Mydworth Mysteries - A Fatal Affair E-Book

Matthew Costello

• Herausgeber: Bastei Entertainment
• Kategorie: Krimi
• Serie: A Cosy Historical Mystery Series
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 172

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2023

Beschreibung

From the authors of the best-selling series CHERRINGHAM

When Harry takes Kat to Venice for their wedding anniversary, he promises parties on the Lido, sunset dinners, and dancing in the moonlight. But when the US embassy in Rome quietly asks them to help investigate the mysterious death of an undercover Treasury agent, romance must wait. And within hours - in this great city of canals and bridges - they're caught in a dangerous and deadly race to expose a criminal conspiracy before another murder can be committed ...

Co-authors Neil Richards (based in the UK) and Matthew Costello (based in the US), have been writing together since the mid-90s, creating innovative content and working on major projects for the BBC, Disney Channel, Sony, ABC, Eidos, and Nintendo to name but a few. Their transatlantic collaboration has underpinned scores of TV drama scripts, computer games, radio shows, and the best-selling mystery series Cherringham. Their latest series project is called Mydworth Mysteries.

Leseprobe

Contents

Cover

Mydworth Mysteries

About the Book

Main Characters

Title

1. Opening Night

2. A Late Night in Venice

3. Summer Comes to Venezia!

4. Dinner at the Metropole

5. The Body in the Canal

6. The Secret Office

7. To the Lido

8. Cocktails at the Excelsior

9. A Warning

10. An Invitation

11. Middle of the Night

12. Most Dangerous Secrets

13. Some Questions Answered

14. All Becomes Clear

15. A Night at the Opera

16. The Dark Lagoon

17. Last Night in La Serenissima

The Authors

Next Episode

Copyright

Mydworth Mysteries

Mydworth Mysteries is a series of self-contained novella-length mysteries, published in English and German. The stories are currently available as e-books and will soon be available as audiobooks in both languages.

About the Book

When Harry takes Kat to Venice for their wedding anniversary, he promises parties on the Lido, sunset dinners, and dancing in the moonlight. But when the US embassy in Rome quietly asks them to help investigate the mysterious death of an undercover Treasury agent, romance must wait. And within hours – in this great city of canals and bridges – they're caught in a dangerous and deadly race to expose a criminal conspiracy before another murder can be committed ...

Main Characters

Sir Harry Mortimer, 30 – Born into a wealthy English aristocratic family, Harry is smart, funny and adventurous. Ten years in secret government service around the world has given him the perfect training to solve crimes; and though his title allows him access to the highest levels of English society, he’s just as much at home sipping a warm beer in the garden of a Sussex pub with his girl from the wrong side of the tracks – Kat Reilly.

Kat Reilly –Lady Mortimer, 29 – Kat grew up in the Bronx, right on Broadway. Her mother passed away when she was only eleven and she then helped her father run his small local bar The Lucky Shamrock. But Kat felt the call to adventure and excitement, first as a nurse on the battlefields of France, then working a series of jobs back in New York. After finishing college, she was recruited by the State Department, where she learned skills that would more than make her a match for the dashing Harry. To some, theirs is an unlikely pairing, but to those who know them both well, it’s nothing short of perfect.

MATTHEW COSTELLONEIL RICHARDS

A Fatal Affair

1. Opening Night

Jim Levine downed his flute of champagne. Not something he had a particular taste for. Not at all. Growing up in Baltimore, a nice cold beer, maybe with an accompanying shot of Canadian Club, was about as refined as things got.

Not that his tastes hadn’t improved a great deal since being posted to Italy by the United States Government – in this case, the Treasury Department.

They saw in him the potential to investigate things that were, as described to him, of “deep concern” to the department. Even though he was one of the youngest in the bureau – and certainly not a Yale or Harvard alumnus like most of his peers.

So he had, of course, broadened his tastes: in food, in what beverages he enjoyed, in all sorts of cultural things, from fine art to music.

And – he had to admit – women.

In this case, one particular woman who represented so many different levels of excitement never to be had in the sleepy city of Baltimore, where a day out at the stadium – hot dog and beer in hand, watching the always struggling Orioles for nine innings – was about as thrilling as it got.

And, especially tonight, so exciting to attend an opening night at La Fenice, Venice’s jewel of a theatre, even though he’d had a “business” reason to be there.

Tonight’s season premiere: La Traviata. He had to admit, not a bad story – the entrancing Parisian courtesan Violetta facing the grim realities of her life, while spurning the ambition of her most ardent lover.

