Mydworth Mysteries - Lost in the City of Light E-Book

Matthew Costello

• Herausgeber: Bastei Entertainment
• Kategorie: Krimi
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 171

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2025

Beschreibung

When Sir Harry is asked to go to Paris for a Secret Intelligence Service meeting, he - of course - asks Kat to come along. After all, it's Paris in the summer and fun awaits! But the getaway a deux quickly turns dangerous when Harry goes missing. Suddenly, with both their lives in danger, it's up to Kat to find out what's really going on. As the trail takes her from grand hotels to the late-night bars of Place Pigalle, it soon becomes clear that treachery has a murderous price in the City of Light...

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. One Day in Paris

2. Breakfast in Paris!

3. An Unexpected Diversion

4. Missing

5. Dinner at Maxim’s

6. What To Do Next?

7. Dawn Comes to Paris

8. A Change of Plan

9. On the Run

10. Old Friends

11. Undercover Ops

12. Out of Time

13. Safe House

14. Putting on the Ritz

15. The Truth about “Lockstone”

16. All Deals Come to an End

17. Dinner at Le Restaurant de la Tour Eiffel

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 Sir Harry is asked to go to Paris for a Secret Intelligence Service meeting, he – of course – asks Kat to come along. After all, it's Paris in the summer and fun awaits! But the getaway a deux quickly turns dangerous when Harry goes missing. Suddenly, with both their lives in danger, it's up to Kat to find out what's really going on. As the trail takes her from grand hotels to the late-night bars of Place Pigalle, it soon becomes clear that treachery has a murderous price in the City of Light...

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

Lost in the City of Light

1. One Day in Paris  

Pavel Weiss strode out of the Gare de l’Est, blinking in the bright May morning sunshine, unbuttoned his cashmere coat, and paused to take in the busy scene.

No matter how often he came to Paris – the sounds, the sights, the smells – it was always so exhilarating!

The great boulevards stretching into the distance, lined with shops and tall apartment blocks; cars, taxis, omnibuses rushing past, horns tooting; workers scurrying to their offices; cafés spilling over with customers sipping their cafés crèmes, maybe even an early Absinthe, perfect for people-watching.

Clutching his valise tight, he crossed the main street onto the Boulevard Strasbourg, heading for the Hôtel d’Algérie, the little pension he’d booked before he departed from Istanbul.

Was that really three nights ago? The sleeper train across Europe made it seem longer – forever stopping, shunting, reversing, waiting. Belgrade, Vienna, Strasbourg and on and on.

Back in Istanbul he’d dined at the Pera Palas Hotel – eating a wonderful sea bass in parchment – then boarded the train at Sirkeci Station at ten and taken refuge in his first-class compartment.

That dinner, with a pricey Gewürztraminer to accompany the fish, was an extravagance, he knew. A luxurious ritual for this monthly trip to Paris. Expensive, yes, but the twenty-four hours he would now spend here would be anything but pleasant. A rock-hard bed in a flea-bitten room, a meagre meal in a backstreet tavern, and a lot of worn shoe leather just to make sure he wasn’t being followed.

That thought spurred him to grab the rail of a passing trolleybus, as it slowed to take a turning, and leap aboard. Pushing his way into the crowd, squeezed together on the rear platform, he scanned the street for anyone trying to catch up with him.

Nothing unusual. No frustrated “watcher” stepping out of cover, wondering how they’d lost their prey.

Pavel smiled to himself as the trolleybus rattled along. His tradecraft was instinctive – ingrained. Well, of course, just as it should be.

He owed his life to the training he’d been given by the British all those years ago when war had broken out, turning Europe into a bloodbath. One he’d been lucky to escape with his life.

Still alert, he waited for the trolleybus to stop. Then – just as it pulled away again – he leapt off and slipped away down a side alley.

Just following his sense of direction, Pavel began to zig-zag his way back through the maze of narrow streets towards his pension.

Stopping every now and then to glance behind him – checking the reflection in a café window perhaps – just to be certain nobody was following. Just to be sure.

So exhausting, this constant surveillance. But not for much longer, he knew.

Pavel had been lured out of retirement because the money had been most welcome, even needed. But come September he would be out of the game – at last! – and, with a bit of luck, already safely ensconced in his little cottage in beautiful Provence.

