A Debt Is Finally Paid (A Marsden-Lacey Cozy Mystery Book 2) Read online

  A Debt Is Finally Paid

  A Marsden-Lacey Mystery

  Sigrid Vansandt

  To my mother, Kay. Thank you for all your love and support.

  Your insights, humor and devotion made this book possible.

  Love you!

  Under tower and balcony,

  By garden-wall and gallery,

  A gleaming shape she floated by,

  Dead-pale between the houses high.

  -Alfred, Lord Tennyson

  Preface

  A FULL AUTUMN MOON’S STEADY gaze illuminated the dark, slow moving water of the quiet canal. No evening pedestrians or cyclists made their way home along the tow path skirting the canal’s edge saving the peaceful nighttime ambience from human noise. A mechanical humming from a tethered narrowboat’s generator switched on long enough to start a water pump working in its hull but its interruption was brief.

  The river’s surface pulsated and flickered with silver threads of light and the occasional ripple effect emanating from the settling of another falling autumn leaf testified to the far reaching impact one body can have upon another. Perhaps the truer message awaited the leaf down river as it was folded into the flotsam collecting along the withering and decaying vegetation of the bank.

  Cold and persistent, the wind blowing inland from the North Sea played among the buildings lining the canal, skipped across the flowing water and howled a mournful tune as it squeezed through the arches of one of the old stone bridges spanning the River Trent outside of Nottingham. The only other sounds came from the softly sung nighttime melody of the toads accompanied by the raspy chirps of crickets snug in their homes in the tall hardy weeds and grasses not yet dead from the autumn frosts.

  Something floated and bumped against the embankment where slender river reeds grew long. A weeping willow tree’s graceful limbs waltzed with the meandering current, lightly brushing the top of a human body as it floated past. Water bugs skated between the reeds and across the face of a woman upturned and floating lifeless in the river’s tender arms. Canal water filled her open mouth while a small spider crawled onto her cheek using her as a ferry to better habitat down river.

  The body was becoming lodged and tangled among the grasses. The silver light from the moon’s glow touched her long, curly golden hair as it radiated out from her head giving the illusion of a fiery, undulating crown. As the night edged toward the dawn, ice formed on the exposed skin of the floating corpse sealing her open, staring eyes into frozen orbs. No tears for the lovely thing wrapped in nature’s bowery of limbs, leaves and debris. Understanding the ebb and flow of life and death, the river kindly washed them all away.

  Chapter 1

  Marsden-Lacey, Yorkshire, England

  Present Day

  “WE’VE GOT GYPSIES!” ED GRIMSY bellowed as he stamped into The Traveller’s Inn on a crisp, early autumn afternoon in Marsden-Lacey.

  Everyone turned, blinked and stared at Old Grimsy as he was called by most people. He flung a fiver down on the bar and Luther Pendergast, the owner and bartender at The Traveller’s, poured Grimsy his usual and handed it to him.

  “What you going on about Grimsy?” Luther asked.

  “I’m telling you,” Grimsy warned, “the gypsies are coming down the canal. Three boats. Children, old hags and pipe smoking men and women. Real hair-braiding, thieving gypsies. Headed this way. Won’t be long before we’re cleaned out of our valuables and our livestock stolen.”

  He ended his diatribe with a melodramatic crescendo without making direct eye contact with anyone while taking his first swig from his glass. It would take some time for the audience to digest the news.

  The pub was ministering to the social and nutritional needs of its patrons which for a typical Marsden-Lacey afternoon meant somewhere in the neighborhood of twenty to twenty-five villagers. Enough moderates were in attendance to keep the excitable types from becoming too overwrought and forming a mob. Grimsy waited for the inevitable question. Fortunately, Mrs. Addison, a local nervous nelly, was on hand to ask it.

  “We can’t have those people running around. Does Chief Johns know about this?”

  And there it was: Grimsy’s opening. He lowered his glass and gave the other denizens of The Traveller’s a penetrating stare. Firmly placing the glass on the bar with a thump like a judge’s gavel, Grimsy turned and said in an ominous tone, “Chief Johns isn’t back from his fishing trip up north. We’re on our own.”

