Page 1 of The Amsterdam Enigma (The Continental Capers of Melody Chesterton #3)
“ I don’t know how much more of this heat I can take. Amsterdam was supposed to be a relief after Morocco, not worse.” As she said this, Mary slumped down on a chair and mopped her brow with a handkerchief.
“It really is less hot here, Mary. I think the problem is that the Moroccans are prepared for heat and have their homes and lives set up to manage its effects, whereas the Dutch seem only prepared for long periods of damp cloudiness with intermittent drizzles. Much like the British, in fact.”
Even as she said these words, Melody wondered why she bothered; Mary was right.
The heat was stifling. It seemed to hang over the canals like a physical mass.
When they arrived days before, there had at least been a breeze from the IJ, the body of water that separated Amsterdam proper from Amsterdam-Noord.
Now, even that slight relief was at an end.
It seemed that everyone was suffering as they were. Locals sought the shade of the trees in the nearby Wertheimpark, but in truth, there was no escape; the air was dry, the grass parched, and tempers short after weeks without rain .
Just that morning at breakfast, Rat was uncharacteristically snappish when Melody casually inquired about his plans for the day.
He apologised immediately, and Melody hadn’t been upset.
Instead, she realised that the unpleasant weather was merely exacerbating his underlying frustration at his lack of progress in his current mission.
As much as Melody empathised with her brother’s frustrations, she had quite a few of her own.
Rat was a newly fledged operative for the Foreign Section of the British Secret Service Bureau.
Despite acknowledging Melody’s indispensable help during his last two missions, he seemed unwilling to involve her in his latest investigation in Amsterdam.
Melody understood that this hesitancy stemmed from both her older brother’s over-protectiveness and the insecurities that continued to plague him.
Despite Rat’s intelligence and indisputable cryptology skills, the young man struggled with self-doubt, questioning if he was ready for such assignments and worrying about failing his mentor, Lord Langley, or worse, his country.
His confidence had been sorely shaken by the events in Venice and the revelation that Alessandro was monitoring him.
His capture in Marrakesh, which necessitated his rescue by Melody and Captain Somerset, hadn’t helped diminish those doubts.
Thinking about Captain William Somerset made Melody sigh aloud.
“It is brutally hot outside, but I do think it would do you some good to get out of this hotel and stop moping about.” Mary tried to say this in a light tone, but it was immediately obvious she’d failed and that her charge was irritated.
“I am not moping about,” Melody replied petulantly.
Mary knew she ought to let the subject drop, but she loved the young woman too much to take the easy way out of the conversation. “I haven’t even seen you write in your diary since we arrived back in Europe.”
It was true; Melody hadn’t written in her diary for days, perhaps weeks. In fact, the last time she remembered taking it out was on the boat to Marseilles. She wasn’t sure she was able or willing to express in words the reasons why.
Of course, Mary did have some sense of how the handsome and suave Conte Alessandro Foscari hurt Melody when the truth about his apparent courtship in Venice came to light.
The observant older woman even had some understanding of the confusion and disappointment Melody experienced when the charming and attentive Captain Somerset suddenly walked out of her life.
However, despite the closeness between Melody and Mary, who’d been her nursery maid, then lady’s maid, and now companion for fourteen years, Melody wasn’t sure she was ready to discuss what was troubling her.
Melody recalled William’s last words to her, “I saw your face when Conte Foscari arrived, and I knew that my cause was a lost one.” Then, he’d admitted, “I have been down this path before and know better than to attempt it again. Loving a woman who is in love with another man only leads to heartache.”
Could she have stopped him at that moment, while his hand remained on the door handle?
Could she have convinced him that her reaction to Alessandro was nothing more than relief over a friend’s safety?
Melody went over this question repeatedly in her mind.
Previously, this was the sort of internal turmoil she would have documented in the pages of her diary.
Mary’s question was a valid one: why wasn’t she writing in it anymore?
Finally, she responded to Mary with an abbreviated yet honest answer. “Writing in a diary seems childish. It has only been three months since we left London, yet I am a totally different person. And that person does not scribble down her every thought.”
Mary stood and crossed to where Melody was seated.
Bending over the young woman, she kissed her forehead and stroked her beautiful, thick, wavy auburn hair.
“Do not be so hard on yourself, Miss Melody. You have been through a lot since we left home.” Mary said nothing else; she didn’t have to.
Melody knew she was right, yet it didn’t change her lingering discomfort.