Yes, money would be tight, but how perfect such a life in southern France would be!

Rising late, café au lait and croissants in the village café, lunch on the terrace, maybe a spot of boules in the afternoon in the square. Then dinner under the stars, the overwhelming scent of jasmine in the night air.

No more criss-crossing the continent, switching identities, constantly looking over his shoulder... always at the beck and call of some distant handler.

Though, truth be told, this current assignment had not been too arduous.

Just once a month, pop down to the main post office in Sirkeci, pick up a “package” and deliver it to the unnamed – of course – contact here in Paris.

Then a quick return to Istanbul with whatever they gave him. Glorified postman, that’s all he really was! But no postman in the world earned what he did.

Who knew what was in those packages? Pavel certainly never looked, though he’d been in this business long enough to guess. Cash? Jewels? Gold? Drugs? And, even more valuable, secrets?

Not his concern at all. He was just a courier. His job was to simply deliver, not to ask questions. And that’s exactly what he did.

Now he took a turn into an even grimier street and spotted a faded hand-written sign on a door: Hôtel d’Algérie. He paused, glanced up and down the street.

Not a soul in sight. Perfect.

He would take his room, sleep for a few hours, grab some cheap food.

Then, at the correct time, deliver the package and make sure he didn’t miss the express back to Istanbul first thing in the morning.

Now, gripping his precious valise tight, he crossed the street to the hotel.

*

Twelve hours later, and feeling surprisingly rested, Pavel stood in the doorway of the hotel, now dressed in classic French artisan clothes: faded shirt and trousers, battered old boots, a threadbare flat cap.

Over his shoulder hung a tattered canvas bag that contained the package to be delivered.

He leaned out and peered each way down the street. Busier now, even though it was dark: the seedier night-time commerce of Paris clearly well underway.

A rowdy sing-song was underway in a bar opposite, tipsy customers spilling out onto the street, wine bottles in hand.

But no sign of anyone watching him.

He had a route worked out to Les Halles – Paris’s great food market, that circled the area and then turned back on itself. It was there that his contact would be waiting.

With one more glance at the busy café, he slipped away into the night.

*

Pavel fought his way through the hectic stalls of Les Halles, past hurrying barrow boys, and burly butchers dragging carcasses from the back of camions; fruit and vegetable merchants stacking crates six feet high.

This market was host to a frantic cauldron of activity as foodstuffs of every kind funnelled into the city. Here, he could see, night was the same as day. And, in the cafés he passed, breakfast, lunch and dinner were being served no matter what the hour, all accompanied by carafes of hearty red wine.

Now, just ahead, through the bustle and activity, he spied his destination: the classic bistro Au Chien Qui Fume.

He stopped dead, then stepped sideways into the shadows of one of the butchers’ loading ramps, the concrete floor sawdust-strewn, the air heavy with the smell of freshly butchered meat.

He ran his eye over the dense crowd that sat outside the café, looking for his contact.

But strange – not a sign of him. He took out his pocket watch, checked it: yes, midnight. On the dot. Slipped it back into his pocket. This was indeed unusual.

And he didn’t like “unusual”.

Some problem perhaps?

And then – a tap on his shoulder.

He spun round fast, one hand gripping the bag tighter and the other coming up ready to defend himself – and then he finally saw his contact standing just a yard away, smiling. Tall, thin-faced.

Pavel moved to one side, so that they both leaned against the wall, staring out at the hectic market scene.

As if not speaking to each other... as if total strangers.

“Eh? You’re a little jumpy tonight, hmm?” said the man.

“I don’t like surprises,” said Pavel.

“Yes. Of course. Understandable.”

Pavel nodded towards the café.

“Problem?” he said to the contact. “With our regular spot?”

“Maybe. Maybe not. Saw somebody at the bar I didn’t like the look of.”

“Best not take a risk,” said Pavel.

“Exactly my thought. So, then – what now?”

“This is too public, here,” said Pavel, shaking his head. Surprised the contact didn’t have a backup plan. “Another café?”

Pavel waited while the man seemed to consider this.

“No. But – I know a place. Follow me.”

Pavel saw the man turn and walk away, down the line of loading bays. He waited for a few seconds then casually stepped down from the bay and followed, fifty yards behind, and ten yards to one side, drifting through the crowd as if in no particular hurry.

