Roxanna and the Mysterious Monk E-Book

Renier-Fréduman Mundil

• Herausgeber: BoD - Books on Demand
• Kategorie: Poesie und Drama
• Serie: Roxanna
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2024

Seitenzahl: 126

Beschreibung

Practice makes perfect. Hopefully this does not apply to the murderer, but to the somewhat bizarre detective Roxanna. She has solved her first case, or so she thinks, when life, or rather death, puts another case on her desk. This brings her into contact with a wealthy English gentleman at his country estate, who has amassed a considerable fortune with an unusual business idea. His somewhat strange-looking entourage makes sure it, the handsome fortune, stays that way. Among them is a complicated hunter, who is not only a little over-the-top in his language, and especially a monk who, with his incredible intuition, not only beats the inspector to it once, but also manages to bring his gentleman boss to his ice-cold destination before the inspector does.

Leseprobe

To

Jeff

A friend forever - So far away in space But so close in our hearts

Contents

Practice makes perfect. Hopefully this doesn’t apply to the murderer, but to the somewhat bizarre detective Roxanna. She has solved her first case - or so she thinks - when life, or rather death, puts another case on her desk. This brings her into contact with a wealthy English gentleman at his country estate, who has amassed a considerable fortune with an unusual business idea. His somewhat strange-looking entourage makes sure it - the handsome fortune - stays that way. Among them is a complicated hunter, who is not only a little overthe-top in his language, and especially a monk who, with his incredible intuition, not only beats the inspector to it once, but also manages to bring his gentleman boss to his ice-cold destination before the inspector does.

Table of Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

1.

A thick veil of mist greyed over the countryside, steady rain pelted down on the summer leaves, every human soul had crawled into the comfort of the houses. A black raven perched motionless on the ridge of the neighbouring house. Its head was stuck a little forwards, as if it was expecting something coming, not yet to be seen, but already to be felt. It remained in this position for minutes, finally turning its beak in an easterly direction and now looking directly into the room. There it fixed on the movements of the people behind the film of mist and glass, its feathered neck twitching at intervals with strange nods. Sometimes violent movements jerked across its body, a brief lifting of its wings, the purpose of which could not be discerned.

Suddenly it dropped from the roof, carried by the rainsoaked air, it tumbled through the beads of water, let the left half of its body fall downwards and shot past the window like an aeroplane taking off.

Outside, everything was now grey again, the autumn air wafted between the houses, only rarely cut by the bird's fading crowing.

At the end of the vista, the narrow path turned sharply to the right, where it plunged into the forest. The surface of the path became uneven, littered with fallen stones and branches. After a few metres, the path turned abruptly to the left, facing the fading day, revealing a small clearing. For hundreds of years, a gnarled oak had commandingly established itself, its sprawling branches keeping the other trees at an appropriate distance. This was the first time this year that the devil had already struck the tree, the velvety green of the leaves was meticulously drained, the delicate edges torn into claw-like formations. At the top of the tree, the black raven peered down, its gaze scanning the small clearing with a dark eye that drew the gathering dusk from the ground and channelled it into the branches of the tree.

The lifeless body of a man floated in the gentle breeze, his neck girdled by a noose, the draped branch creaking in rhythmic dark tones as it swayed up and down. In the time that had passed, more ravens had appeared on the ridge of the house. A few times they hopped over the mossy roof tiles and then soared into the grey autumn air. Carried by the wind, they glided into the dark forest. Step by step, the black birds dropped onto the branches below and steadily approached the lifelessly swaying body. The foremost of them was only centimetres away, its feverish eyes staring at the human form as if trying to make out the boundary between the soaked clothes and the frozen skin.

It lifted up briefly one last time and let itself fall with its weight. As the claws of its feet touched the cold flesh, a shot whipped through the twilight. It shattered the dead man's hand, pierced the black bird and disappeared into the trunk of the oak tree. With wild caws, the other black feathered creatures took to the air, shot through the branches and dissolved into the grey rain clouds.

A green-clad figure strode into the clearing, the still steaming butt of a rifle on his shoulders. The massive hand reached into a pocket and emerged with a hunting knife, as if to gut a hunted game. The man climbed the old tree with great difficulty and with a practised grip he cut the rope, which released the dead man with a dull thud.

2.

The living room was a single round dome, not a piece of straight surface, curves everywhere, consisting of sterile stainless steel, interrupted by goldembellished window frames enclosing heavy lead crystal. The steel glinted in the light of the many lamps, no colour, no wallpaper, just a metallic optical sound covering the interior walls. The furniture was sparse in quantity, but its value was far greater. Handcrafted antique pieces overflowed with inlays, centuries-old wood, in rare contrast to the sterile panelling of the room. In the centre of the room stood a glass table 20 m2 in size, enclosed in a marble surround. The table rested on the base of an engine from the first rocket that had flown to Mars ‒ and here was the special thing ‒ from there and back again. Behind the desk sat an elegant-looking man, his body comfortable in a rocking chair that could have come from any saloon in the Wild West.

As the sliding metal doors opened and disappeared silently with their wooden frames into the stone walls, a female figure clad in a silver jumpsuit entered the room. In her hand she held a tray made of marble, wafer-thin and light as a feather, with a newspaper lying on the cold stone.

The morning paper, sir, said the woman.

Put it on the table, Tara. What do you suggest I have for breakfast?

The XP4203 concentrate. The flavour is modelled on English bacon and eggs. Everything is sterile. You taste eggs without that annoying fear of salmonella.

Very good, Tara, excellent. How long will breakfast last?

Until 14:00. I've calculated it so that you won't have to eat again until after the meeting with Alan Bachior and the board meeting.

The man nodded.

What would I do without you, Tara? he smiled. It was an artificial phrase. At the same time, he didn't think about what he would do without the woman, but rather what he sometimes did with her. He pressed a button and the metal doors shot out of the wall to join with a dull thud. Then he pushed aside a small metal plate on the table and a monitor with a picture of a woman appeared.

Miss Hamilton, cancel this Alan Bachior. You'll think of something suitable. I don't want to be disturbed for the next two - the man thought about it - let's say the next three hours.

The woman's image on the monitor showed no movement, just a brief nod across her face. When the man looked up, the woman had already undressed.

Sometimes you give me the creeps, Tara, said the man. As if you can read minds.

Just feelings, the woman replied, at least what we mean by that.

What do you think, Tara, is it easier to read thoughts or feelings? I would like to adjust to that.

Feelings are made up of thoughts. Our feelings are nothing more than the thoughts of others.

Now don't get philosophical, Tara.

Whatever you say, sir. I'd like to point out that the board meeting can't be postponed. We should get started.

The man nodded and stood up silently. He looked at the woman standing in front of him, walked round the table and approached the woman's body from behind. The female figure, covered in smooth white skin, did not match the room, the sterile stainless steel walls, the cold marble floor, the glass table or the antique furniture. Only now did the man notice it, for the first time in all these weeks.

He bent down and lifted the silver jumpsuit from the floor. Then he placed it over the woman's back and tried to look outside through the thick leaded glass. The female half nude was reflected on the walls, lost, as if on the endless expanse of the ocean. The XP4203 food concentrate also looked lost on the huge tabletop. The man picked it up, walked round the table again and sat down.

I think I'd better have breakfast, he said. You can clear yourself away Tara, I don't need you at the moment.

3.

I pastured over the green slopes of the sprawling forest. Lark songs whirled around my eyes, settling like dew on the lightness of my senses, refreshment for the everyday indifference of the past hours. In a moment of relaxed freedom, liberated from my worries, lifted up into the spheres of the spirit...

When did you see the man?

My eyes slipped from the branches of the trees, travelled through the air filled with dusk and reached the glass casing of my watch. One hand remained on the seven, it was the smaller of the two, while the other took pleasure in turning towards the three-quarter part of the whole.

So 6.45 pm, about 6.45 pm, if I understand your information correctly.

Its understanding of my information is like scientific meticulousness, never will the thoughts of my past time forget the position of the hands, they reminded me of half-opened scissors, their shadows kissing the dial of my watch.