And the music?

Even as someone untrained in the finer things, such as Grand Opera, he found Signor Verdi’s music tuneful... moving. The audience ovation at the end totally filled the theatre.

A white-gloved waiter glided across the ballroom with a silver tray – more champagne flutes arrayed like soldiers ready for the front, bubbles eagerly streaming to the surface, to keep the party flowing.

Or to quote from the opera: “Libiamo, ne’ lieti calici”.

Let’s drink to love and wine.

Levine smiled and took a glass. This was certainly one extravagant late-night reception to celebrate the premiere, with even some of the opera’s stars in attendance.

All rather dazzling. Though he had eyes for only one other person at this fete.

The person who had arranged his invite to this palazzo.

The host’s home occupied a whole floor – the piano nobile. This ballroom, if that’s what it was, easily big enough to host such a glittering and glamorous event.

Plenty of old money in the room, Levine guessed. And a good amount of what the French would call “les nouveaux riches”. Men in their fifties with wives half their age.

All Levine had was a government salary. Bit of an expense budget. He was definitely out of his element.

But true love conquers all...

He turned to look at the reason he’d come to this exclusive party.

Marcella Russo: her jet-black hair held back in a remarkable wave, the lustrous dark strands catching the light from the chandeliers above and the candles all around this room.

A dazzling necklace of diamonds and sparkling gold around her neck.

And her dress...

As befitted the premiere, a sumptuous red brocade number. Low cut in the front, a teasing view of her bare, white shoulders – such a contrast to that deep red.

She was simply stunning.

He was, he knew, completely in love with her.

Unexpectedly. Amazingly.

She turned then, his gaze not wavering, and looked straight at him. Her eyes matching her hair in depth and darkness.

She gave a smile – then the smallest movement of her lips: some words, shaped but unspoken.

He could only guess.

Jim Levine had enjoyed his months in Venice before meeting Marcella Russo – some wild parties out on the Lido – but once he’d met her... once he’d felt that connection... all that was over for him.

Now that he’d heard her whispers up close. Had looked deep into those eyes, from only inches away...

For this boy from Baltimore? He’d never felt a thrill like it.

But there was one problem. One small detail.

Marcella was married.

Married to Salvatore Russo – tonight’s host. A powerful man. Dangerous.

And as if Jim had somehow conjured the husband up, he saw Russo himself now appearing through the crowd of guests and approaching Marcella.

Tanned, lithe – though maybe not at ease at this elegant, sophisticated soiree. Jim knew he’d been raised in poverty in Sicily and muscled his way to riches in the Veneto.

Marrying into Venetian old money helped, too.

Jim watched as Salvatore’s hand slid to his wife’s waist, lingering, his bald head leaning in close to her cheek. The woman frozen at his side, as if ensnared.

Jim saw her frown, then nod, as if taking instructions.

And all Levine could think was, I must free her from this.

Somehow, some way.

*

Levine saw his opportunity. One of the sopranos stepped forward to the grand piano and launched into an aria that Jim recognised from “Don Giovanni”.

A hush fell over the room as the patrons listened attentively. But not all.

He noticed Salvatore Russo wander off to the far end of the ballroom, near the floor-to-ceiling windows that looked over the Grand Canal, and engage in a heated conversation with other similarly disinterested men.

Arias be dammed, Levine guessed.

And he spotted Marcella, who gave him a look then drifted away from the performance as if perhaps seeking another champagne.

But then, instead, she turned quickly, heading to the double doors that he knew led out to the hallway.

And disappeared.

Jim Levine put down his just-finished flute and followed. Not hastily – not as if he was on an errand of any great urgency – but with slow, steady steps, his excitement level rising.

For that was the effect that this woman had on him. Her beauty. Her smile. Even the gentle accent that tinged her impressive English.

Levine’s Italian was certainly passable, but no match for Marcella’s command of his native tongue.

He followed her out of the room, tracking her down a hallway lined with elaborately framed paintings. He saw her pause at the grand staircase that led down, but then continue down the hallway, beyond the stairs to where it was dark. Perhaps a powder room was nearby?

But now she stopped, just deep enough into the dark to be missed by anyone hurrying to the stairs and out to the foggy Venetian night outside.

In a moment he was there. Beside her.

He looked at her. Not knowing what to say. Just absorbed by seeing her, close.

It was Salvatore Russo’s wife who responded.

Quickly coming close, kissing him hard. That impetuousness something he loved about her.

And with that kiss bestowed, she spoke.

