Lady Alkmene Collection: Four fabulous 1920s murder mysteries you won’t want to miss!

Lady Alkmene Collection: Four fabulous 1920s murder mysteries you won’t want to miss! Vivian Conroy Step back in time with the perfect cosy crime bundle, featuring all four Lady Alkmene mysteries!Murder can be deadly!A Proposal to Die ForA murderous beginningWith her father away in India, Lady Alkmene Callender finds being left to her own devices in London intolerably dull, until the glamorous Broadway star Evelyn Steinbeck arrives in town! Gossip abounds about the New York socialite, but when Ms Steinbeck’s wealthy uncle, Silas Norwhich, is found dead Lady Alkmene finds her interest is piqued. Because this death sounds a lot to her like murder…Diamonds of DeathA family of secrets…After hearing about the vicious murder of her relation, Lord Winters, Lady Alkmene is intrigued to find out that the cat burglar found standing over his body, the safebox emptied of jewels, might not be the murderer after all…Deadly TreasuresMurder on the coastLady Alkmene Callender has little interest in marriage, especially when her father is up to his matchmaking tricks, but when the opportunity arises to visit an archaeological dig she cannot resist.However, when she arrives to find her potential groom under arrest for murder Lady Alkmene begins to wonder if she isn’t in the right place at the right time.Fatal MasqueradeMasked danger…Lady Alkmene Callender has always loved grand parties, but when she receives an invitation to a masked ball thrown by Franklin Hargrove – oil magnate, aviation enthusiast and father of her best friend, Denise – she’s never seen such luxury. But below the glamour, evil is lurking. When a dead body is discovered, it forces Lady Alkmene to throw off her mask and attempt to find the true killer… Murder can be deadly! Step back in time with the perfect cosy crime bundle, featuring all four Lady Alkmene mysteries! A Proposal to Die For A murderous beginning With her father away in India, Lady Alkmene Callender finds being left to her own devices in London intolerably dull, until the glamorous Broadway star Evelyn Steinbeck arrives in town! Gossip abounds about the New York socialite, but when Ms Steinbeck’s wealthy uncle, Silas Norwhich, is found dead Lady Alkmene finds her interest is piqued. Because this death sounds a lot to her like murder… Diamonds of Death A family of secrets… After hearing about the vicious murder of her relation, Lord Winters, Lady Alkmene is intrigued to find out that the cat burglar found standing over his body, the safebox emptied of jewels, might not be the murderer after all… Deadly Treasures Murder on the coast Lady Alkmene Callender has little interest in marriage, especially when her father is up to his matchmaking tricks, but when the opportunity arises to visit an archaeological dig she cannot resist. However, when she arrives to find her potential groom under arrest for murder Lady Alkmene begins to wonder if she isn’t in the right place at the right time. Fatal Masquerade Masked danger… Lady Alkmene Callender has always loved grand parties, but when she receives an invitation to a masked ball thrown by Franklin Hargrove – oil magnate, aviation enthusiast and father of her best friend, Denise – she’s never seen such luxury. But below the glamour, evil is lurking. When a dead body is discovered, it forces Lady Alkmene to throw off her mask and attempt to find the true killer… VIVIAN CONROY discovered Agatha Christie at thirteen and devoured all the Poirot and Miss Marple stories. Even more fun than reading was thinking up her own fog-filled alleys, missing heirs and priceless artefacts. So Vivian created feisty Lady Alkmene and reporter Jake Dubois sleuthing in 1920s’ London and the countryside, first appearing in A Proposal to Die For. For the latest on #LadyAlkmene, with a dash of dogs and chocolate, follow Vivian on Twitter via @VivWrites Praise for Vivian Conroy (#ulink_ff64de6c-b743-5bdc-a172-0739250f9e73) ‘An incredibly tightly written closed door mystery’ Rachel’s Random Reads (Top 500 Amazon Reviewer) ‘This author writes a cracking book. I could hardly bear to put it down’ Grace J Reviewerlady ‘A Proposal to Die For is wonderfully smooth and glamorous, in the style of Agatha Christie combined with the beauty of Gatsby’ The Story Collector Blog ‘The first in a new series, this is a well written historical mystery with just a hint of attitude’ Cayocosta72 ‘When it’s as charming as A Proposal to Die For mystery and history make