and get to the point.

  “Yes? Oh, I’m sorry for being so obtuse. The woman, Annalena Kirchner, is someone I guess you would say we’re doing a bit of treasure hunting for. She contacted us after seeing us on ‘Get Going With Gotts’, which turned into a complete farce, one which Martha has a lot to answer for, but we’ve mostly worked through that whole issue. I want you to know that Martha and I will be going to Switzerland next,” she said, finally finishing.

  Piers, feeling cold, signaled to Tidwell to get his robe.

  “Helen, I can be in Prague in less than two hours. Where are you?” he demanded.

  “That’s just it, darling, I’m probably going to fly to Geneva today. I’ve already made the reservations. Nothing in this library remotely resembles what we are looking for. Besides most of the collection is religious in nature. The manuscript we’re trying to find doesn’t fit the profile.”

  Piers took a breath and calmed himself. Better to keep her talking.

  “Helen?” he said gently.

  “Yes?” she asked sweetly.

  “Let me come to Prague and take you and Martha to Geneva on my plane. Okay? I want to do this.”

  “No! We’re fine, Piers. I called because…” She paused. “I miss you.”

  Completely at a loss, Piers stayed mute.

  “I’m sorry, Piers, but I’ve got to follow through with this. It’s a matter of great importance. Everything will be fine here. Maybe I shouldn’t have called and worried you, but I wanted to talk to you. To hear your voice. Besides, if all goes well, we should be in Geneva by twelve and at the other collector’s home by that afternoon. If they allow us to check their library, we may be home by tomorrow or even late, late tonight. Perfect timing to take care of some… difficult things.”

  He shook his head to clear his thoughts.

  “Are we getting married, Helen?” he asked, his words heavy with emotion. “I need to know.”

  “I’m so sorry. It’s because of George, Piers,” her voice came back to him less professional sounding and full of concern. “I love you, Piers. More than my heart can even bear some days. It’s George. He wants my business. He may try something legal against you, if I don’t clear things up first. I couldn’t live with myself if that happened. I’ve got to finish this job and keep George from hurting more people. It means everything to me right now. I can’t let George take this from me. Please try to understand. I’ll be home tomorrow and together, you and I, can come up with a plan. I have to go. The count is getting handsy again with Martha. I love you.”

  The phone went dead in his hand and the only thing he wanted was George Ryes’ head served up on a platter. Taking off his robe, he walked naked into his closet and dressed for the day. He had a meeting and it wasn’t with the wedding planner. It was time to take out the trash.

  Chapter 32

  Marsden-Lacey

  Breakfast at Polly’s

  “My, my, my,” Merriam John’s mother tutted at her son’s expression as he drank his morning tea. “You’re a sour looking puss this morning. Haven’t heard from Martha, I dare say.”

  Johns, sitting across the table from her, grunted a reply which was undefined in meaning.

  “Have you told her yet about your surprise? Was she excited?” Polly pushed on, trying to have some semblance of a conversation with her only child.

  Laying down his napkin, Johns cleared his throat and shot a cynical look at her.

  “I’ve not heard from her and yes, she knows about the fishing trip to Scotland. She’s excited and wants to go buy gear as soon as she’s back from Germany.”

  Polly didn’t say anything, only smiled in a sweet, loving way and refilled his cup.

  “What?” he grumpily demanded.

  “What, yourself?” she returned.

  “Why the sudden interest in Martha and whether or not she liked the idea of fishing in Scotland?”

  Polly got up and ambled around the kitchen’s center work area. Two slices of toast popped up and she buttered them.

  “I was concerned. You’ve got something on your mind. I saw Adam Buchanan dancing with her at The Traveller’s. Thought you might be upset. That’s all.”

  She’d no sooner said the words than the phone rang. Johns answered.

  “Yes, it’s me.”

  He was quiet for a brief moment, then finished with, “George Ryes, huh? Come to my office, Piers. We can discuss what to do.”

  Dropping the phone in his front pocket, Johns stood up and picked up his breakfast dishes. Putting them in the kitchen sink, he gave Polly a quick kiss on her cheek.

  “Adam Buchanan had better watch his step,” he said. “I’ve got to go. Something’s come up. I’m off.”

  “What is it?” Polly asked.

  “Mum, don’t discuss this with anyone. Not Quentin who delivers the bottles, not the ladies at the tea shoppe and definitely not O’Grady. Promise.”

  Dribbling honey across the top of the toast, she took a bite.

  “I promise, now come clean. What’s going on?”

  Looking at his watch, he answered.

  “George Ryes, Helen’s ex-husband is causing trouble and it looks like Martha and Helen may be hung up in Switzerland.”

  “What?” Polly asked. “Why are they hung up?”

  His jacket was halfway on and he was heading for the door.

  “With Martha and Helen it’s never that simple,” Johns replied. “Gotta go. Love you.”

  The door slammed shut behind him and she heard his car’s engine hum to life. Polly smiled and reached down to pet Pepper, her sweet terrier, on the head.

  “That was exactly what he needed. Off to save his Martha from whatever mess she’s in now. Never saw him so happy, have you?” she said to Pepper, while looking down at the dishes in the sink with a grimace and a sigh.

  Pepper barked in agreement and danced for a treat, which always brought renewed joy to anyone who saw the dainty pirouettes.

  “Here you go,” Polly said, giving the tiny dancer a snippet of sau
sage. “Let’s leave the dishes and get to our walk.”

  Chapter 33

  Outside Prague

  “You sure?” Martha asked as they backed the car up and waved goodbye to Lizet, who stood in front of the massive iron gates smiling and waving.

  “Absolutely,” Helen answered. “The manuscript wasn’t in the collection or in the vault. Unless it was secreted somewhere else in the castle which isn’t likely, then we need to get out of here and to the airport. Time’s a wasting.”

  Martha put the car in drive.

  “I sent the message to Annalena that we didn’t find the manuscript and we’re going to Switzerland. Hopefully that will make our pursuer detour from coming to Czech. I don’t want Lizet to have any trouble.”

  “Once we explained it to her, she understood. Taking a holiday for a few days and going to a friend’s country house with Count Dominik will be good for both of them. With their newfound wealth, they should be able to relax now,” Helen said while she flipped through some papers.

  “Are those from Lizet?” Martha asked, referring to the file in Helen’s lap.

  “Yes. When Count von Wallenstein began his collection in the 1850s, he was a very wealthy man and his taste leaned towards the religious and the expensive. Good thing too. There are some wonderful illuminated manuscripts, Russian icons and the best of all, a portfolio of Rembrandt etchings. Those alone will make her and the Count multimillionaires.”

  “Do you think we will be able to represent her?” Martha asked.

  “It’s hard to say. We might not be representing anyone, if George has his way.”

  “I hate George,” Martha said with a scowl.

  “Get in line. That’s a popular chorus these days.”

  “You do know I have to be back in Marsden-Lacey tomorrow, don’t you?” Martha said abruptly.

  “Is there any way you might be able to extend your time?”

  “I’ll have to call my probation officer.”