“I must return pronto. Salvatore – always noticing when I am not there, by his side.”

Levine said the obvious. “I love you.”

The words created a smile on Marcella’s face, red lips parting.

But there was something that needed confirming in this brief, stolen moment.

“Tomorrow?” he said. “You’ll still be able to come? Like last time – in the afternoon?”

A time he knew he would never forget. Perhaps also – he hoped – the same for the daring woman standing before him.

“Yes. My husband has business, some place.” Her smile broadened, then her voice became a husky whisper, laced with promise. “I will be there.”

Then as if to confirm things she added: “Mi amore.”

Jim went to kiss her again, but Marcella turned, as if she had sensed someone might be coming this way, might see the two of them.

“No. I must go. I will see you – and you will see me – tomorrow.”

He took her hand even as she started to move away, her eyes wide.

A last look back, then she hurried down the long hallway, back to the ballroom, the sound of another aria being sung.

For a moment, Jim just stood there.

He took a breath; all this – in a word – dizzying.

And he thought, Time to leave.

Early start tomorrow. Important things pending in his investigations. The sooner he left, the sooner he’d be back in his little apartment, tucked away on a narrow calle not far from the Rialto Bridge.

And the sooner tomorrow would arrive.

He headed back towards the stairs. No need to return to the party – he could just head down, retrieve his coat, scarf and fedora from the cloakroom and go.

He reached the staircase.

“Signor Levine.”

Jim turned to see Salvatore Russo stepping out of a dark corner, the man lit by the sudden flare of a petrol lighter as he put a cigar to his mouth.

Jim’s heart pounded.

Had Salvatore seen him and Marcella? Seen them kissing?

If so, then he dared not think of the consequences.

“Leaving so soon?” said the host, smiling and puffing smoke into the air.

“I, er... Yes, sadly, I have work, tomorrow, early.”

“Oh. That is such a shame. We never had a chance to speak.”

Russo stepped closer, then frowned.

“You look... flushed, Signor Levine. Perhaps you are not well?”

Jim laughed – half coughed.

“Oh yes, just a bit of a sore throat. I’m sure it’s nothing. These Venice winters – so damp, you know? So cold.”

“Cold as death itself, they say,” said Salvatore, taking a slow draw from his cigar, the ember red in the dark hall. “You must take more care, young man.”

“Yes, you’re right. I will. Thank you for tonight, by the way.”

“You are most welcome,” said Salvatore, then he put a firm hand on Jim’s shoulder. “Have a safe journey home.”

And with that, Jim turned to the stairs and headed down, forcing himself to go slowly, not to run, not to turn back.

Aware of Salvatore standing at the top of the stairs, watching.

*

Outside, on the marble steps of the palazzo, Jim shivered.

Venice had turned its switch, from the blazing warmth of summer to now, the deep winter nights, freezing fog rising from the canals as if ready to hide the endless maze of alleys and bridges.

But Levine was, by now, an experienced old hand at navigating the city.

So, coat retrieved, hat on, and his silk scarf – a splurge – wrapped tight, he headed out into the city, thinking already of tomorrow.

2. A Late Night in Venice

Jim Levine waited at the nearest vaporetto stop, the reliable boats that served as canal buses, always arriving – remarkably – damned close to their schedule.

Those steamers were such an important part of the lifeblood of the amazing city, La Serenissima – “the serene one” – as it was called.

Tonight – with the air so damp, penetrating his coat – it felt bitterly cold. As he stood there, looking through the mist for the next vaporetto, he took in the buildings on either side of the Grand Canal: the great palazzos, the homes of the wealthy and the powerful, all of them shrouded in the dense fog that stuck to them, as if wanting to encircle their facades.

Those impressive facades facing the Grand Canal were always the most striking part of these buildings. Levine knew they hid behind them an ordinariness in sharp contrast to the elaborate arches and columns of their faux Gothic fronts.

It was, perhaps, an interesting way to think of this city, he thought. What you first saw was not what you found when you went behind the curtain.

Then he saw a light. Faint but glimmering through the swirls of fog lurking above the water. An oncoming vaporetto wisely proceeding more slowly than normal.

As he stood there, an old woman, cane tapping sharply at the cobblestones, came shuffling close. The woman, dressed all in black, head wrapped tight in a scarf, was bent over as if life itself had twisted her body into a question mark.

Levine had to wonder, where was she coming from? Probably a thankless and hard job, doing God knows what, that had kept her this late.

For many, Venezia was not the amazing wonder of gondolas, sunsets and canals, grand hotels and fabulous cafés.