He saw his contact casually slip around to the back of one of the bays, with the barest of glances back in his direction, before he disappeared.

Pavel followed and found himself in a dark alleyway, the bright lights of the market not spilling down this narrow passage at all.

Twenty yards ahead he barely spotted the shadow of his contact, pausing briefly in a small cone of light from a distant street lamp, waiting for him to catch up, Pavel guessed, as he continued down the alleyway.

But then – he saw another shadow flicker on the wall to one side and he knew instantly...

That shadow did not belong to the contact.

Somebody else was in the alley.

And he realised so many things all at the same time...

He had made a dreadful, terrible mistake in following the contact.

He had forgotten his training – and would now pay a price.

He sensed, rather than heard, footsteps, creeping up close behind him. But before he could turn to protect himself...

He felt a man’s powerful gloved hand over his mouth, jerking his head backwards – and saw the terrible glint of a blade as it so quickly drew across his throat.

And as he fell backwards to the ground, and felt the precious bag being ripped from his shoulder, he saw his contact approach from the end of the alley, and stand over him, staring down, waiting.

Waiting, Pavel knew, for the life to drain from his eyes.

As with one last thought... his dream of jasmine-scented nights under a Provençal moon faded into harsh and final blackness.

2. Breakfast in Paris!  

Kat leaned back in her cushioned cane seat outside the Café de Floré, sipped her crème and took in the bustling morning atmosphere of the grand Boulevard St Germain.

“Do you know,” said Harry, breaking another roll and dipping it in his coffee, “I think I’ve worked it all out. Every morning, one half of Paris rushes off to work. Meanwhile, the other half sits outside, drinks coffee and watches them go bustling by.”

Kat glanced at the row of packed cafés that ran along the boulevard – all the chairs at the tables facing out towards the sidewalk and the busy street.

“Dear husband, I do think you may be right,” said Kat, laughing. “I imagine... they will swap over tomorrow?”

“Oh, I’m sure. Very egalitarian, the French.”

“But – oh, dear – what are we supposed to do?”

“We’re tourists. We’re exempt.”

“Ah, yes. So we can come back tomorrow morning and sit here again?”

“Exactly. Although – just for a change – why don’t we have a delicious breakfast at les Deux Magots instead?”

Kat looked along the street at the other café, just yards away.

“Will we meet Picasso? And James Joyce? And the Surrealists?”

“I guarantee it,” said Harry. “They’ll all be there, no doubt.”

“Oh, good! And then – talking plans – what about Sunday?”

“Ah, now, Sunday... Well, you see I already have a plan.”

“I do like your plans, Harry.”

“Think you’ll love this one...”

“Tell me.”

“My scheme for Sunday is... We’re going to sleep so very, very late that we’ll have to skip breakfast and move straight to lunch!”

“Oh, yes! At la Mère Catherine, j’espère?”

“Your favourite – where else?”

“Oysters and a bottle of Muscadet too?” said Kat, leaning close.

“You read my mind,” said Harry.

“Then, let me guess, back to bed I hope?” said Kat, one hand on his.

“Of course. Day like that can be quite exhausting.”

“I agree,” said Kat. “Mustn’t overdo it.”

She gave him a kiss, then, with a grin, grabbed the last roll from the basket, daubed it with golden butter.

“Shall I finish your apricot jam?” she said, reaching over. “Shame to go to waste.”

“All yours,” said Harry, checking his wrist watch. “Oh, well. Bother. You know, I really should be going. Supposed to be meeting Groves at ten.”

“I really don’t like this Groves man,” said Kat, taking a big bite of bread and jam.

Harry laughed. “You’ve never even met him.”

“Never want to. If it wasn’t for him, we could go buy some cheese and wine and hop on a bateau mouche on the Seine all day long and pretend we’re French lovers.”

“Oh, I do wish,” said Harry. “But you know, if it wasn’t for Groves, we wouldn’t be in Paris at all.”

Kat knew that this sudden – and surprise – long weekend in Paris with Harry had only come about because he had insisted to his new boss in Whitehall that she travel with him.

The trip: a rather urgent budget meeting with someone “very hush-hush” who worked in British Intelligence.

“You think it will really take all day?” she said.

“No idea. Going through books and ledgers and accounts is not really my forte.”

“Certainly not a job for a fearless international agent like you, darling.”

