In The Grip Of The Crime

In The Grip Of The Crime
Maria Mezzatesta

Maria Mezzatesta

IN THE GRIP OF CRIME

Mystery at Harwich

Original title: Nella morsa del delitto

Translated by: Patrizia Micalizio

Publisher: Tektime – www.traduzionelibri.it (http://www.traduzionelibri.it/)

Foreword by Salvatore Tomasello

A distinguished lady, a quiet little town, the mist of the English countryside, a corpse, and of course, a killer. The classic ingredients of a thriller are all present. But “In the grip of crime” is not the usual thriller. Superintendent Baxter will have to face a complex and challenging investigation to unravel an apparently unexplainable and mysterious murder. This thriller captures the reader from the beginning right to the end, so much so that one finds oneself reading it all in one go, without interruptions.

The writing is fluent and the characters are well defined, like in a fresco whose landscapes are presented as in a dynamic and expressive photographic sequence. “In the grip of crime” is a testament to the remarkable skills of its writer, Maria Mezzatesta, mostly known as an author of poems and short stories. This makes the book not only a thriller, but a true story of great depth.

1) The villa of the swamp

One afternoon in late October, Carol Tompkins was travelling on the high road heading to Harwich, a quiet little town in Essex. She was coming from London, where she had purchased some items for her antique shop. She was proceeding along the A120 on board of a rather old red Austin, observing the landscape around her. The autumnal grey sky had been thickening with dark clouds looming ahead, foreshadowing the impending rain. On the sides of the road the hedges had already turned yellow, the semi-submerged fields looked gloomy and desolate. A thin mist blurred the contour of the countryside in the distance, and the first evening shadows made the landscape even hazier. She had passed Chemford, when all of a sudden the car started jolting. Worried, she pressed hard on the accelerator, but the car just jolted to a halt. She tried turning the ignition key time and again, but nothing happened. She got off the car, she lifted the bonnet and took a look at the engine, but all seemed fine. She shut the bonnet and waited for the help of some driver to come along. She waited in vain for more than half an hour. The road was deserted, she could not see a single inhabited building around. Meanwhile, it had become dark, and the few passing cars had been speeding by without stopping. Overwhelmed by a certain fear, she decided to abandon the car and continued to walk up to Dovercourt, about a mile away, to make a call. She proceeded through the fields on the right hand-side of the road, thinking that she could arrive quicker. As she walked, the rain had begun to fall. The soil around her, which was already soft and slimy from the downpours of the previous day, had become muddy. She walked on with a fixed glaze, wincing at every rustle, trying to catch the sight of someone in the darkness. She walked for a good quarter of an hour, but there was not a soul about. Just when she thought she was lost, a light shone in the distance. It had to be coming from a house, a farm, or maybe a hotel, however she soon ruled that option out, considering the place not very suitable for that type of construction.

As she got closer, she realised that the light was coming from a massive villa with lighted windows. The building inspired a certain awe. She could not see any other shelter around; she was wet, so she decided to ring the brass bell on the wall, close to an iron gate. Nobody answered for a few minutes. The silence of the countryside was suddenly broken by a barking dog, then a voice with a foreign accent asked who it was. She briefly explained what had happened to her, and after a few moments she heard the lock snapping. The nearby gate opened up, and she stepped into a gravelled avenue. At about twenty metres ahead of her she noticed, on the main entrance, illuminated by the light of a post, a tall, young black man; a dog was coming towards her barking.

“What a weather!” the man muttered while rushing in her aid under an umbrella. “Come in, hurry!”

He approached her, offering her shelter under the umbrella until they reached the hall of the villa. He closed the umbrella, then waved for her to go up the wide staircase. “Please, please, come up”, he said to her while putting the umbrella away.

Carol kept a bit standoffish. “I don’t mean to disturb”, she said, “I would only like to make a call to inform about what happened to me.” The man with an unmistakable foreign accent replied: “The phone is upstairs, come in, don’t be afraid! I will take you to the Countess, and you will be able to dry your soaked clothes.” Unwillingly, Carol followed him. They went up the stairs, then they kept walking down a long corridor leading to different rooms. A chorus of strident voices came from one of the rooms. When they met her, Carol noticed some people who animatedly discussed around a table, while they were examining some documents. At least that was what it seemed to her. The man led her to the last room, a spacious lounge. He pointed her towards a damask sky-blue sofa, then he vanished discreetly.

She remained on her own to observe the warm and cosy environment.

The walls were covered in pink-flowered wallpaper, albeit dated and yellowed in several places.

The room was filled with furniture — sofas of different shapes and sizes, pillows, small wooden tables replete with objects, big Chinese vases, all placed a bit at random, without an order, and with little taste such as to almost convey a sense of confusion.

A wide walnut bookcase occupied an entire wall. Oriental figurines of jade and ivory, of good make, reposed on various shelves, alongside books, whereas the floor was covered in Persian carpets.

In a corner, a fire was merrily blazing in the pink marble fireplace.

Instinctively, Carol headed there to warm up. To her left-hand side, a large wood-framed window looking out on the park below.

