Mydworth Mysteries - Secrets on the Cote d'Azur E-Book

Matthew Costello

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

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2021

Beschreibung

From the authors of the best-selling series CHERRINGHAM

When Harry and Kat head south to the French Riviera, they look forward to dazzling parties, a shimmering sea, and wonderful food. But once they step off the legendary Paris-Nice train, Le Train Bleu, things start to be anything but restful. Asked to assist in a dangerous case of blackmail - they soon find that the streets and alleyways of the Cote d’Azur hide not only cafes and bistros...but also secrets and danger of a most deadly sort.

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

The Authors

Title

1. A Sunset to Remember

2. Strangers on a Train

3. The Côte d’Azur!

4. True Love

5. Deux Boulevardiers

6. To Catch a Crook

7. The Advantages of a Touring Motorcycle

8. A Surprise Visitor

9. A Trip to the Old Town

10. A Night on the Town

11. A Late-night Visit

12. Safe Secrets

13. To Catch a Blackmailer

14. The Truth of an Unlikely Romance

15. Follow the Money

16. Dealer Choice

17. The End of the Pier Show

18. Retour à Paris

Mydworth Mysteries Episode 9

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 and Kat head south to the French Riviera, they look forward to dazzling parties, a shimmering sea, and wonderful food. But once they step off the legendary Paris-Nice train, Le Train Bleu, things start to be anything but restful. Asked to assist in a dangerous case of blackmail – they soon find that the streets and alleyways of the Cote d'Azur hide not only cafes and bistros...but also secrets and danger of a most deadly sort.

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.

The Authors

Matthew Costello (US-based) is the author of many successful novels published around the globe, including Vacation (2011, in development for film), Home (2014) and Beneath Still Waters (1989), which was adapted by Lionsgate as a major motion picture. He has written for The Disney Channel, BBC, SyFy and has also designed dozens of bestselling games including the critically acclaimed The 7th Guest, Doom 3, Rage, Pirates of the Caribbean, and, with Neil Richards, Planet of the Apes: Last Frontier.

Neil Richards (based in the UK) has worked as a producer and writer in TV and film, creating scripts for BBC, Disney, and Channel 4, and earning numerous Bafta nominations along the way. He’s also written script and story for over 30 video games including The Da Vinci Code and Planet of the Apes, and consults around the world on digital storytelling.

MATTHEW COSTELLONEIL RICHARDS

Secrets on the Cote d'Azur

1. A Sunset to Remember

Percy Porter climbed down onto the dusty platform of Cannes train station and stepped away from the hurrying crowds. He watched as station staff, busy with their flags and whistles, readied the train for its departure.

He tilted his white panama hat against the last of the evening sun, then leaned on his Malacca cane, hand firm on the silver grip.

Motionless, he took in every last detail of this wondrous evening: the distant snow-capped Alps; the black and white smoke billowing from the engine; the chattering crowds; the cooking aromas, wafting up from the town, mixing with the snatches of cigar smoke; the reddening sky to the west, and the rich blue above.

What bliss, he thought.

Then, as the train pulled away, steam puffing, wheels screeching, he turned and headed down into the maze of streets that led to the sea, the Croisette and his hotel.

*

Why did I never realise that life could be like this? he thought, as he ambled through the bustling streets, the warm evening air rich with smells, sights and sounds.

Why, in my fifty years on this earth, have I never known what it is to feel truly happy... till now?

Of course, he knew the answer to that question.

One word – and he smiled as he said it softly to himself.

“Simone.”

He realised that his whole existence could be defined as life before Simone and now... life with Simone.

Before she’d entered his world, his days in England had been all grey cloudy skies, damp cobbled streets, and bitter winds. Noisy factories, bottling plants, smoke-filled boardrooms, bankers’ drafts, industrial disputes.

Endless tins of tomato soup, egg-and-cress sandwiches, countless mugs of stewed tea.

More like a prison than a life.

And after his day of work? His evenings and weekends had been spent in silent suppers with his wife Alice in the gloomy drawing room of Nantwich Hall, the monotony broken only by occasional dull dinners with half the mayors of the north-west of England and their grim spouses; or polite afternoon teas with bland vicars, dim-witted aristocrats; and visits from Alice’s snooty in-laws from the Home Counties, always moaning, criticising, complaining about something... anything.

What a fool he had been to live that life, when this life was so readily available to be lived.

Life with Simone.

A joyous and dreamlike existence in which the weather was so unbelievably pleasant, the food so much tastier, the colours brighter, the people charming, and every day was an impossibly fresh, new adventure. The beautiful Mediterranean always – quite simply – stunning.

He strolled now – past familiar cafés and shops – recognising waiters and regulars, exchanging cheery “bonsoirs” and “monsieurs”. Finally, he reached the Croisette, the long tree-lined avenue that ran the length of the curved Cannes bay. He paused, tipped his hat, and smiled at a well-dressed young couple – their arms entwined, laughing – as if recognising like-souls, also under the spell of this wondrous place.

The couple smiled back – and he knew that they were in love and he guessed that they could, through some lovers’ instinct, see that he, too, was truly, madly in love.

In love with Simone.

Just the thought of her... dizzying!

In love with her brown eyes, her knowing smile, her beautiful soft skin, her boundless energy, her crazy ideas, her serious thoughts, her gentle soul, her sinuous dancing, sublime singing, and – always – those brown eyes, gazing into his.

He looked down now along the Croisette, positively filled with elegant couples promenading before dinner. White horse-drawn coaches passed back and forth, the clomping of hooves sounding rhythmic with nearby palm trees swaying gently.

The sea had now turned a luminous green, and to the west, over the Esterel Mountains, the setting sun made the red earth there seem to blaze with colour, as if alive.

He looked east, down the Croisette, past his own hotel, the Carlton. If the Pointe Croisette and the harbour weren’t in the way, he fancied he just might be able to see all the way down the coast to lovely Antibes, where, even now, Simone was surely lying on her silk-draped bed, sleeping gently, resting before dinner.

He smiled to himself, remembering that sweetly scented apartment from just an hour ago, that afternoon-warm bed.

Then, alarmingly – for a second – a harsh voice, unbidden. For a moment he thought it was the brittle tones of his wife Alice –her sharp voice a dagger in his heart.

He spun round, fearful that she might actually be there – but placed his hand against his chest in relief as he saw a bickering English couple march past, the husband staring miserably at the pavement, the line of children behind them, straight-backed, on best behaviour.

He laughed to himself again. How could it possibly be Alice? Alice wasn’t due to come to the Riviera for another month.

No need to fear her appearance yet!

Yes. Plenty of time to work out an amicable solution to this miraculous about-turn his life appeared to have taken.

Hmm, I must take some time to figure out how to handle that, he thought.

But, feeling relieved that that moment hadn’t yet come, he again looked down the promenade at the long line of elegant, white-stuccoed hotels.

Time for a sundowner, he thought.

And where better than the rooftop bar on that smart new hotel, the Martinez!

Yes, it was pricey. Extremely pricey! But, as Percy now knew (because darling Simone kept telling him), “Money is there to be spent – to be enjoyed, mon cheri!”

Off he strolled towards the dramatic Martinez Hotel, facing the now-darkening Med, wondering which of their new-fangled cocktails he should try this evening, and already contemplating whether to have the salt-baked bass or the lobster for dinner.

*

Three hours later, and feeling rather tipsy – though who cares? – he spun through the revolving doors of his hotel, the Carlton (twice round, once more for fun!) and crossed the empty marble-floored vestibule to reception.

“Monsieur Porter, bonsoir,” said the night receptionist.

“Mon cher Gaston, my old friend, my rock of ages,” said Percy stepping forward and leaning unsteadily against the reception, panama under one arm.

He beamed for a few seconds at the young man in the perfect suit, his lapel badge shining. “Wasn’t it a beautiful sunset?”

“I’m sure it was, sir,” said Gaston. “I hope sir has passed a pleasant day?”

“Oh, much more than pleasant,” said Percy. He stepped back and did a full twirl. A pirouette –just like the one he had done this morning for Simone on the beach in Antibes. “My entire day was... delightful! Delicious! Superb! In fact, all of the above!”

“I am very happy for you, sir,” said Gaston, and Percy saw him smile.

Always fun to try to get these young fellas to come out of their shells, he thought.

“Your key, sir?”

“Key?” said Percy. “But, Gaston, the night is yet young!”

Then he realised his head was beginning to swim a little (that last cognac, perhaps? A bit trop?) The thought of his bed growing more attractive by the second.

He swayed slightly as Gaston handed him his room key, on a giant tassel bigger than the ones on the curtains at Nantwich Hall.

“Oh! I nearly forgot,” said Gaston. “There is mail for you, sir.”

Percy frowned as he saw the receptionist retrieve a large brown envelope from the pigeonholes behind him, and hand it over.

He inspected the cover.

“To Monsieur P Porter. Personal and Confidential. Addressee only.”

Strange, he thought. I’m not expecting anything at all. Office would have telephoned, surely, if any contracts needed signing?

“Er, did you see who left it for me?” he said.

“Non, monsieur,” said Gaston. “I was not yet on duty.”

Percy turned the envelope over in his hands. Suddenly some instinct told him not to open it here. He tucked it under his arm.

“Well, life is full of surprises, my boy, don’t you find?” said Percy.

“It is indeed, sir.”

“Well, a very bonne nuit to you!”

“À vous aussi,” said Gaston.

And Percy headed for the elevator, already looking forward to the daily challenge of the intricate Art Deco doors.

*

Percy entered his room, turned on the lights and threw his hat, cane, key and package on the bed.

The doors out to his balcony were already open, the gentle evening breeze making the curtains sway.

He stepped out and took in the brilliantly beautiful view of Cannes, still lit up, a moon now rising over the deep, black sea.

Then he turned back into the room and picked up the large envelope.

What on earth could it be? Ah – a present from Simone perhaps!

The flap was gummed down and also taped closed. Very secure! He pulled clumsily at the tape and finally got the thing open. Inside he quickly could see what looked like... photographs, and a single folded sheet of paper.

He pulled out the paper, opened it, to reveal...

Not a present from Simone.

A message formed from cut-up letters and words from newspapers or magazines. He read the simple message, the words piercing his soul like arrows: TWENTY THOUSAND FRANCS TOMORROW OR THESE GO PUBLIC.

These? he thought, suddenly alarmed. What the hell...?

He hurriedly reached into the packet, tearing, scrabbling at the envelope, until it sprung open and half a dozen photographs scattered onto the bed.

He stepped back in horror.

The photographs – of him and Simone –he recognised instantly, from this last joyous week with her in Antibes.

Intimate photographs. Their sweet moments of love, turned into... obscenity!

Flinging an arm in front of his eyes, as if he might be able to pretend the photos didn’t exist, he staggered back from the bed until he hit the wall with a thud. Shaking now, not from alcohol but from this horrible threat.

He sank to the floor, sobbing, praying for the world to swallow him up.

All of this day’s happiness now terribly twisted... into anger, pain, loss... despair.

He listened to his own sobbing – chest heaving – as if the sound came from someone else, someone who sounded doomed.

And he had the terrible thought: That person is me.

2. Strangers on a Train

Kat Reilly – these days more widely known in England as Lady Katherine Mortimer – watched as her husband Harry eased the cork from a bottle of champagne, the cork escaping with a satisfying hiss.

“Parfait!” he said, pouring the bubbly into two crystal flutes and handing one to her.

To make things even more perfect, she heard the massive steam locomotive vent a loud whistle, then felt the carriages jolt as the famous, incredibly luxurious, “Train Bleu” eased out of the Gare de Lyon – destination: the French Riviera.

For a girl from the Bronx... quite a moment.

“Oops!” said Harry, steadying himself on the wall of the sleeper compartment. Then he raised his glass to hers and clinked.

“À votre santé!” said Kat, taking a sip and sitting on the cushioned bench. “Mmm, delicious.”

“Pommery. Only the absolute best for the first drink of the holiday, don’t you think? Or should that be – vacation?”

“It doesn’t become a ‘vacation’ until after you’ve wrapped up your meetings in Nice,” said Kat. “Until then, I’m trying to think of it as just a ‘work trip’.”

“Wise words!” said Harry. “Though, I must say, not many work trips include a couple of top-of-the-range sleeping compartments, private bathrooms and first-class dining – and that’s just for starters! I do think the actual Riviera will be right up your alley.”

“And – look – even a glimpse of the Eiffel Tower,” said Kat, nodding to the window as Paris slid by in the early evening light. “By the way, do we dress for dinner?”

“Oh, my dear, but of course. Part of the fun! And I have it on good authority that the Wagons Lit Company not only offers the finest gourmet dining, but also a rather extensive wine list.”

“Shame they don’t stretch to double beds,” said Kat, eyes glowing, glancing around at the single compartment, and giving Harry a familiar smile.

“Oh, I know. Surprisingly un-French in that respect, eh? However, never fear, I shall keep the door open between the compartments and whisper sweet nothings to you all night long until you are fast asleep.”

Kat, champagne flute in hand, took a step closer to her husband.

“Oh, I expect way more than that,” said Kat. This train was fun, but then, so was her husband. “Meanwhile, more champagne please, it’s delicious.”

“Mais bien sûr, madame,” said Harry, pouring a top-up, then Kat saw him disappear into his own compartment for a second – and return with a bowl of olives.

“Rule one of French sleeper trains – tip the carriage attendant the minute you arrive, and you’ll be looked after like a king. Or should that be emperor?”

“Whichever,” said Kat, taking an olive and raising her glass. “Vive la France!”

“Vive la revolution too, just to be on the safe side,” said Harry, helping himself to olives and joining her on the seat, as the suburbs of Paris drifted by in the soft evening light.

*

Harry sat back in the elegant dining car, while the waiter carved the most elegant slices of tender roast lamb, and served steaming vegetables from silver bowls.

“Madame, monsieur,” he said, bowing slightly and withdrawing.

Harry took a sip of red wine.

Perfect! A Chateau Margaux 1920, a wine he adored, and the vintage he preferred. Ever more rare and pricey. But on this train? Not an issue.

“Bon appétit,” he said, raising his glass to Kat’s, and they began to eat.

Kat looked a million dollars in a deep-blue low-cut shimmering silk dress, the diamond necklace he had given her on their anniversary sparkling in the lantern-lit dining car.

He knew she wasn’t one for much jewellery, but when she wore an item, she wore it well.

Outside was darkness – broken only by the occasional moodily lit station as they swept through the night southwards.

The dining car had quickly filled, but he had reserved – aided by more francs changing hands – a cosy table for two at one end, just perfect for watching the crowd, and barely in earshot of the other tables.

Just how Harry always liked it when on business. And, in truth, this was indeed a “business” trip.

His work on an occasional basis for a small and discrete branch of British Intelligence was not terribly demanding. But this trip was important. He had been tasked with debriefing an agent returning from North Africa after a long year undercover.

The “office”, however, had had no objection to his taking Kat with him and bolting a week’s holiday onto the expedition.

“So then, when do you meet your contact?” said Kat, as if reading his mind.

“Right. Tomorrow morning, I hope, if we arrive on time,” said Harry. “Was aiming to get it out of the way, so we can quickly move onto enjoying ourselves for the rest of the week.”

“Like your thinking, Sir Harry. You know the man? What’s his name... Groves?”

“Wyndham Groves, that’s right. Not really. Bumped into him a couple of times in Whitehall. Quite the old hand, I heard, and, word is, a good sort. Oodles of experience.”

“You can share details, I hope. Despite it being hush-hush and all that.”

“Oh, don’t you worry – I will,” said Harry, smiling.

When he and Kat had first met in Cairo at a US embassy reception, he had soon realised that, like him, her “diplomatic” title had been cover for a rather more secret role serving her country.

“Ah well, while you have all the fun playing the ancient game, I shall do a little shopping, pick up some summer frocks. Can’t let you down by wearing last year’s colours.”

“You? Let me down? Never happen,” said Harry. “Was thinking, perhaps, when I’m done, we’d hit la plage late afternoon? Then cocktails and dinner somewhere, à deux?”

“Sounds perfect,” said Kat, reaching out and placing her hand on his on the starched white table cloth. “Though we mustn’t forget Aunt Lavinia, of course.”

Harry laughed. His aunt had been staying in Antibes for a few weeks, and the moment she had heard they were coming to Nice she was determined to make sure they were invited to all the right parties.