  The semi-paralyzing effect of the last three words reverberated through the patrons’ thoughts. People murmured things like “fine time to go off and leave his post” and “if I’m killed in my sleep, I know who’s to blame.” But the most used refrain was “the police aren’t what they used to be.” Finally, one person sitting by herself in the warmest corner of the pub decided to slow the boil on Grimsy's pot stirring and bring a sense of ease to the uneasy.

  “Merriam will be home tonight,” Polly Johns, Chief Johns’ mother and best promoter, said in a matter-of-fact tone. “In the meantime, let’s go out and watch the boat show go by. Always did love a good canal festival.”

  Where there had been dread, there was now peace and a chance at outdoor entertainment. A couple of men at the bar slapped Grimsy on the back shaking their heads at his theatrics. Natural joviality returned to the crowd as they moved out to the back of the pub with their drinks. Soon enough, they saw the first boat emerge from around the bend.

  If only one word was allowed to be used to describe the boats moving slowly up the canal, it would be colorful. Deep greens, bright reds and vibrant yellows enlisted the imagination of the viewer with thoughts of carnivals, exotic outsiders, and romantic mysteries.

  From the bow of the first boat waved a bob, or a flag with a two-headed black eagle on a red background. Similar bobs adorned the other boats but with different items being held in the eagle’s talons.

  “Must be a tribe of sorts,” Marvin Hathaway, the postman for Marsden-Lacey, said.

  Two newly arrived patrons moseyed into the pub’s back garden and gazed curiously at the three boats being tethered to the bollards, or tie-up rings, along The Traveller’s mooring area.

  “Hmm, Alistair,” Perigrine Clark said in a reflective mood, “Interesting names on those boats, don’t you think?”

  Turning to Alistair, his partner, he waited for an answer. Alistair was the impeccably groomed country gentleman in his Grieves & Hawks bespoke tweed jacket, an orange collared moleskin waistcoat, wine-colored silk tie and black corded trousers. Perigrine wore a burgundy colored lambswool cardigan with check tweed trousers.

  “Yes, they are. Those bobs on the boat remind me of something, too. Odd don’t you think they would be flying a flag at all?”

  From behind him a voice said, “No, Mr. Clark. Water travelers like other Roma people, are proud of their heritage and families almost always stay extremely close. Their flags have meaning. What is most interesting about their arrival isn’t their flag but why they’re here so late in the season.” Chief Inspector Merriam Johns said.

  Perigrine and Alistair twitched slightly at the sound of Chief Johns’ voice coming up so close behind them. Their discussion about the Brontë manuscript had involved Perigrine in a dangerous game. It was important they hadn’t said anything that might make the Chief suspicious of their earlier escapades.

  Perigrine casually said, “You’re back from Scotland, Chief? Have any luck?”

  A big smile lit up Chief Johns’ face. “It was exceptional fishing. Wanted to get back though. Had a feeling in my bones.”

  Perigrine and Alistair studied th
e narrowboats.

  “By the way Mr. Clark and Mr. Turner,” Johns continued, “I’ve got a job for you, if you would be interested. It’s a paid job.”

  One of the Roma men standing on the first boat was dressed in a deep, forest green jacket emblazoned with red, blue and yellow embroidery and a bright orange scarf being used as a belt for his black parachute pants. Alistair, himself dressed somewhat vibrantly, wondered at what the Roma man must be thinking wearing such an odd assortment of colorful outerwear.

  “Well, Chief, Perigrine and I are always up for making extra cash,” he said with a twinkle in his eye toward Perigrine.

  “I need some advice—” Johns began but he didn’t get a chance to finish.

  From behind him stepped his small and assertive mother, Polly Johns. She’d seen her son begin the conversation with Perigrine Clark and Alistair Turner and she knew he was about to sideline her on their current renovation project for the kitchen garden of the old stone, farm house they still shared. She expertly maneuvered herself through the crowd and intercepted his first move.

