The Mummies of the Reich (The India Sommers Mysteries) by Kevin Ashman

Author:Kevin Ashman [Ashman, Kevin]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Silverback Books
Published: 2012-09-27T04:00:00+00:00

Chapter Twenty One

Falkland Islands – 2012

Brandon and India sat on the sofa in the cosy front room of the house in Port Stanley. It had taken three days to reach the Falklands, flying via Punta Arenas in Peru, one of the few airports that operated a service to the disputed islands. When they had arrived in the Falklands, they had booked into one of the small hotels and immediately made their way up to the small farmhouse on the outskirts of the town where they had been told Bert lived.

Brandon knocked on the door and a few moments later, a portly woman answered with a welcoming smile.

‘Hello,’ said Brandon, ‘I was wondering if you could help us please. My name is Brandon Walker and this is my colleague, India Sommers. We are looking for Bert Melbourne. Is he in?’

‘I’m afraid not, dear,’ said the woman, ‘but he’s due back soon. Would you like to wait?’

‘If it’s not too much trouble,’ said Brandon and they followed her into the cosy interior of her home.

‘He won’t be long,’ said the woman. ‘My name is Maisy, Bert’s wife. Please make yourself comfortable while I make us some tea.’

As she left the room India looked at Brandon with an air of confusion.

‘His wife?’ she whispered, ‘she can’t be more than fifty years old. He must be in his nineties by now.’

Brandon shrugged his shoulders.

‘Some men like the younger lady I suppose,’ he said.

A Kerosene heater roared in the fireplace and they both removed their coats as the heat warmed them up. Maisy returned and within minutes they were sipping piping hot tea from small china cups. India glanced around the small living room, so reminiscent of the one her grandmother used to have when India was small. The mantelpiece above the fire was formed from a single piece of solid driftwood and polished to a high shine over many years. Solid brass ornaments perched proudly atop the mantel and a set of ornamental fire irons sat alongside the heater, a reminder of the fires of home where wood and coal was plentiful.

‘He won’t be long,’ said Maisy again as she eased her ample frame onto a dining chair next to the table, ‘he’s out walking the dog.’

‘That’s nice,’ said India, ‘what kind of dog have you got?’

‘Oh, we haven’t got a dog,’ said Maisy. ‘Bert’s actually down the pub having his daily pint. Years ago we did have a dog. Goebbels, his name was, a German Shepherd cross. Anyway, whenever he walked it he would always call in the pub on the way back. Of course, I always knew but there was no harm done. He’s a good man, Bert. Always has been, always will be. He broke his heart when that dog died. Since then, he always says the same thing. Taking the dog for a walk, says he. Okay says I, see you later. He loved that dog, he did.’

‘Strange name for a dog,’ said Brandon, ‘Goebbels. Isn’t that the same name as the World War Two German propaganda minister?’

‘Yes, he’s named after him,’ said Maisy.

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