The Grotto's Secret: A Historical Conspiracy Mystery Thriller (10 page)

34

Kelby marched into Jimmy’s office as he pointed his finger at Zelda. She frowned and asked, ‘What’s going on?’

They both stiffened as Kelby waited for an answer.

Jimmy relented. ‘I caught her having a good ol’ snoop.’

Zelda piped up in quick defence, ‘I was only trying to find the name of that gorgeous man who came to visit you this morning.’

‘Why do you want his name?’ Jimmy fired at her.

‘I wanted to ask him on a date? Is that so wrong?’

With a strange bolt of jealousy, Kelby wanted to slap the pout off the girl’s fish-lips. Instead, she said as calmly as possible, ‘Zelda, how did you get on with the toys?’

‘Ooh, what fun it was. There’s a few shopping bags in your office.’

‘Thanks, I’ll drop them off tonight.’

‘I’ve been on the internet and found something interesting.’

Intrigued, Kelby waited for her to finish.

‘Your dresses will fetch those charities big money. They’re thrilled, by the way.’

‘Jimmy has a spreadsheet–’

‘Sorry to interrupt, Kelby, Jimmy gave me the spreadsheet with the details. I’ve sent it to the charities. Was that the right thing to do?’

‘Of course, good work.’

‘It’s been an exciting project to work on. Have you got any more I can help with? I love this sorta stuff,’ she dropped her voice, ‘Or even secretive tasks.’

‘Nothing at the moment, but I’m sure I’ll find something.’

Zelda lifted and dropped her shoulders and strutted to the door.

‘By the way, Zelda …’

Zelda spun back to face Kelby, her eyebrows arched in expectation.

‘If you want to know anything, ask me or Jimmy. We’ll see if we can help. Best you don’t wander around our offices or it could be seen
as snooping.’

‘Fair one.’ Zelda’s eyebrows dropped as she mumbled, ‘Sorry.’

As Zelda slunk away, Jimmy muttered, ‘I don’t trust her.’

Kelby handed the gold yacht invitation to Jimmy. ‘Please send that back to Mr Thompson. If I’ve told him once, I’ve told him a hundred times. I am
not
going.’

Jimmy glanced at the invite and shrugged. ‘Sounds fun to me. You’re grand to be on the Al-Bara yacht. It’ll be like a week in a spa. Says here,’ Jimmy flicked at the edge of the invite as if it was a fly, ‘you’ll relax in a jacuzzi or sauna, enjoy body massages and soak up the Mediterranean sun.’

‘Hah! No way. Not me. Wouldn’t dream of it.’

She marched out of his office and back into her own with Jimmy close on her heels, saying, ‘I heard you telling the Devil about—’

‘It’s not your job to listen to my calls.’

‘It is. In case you forget something.
Remember
. Your own instructions!’

Kelby dropped her head closer to her laptop screen to hide the flush. She had asked him to remind her of things because she sometimes forgot under pressure. Kelby placed her glasses on her laptop keyboard and wiped her grainy eyes.

‘You gotta make time for dating. Not with him. But ever since you ditched your man —.’

‘He left! Not me.’ The mention of her ex-husband raised prickles of irritation on her skin.

‘Cos you work too much. You gotta stop and smell the roses.’

‘You smell them
for me. I haven’t got time.’

‘By the way, why did you decline the Devil’s date? He has everything a woman wants. Looks. Millions. Power. Fame.’

‘Everything I don’t want.’

‘He’d be a right good catch.’

‘Well, I’m not fishing at the moment.’ She waved him away with her eyes indicating the door.

As Jimmy left, muttering he was going to set up a few dates for her, Kelby’s phone beeped again. Her breakfast turned in her stomach. Kelby’s finger twitched as it hovered over the message.

Oh God. What now?

35

In her cottage kitchen, María lit a candle and carried it to the table. On top of the dry clothing she hadn’t packed away, sheets of parchment balanced precariously. Beside the clothes sat a small, squat, glass ink bottle. She placed the candle on the table, wincing as a drop of hot wax splashed onto her finger.

María loved this room. It reminded her of her father. As the village stonemason he had built his family home with his bare hands. She used to sit at his feet and listen to his reports about the houses he had built. From one-room cottages with a loft for the family to sleep in, to castles with grand kitchens and magnificent rooms for the family to entertain their friends. Those tales had fired her imagination, filling her with a desire to tell stories of her own.

True to his word, her father had given his wife a huge cooking area. Build from stone, it featured alcoves down the side and wooden racks to store her mother’s clay pots. Metal and copper pans hung inside the hearth and long handled ladles were fastened to iron hooks in the ceiling. The cottage floor was cobbled with stone from their own land.

A few quills lay drying beside the fire. María hated plucking the geese to steal their feathers, but she needed the quills to write. Tío had taught her to harden the quill by thrusting it into hot ash in the hearth, stirring it until it softened. She then flattened it under a heavy pot and finished it off by rounding it in her fingers. For the past year Tío had taken her stories to his family in Barcelona, and always returned with more parchment.

María had learnt to make her own ink by breaking up oak galls and mixing them with soot, wine, water and gum arabic.

It hadn’t taken long to complete the herbal manuscript. Ever since her little goat had healed, she had worked late into the night burning candle after candle to write about Madre’s
medicina
. To make it easy to read, she had taken four sheets of parchment, folded each in half, and tucked one inside the other. She did this until the
Herbal de Carbonela
looked like the books Tío had used in his lessons.

Before María had written a single word, Madre had insisted she swore on Padre’s name to keep it secret and hidden.

Her mother had drawn pictures of herbs and beside each one María had written their medicinal uses. Most remedies used a small portion of rizado.

Madre had tried growing the
estraño
herb in the croft, but for some reason, which was beyond Madre’s knowledge of plants, it appeared to need the grotto’s water to feed it.

María had never defied Madre. But when the herbal was complete, it was too
magnífico
to keep hidden or secret. Only this one time would she go against Madre’s wishes so she could prove her worth as a scrivener. She was proud of Madre’s skill and wanted to show off the herbal manuscript.

After she had witnessed how effective the herb was, she regretted writing that first made-up tale. It had told of a woman healer who had created a secret potion that cured any ailment. She had based her story on Madre, but had imagined the woman healer journeying around the country to treat the sick. It had ended with her summoned to heal the queen. The queen then gave her a majestic castle from which to practise her
medicina
.

At the time she had been innocent and not aware of the wonders of rizado. Now she knew that kind of healing power was best kept secret.

For many nights she had agonised about her decision to go against Madre’s wishes and send the herbal manuscript to Barcelona. At the last minute she had removed the detailed notes about the strange herb and left the manuscript intact. With a tremor in her stomach she had presented it to Tío when Madre was nursing a dying woman. He too agreed the details and drawings were
magnífico.
And as such it should be shown off. By assuring Tío a published copy of her manuscript would be a gift of pride for her mother, she had convinced him to keep it a secret from Madre.

María tensed. Never again would she lie or be deceitful. Or keep secrets from Madre. Already it ate at her day and night.

From now on she would busy herself with stories about the people she met each day — such as the locals who visited Madre to have their babies delivered.

Tonight, a new story would flow from her quill. María lifted a sheet of parchment and wrote the first thing that came into her mind:
The Grotto’s Secret
.

36

Kelby flinched at the sight of a text from an unknown caller. What the hell? How had the Troll got her number? She read the message:

The news. Watch now! BBC 1.

The image of the magazine with bloody slashes around their necks flew into her mind. Kelby sprinted into the board room, grabbed the TV remote with clammy hands, and flicked the TV to the first news programme she found. A red breaking news ticker-tape ran across the bottom of the screen:

Italian heiress, Teresina Piccoli dies in Italy a few miles from her home.

Kelby gasped and slumped into a seat, eyes glued to the scenes playing out in front of her. Police cars lined the valley clinging to the hairpin bend. Their blue lights flashed warnings to local villagers taking a morning drive. Three ambulances, almost jack-knifed beside each other, had their back doors ajar, while paramedics rushed up and down the steep slope. Two of them carried a stretcher. A white sheet concealed a slight hump.

Kelby let out a groan and covered her mouth with a clammy hand.

Time seemed to tick in a thick muddle.

Teresina can’t be dead, she just called. Only an hour or so ago.

As she watched the news, Kelby’s teeth sawed against her thumb nail in time to the beat of her pounding heart.

Debris was scattered across the cliff, including what looked like a bumper split in two. A small suitcase with clothes flapping in the breeze lay further down the hill.

Far below a car had slammed against an electricity pylon. Its nose crumpled into the windscreen as though the vehicle had been concertinaed like a biscuit tin crushed against a wall. Watching in horror, as the scenes of devastation marred the beautiful sunny valleys of the Abruzzo Mountain, Kelby heard the journalist repeat the story.

‘As I said, Miss Piccoli was on her way to meet her ageing mother for her birthday.’ The journalist looked over his shoulder. ‘It’s a terribly sad day for Abruzzo and the Majella Mountain people. Teresina made them proud when she hit the
Sunday Times
Rich List. And then she appeared alongside some of the UK’s most successful venture capitalists in the popular, yet extremely competitive entrepreneurial game show,
Devil’s Grotto
. A sad day indeed.’

Once again the camera panned over the wreck of the car. The reporter continued his mournful tone, ‘Miss Piccoli’s ten-year-old daughter, Majella, is thought to be one of the bodies recovered.’ The journalist was silent for a long moment as the image repeated the scene of the medical team carrying a small sheet-covered body to one of the ambulances. ‘Majella was named after these spectacular mountains.’ He swung his arm to show the backdrop.

