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REMEMBERING TCHAIKOVSKY'S EMPIRE

A crime novel
Signum-Verlagerschienen am01.07.2023
Linnet Restorick and her husband Simon come as summer guests to Swan Lake House-on an island on the English west coast. But the idyllic island and the gloomy house soon turn into a hell of intrigue and murder... With the novel REMEMBERING TCHAIKOVSKY'S EMPIRE, Christian Dörge, author of several crime novels and crime series, presents an equally exciting and nostalgic homage to Agatha Christie's work.

Christian Dörge (*1969) is a German writer, playwright, musician, theatre actor and director.mehr
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EUR19,99
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Produkt

KlappentextLinnet Restorick and her husband Simon come as summer guests to Swan Lake House-on an island on the English west coast. But the idyllic island and the gloomy house soon turn into a hell of intrigue and murder... With the novel REMEMBERING TCHAIKOVSKY'S EMPIRE, Christian Dörge, author of several crime novels and crime series, presents an equally exciting and nostalgic homage to Agatha Christie's work.

Christian Dörge (*1969) is a German writer, playwright, musician, theatre actor and director.
Details
Weitere ISBN/GTIN9783757918699
ProduktartE-Book
EinbandartE-Book
FormatEPUB
Erscheinungsjahr2023
Erscheinungsdatum01.07.2023
Seiten152 Seiten
SpracheEnglisch
Dateigrösse302
Artikel-Nr.11410480
Rubriken
Genre9200

Inhalt/Kritik

Leseprobe

  Chapter Two

 

 

The long hallway was dark because all the curtains in the rooms leading from here were drawn. It seemed as if the room had sucked in the hot, stuffy air from all directions. The atmosphere was positively saturated with the exhalations of damp flower-pot soil and rot. The cause was quite harmless, as was soon to become apparent. But Linnet flinched and touched the door. Suddenly... the radiant afternoon beyond was very far away.

Simon fumbled for the light switch. Blimey! Let s get some air inside first-quickly! Marshall said his caretaker would take care of that.

They scurried from room to room, pulling curtains apart and tearing open windows.

It s absurd, but I feel as if I m doing something altogether forbidden, she whispered, wincing when he said, Goodness, why are you whispering? We re going to unpack and have something to eat.

First, we ll have a quiet look around. Who knows-we might lose the desire to stay. She shook herself. There are just too many plants, and they ve had far too much water. It smells like open graves after a tropical storm!

They were in the spacious kitchen, which was lower on the hillside than the rest of the house by about half a metre. With the curtains closed it had seemed like a dark cave, but now light streamed in from three sides. Above the sink there were two small windows, opposite them a glass door with six panes leading to a sun terrace. The picture window in the long wall offered a view of the green hill that sloped down to the sea: a shimmering lavender blue that faded to a soft grey and then merged with the distant horizon.

No wonder they allowed us to take Frey, she said, pointing to an empty birdcage above the sink and several plastic bowls. They must have a zoo!

There were dozens of frugal begonias on all the windowsills, on wall shelves, table and hanging cupboards.

Dear God, doesn t Mrs Marshall have anything else to do but look after them? She looked unkindly at the piles of wilted flowers this plant had shed. Begonias are an abomination to me. Come, let s see if they have a philodendron somewhere. She walked expectantly over the step into the living room, which immediately adjoined the sun terrace.

A neat single philodendron hung from a console next to the huge picture window that framed a grand view of sky and sea, but there were other plants, mainly begonias. They stood in a long row under the window, on the mantelpiece, on the coffee table and scattered across the packed bookshelves that took up an entire wall. The cachepots, a handsome and imaginative collection, had been created not only by the hands of eagerly experimenting locals, but also on the other side of the world on potter's wheels that had been idle for five hundred years.

The furniture was a pleasant mixture of rattan, iron, antique cherry and maple wood. The coffee table was made from a huge, beautiful piece of driftwood and weighed at least one hundred and forty kilos. A thick textured rug covered the planked hardwood floor. On either side of the fireplace was a wicker lounger, one large, the other small. Everything was pleasantly clean and tidy, and scattered odds and ends that had accumulated over a lifetime gave the room a cosy appearance.

But not a warm one, not a welcoming one, she murmured as Simon went to try out the couch. She turned to the books as if they could tell her why it was so. But she only discovered that the Marshalls read everything from archaeology to botany, education, psychology, law, sexology and zoology. And they grouped the books curiously: Lassie stood wedged between The Naked Ape and The Human Zoo by Desmond Morris, three Ian Flemings and two Mickey Spillanes in colourful protective covers stuck boldly between Asimov, Kafka and Lessing.