For some, daily life here was very different.

As the captain carefully guided the vaporetto close, the deckhand came to the side of the boat, ready to hop out, to quickly tie up the boat – a task to be repeated at every stop. Done quick, efficiently.

The vaporetto slid smoothly beside the dock for this stop. The deckhand with the ropes for the bow and stern, jumping off. Quickly lashing them to large cleats on the dock, then hurrying to the gangplank, sliding that into position for the passengers.

And then, with the deckhand nodding at those who waited at the stop, it was ready for boarding.

*

Sitting, waiting for the vaporetto to leave, Levine glanced at the other people on the water bus. A very few, well dressed, talking too loudly, continuing whatever fun they’d had on their ride home.

But most others were more like the old lady: sitting glumly, just wanting this chilly night to end. Just wanting, Levine guessed, to rest.

Then, just as the deckhand started to pull the small gangplank back, Levine heard voices. Two men hurrying to the steamer, but stopped by the deckhand.

Were they together? Both of them looked younger than most on the boat – save Levine.

A discussion quickly became an argument. Voices raised as – Levine guessed – the deckhand explained that letting them on would delay the boat.

But then, a shout from the captain – a barked order – and the sailor relented and let the late arrivals board, moving to sit at opposite points in the boat’s interior.

Levine had his eyes on one of them when that man looked right back at him.

And held that glance.

His face hard. Like the faces of the fishermen who worked these waters, burnt to a deep bronze and creased with craters created by the wind and the sun, and the all-day-long labour of hauling in catch, after catch, after catch.

Big hands, Levine could see, hardened by years of handling those rough nets, the crates of fish.

The man looked at Jim like he was the oddity. Jim turned away.

He wished this damn vaporetto would get to where he could hop off... and then hurry home.

It was late, and the thought of a warm bed sounded mighty good.

*

More stops and people got off – none got on.

The last run of the night. Now the ancient lady stood and made her way to the front, to where the gangplank would let her depart.

But as Levine watched her, he noticed that – yes –yet another man had started looking at him. The other of the two who had gotten on last minute.

That look unsettled Jim.

What if when he got off those two also got off?

That made Levine think of a lot of things. The work he was doing here, very quietly, he thought. With discretion. For the United States Treasury.

But even the most discreet of investigations, could easily stir things up. In a city like Venice, was discretion even possible?

Then there was – yes, he had to admit it – another concern: Marcella.

Was that at all discreet? To have an affair with the wife of one of the most powerful and – word was – ruthless men in Venezia?

Levine found his mind racing.

His usual confidence was spiralling into late-night paranoia.

The boat pulled into Levine’s stop.

He stood up and walked past the two men. Not looking at them but damned sure they had their eyes trained on him.

Waiting, waiting... for those ropes to lash the vaporetto tight. The noisy rattling of the gangplank being slid into place.

So far – Levine not sensing anyone standing behind him.

No one else also ready to depart.

And that was good...

The deckhand undid the rope that served as a barrier to the way off the boat and, as he passed him, Levine said, quietly, “Grazie.”

The man nodded but wasn’t interested in thanks, as Levine hurried onto the stone pavement, slick with moisture from the fog.

Levine got his bearings and started home.

Just minutes away.

*

Levine hurried, the biting cold damp piercing his thick coat. At one point, he turned down a bend in the calle, with a narrow bridge ahead – and could barely see ten feet in front of him as he crossed over the small canal.

Though some of the homes he passed had lights still on, those lights had been reduced to mere dull glows, like dimly seen fireflies.

He passed a tabaccheria that he knew, where one could get a coffee, buy cigarettes, a local paper. Closed of course, at this hour.

Seeing this shop meant he was on the right route home. He speeded up, his footsteps loud on the stone.

And then there was an echo.

An echo that seemed to reflect each step he took. Coming from somewhere behind him.

Until Levine had the thought: That is not an echo.

And he stopped. Cocked his head as if it would help him somehow hear. But when he stopped there was nothing. Whatever –whoever – was making those noises must have turned down another alley, crossed a different bridge.

And then he resumed his walk.

But again – steps! This time, Levine was convinced. This was no echo, and those steps were almost mockingly mirroring his actions. At that chilling thought, he picked up his pace, knowing he had a small turn just ahead.

An alley really. A cut-through to an open campo, and then all he had to do was get to another small alley and he would – finally – be at his apartment.

His pace quickened again and he clenched his fists, just in case...

Just a little further now.

Then the idea: