Mydworth Mysteries - The Lost Man E-Book

Matthew Costello

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

Seitenzahl: 167

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2024

Beschreibung

From the authors of the best-selling series CHERRINGHAM

When a well-dressed man arrives in Mydworth, with a nasty head wound and no memory of who he is, or why he is there - Kat and Harry look after him. But it quickly becomes clear that this ‘Lost Man’ is, for some unknown reason, on the run - and his pursuers are desperate to find him. As Kat and Harry retrace the man’s strange journey back to London’s East End, they find themselves up against dangerous people who - with time running out - will do absolutely anything to stop the Lost Man from remembering.

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. Who Am I?

2. Tea at Tilly’s

3. An Unexpected Guest at the Dower House

4. Time For Bed

5. Meet George

6. How to Find a Lost Man

7. A Bump in The Night

8. London Calling

9. Wimbledon

10. An Unexpected Turn of Events

11. Ramsay To The Rescue

12. Emily Was Here

13. Night Falls in London

14. In the Dark of the Night

15. All Becomes Clear

16. A Reunion Cut Short

17. Welcome to The Wessex Bank

18. A Very Big Withdrawal

19. Afternoon Tea with a Welcome Surprise

The Authors

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 a well-dressed man arrives in Mydworth, with a nasty head wound and no memory of who he is, or why he is there – Kat and Harry look after him. But it quickly becomes clear that this ‘Lost Man’ is, for some unknown reason, on the run – and his pursuers are desperate to find him. As Kat and Harry retrace the man’s strange journey back to London’s East End, they find themselves up against dangerous people who – with time running out – will do absolutely anything to stop the Lost Man from remembering.

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

The Lost Man

1. Who Am I?

The man came down the steps of the shabby building – one hand placed on a rusty railing to steady himself. He stood, taking in the street. The late afternoon air was laced with so many strong smells.

All scents that he somehow felt he should recognise – all decidedly unpleasant. No words to describe these aromas as yet occurred to him.

He looked to his right: dark tenement buildings loomed on either side of the street, cobbles pitted with potholes, puddles. A distant clutch of children kicked a ball against a wall.

He turned to his left, the street looking miserable and deserted.

Which way?

He hesitated for only the briefest of moments because – he was sure of this – he had to keep moving.

He chose left.

As he walked away, he heard voices.

The urgent crying of a baby. Then an angry yell. Some loud laughter.

So many sounds and smells! His senses felt overwhelmed.

He passed a man squatting on the pavement – on his shoulder perched an animal on a leash, the creature looking up curiously. He searched for the name of that animal. Somehow it came to him.

A monkey, he thought.

The man kept walking, leaving sounds and scents behind, until he came to a larger street.

Again, he had a choice to make – go left, go right... even go back.

He took only a moment before turning to his right, and walking briskly, sticking to the pavement, avoiding the cobble-stoned road where – now and then – a speeding van would go racing by, alarmingly close.

*

He now noticed something as he walked. There was pain. Just there, his right leg, near the knee cap. Each step causing a sharp jolt.

But that wasn’t the only place he felt hurt. He stopped walking and reached up to his head.

He felt a different kind of pain there, that increased as he gently touched a spot – feeling something wet, slippery.

In the afternoon shadows from the buildings, he couldn’t identify the stain. But a few more steps – just a bit more light – and now he could see... a very deep crimson.

Something had happened to his head.

But what?

He couldn’t answer that question. But an even larger question loomed over him, like a dark cloud.

That question...

Who am I?

*

His walk brought him to streets and junctions where – for a reason he didn’t know – he didn’t hesitate. Almost as if... he knew the way.

These streets, lined with shops and street traders, were busy: cars and buses and horse-drawn carts all roaring past.

And so many people jostling him as they passed.

He noticed now that people were staring at him – men in bowler hats and smart suits; ladies who glanced then quickly looked away.

Must be something about how I look, the man thought. Something unusual about me? Perhaps... something frightening?

No matter. He sailed through the sea of people.

Then, as he reached a corner, a woman came up with a basket of flowers, and said words he did not understand.

“Lucky heather, sir! Buy my lucky heather!”

He looked at the woman, then the flowers.

“Lucky?” he said. “Is it really lucky?”

“Oh yes, sir,” said the woman, holding out a little sprig. “Just a penny.”

Well, he thought. I think I need some luck today.

He reached into his pocket and pulled out a silver coin, held out his palm. The woman looked at the coin and looked at him.

“A shilling, sir?” she said, frowning as if not sure to take it.

He smiled and nodded. The woman took the coin, bit the rim, then tucked a sprig of flowers in his lapel.

“God bless you, sir!” she said with a toothless grin, and he watched her hurry away. He looked down at the heather, gave it a pat, then continued his journey.

I wonder where I’m going? he thought. Is it somewhere I’ve been before?

But then, more thoughts that made him feel anxious: Where have I been? What was that place? Why did I leave?

That prompted another touch to his head. Where he noticed that it now felt less wet. Less slippery.

Whatever had caused that wound, it was not fully bleeding now. No need to have it... attended to.

Hospital.

With that word suddenly coming to him, he again had the same nervous reaction. Feeling a chill, he sensed for some reason that he must hurry.

*

After a series of twists and turns – down this street and up the next – he turned a corner to see a great bridge.

He hurried onto the bridge, as traffic flew past, and people pressed on, heads down, determined.

The bridge spanned a wide river with tree-lined avenues on each side, and in the distance he saw grand buildings, even a big domed church.

It was all somehow so familiar.

Just ahead he saw a train station dwarfing the buildings that surrounded it, the word “Waterloo” carved into its stone. And he thought: yes, I know this place too!

Feeling as if this Waterloo was important, he followed the crowd up the broad line of steps and straight into the station.

Through clouds of steam and billowing smoke, he saw massive engines waiting by the platforms. To his left, kiosks and a café. People hurrying in all directions.

But one thing caught his attention, as if drawing him closer. A giant clock with four faces, suspended high over this station from the curved arch of the roof.

Below it was an area where a few dozen people stood, necks craned, looking up at a big board filled with names, times and numbers.

Yes! Platform numbers, the man thought, as if stumbling upon some secret information just now revealed to him.

Once he joined the crowd, he too stood still, gazing upward at the board as names and times disappeared and reappeared.

He noted that now and then someone would nod, then hurry away from the board, heading through one of the open gates to a train... or to an empty platform.

This... felt important. Though he had not the slightest idea why.

As he scanned the board, one word stopped him in his tracks. A town, he quickly realised.

He said the name aloud.

“Myd—worth.” Then again, more confidently. “Mydworth.”

He knew somehow that that destination was his.

He searched for the platform number on the board – 14.

On Platform 14 there stood a train with its locomotive heaving great puffs of smoke into the air. Without a moment’s hesitation, he hurried to the platform. The engine chugging, looking ready, even eager, to roar away from the city.

To the place called Mydworth.

*

The man walked down the aisle of one of the train’s cars. Many of the seats were taken – men with their newspapers open, a pair of women sitting together, briskly chatting, pausing only to look at him as he passed.

He found a spot with two empty seats and sat down. In that sudden movement, he felt a pain in his leg, the mere act of bending making his knee fire off another sharp jolt.

But even with that, it felt good to sit. He pressed against the back of his plush seat; the cushion so soft, so comforting.

Mydworth.

He mumbled the name to himself again, as if he might forget it. Because he had, he knew, somehow forgotten so much.

And then with the blast of a loud whistle startling him, he felt that first sluggish move of the train, straining, pulling forward... and fell asleep.

*

“Excuse me, sir. You, er, hurt yourself there? Nasty bang to the old noggin?”