Well, now I can answer myself, she said thoughtfully. Let s get on with it before I... She paused.

Before you-what? Never mind! he said irritably. I want to unpack, eat something and then lie down for a bit. This couch is quite decent. Just not long enough.

Too bad, she said indignantly and went into the hallway. It still smells awful in here. Did he say where we could sleep?

Why should he? We ll use the bedroom, of course. It must be this one, here on the left.

Sure. It has its own bathroom.

What s wrong with it again? he groaned, but she made no reply, for no doubt he basically didn t want to know.

Silently, separated by a virtually unbridgeable gulf, they surveyed the bedroom and bathroom, and then Linnet read the titles of the books piled on one bedside table, wondering which of the Marshalls was into law. Simon, meanwhile, was looking at a decoratively framed family tree that hung opposite the bed.

In the bottom left-hand corner, in cobweb-fine old-fashioned handwriting executed with a split quill, was the signature Simenon Nathaniel Marshall, dated 25 December 1912. The earliest year on the family tree was 1674 (Aaron Marshall), the latest 1957 (Edward Marshall).

This is Graham, he said, pointing to the plaque. 1916, married to Arlena Carbury. So, he s young Edward s great uncle. Hmm... Strange.

What s odd about that? she asked, a little hysterically. And there are still nine dripping wet plants in here and three in the bathroom! Three on the water tank too! She sat down on the bed, sullenly.

Look at that! It is taken down and added to from time to time. Here the entries are made in a different ink, starting with the descendants of Simenon senior, of which Graham is one. Simenon junior-1900-who made this at the age of twelve, apparently wanted to give it to his parents for Christmas. But his wife and children, as well as their wives and children, have been inscribed in a different ink, blue, along with the years of birth. Only Arlena s birth year is missing.

She stood up to look at it.

No birth year-and no descendants. I thought so. She stared sadly at the branch of the tree that no longer thrived or bore fruit.

Why? And what do you think now? he sneered.

If only you cared about that, then I d be delighted to let you know. Jesus, why did I just say that, she thought to herself. Come on, let s finally end this sightseeing.

In a short narrow corridor that branched off at right angles from the hallway, they discovered two doors facing each other. The room behind one was sparsely furnished and contained no plants. It was clearly the guest room, as could be seen from the pull-out bed.

Behind the other was a study, unmistakably masculine and with such a strong private air that Linnet hesitated at first on the threshold. Then, however, she marched to the window, stretched across a worn, comfortable couch, pulled the curtains apart and pushed the window open with exaggerated force to document the legitimacy of her being here, albeit not seeking it.

Thank Goodness, there are no plants as well! she said, being both angry and thankful all at once.

The only item of note was a pegboard that took up almost an entire wall and displayed in pleasing arrangement all that the Marshalls had found on the island over time. Stones, various minerals, dried plants, shells, tiny sun-dried skeletons, butterflies and moths and much more. Except for an ancient flint knife, nothing was valuable on its own. But all together, as a glorification of the treasures of the earth, it was a treasure, for it betrayed the Marshalls love for this island from which it all came.

Quite an achievement, he thought.

Linette stood there like a statue. I wonder if Marshall ever thought of displaying this at a fair?

You bet, Professor Restorick. He s done it every year since they got the house here, said a nasally voice in a dragging, familiar tone. Brought it here a fortnight ago. Does the horse show too.

Startled, they wheeled around, and caught sight of a skinny little man with a wrinkled neck leaning against the doorframe in dirty clothes, chewing on a straw. Although an obviously hard-working, well-off farmer, he looked like a wasp rat that had washed up years ago.

I m Professor Marshall s caretaker. The name s Alfred Stokes, from the village. Just wanted to see if ya had a safe arrival. My mare gave birth to a foal at the crack of dawn today, so I couldn t air it out as usual. But I watered all the plants yesterday. If you need anything, you only need a call. Maybe there s a problem with the bathroom in the hall. My son Tobias is an installer. He s been working on it, but he s not satisfied yet.

His restless eyes, the lurking posture of his head and the impertinence of his tone and manner were in stark contrast to the friendly words. He gave the impression that he had been watching the two of them for quite a long time.

Linnet found him immediately unappealing. She was not unfamiliar with this type of person.

Thank you, Mr Stokes, Simon said, that s very thoughtful of you. I think we ll get on quite well. Doctor Marshall gave me your telephone number. We opened the windows and had a look around.

Yeah, there s a lot to see in this house, the farmer agreed, and again Linnet heard a suggestive undertone. Well, I ll be off then. He nodded to them, grabbed his old hat and disappeared as silently as he had come.

What did he mean by that?

What do I know? Linnet, what s the matter...
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