“Semi-retired agent, don’t forget,” said Harry, smiling.

“Still fearless, though, I hope.”

“Oh, indeed!” said Harry, laughing. “But you’re right. I’ve really no idea why this new fellow Chalmers handed me the job. Dear old Sinclair certainly wouldn’t.”

“Well, I for one am completely grateful he did. In fact, I’ve now decided to forgive Groves. This meeting of yours means I can get my shopping done toute seule. And then we can meet up later and really enjoy ourselves.”

“My favourite pastime – you, me, enjoying ourselves.”

Kat grinned at that, while Harry slipped a few coins from his pocket onto the table. She drained the last of her coffee as he stood.

“Let’s walk there together?” she said, standing too. “At least some of the way. Your Mr Groves is located near the British Embassy, right?”

“Not far. Rue Montalivet,” said Harry as the waiter took the coins, thanked them.

Kat took his arm and they headed down one of the side streets towards the river.

“Harry, it seems a little strange you’re meeting in his private apartment, not the embassy offices, don’t you think?” she said.

“Oh, Groves has quite a reputation for doing things his own way. Runs the operation from home, apparently.”

“How very mysterious.”

“Well, as you know, darling Kat, His Majesty’s Secret Intelligence Service likes things to be mysterious.”

Kat laughed. “Hmm, sometimes I think they’re ‘mysterious’ simply by accident.”

They walked on until they reached the Quai Voltaire, and Kat looked across at the great river flowing by, boats and barges of all sizes chugging past.

“Let’s cross on the Pont Royal,” she said, “then cut through the Tuileries.”

“Did you used to come this way for coffee when you were stationed here?” said Harry as they headed for the bridge.

“Oh, yes. Did you?”

“Every day, if I could.”

On the Pont Royal, Kat paused for a moment to look down on the line of pleasure launches moored on the far bank by the Jardin des Tuileries.

“Harry – why don’t we rent a boat on Sunday? Go up river?”

“Splendid idea! That can be our picnic!”

They carried on across the bridge. It seemed Paris had barely changed since she had worked here for the US government back in the early twenties. Her own role not so different from Harry’s in the British Embassy right next door.

“We must have passed each other so many times on this very bridge,” she said.

“I know,” said Harry. “Why didn’t we meet and fall in love then and there?”

“Exactly. Where’s Cupid when you need him?” said Kat, holding his arm tighter. “Still – got to admit – I did have lots of fun here. And then in all the postings afterwards.”

“Well, so did I,” said Harry, smiling.

“But not too much fun, I hope,” said Kat, and she stopped him momentarily.

“No,” said Harry. “Not too much. I think just the correct amount.”

“Me too,” said Kat, grinning. “And, you know, if we had met here, we wouldn’t have had Cairo together. And that certainly was fun!”

“Was it ever, love.”

“Speaking of fun,” said Kat, as they carried on walking, “I might look up my old pal Molly. I hear she’s been posted back to the embassy here.”

“Oh, really? The infamous Molly Tyler let loose in Paris again?”

Harry had always loved hearing about Kat’s escapades with her young mentor back in the day, but he’d never met her.

“She’s quite senior now,” said Kat. “I’m sure she’s become very respectable.”

“Oh, I do hope not. Will you introduce me? I want to ask her if those stories you told me are true.”

“Good luck with that,” said Kat laughing. “She’ll deny it all for sure!”

She took his arm again and they crossed the Pont Royal in the warm summer sunshine.

*

Harry stopped on the corner of Vendôme and Rue Saint-Honoré and stepped with Kat to one side of the busy pavement.

“Right then,” he said. “Think we split up here?”

He leaned forward, gave Kat a kiss.

“And good luck hunting for that perfect gown!”

“Thank you! If I don’t find one, shall I just keep shopping until the money runs out?”

“I’d rather you didn’t,” said Harry, laughing. “Or at least leave us enough to buy those oysters later?”

“Oh, that I will. I should be back at the hotel by lunchtime. Give me a call there if you think you might finish early. Or leave a message with the concierge.”

“And if not?”

“I’ll probably hit the Louvre for the afternoon. You know, all that time I lived here I never once saw the Mona Lisa.”

“Oh, that lady? She’s definitely worth it,” said Harry. “Not a patch on you, of course!”