The news presenter asked, ‘What do we know of the vehicle?’

‘Maserati has commented that her car was new and not the cause of her careering over the hairpin bend. They will do a thorough examination of the wreck.’

‘Do we know what happened?’

‘Not officially. It’s rumoured by some of the locals who witnessed the accident that her tyre burst as she sped along these precarious roads, but I’ve been told by the Italian
polizia
we’ll hear when they’re ready to inform us.’

‘Thank you.’

As the presenter moved on to the next story, Kelby
sat still, chills coursing through her as if someone was strumming her nerves like a guitar. Guilt competed with the horror of the magazine graffiti, and together they caused havoc in her mind.

She hadn’t been in the mood for Teresina’s lashing tongue, but she wondered what had been so urgent to make Teresina call from Italy. What had she wanted to tell her? She had said it was urgent and now she was dead.

Pinning her arms around her stomach to stop nausea creeping up, Kelby stood to pull herself together. Her hands trembled with regret.

What had she wanted? Why had she called? Did Teresina know something was going to happen to her?

But how could she know about her own death?

37

Still numb from shock, Kelby gaped at the man filling her doorway. At least six foot six and ugly as hell, he held out his hand. ‘Miss Wade? I’m Charlie Hawk. Please call me Hawk.’

He looked more like a thug than a security advisor, but she offered him a seat. Clearly uncomfortable in his jacket, he took it off and slung it over the arm of the sofa. ‘Firstly, I need to understand the nature of the threat. How did this start and how long has it been going on?’

‘Jimmy will show you the messages.’

‘I’ll need to assess how much of your information is publicly available. And I’d like full details of which social media this person is targeting.’

‘There’s no time. I need protection.’

‘Miss Wade —’

‘Please call me Kelby.’

‘Okay, Kelby, it’s my job to put your safety first. I’ll put you under surveillance and keep you under tight rein, but the other information will help me create a profile of the stalker and build an evidence package to give to the police.’

She nodded. ‘Yes, yes, of course.’

‘I strongly recommend you move away from your home address. We can set you up in a hote —’

‘No way! I’m not going to live in a hotel. My schedule won’t allow it.’

‘But I strongly suggest —’

‘I won’t be bullied into hiding in the shadows. I’m staying right here. And at home. Find another way to protect me.’

‘Do you have any security at the moment?’

‘No, apart from an alarm in my house, but I’ve never used it.’

‘Okay, that’s a step in the right direction. We need to know when someone is on your property though, not just inside your house. I’ll get my colleague to do a security audit. We need to validate that your system is fit for purpose and we’ll make recommendations to improve your security.’

Kelby nodded, feeling overwhelmed.

‘Once your home’s secure, we’ll sort things out here. I noticed anyone can get in here.’

‘That’s because it’s a standard office.’

‘Okay, I get that. But we’ll need to prevent access to your floor. We’ll have to hand out badges to anyone coming here so we can vet and validate your visitors.’

Kelby groaned inwardly, but nodded her head, trying to figure out how she would fit this fuss into her hectic schedule.

Hawk reached into his oversized jacket, drew out his wallet and fingered the pouches. As he pulled out a card and handed it to Kelby, something else fluttered to the floor. Kelby lifted it. Two faces beamed at her. Hawk dressed in military uniform with his wife in a lacy wedding dress. She was so petite, she was tucked under his arms.

‘Apologies, Miss Wade, er, Kelby. I didn’t mean to throw that at you.’

‘That’s okay. Beautiful wife.’ Kelby handed him the frayed picture. ‘I see you were in the forces.’

He nodded. ‘Yes. Royal Engineers. We built bridges and roads in Afghanistan a few years back, but when Sandy wanted to start a family.’ He shrugged, looking sad and forlorn.

‘I know how it is.’ For the third time that day, Kelby relived the pain of losing Gary.

‘Anyway, I can make more money working for myself.’ He chuckled. ‘It will help pay for the kids.’

‘How many do you have?’

‘First one on the way,’ Hawk pulled out another picture and showed it to Kelby.

She stared at an ultrasound image, and didn’t tell him she had wished hundreds of times that she could show off hers.

‘Sandy wants a football team of them.’ His voice filled with pride, ‘I built the nursery. I can’t wait to see my kid.’

Kelby smiled and handed him back the image.

He stretched and rose to his feet. ‘I’d better get on with things. Can we have your keys?’

‘Of course.’ She strode to her desk, fiddled in her handbag and gave him her house key.

‘Is anyone going to be following me … you know … in case he tries something?’

‘You don’t have to worry about a thing, Miss, um, Kelby. I am your PPO.’ At her frown, he explained, ‘Your personal protection officer.’

‘Thank you. That’s a huge relief.’

‘Don’t worry. You’re safe now. I’ll bet my life on it!’