  “Merriam, you know I am handling this renovation.” She gave both Perigrine and Alistair a steely stare. “I’ve no doubt Perigrine and Alistair will give us excellent planning advice but remember this garden will be conceived as a functional garden not a foo foo flower show thing you can someday show off at one of Mrs. Addison’s Garden Invitationals.”

  Chief Johns, a shrewd man, shrugged his shoulders and sighed quietly. Polly was bent on having a place to grow hops for her beer brewing enterprise. She typically ran the show when it came to any changes at the farm.

  While they were talking, the water travelers were tying up and situating themselves in a neat row of boats along the bank. They sang a song as they went about their work. It had a melancholy feel.

  By the light of the empire,

  By the light of the blue hen,

  By the light of the cherub,

  To the grave and beyond,

  To the grave and beyond.

  “Rather odd song, don’t you think?” Perigrine asked Alistair.

  “Perhaps, but appropriate, too. It must have something to do with the names of their boats.”

  “Of course.”

  The older man, dressed in the original assortment of colorful clothes, stepped off his boat and walked up towards the Inn. His weathered, cheerful face glowed with a simple kindness and once he arrived at the top of the steps leading to the back garden, he stopped his gait, straightened himself to his full five feet five inches and cleared his throat, effectively capturing the extremely curious Marsden-Lacey public’s attention.

  “Hello!” he said in a voice intended to carry to even those near the back of the group. “My name is Stephan Rossar-mescro and my family and I are here to find a woman who we hope will give us answers. I would be appreciative, if someone will take me to see,” he cast his eyes down to a rumpled piece of paper in his hand and finished, “Helen Ryes.”

  Some murmuring scuttled through the villagers. Soon all eyes turned to see if Chief Johns would be able to produce Helen from thin air. Johns’ face registered nothing but his instincts told him his idea to return home early was a good one. What on Earth did these Roma people want with Helen Ryes?

  Johns spoke up in a kind tone. “I’ll be happy to put you in contact with her, Mr. Rossar-mescro. Why don’t you come by the constabulary tomorrow morning and I’ll see about setting up a meeting?”

  “Thank you, Sir. I’ll be there at 9:00 am. We do not want to stay this far north for long. The weather will be against us soon,” Mr. Rossar-mescro said.

  Alistair smiled at Perigrine and Chief Inspector Johns. “You said you had a feeling in your bones, Chief. I think it’s safe to say Helen Ryes hit the top of Marsden-Lacey’s most interesting people list as of ten seconds ago. What do you say to that?”

  Johns didn’t say anything. Instead, grabbing his jacket, he headed for Flower Pot Cottage. He needed to find Helen Ryes before anyone else did.

  Chapter 2

  Mariynsky Palace, Kiev, Russia

  March 1917

  THE SERVANTS OF MARIA FEODOROVNA, the Dowager Empress of Russia, were frantically packing. In a matter of days, the Bolsheviks would control Kiev. Once in the city, they would strip the palace and the Empress of her valuables and most likely imprison her. Maria, known as the Dowager Empress, mother of the former Tsar Nicholas II of the defunct Imperial Russia, worked alongside her household servants, ladies in waiting and even her faithful Cossacks to pack up the Mariynsky Palace’s remaining valuables. Paintings, carpets, silver tea services, jewels and objets d’art were all being put into crates and taken to the small barge waiting in the Dnieper River below the palace. The barge would travel down the Dnieper to the Black Sea and to Ai-Todor Palace on the southern tip of the Crimea Peninsula where the remaining Imperial family was promised a certain degree of safety by the White Army from their Bolshevik pursuers.

