The Grotto's Secret: A Historical Conspiracy Mystery Thriller

The Grotto’s Secret

Paula Wynne

Prado Press
London, United Kingdom

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The Grotto’s Secret

Author Contact & Copyright

Copyright © 2016 by Paula Wynne.

Paula Wynne/Prado Press

United Kingdom

www.paulawynne.com

Ordering information: Special discounts are available on quantity purchases. For details contact the author via [email protected] Published 2015 by Prado Press

First published by Prado Press 2016

24 Caunter Road, Newbury, Berkshire, RG14 1QZ

ISBN:  978-0-9934921-7-4

Cover Art: Travis Miles

Editors: John Harten, Ken Sheridan and Kim Farnell

Book Layout: Slavisa Zivkovic

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in reviews and certain other non-commercial uses permitted by copyright law.

The rights of Paula Wynne as author have been asserted in accordance with the Copyright,  Designs and Patents Act 1988.

A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

Dedicated to two fantastic women

Merle Hawkins: Thank you, Mommy, for encouraging me to believe that I can be anything I want to be. Ana-Mária’s love for her Madre reflects my love for you.

Adeline Boyder: Talking to you all these years, Gran, has eased the emptiness you left behind. Enjoy dancing in the rain, sweet granny-darling.

For Ken, Kent and Dexter

And all the conquerors who will never give up their quest to be authors

Never, never, never give up

Winston Churchill

1

London, Present Day

The note met the usual conditions. A veiled message on the envelope. A torn piece of paper. Scrawled handwriting with a cryptic letter.

Kelby Wade often received puzzling letters from aspiring entrepreneurs. She’d found this one on her seat as she’d returned from refreshing her face on the early flight from Dublin.

Her heart skipped a beat at the familiar phrase scribbled across the envelope:
Never, never give up.

Kelby sucked in her breath, snatched up the envelope and slipped into her seat. Although it didn’t have her name on it, she knew those words were intended for her.

Since her parents’ death, her goal had been to look after her brother Gary. His life was determined by the essence of perseverance. Hers by regret. Before he left, he’d given her a gift, telling her to grab the chance to face her future without remorse. What had happened to him tore her heart apart.

She put her glasses on and pulled the paper out of the envelope:

I’ve stumbled upon an ancient secret with incredible powers. Someone is killing those who know. I won’t give up until I find the truth. Please help me save them.

Kelby had a sudden eerie sensation that Gary was watching her. She spun around. A man stared at her from a few rows behind. She met his steady gaze. Energy radiated from his tanned face, but there was no message in his eyes to suggest he might have left the note.

No-one else seemed interested in Kelby. Most passengers leafed through a book or magazine or stared at a tablet. Some were shuffling their reading materials into their bags to prepare for landing.

Swivelling back, Kelby bit her lip and frowned at the note. It wasn’t Gary’s spider writing, but the unwavering tone suggested he’d written it.

Kelby glanced sideways, wondering who had left the message. The young-gun across the aisle sat rigid in a tight three-piece suit and snored into his starched shirt and tie. He was clearly bored by the used car magazine on his lap.

The middle-aged lady beside her stared out of the window. Sadness etched her face as she clutched a grubby tissue. Kelby wanted to share how talking to her deceased mother had eased the emptiness in her heart. But she said nothing because sorrow made people creep inside themselves fired by their desire for solitude. Her own grief was still hidden deep inside her.

Instead, she reached into her handbag and drew out a travel-pouch of pocket sized tissues. In a gentle gesture, she tucked the packet into the lady’s palm. They exchanged a glance, and by squeezing the lady’s hand, Kelby told her she understood her loss.

Respecting the lady’s privacy, Kelby settled back in her seat. An abrupt cocktail of smells wafted down the aisle. The aroma of coffee, bacon sandwiches and sweet-sticky buns struggled against the reek of sickly air-freshener trying to disguise a dirty nappy.

Kelby re-read the note and flopped her head back.

What the hell is this?

She’d heard it before. Everyone had the answer to the next best thing and the next big money spinner. But this intriguing request had no pitch and no plea for investment.