The man woke abruptly, to see a figure in uniform, standing over him, some kind of machine hanging from his shoulder.

Right, he thought. The words suddenly there, as if bubbling up. The ticket inspector! That’s who he is.

“Noggin?” said the man. “Why, I do believe I did hurt myself somehow. Perhaps, yes, you’re right... a bang to the head. Just as you said.”

“Have you had it properly looked at? How did it happen?”

The man did not know at all what to say. All he could offer was a simple: “I really don’t know.”

The inspector didn’t say anything for a moment.

“I see. Well, anyway. Your ticket, sir? Going to—?”

The man felt more confident with this request.

“Mydworth,” he said. “I’m going to Mydworth.”

But that only prompted the inspector to repeat: “And your ticket, sir?”

Aha! A ticket! I need a ticket. Of course!

He began digging into his jacket pockets, quickly finding that they were empty. And as he moved to his trouser pockets, he smiled at the patient inspector.

He rooted around in the left pocket, finding that also empty. When he stuck his right hand into the matching pocket, he found various coins, a pair of keys on a ring... but nothing else.

“I, um, don’t appear to have a ticket.”

The man held his hand out, open, showing all that he had.

“No ticket? Well sir, I do believe you might just have enough coins there to cover the fare. Do you mind?”

The inspector stretched out a hand and took most of the coins, leaving just a few copper-coloured ones.

Pennies, the man thought, looking at the coins. Ah yes, that’s what they are.

The inspector issued a ticket from his machine. “And, sir, I strongly recommend that when you get to Mydworth you see a doctor just as soon as you can.”

The inspector tapped his own forehead as if to make things perfectly clear, and the man nodded.

Though he didn’t at all know what he would do once he got to Mydworth.

Not the slightest clue.

So he simply turned back to the window, seeing the gentle fields, places with plump sheep or cows grazing, all of them paying this speeding train no attention at all.

And, within just a few minutes, the man fell asleep again.

*

“Mydworth! Your stop, old chap!” came a loud voice and the man felt a hand shaking his shoulder.

He woke with a start to see the carriage door open, people getting out of the train – and a face looming close to his.

“Better get your skates on, sir!” said the stranger, helping to lift him from his seat.

The man blinked then looked out of the open door, saw a sign that read “Mydworth”, heard a shrill whistle and a shouted “All aboard that’s going aboard!”

He stepped out of the carriage onto the platform, heard the door slam behind him and turned to watch the train pull away.

Down the line it went until it was just a dot in the distance, then only a trail of smoke over the far woods.

Silence, but for the trill of birdsong in the trees next to the station.

He looked about him, the platform now empty save for an old man carrying a small cage with a cat in it.

“Is this Mydworth?” he said to the man with the cat.

“Mydworth Station? Why, yes it is. Is it the village you be wanting?”

The man thought about this. So far, nothing about this place seemed familiar.

“I suppose so,” he said.

“Well, the village is up the lane aways,” said the man with the cat, nodding to the road. Then he walked off down the platform, whistling.

The man looked at the lane. The country air smelt sweet. So different from the noisy city.

His leg hurt, but a walk would be pleasant, nevertheless.

So, he set off up the road to this place called Mydworth that was – for some unknown reason – his destination.

2. Tea at Tilly’s

Kat took a sip of tea, as Nicola Greene – who headed up the Women’s Voluntary Service – described the, as always, perilous state of the agency’s finances.

Nicola was a good friend, one of the first Kat had made when she came here to live with her husband, Sir Harry Mortimer, and suddenly became a New York Yankee living in Sussex – a bona-fide “Lady” herself!

Not that Kat had any plans to live the quiet life of an English aristocrat. Besides the other charity work she did, she made sure to spend two days a week working with Nicola, providing much-needed support to the women of Mydworth and the surrounding area.

Support that also included today’s task: driving around the county drumming up donations from well-to-do locals.

Or at least trying to.

Today she’d met the usual polite resistance of “times are hard”, “we already give to so many causes” and even “shouldn’t some of these women deal with their own problems?”

Kat had hoped that today’s meeting here with Nicola at the end of the working day at Tilly’s Tea Rooms on Mydworth’s Market Square might be more positive. But it seemed the WVS barely had funds to last until Christmas.

“The regular contributions have been coming strong and steady. I mean, thank you and Sir Harry so much for the donation you gave. And your Aunt Lavinia? Well, not unexpectedly, her gift was as generous as ever.”

“But none of it enough?” said Kat.

“The more people we help, the more our costs go up – and the poorer we get.”

“Which only shows how needed the agency is. So, just how bad is it?” said Kat, now keeping her voice low, wary of eavesdroppers.

“Well, unless the bank will consider giving us an overdraft, I fear we have barely enough funds for another three months.”

Kat hadn’t realised the situation was that serious.

“Have you asked them?”

“Not yet. I’ve a meeting tomorrow morning with Mr Thrimble,” said Nicola. “But I don’t hold out much hope. He’s already made his view known. To him, we’re difficult women, apparently.”

“Hmm, I’d like to show him ‘difficult’,” said Kat. But she knew there was only one bank in Mydworth, so there was little point in antagonising the bank manager.

“What about asking local businesses for more support?” she said. “I’m sure I could persuade—”

But then Kat froze as she saw the door of the tea room swing open roughly – the little bell tinkling madly.

A man walked in, or more accurately stumbled in, then came to a dead halt, his eyes darting around the place as other startled patrons quickly stole looks at him.

All conversation stopped.

The man was hatless, and at first glance his clothes looked nothing out of the ordinary: a light tweed sport coat, vest, creased trousers, collared shirt. But Kat could see that they were dusty, torn and creased – and covered in dark smears that looked like blood.

“What in the—” Nicola started to say.

Even the waitress, a stalwart at Tilly’s, the ever-jolly Elsie, looked as if a ghost had just walked into the café.

Then the man – his wide eyes spying the empty table right next to Kat’s – came shuffling over. His gait looked odd.

Something perhaps wrong with his leg?

He took a seat, staring around as if confused.

Elsie – shooting Kat her best “I don’t know what this is about” look – came over to the man.

In a cheery, almost normal voice (though Kat detected there a cautious tightness in the startled server’s tone), she offered her usual welcome.

“Good afternoon, sir. And what will you be having today?” she said, as if this shaky looking gentleman was a regular.

The man looked around the café, his expression blank. Kat saw him pick up the small menu settled between a sugar bowl and the salt and pepper shakers (those ceramic items featuring a fully and formally dressed cat and dog design).

He peered at it as if uncomprehending, before shaking his head and putting it back.

Then he looked at Kat’s table. Where he fixed on what had been a plate of biscuits, now with just one left, a small tea pot, two cups nearly finished no longer giving off the warming just-brewed plume of steam.

“I, er. Um. Can I have that?”

The man pointed, the expression of the question almost as if he was requesting permission. The tone, strange.

Elsie added, lightly as she could, “Coming right up, sir.”

As she sailed away, Kat studied the man’s eyes. They had a dark, almost haunted look.

She leaned over, and her voice as gentle as she could, asked a question...

*

“Excuse me, sir. But do you need some help?”

The man’s head pivoted to her, then tilted to the right, staring at Kat for a moment. Kat had seen such a move before, having served as a nurse during the War.

Soldiers shell-shocked and unable to understand anything... at least for a while.

“Help? I er, don’t really—”

“Have you been in an accident?”

“An accident? Me? Oh, well, I don’t know. Do you think... that I have?” His words trailed off.

Elsie appeared with a pot of tea for one and a small island of biscuits on a plate.

With a deep breath the man reached out, and took the tea pot in a manner that indicated he did at least know how to proceed properly with that.