  Her world was irrevocably changed. For the last five years, storm clouds had brewed over Russia. All her pleading with her son, Nicholas, to see the disintegration of the people’s support for him hadn’t worked. He wouldn’t heed her or his closest advisors who saw what he and Alexandra, his wife, refused to see. They chose to shut themselves away from the government, the court, the raging war with Germany, and the truth. Maria was not surprised when the people took to the streets egged on by the Bolsheviks and succeeded in deposing their Tsar, putting an end to almost a thousand years of Russia’s Imperial rule. Her beloved son, Nikky, his pathetic wife and their beautiful children were imprisoned. Romanovs were being hunted down and killed, so she prayed continuously for her son’s family to be spared.

  Their only hope was if she successfully maneuvered enough money and valuables to a safe place so when they were freed, they would have financial security. Their many palaces in St. Petersburg, Petrograd, and Tsarskoe Selo were being looted and the valuables hauled off by the Bolshevik government to be secured in the Kremlin’s Armory. Maria was trying to make haste to save at least some of her family’s heritage, their memories and maybe their lives.

  Those items most personal to the Dowager Empress like her jewelry, family mementos and most of her wardrobe would travel with her by train. The bulkier cargo would be put on the barge which would come down the Dnieper to the Lavidia Palace at a much slower rate. Time was critical but so many of the more fragile things needed proper handling.

  It was nearly impossible to coordinate the deconstruction of a household on this massive scale. People were packing, moving items onto carts and decisions were being made without much attention to detail. Her hope was that enough things would make it to the Crimea to give all those who depended on her a chance for another life. She wouldn’t leave Russia unless she had to. She would go to the southern tip of her country and cling onto its edge.

  Lieutenant Ivan Ivovich, one of her Cossack body guards, entered her sitting room to update her on how the move was progressing. He stood at attention in the doorway waiting for her to speak first.

  “Yes, Lieutenant?” she asked glancing up from the letter she was hurriedly writing to her sister, The Dowager Queen of England, Alexandra.

  “Your Imperial Highness,” he said, “we will be finished this evening. The Commander of the Red Army sends you a message.”

  Maria stiffened but sat perfectly still, every nerve in her body on alert.

  Ivovich did something he would never do under normal conditions. He dared to look the Empress directly in the face. The severity of the situation called for him to impress upon her the importance of their immediate departure.

  “The Commander remembers your charity and kindness with the people and wishes your departure to take place by tonight,” he said.

  It was a thoughtful attempt by the Commander to hasten Maria to a safe location.

  Maria bristled. Being told what to do, being coerced, forced to flee from her home was taking its toll on her stamina and focus. They would not see h
er run.

  Going back to the letter and holding the pen slightly above the paper, she said firmly, “I will leave in the morning. Please send the Commander an invitation to dine with me tonight. It would be my pleasure.”

  The woman who had been Tsarina of all of Russia, the hostess of over nine palaces, mother of six children and loving protector of the Russian people would not be dismissed from Kiev like a beggar.

  The Cossack hesitated in the door. She remained steadfastly focused on the paper waiting for him to accept that she would leave on her terms.

  Finally, she heard the door latch click signaling his departure and acceptance of her position. She carefully put her pen down noting that her hand didn’t tremble. This pleased her.

  Alone, she got up and took stock of her belongings packed, crated, and boxed for removal to the train. Everything appeared in order but she didn’t see the small crate with the annual easter gifts from her husband and her son. Not comfortable with this missing crate, she told herself she would ask about it later.

  The next day, the Empress Dowager of Imperial Russia, left Kiev on her private train on her own terms. She’d spent the previous evening charming the new Commander of the Red Army at dinner. The barge with her things made its way down the Dnieper River but word came from the people along the way the Bolsheviks were waiting down river to stop and impound the boat.

  One of her faithful Cossacks, Ivan Ivovich Lysenko, had been left in charge of the Empress’ things. Learning the boat was in immediate danger, he opened one of the smaller crates and shoved two jeweled objects down into his boots and two more into his ample coat. It was his job to see these items were well protected, and he knew to save these most favorite things of his mistress.

  To avoid the soldiers waiting for the barge, he jumped the boat as it came around a bend in the river and headed south on foot towards the Yalta Peninsula in the Crimea and the Ai-Todor Palace.