She fought the temptation to peek again at the man behind to see if his expression gave anything away. But, at that moment, the plane touched down in Heathrow and taxied along the runway. Even though she hated leaving Annie behind when she flew off to Prince Al-Bara’s film locations, she loved the way her stomach tumbled the moment a plane took off. It gave her a sense of adventure.

While she waited for the seat belt sign to turn off, Kelby switched her phone on. It immediately vibrated and spewed out another disgusting message.

Since
Devil’s Grotto
had first aired on TV, internet stalkers had been trolling her. As a reality-show host she mentored early business start-ups. Of course there could be only one winner, so the lively banter had turned into outright abuse soon after the first screening.

Every bit a private person, Kelby hated being recognised from the first series. And now word had got around they were preparing to film the second, the tweets got worse every day.

Well, she couldn’t ignore the messages forever, considering the show required being active on Twitter and Facebook. If it weren’t for Annie, she would ignore her phone. It would be more of the same garbage anyway. This time it showed a tweet:

@kelbywade U will meet the devil 2nite

Blood pumped in Kelby’s ears. Her heart fluttered in her chest, a hooked fish wriggling to break free. She glanced out of the window at the passing runway buildings and tried not to think about the warning. Insulting and threatening tweets were a
really
annoying part of her job, but the trolls didn’t know when to stop.

Kelby’s day had just started, but she sensed something lay in hiding, waiting to attack.

2

At last the plane shuddered to a halt outside the terminal. Most of the passengers jumped up, and a babble of chatter erupted as people fought to grab their bags from overhead. Rising out of her seat, Kelby swallowed hard and tried to forget the tweet.

The man from a few seats back bumped into her and mumbled an apology. Although his eyes beamed warmth, they also signalled amusement at the pushing and shoving behind him.

Kelby reached to grab her briefcase, but he got there first and retrieved it for her. As he did so, an unruly pewter lock flopped over his deep frown lines.

‘Thank you.’ She gave him a quick once over. He wasn’t a head-turner, but definitely easy on the eyes. His face had the lived-in look of someone comfortable with himself and enjoying life. Yet his body showed none of life’s pleasures; it could have been carved by Michelangelo himself. Toned and athletic. Not an ounce of fat on him. The man appeared to be the strong silent type, with a mystique that made her heart sing. His salt and pewter stubble plied him with a certain panache. Who needed a silver fox when pewter foxes were on the loose?

As they queued to exit the plane, the Pewter Fox’s old-fashioned scent made Kelby remember how long it had been since she’d had a man in her life.

She took a step forward. The Pewter Fox did the same and walloped straight into her. He muttered, ‘Ah, so sorry.’ The arms of his jumper hung around his neck over his tight shirt.

From the corner of her eye Kelby watched him stand his ground as someone shuffled forward and shoved him from behind, sending him tumbling into her once more.

‘Me again. I keep bumping into you.’

She smiled at his gallantry by taking the blame for the thrust in the queue. At that moment, a subtle spark connected them, as delicate as a single strand of gossamer thread.

Another bump and he muttered, ‘I’m not a stalker. Scout’s honour.’

The thread severed and Kelby grimaced.

‘Whoops, sorry, shouldn’t have said that.’ He flushed. ‘I’m not getting this right, am I?’ He lifted his hand to stop her answering. ‘Please … ignore me.’

Confused by his choice of words, Kelby turned and faced the front. Thankfully, most of the passengers were in a rush and the queue
slowly dissipated.

She hugged her coat to her chest to keep out the March morning mist and trudged down the gangway into the terminal, glancing at her phone again.

A photo of a man with a child on his shoulders beamed at her. Gary glowed with health while Annie’s huge expressive brown eyes tugged at Kelby’s heart. She would go to the end of the earth to protect them.

Kelby tapped a number and waited for an answer, hoping there’d be good news about Annie. The number rang and rang.

Her other hand still clenched the crumpled note. Keeping it hidden from prying eyes, she scrutinised it again and wondered what secret could be so deadly.

Kelby screwed it up tightly, annoyed it had hooked her interest. Someone was playing her. She wasn’t prepared to be reeled into a scam, so she stuffed it into her handbag.

What’s the ancient secret?

She shivered, although not from the bite in the air.

The note’s words still lingered in the back of her mind, a stalker lurking in the shadows.

Someone is killing those who know
.