Roxanna looked at the man. Perhaps a madman, in which case the questioning was pointless. But he didn't really seem crazy.

The stocky figure was dressed in a green loden costume, his sturdy legs were stewing in massive brown boots, his head was adorned with a feathered felt hat, it seemed to be firmly attached to his hair, she imagined the first hairs that had already grown through the heavy felt. Not a pleasant idea from a hygienic point of view. How was the hair washed here, if it was washed at all?

Did you notice anything about the dead man? asked the inspector.

My eyes, like an eagle's, scrutinised the exposed scenery, the dead man blended gracefully into the picture of the gathering dusk, lending the quiet clearing the solemnity of a faded life, only the bare feet were out of keeping with this, however grotesque it may sound, successful work of art.

Listen, said Roxanna, you only need to answer my questions briefly and concisely. I'm not interested in your solemn works of art, your eagle-like eyes, your spheres of the spirit. Either you keep it brief or I'll have a breathalyser test done on you and we'll sober you up first.

I have refused to pay any attention to those forms of drink since I was born, let alone ever let a drop of such a concoction wet my palate and plunge from there into the darkness of my bowels.

Roxanna shook her head in despair:

I would like to ask you to hand in your personal details at the reception.

Without another word, Roxanna left the room, leaving the hunter-like, rotund figure alone.

4.

Roxanna stood in front of the large map, Sergeant Dudley beside her. Her painted fingernail pointed to a spot near the coast.

This is where the dead man was found, Dudley. No village, no town, not even a farmstead for miles around. Dudley nodded.

Except for the Hamilton Norwich estate.

What do you know about him?

Nothing, actually even less. He hasn't attracted any negative or positive attention so far.

I would prefer it if he had at least attracted positive attention.

Absolutely nothing, replied Dudley, no charitable donations, no foundations, never a political mandate, no medals, a white, albeit huge, spot.

Roxanna nodded.

Then we'll paint the white spot a little. So tell me, Dudley, what does someone who owns half the island do for a living?

Certainly not with criminal work, laughed Dudley. With some futuristic stuff that you can't really use yet, but in 50 years it's going to be all the rage.

Then we'll invest in crime, Dudley. Either in a new criminal method, or ‒ Roxanna paused for a moment ‒ in a machine with a detector: once a week, every citizen is put into it and we read the error message on the display where they have made a mistake against the law.

Which of the two things would you choose, asked Dudley, a new crime or the other thing?

Whichever makes the most money, replied the inspector. We need to stimulate the economy. We should think a bit socially.

Dudley remained silent. He was already on his way to Hamilton Norwich's estate.

Put that out of your mind, Roxanna said abruptly. I'm going alone. Maybe this Hamilton isn't married yet. In that case, I'd like to have the option of starting a new life.

What's that got to do with me, Dudley grumbled.

Nothing, I just have a feeling you might be in the way.

Or protect you.

Now you're making fun of me, Dudley. How many years have we known each other? Have you ever saved my life?

Dudley shook his head:

Not that. But I could protect you from a man in your life. Perhaps that would be much more important.

Roxanna no longer reacted to this remark. Her painted fingernail slid down the map, leaving a fine scratch mark. Then the finger disappeared into the cold water behind the coast.

Bloody uncomfortable neighbourhood, muttered Roxanna, I'll have to pack some warm clothes.

And some light pyjamas for the fire in the evening, mocked Dudley. I'm sure there's a bearskin in front of the fire. Then you can even do without the pyjamas.

Do you really think so, Dudley? sighed Roxanna.

Why don't you have a castle with a fireplace and a bearskin?

Would you come and visit me? Dudley teased.

Only if you had committed a crime first. You'll have to decide for yourself whether I'm worth it.

With these words, the inspector disappeared, leaving the somewhat perplexed Dudley behind. Shortly afterwards, the door opened and a man dressed in green loden entered.

My request at this advanced hour, the man began, is to convey to you my own name, bestowed on me by my mother when I set my feet on this earth, following an order that a female figure had asked me to carry out a few minutes ago.

Dudley looked at the man in amazement. Roxanna had already given a brief account of him.