Perhaps sensing this, Mary left her young charge to her thoughts and withdrew to her bedroom in the luxurious suite.
Melody guessed why Mary left, but perhaps she didn’t want to be alone with her thoughts. Perhaps she didn’t wish to ponder where Rat went off to that morning or why she’d not heard from or seen Alessandro since their arrival in Amsterdam.
While she and Rat were staying in the opulent Hotel Victoria, Alessandro and Fatima were staying elsewhere.
Fatima! Why had that woman accompanied them to Amsterdam?
The beautiful, sophisticated, half-Moroccan, half-French Fatima had become Melody’s nemesis in Morocco.
Quick to condescend to Melody regarding everything from her lack of foreign language fluency to her clothing, Fatima was even quicker to flirt with every man she encountered and clearly relished being the centre of male attention.
While Alessandro was imprisoned by the Sultan, Melody and Fatima had set aside their mutual dislike to work together for his release.
It was indisputable that without Fatima’s help, Alessandro would likely still be imprisoned, or worse.
Nevertheless, whatever respite from Fatima’s petty insults and preening Melody had enjoyed while their common goal was clear, once Alessandro was released, the infuriating woman reverted to form.
Perhaps even more than Fatima’s almost constant flirtation with Alessandro, Melody couldn’t bear the woman’s toying with Rat.
It was obvious that the impressionable young man was smitten with the graceful, worldly beauty.
Unlike the worldly Conte Foscari, Rat was quite the innocent when it came to women, and his infatuation with Fatima was both irritating in its naivety and troubling for the inevitable heartbreak it would bring.
Determined not to dwell on Alessandro or Fatima, Melody reached for the newspaper.
The hotel provided day-old British newspapers, and Melody longed for news from home.
Given her eagerness to leave Britain, it surprised her to experience these pangs of homesickness.
Melody rationalised these feelings as nothing more than missing Tabby Cat, Wolfie, Granny, and Uncle Maxi.
Even so, she found she devoured the news from home each day.
Usually, she read the newspaper while having breakfast, but she’d been distracted that morning by her tiff with Rat.
Now, as soon as she picked up the newspaper, her eyes were drawn to the headline.
Ever since Germany sent a gunboat to moor off the coast of Agadir in early July – a direct provocation to the British and French governments – British public opinion had turned firmly against its Teutonic neighbours.
Previously, although there’d been an acknowledged tension between the two countries, with Germany seen as a rapidly growing industrial power eager to expand its influence beyond its borders, the British public and press had drifted towards a far more conciliatory, pro-German mood.
The crisis in Morocco, which Rat and Melody tried so hard to avert, ensured that any softening of opinion towards Germany was now at an end.
This sea change in sentiment was reflected in the newspaper’s headline: Germany – belligerent, imperialistic, and dangerously ambitious.
Melody assumed that this change in attitude towards Germany was at least part of the reason they were sent to Amsterdam.
She’d posed that very question to Rat during dinner the previous evening.
He’d been evasive in his response, while acknowledging that the prevailing sentiment in the British Government now aligned more closely with the anti-German stance of the Foreign Secretary, Sir Edward Grey, than prior to the crisis.
However, that did not provide her with any insight she couldn’t have already deduced.
Inevitably, this line of thinking brought her back to Captain William Somerset, whose brother, Adam, was Grey’s private secretary and was heavily implicated in the disappearance of a British operative in Morocco, as well as Rat’s kidnapping.
What was William doing now? There’d been an attempt by elements in the British Government to blame him for the Moroccan shenanigans instigated by his brother.
Given that both brothers worked for the Foreign Office, William’s role in exposing his brother – and by extension, Sir Edward – was unlikely to have benefited his career.
Melody threw down the newspaper. It was no good moping around the hotel.
She realised she needed to get out, despite the unpleasant weather.
It was well past three o’clock in the afternoon, and the worst of the midday heat should be subsiding.
And even if it wasn’t, she simply couldn’t sit in this hotel suite for another minute obsessing over Alessandro, William, and Fatima.
She wondered whether to knock on Mary’s door and tell her she was leaving.
But if she did that, there was little doubt that Mary would consider herself obliged to join her charge.
Melody neither wanted to impose the heat on Mary, nor did she feel like company.
Finally, Melody wrote a note explaining that she wouldn’t be long and left it where she was sure Mary would find it, grabbed her hat and a reticule, and escaped before her companion could return.