A two-hour ride by horse and carriage, the journey was enduring, the weather much warmer today and the snow that had settled the night before was long gone. In fact, the sun beating down upon Edgar and Juraj put them in a state of agitation, the unresolved conflict still lingering on the tips of their tongues, biting to say no more, yet closer to saying everything.
Upon their arrival, a large fellow approached them with a grin and arms open, like a bird displaying his impressive wingspan.
‘Welcome!’ he beamed. ‘Please, come…. Come, allow me,’ he said, taking the reins of the horse and attaching them to the wooden mast, securing the beast safely in place. He did so next to another horse, which was whining to itself as it fed on the grain below.
‘You gentlemen look thirsty—you’ve no doubt heard good things, that is why you’re here, right?’ he inquired with a red face, wide mouth grinning and jovial in his approach.
Edgar examined the man, inspecting his attire and demeanour. Quickly, he concluded this man was no killer. Thinking on his feet, Edgar replied, ‘We are here on business. You are aware of my proposition, I assume? This here is my associate.’
The large man screwed up his face in confusion, his eyebrows cross and stern. Looking first at Edgar, then Juraj, and once again back at Edgar, he started, ‘How can it be so? Milos has already arrived and he is inside.’
‘Milos?’ asked Juraj, a face revealing anger brewing underneath.
‘Yes!’ he exclaimed. ‘Milos from Prague—he travelled all this way after hearing good things about the place. I’ve not been made aware of a second interested party. Perhaps…. We can negotiate an arrangement collectively?’ he sneered with beaming confidence. This must be Borlog. Borlog was fat—overly so—and the hot sun had blotched his white shirt with sweat, filling the nostrils of the detective and the accompanied alike. He is cheerful, even likeable, but greedy, Edgar surmised.
Responding to the invitation, Edgar coolly said, ‘There is only one thing for it, then. Let us go inside and meet Milos. Lead the way, if you would be so kind?’
The three men entered the mainstay of the plot. The purple and yellow tips of the canopies weaved through the vineyard, their roots set deep within the brown clay. Against the backdrop of green fields and grey mountaintops tipped with white snow, the compound made for a compelling view.
Following Borlog to inside a room, Edgar could see it was well illuminated. White walls and a wooden table lay in the middle, chairs neatly aligned in rows. The rays of the sun beamed brightly through open windows, the warmth kissing their skin as they passed through.
As they entered, a man was already in conversation with a woman, both laughing and joking.
‘Borlog!’ his wife called happily, looking gleefully at the fat man as they all entered the room. ‘And who else do we have here? Come along now, Borlog, introduce them!’
Borlog began to make pleasant introductions when suddenly…
‘MILOS!’ shouted Juraj.
‘Juraj?’ Milos questioned in reply, a state of shock and bewilderment etched on his face. ‘What… what are you doing here?!’
Juraj approached Milos and slammed his fist down onto the wooden table; a thud sounded out and the room fell deathly silent.
The woman gasped and Borlog moved towards Juraj in hope of settling and calling understanding of the situation. As he did so, Edgar raised his arm at length, stopping Borlog from proceeding any farther. ‘Take a seat,’ Edgar commanded Borlog, who duly followed the order and quietly sat next to the woman, grasping her hand tightly. The pair remained in a state of bemusement and wonder, fearful and intrigued by the strange turn of events in what had been quite a glorious day thus far.
Juraj moved still closer to Milos, getting within one foot of him. ’The question is, Milos: what are you doing here?’ Juraj stated with stern intent. It was not a question by any means—it demanded an answer, and immediately.
Outside, birds chirped and the cool breeze floated about the allotment, a scene of peace and serenity. Inside, the showdown was a stark contrast with the three observers watching Juraj and Milos, awaiting an explanation—any explanation in fact—in angst.
‘I had suspected I may find myself needing to explain this,’ stammered Milos, sweat running from his brow, palms gripped into a pair of tight balls on top of the table.
His hand reached down into his trouser pocket and he retrieved a piece of parchment. Looking up at Juraj, he slid the paper across the table towards him.
‘What is this?’ questioned Juraj.
‘It would be easier if you read it.’
Juraj took the note and unfolded it slowly and purposefully. He proceeded to read aloud the contents of the note to all within the room to hear:
‘Peter is dead by now. You will be next unless you follow my instruction explicitly. Go to Borlog’s Winery in Bratislava. The plantation is for sale and you are to feign interest in buying—that is your reason for being there.
Failure to comply will result in your immediate demise, Milos. I know your secret. Leave now. Immediately.’
The room was deathly silent; no one spoke. The note was written neatly, each word meticulously and carefully crafted. It was clearly written with a quill in black ink—a perfect craft, one delicately practised. Juraj looked down at his feet and the Borlogs stared at one another, dumbstruck and paralyzed by the uncouth goings-on. Edgar tapped his fingers in a rolling motion against the table’s surface, his eyebrow twitching and watching Milos closely. In reply, Milos was a figure of frozen