The rain continued to pelt-down and was now more of a driving blizzard; the window panes were quivering in the frames and the wind was howling like a tormented soul.

Carol shrugged her shoulders, and for a moment she rejoiced that she had shelter. She was soon joined by a young and good looking woman.

She was tall, with delicate oriental features. Her slim, slender body was wrapped in a sky-blue dressed which highlighted her olive complexion and black velvety almond-shaped eyes. It was difficult to tell where she came from. “I am Yuril Barnes,” the woman introduced herself, extending her long and delicate hand.

“Gilbert,” she continued, “our butler told me about your unpleasant adventure and that you wish to make a call. The phone is on the small table at the end.”

“Thank you, you are very kind. My name is Carol Tompkins and I am sorry to have disturbed you, but I absolutely did not know what to do. I'm on my way to Harwich from London, and my car broke down.

I’ve made this journey countless times without a hitch. It is a rather old car, but it has never given me big problems. I really believe it is about time I changed it!”

The other smiled and replied, “You will probably have to change it! In any case, you are not disturbing me. I see that you are wet, would you like to borrow some dry clothes?” Carol lifted her hand to reject the offer: “No, no, thank you. I am afraid I have given you enough trouble already. Maybe I’d like to dry myself off.”

“Come with me, the bathroom is in the adjacent room,” said the countess. They went out into the corridor together. Angry voices proceeded from the room nearby; she could grab a few words like ‘agency’, ‘inheritance’.

A resonant male voice boomed: “he is unwell, he is really unwell.” The countess shrugged her shoulders murmuring: “There are guests tonight.” Embarrassed, Carol replied, “I am really sorry for the inconvenience I have caused you.”

Her host nonchalantly gave away her misgivings and instructed Gilbert to change the towels. Carol washed her face and her hands, and dried the clothes she was wearing with a hairdryer; then she went back to the lounge and prepared to make a call.

The phone was in the room opposite the entrance, next to a wooden display cabinet – “most probably 18th century” - she thought, given her knowledge of antiques. It also contained a unique collection of daggers and stilettos of various origins and periods.

There were Russian knives, others Indian, many were ancient and Oriental, perhaps Chinese or Japanese. Some were adorned with precious stones; they must have been worth a fortune.

She was about to dial the number of her friend Maggie, when a tall and distinguished man entered the room, a typical specimen of an English gentleman, with a frank face and vivid light eyes.

“What a hitch!” said the man, giving her a start. Then he stared at her for long. “Tompkins, Carol Tompkins!” he exclaimed. “Don’t you remember me? We met a couple of weeks ago at Judge King’s.”

Carol stared at him perplexed. Then, she recognised him: “Tedder, Lawyer Tedder.” The man walked towards her, and gave her his hand. Carol sneezed.

“Your clothes are damp, you will get sick. There is nothing better than a glass of whisky to warm up.” He poured the liquor in a glass. “Dry yourself better, and ask the countess to lend you some dry clothes, and then I will take you home.”

Carol protested a little, but deep down she was happy about the offer. She went to the bathroom again, and changed her clothes.

Half an hour later she was unrecognisable, while she was sitting on the sofa near the fire, in dry clothes, sipping a sherry.

They seemed like three old friends, who had gathered to pleasantly spend an autumn evening together, while outside it was raining. In fact, the conversation was drifting. The countess had a strange preoccupied expression and she jerked at every rustle. Because of the wind, one could hear disparate noises. Some door was creaking, thuds of falling objects, violent rustle of the trees’ branches. “Where did you leave the car?” the countess enquired. “On the high road A120, about one mile from here,” answered Carol.

“I am afraid that with this rainstorm you will not find anybody to repair it. Today is Saturday evening and tomorrow being Sunday it will not be easy to find a mechanic. You could turn to the Emergency Services,” said the countess.

“It is not so important. I have another car at home, my husband’s. I will come back tomorrow morning to take it back. I will tow it to my house with Alfred’s car, and on Monday I will call my usual mechanic.”

“I can help you to tow it” offered Lawyer Tedder. Carol shook her head, “It is absolutely out of discussion. Outside there is a proper storm and it will last for long. It is not worth doing that, also because, as I was saying to the countess, it is a rather old and superannuated car. I will think about it tomorrow.”

“As you want,” answered the lawyer, and coughed slightly.

After a brief silence, he asked: “Your husband, Alfred I believe, isn’t here? “No, he is away for work. He is a photographer and he often travels,” answered Carol. Meanwhile, the butler Gilbert turned up in the lounge with a tall, thin, and good-looking young man. His blonde hair was wet because of the rain, and his bleary big blue eyes looked tired and upset. The young man jerked nervously, as if something worried him.

His long and gaunt hands were shaking with agitation, while once close to the fireplace, he had lifted and opened it to warm up.

“Something isn’t right?” asked the countess.

“I feel cold. I have just come back and I got wet,” answered the young man while rubbing his hands. “I see that your guests have arrived,” continued the young man while looking at Carol. The countess explained who Carol was, and what had happened to her, and introduced the man as Jonah Barnes, her stepson.

“Where have you been?” asked the countess. “I went out to check the horses in the stable. With this storm they have become frisky. Are the others here yet?”