the most wonderful combination’ Little Bookness Lane ‘I will definitely be reading the rest of this series’ Holly (Goodreads) Available from Vivian Conroy (#ulink_458f3551-b6f1-55ed-b07a-ee8a4909277d) A Lady Alkmene Callender Mystery series A Proposal to Die For Diamonds of Death Deadly Treasures Fatal Masquerade A Country Gift Shop Cozy Mystery series Dead to Begin with Grand Prize: Murder! Written into the Grave Cornish Castle Mystery series Death Plays a Part Rubies in the Roses Copyright (#ulink_7e8f460d-8f17-52ab-b6a4-b30a9b79a9d8) HQ An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd. 1 London Bridge Street London SE1 9GF First published in Great Britain by HQ in 2018 Copyright © Vivian Conroy 2018 Vivian Conroy asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work. A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library. This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins. E-book Edition © November 2018 ISBN: 9780008314422 Version: 2018-10-03 Lady Alkmene Collection Vivian Conroy ONE PLACE. MANY STORIES Contents Cover (#u1ed3625b-c806-5519-87bb-65d707f34ca7) Blurb (#u2d6ad00c-cfac-57d0-bf80-2fe7bae389dd) Author Bio (#u1c3da9a3-67bd-540a-9f5f-e4f8745d1ec0) Praise (#ulink_9b99e239-49de-53ab-b4af-5178011963f4) Also By (#ulink_9ecfc3d1-24f5-54b4-ae17-94c2d16ee747) Copyright (#ulink_1a45aa84-d03c-5a00-a349-adfdf8bf4d30) Title Page (#u201d934b-6e32-55e6-b71a-5239478ce0ad) A Proposal to Die For (#u8d04da50-b688-5f91-bf16-02e1503aa813) Acknowledgements (#ud1b418f3-b9f0-5d3e-8247-a88a66507bcd) Note (#ulink_96cbc2cd-21cd-5a25-bf35-925600e54605) Chapter One (#ulink_81ceab45-e73d-5663-851a-fa261dc7725e) Chapter Two (#ulink_79ea0610-406c-5f18-bba0-c8c870e2d9b1) Chapter Three (#ulink_d2aade4c-1632-590e-8542-6b5f7b328480) Chapter Four (#ulink_123a7a0e-567f-508e-bee9-6aee8af7fa86) Chapter Five (#ulink_d16e2320-fa6a-574b-a136-5f22442a81aa) Chapter Six (#ulink_5f0cb8b8-8ce6-5152-a71b-dc0d2733ed8b) Chapter Seven (#ulink_b23c7f0a-82f6-5aa3-899d-09d579b0faba) Chapter Eight (#ulink_4320137b-9557-5156-8743-bed68f0d3992) Chapter Nine (#ulink_5e3b6b4d-1bb2-5ca4-b3a2-cd8c44877481) Chapter Ten (#ulink_127b38eb-0a2c-5889-8a59-9184ace4271f) Chapter Eleven (#ulink_062d5ca7-05c4-5c70-bd29-9da4b4cd5ddc) Chapter Twelve (#ulink_9dbb1c6c-2991-5d7e-adf4-80dfd5014d1e) Chapter Thirteen (#ulink_4d84a9c2-8f53-57e1-9d8d-a094be06273d) Chapter Fourteen (#ulink_06955536-8ebe-56fd-aaf8-f05b4cf502e9) Chapter Fifteen (#ulink_1d767844-bd0a-5009-93af-59196aca0b91) Chapter Sixteen (#ulink_c52d80e2-d541-5d1e-b6c5-1ed9772f7a4f) Chapter Seventeen (#ulink_44bcfbad-615f-5151-aba8-1a1b7622d5ac) Chapter Eighteen (#ulink_89608433-aa67-5a2e-ae2e-67d96ceeef27) Chapter Nineteen (#ulink_17d8de21-5ff7-5078-a8fd-048e36cfe932) Chapter Twenty (#ulink_6e73a7d9-06b2-59e8-ab0a-83a297fc8208) Chapter Twenty-One (#litres_trial_promo) Diamonds of Death (#litres_trial_promo) Acknowledgements (#litres_trial_promo) Note (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter One (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Two (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Three (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Four (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Five (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Six (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Twelve (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Thirteen (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Fourteen (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Fifteen (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Sixteen (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Seventeen (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Eighteen (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Nineteen (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Twenty (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Twenty-One (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Twenty-Two (#litres_trial_promo) Deadly Treasures (#litres_trial_promo) Acknowledgements (#litres_trial_promo) Note (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter One (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Two (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Three (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Four (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Five (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Six (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Twelve (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Thirteen (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Fourteen (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Fifteen (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Sixteen (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Seventeen (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Eighteen (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Nineteen (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Twenty (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Twenty-One (#litres_trial_promo) Fatal Masquerade (#litres_trial_promo) Acknowledgements (#litres_trial_promo) Note (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter One (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Two (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Three (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Four (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Five (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Six (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Twelve (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Thirteen (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Fourteen (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Fifteen (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Sixteen (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Seventeen (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Eighteen (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Nineteen (#litres_trial_promo) Dear Reader (#litres_trial_promo) Keep Reading... (#litres_trial_promo) About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo) A Proposal to Die For Vivian Conroy Acknowledgments (#u2e297a6f-1bef-525c-af71-7924d7d0b982) Thanks to all editors, agents and authors who share insights into the writing and publishing process. A special thanks to my fantastic editor at HQ Digital UK/HarperCollins Victoria Oundjian, for loving Lady Alkmene from the first chapter of A Proposal to Die For – read off Carina’s Will You Marry Me? special call – and to the design team for the amazing cover that reflects the era so well. Note (#ulink_db777920-69d8-533e-b31b-e799a1deeb61) Writing mysteries set in the 1920s, I’m grateful for all online information – think dress, transportation, etiquette and much more – to ensure an authentic period feel. Still, Lady Alkmene’s world remains fictional, including street addresses, establishments and even entire villages of my invention. Chapter One (#ulink_afe2e6ba-5ca6-5245-95c5-fc3fbb531c50) ‘Marry me.’ The whispered words reached Lady Alkmene Callender’s ears just as she was reaching for the gold lighter on the mantelpiece to relight the cigarette in her ivory holder. Freddie used to be a dear and bring her Turkish ones, but since he had been disinherited by his father for his gambling debts, his opportunities to travel had been significantly reduced, as had Alkmene’s stash of cigarettes. These ones, obtained from a tobacconist on Callenburg Square, had the taste of propriety about them that made them decidedly less appetizing than the exotic ones she had to hide from her housekeeper – who always complained the lace curtains got yellowish from the smoke. ‘Marry me,’ the insistent voice repeated, and Alkmene’s gaze wandered from the mirror over the mantelpiece to the table with drinks beside it. Behind that table was a screen of Chinese silk, decorated with tiny figures tiptoeing over bridges between temples and blossoming cherry trees. The voice seemed to emerge from behind the screen. Another voice replied, in an almost callous tone, ‘You know I cannot. The old man would die of apoplexy.’ ‘Not that he doesn’t deserve it. If he died, you’d inherit his entire fortune and we could elope.’ ‘Where to?’ ‘Gretna Green, I suppose. Where else does one elope to?’ Alkmene decided on the spot that the male speaker had a lack of fantasy, which would make him unsuitable for her adventurous mind. If you did elope, you’d better do it the right way, boarding the Orient Express. ‘I mean,’ the female said, in an impatient tone, ‘where would we live, how would we live? Off my fortune I suppose? I don’t think the major would give me a dime.’ ‘What has the major got to do with it? Once the old man is dead and we are married, the money is yours.’ There was a particular interest in money in this young man’s approach that was disconcerting, Alkmene decided, but if the female on the other side of the Chinese silk didn’t notice or care, it was none of her business. ‘Alkmene, dushka…’ Alkmene turned on her heel to find the countess of Veveine smiling up at her from under too much make-up. The tiny Russian princess, who had married down to be with the love of her life, wore a striking dark green gown with a waterfall of diamonds around her neck. Matching earrings almost hung to her shoulders, and a tiara graced her silver hair. ‘I had expected to see you at the theatre last week. Everybody who is somebody was there.’ ‘I was…’ reading up on the fastest-working exotic poisons ‘…detained unfortunately. But I trust you had a pleasant night?’ ‘The new baritone from Greece was a revelation.’ The tiny woman winked. ‘You should meet him some time. Just the right height for you. Never marry a man who is shorter. You will always have to look down on him, and it is never wise to marry a man on whom one must look down.’ Alkmene returned her smile. ‘I will remember that.’ She heard a light scratch of wood and turned her head to see a young woman adjusting the Chinese screen. She wore a bright blue dress and matching diadem, her platinum blonde hair shining under the light of the chandelier. She looked up and caught Alkmene’s eye. ‘The thing always tips over to the side. Would crash the table and destroy all of those marvellous crystal glasses.’ She had a heavy American accent, but Alkmene recognized her voice anyway. It was the woman who had moments ago been discussing her marital prospects and a possible elopement with a man behind the screen. Her accent had been a lot less obvious then. But her reference to the major not giving her ‘a dime’ did suggest she was American. Intrigued, Alkmene came over and said, ‘Let me give you a hand with that. It is huge.’ She glanced behind the screen, but there was nothing to be seen. Nobody – hardly room enough for two persons to stand. If she wasn’t perfectly sure she had heard the conspiring voices, she’d have deemed it impossible. She pretended to test the screen’s stability by grabbing the top and pulling at it. ‘It seems solid enough to me.’ The young lady smiled at her. ‘Why, thank you, much obliged. A drink perhaps?’ She had already gestured to a waiter to bring them fresh glasses of champagne. Outside a car horn honked, and someone lifted the curtain to look out and see who was arriving so late to the party. Alkmene didn’t have to look to know. Self-made millionaire Buck Seaton liked to be noticed wherever he arrived. No doubt upon his entrance he’d be hollering about a terrible traffic jam in Piccadilly, to make sure he could spend the next hour talking about his new automobile. It would probably be American, like this young lady by her side. As the blonde handed her a glass of bubbles, Alkmene said, ‘How do you like London? Have you been here long?’ ‘Just a few weeks.’ The blonde took a sip of her champagne, careful not to smudge her bright red lipstick. The colour might be cheap on another, but with her it underlined her stark classic beauty. As of a silver screen icon. Alkmene said, ‘There is a wonderful exhibition right now in a renowned art gallery on Regent Street.’ ‘I’ve already been there,’ the blonde said with a weak smile. ‘My uncle is an admirer of art. Sculptures, paintings. He even said he might hire someone to have my portrait done. A bit old-fashioned if you ask me. I’d rather have him hire me a star photographer. In the time I’d have to sit still for a portrait he could have taken my picture a hundred times. And not in front of some dull old bookcase either, but balancing on the railing of London Bridge.’ At Alkmene’s stunned expression the other woman burst into heartfelt laughter. There was commotion at the door as Buck Seaton emerged, still wearing the preposterous goggles he always used when driving an open automobile. Pulling them off, he stretched his already impressive height to look around the room and spotted the blonde. ‘Evelyn!’ He waved the goggles in the air. The blonde’s face lit at once, and she took a hurried leave, readjusting her long gloves as she made her way over to the millionaire. He leaned over confidently, kissing her on the cheek and speaking to her in an urgent manner. ‘I saw her last week at the theatre,’ the countess said in a pensive tone. ‘She was with a much older man.’ ‘Must be the uncle she just mentioned to me,’ Alkmene said. ‘The art lover. You did not know him?’ The countess shook her head. ‘He has never been introduced to me. I actually thought they must both have been new to London for I had never seen either of them before and I do see people everywhere, you know. It was very odd. They came when the performance had already begun and they left during the break.’ ‘Maybe they just didn’t like the singing,’ Alkmene concluded. The countess shook her head. ‘It was not the performance. I think there was an argument in their box. A young man arrived, and there was a heated discussion.’ Ah. The countess had been training her opera glasses on the other boxes instead of on the stage. Alkmene also found it difficult to concentrate on sung love triangles for long stretches, even if the baritone was a tall dark Greek. ‘This young man, can he have been her fianc? or something?’ She was still curious about the man who had been with the blonde behind the Chinese screen just now. Elopement rather suggested the relationship was illicit, but who knew, he might be a long-suffering fianc? who finally wanted to marry the girl and be done with it. The countess’s fine brows drew together in concentration. ‘I do not think so. The old man seemed very surprised to see him – and upset. I think almost…startled. Like he had seen a man returned from the dead.’ Alkmene hitched a brow. ‘Returned from the dead? You mean, like he didn’t want to meet him?’ ‘No, literally.’ The countess waved a breakable hand covered with a thin web of green veins. ‘Like he had seen someone whom he believed to be dead and all of a sudden he was there, in his life again. Making demands on him.’ Alkmene pursed her lips. ‘That sounds rather intriguing. I wish I had been there, and could have seen them for myself.’ Their gestures during the argument, or just the clothes of the unexpected arrival, could have told her so much. Leaning over eagerly, she asked, ‘This man returned from the dead, was he a gentleman, well dressed, in place there, or rather different? A foreigner perhaps?’ ‘He was young, tall, broad in the shoulders. Well dressed, but not rich, if you know what I mean. Not like all of those sons of earls and dukes, running about.’ The countess sounded so deprecating that Alkmene had to laugh. ‘They are not all bad, you know.’ The countess waved a hand. ‘Ah, but they have never had to work for anything, long for anything, strive for it with all of their energy. They have it all; they get things with a flick of the hand. It doesn’t make men of them. Oh…’ She suddenly focused across the room and said, waving past Alkmene, ‘There is a dear friend I must see. Take care. Greet your father from me.’ Alkmene did not take the trouble to explain her father was off again on one of his botanical quests, this time to India, and was not expected to be back before Michaelmas. The idea of all those weeks of delicious luxurious freedom beckoned her, and with a smile she reached for another glass of champagne. Two days later, over toast with Cook’s excellent prune preserve, Alkmene unfolded the morning paper, still pristine as her father was not there to smudge it with egg yolk and bacon grease while he studied the social column so he could send attentions for weddings and births and always appear to be an engaged gentleman instead of a hermit who only knew the Latin names of plants. He was so good at hiding his social deficiencies that people kept sending him invitations to balls and soir?es he had stopped attending two decades ago. In his defence it had to be said that Alkmene usually pinched the envelopes from out between his other letters as soon as the post came in. Her father was a dear but a disaster in the wild, and he preferred the company of his microscope and his mould specimens anyway. On page 2 a heading read: Banker dies in accident. Unexpected death always had an unhealthy appeal to Alkmene, and she perused the few lines underneath with great interest. ‘Yesterday morning around eight Mr Silas Norwhich, a former banker, was discovered dead by his manservant in his library, apparently having fallen and struck his head on the rim of the hearth the night before. As it had been the servants’ night off, nobody had noticed the incident until the next morning. ‘A widower with no children, Mr Norwhich lived a very secluded life, focusing solely on his substantial art collection. The collection, containing masterpieces from Rembrandt, Van Gogh, Monet and Rodin, will now pass to his only heir: his niece, the actress Evelyn Steinbeck, recently come in from New York City, where she is a rising star on Broadway. ‘Miss Steinbeck wasn’t home at the time of the accident and has been treated by a doctor for nervous shock.’ It was rather a short and poor piece, lacking any form of useful information about the death, but Alkmene forgot the prune preserve and studied the text as if it contained the vital clues to the whereabouts of a gold mine.Buck Seaton had called the young woman who had appeared from behind the screen the other night Evelyn. She had spoken with an American accent and admitted she had only been in London for a few weeks. She had also mentioned an uncle who was an art lover. The countess, who had seen the blonde at the theatre, had mentioned her being there with an older man who was not known to her socially, which fit with the newspaper’s assertion that the murdered man had lived a very secluded life. Apparently until his vivacious niece from New York had arrived. He had wanted to have her portrait painted and had taken her out to the theatre. Not that Evelyn Steinbeck seemed to have appreciated the trouble her uncle took for her. She had spurned the portrait in favour of photographs. Of her balancing on the railing of London Bridge no less. A testimony to a daring character, taking risks rather than fitting the mould. And her talk of the old man and him dying of apoplexy behind the screen had been callous, almost cruel. Like she wanted to get rid of excess weight. Alkmene stared into the distance. Evelyn had discussed her uncle’s death with a man, and lo and behold, two days later he was dead and she would inherit his art collection. Judging by the mention of some of the pieces it contained, it had to be worth a fortune. An excellent motive for murder. But what about the young intruder into the theatre who had given the old man such a fright? The argument between them had been the cause for the old man to leave the performance early. Out of fear? Had the intruder followed him to see where he lived? Killed him when he had been alone? It had been the servants’ night off so if somebody had rung the bell, the old man would have answered the door himself. Alkmene narrowed her eyes. A push, a fall and no one around to see a thing… With a beautiful, manipulative heiress and an intimidating stranger part of this story, there had to be something more behind the ‘accidental’ death. It warranted further investigation. She left her breakfast for what it was, already shrugging out of her purple embroidered dressing gown while still climbing the stairs. There was no place like the Waldeck tea room to catch some gossip about a sudden death. Chapter Two (#ulink_52d66f8a-3c59-5e9b-863c-6b275f0ea6f3) Alkmene entered the Waldeck tea room through the double doors with elaborate glass-in-lead overhead. The sunshine piercing the coloured glass conjured up a mosaic of rainbows on the wall above the counter filled with pastries. Customers ordered their pie of choice there and carried it to their table where a waiter served them with tea or coffee from delicate china cups decorated with the tea room’s trademark roses. As Alkmene let her eye wander across the mouth-watering offerings, her ears picked up on the light laughter of the countess of Veveine. The Russian princess visited the tea room every day but Sundays, taking a seat by the window where she could watch people go by and putting her order on her ever-growing bill. With the money she could spend, she could have several pies, but she always took the pavlova, a special creation by the French chef Maurice. Alkmene wasn’t entirely sure if the pavlova was that good, or Maurice would be mortally insulted if the countess didn’t order it. As a typical chef with a fierce pride in what he did, he didn’t allow anybody to slight his creations and it was whispered he had even refused to do a big banquet at an earl’s New Year’s party after the earl’s wife had made a comment about his mayonnaise. ‘I’ll have the Schwarzw?lder Kirsch.’ Alkmene smiled at the young woman behind the counter who ably manoeuvred a gleaming steel spatula underneath the largest piece and transferred it onto a plate. Carrying the masterpiece carefully down the two steps leading into the tea room’s main room, Alkmene pretended to be engrossed and unaware of the countess’s presence. In reality she was sure the woman had already seen her come in and would call out to her the moment she put her foot on the black-and-white inlaid floor. But nothing happened. Surprised, Alkmene glanced at the window table, seeing the countess, in a deep purple gown with matching stones in her necklace and bracelet, sitting and leaning over to a handsome man with a shock of black hair, rather too long to be decent. The countess’s companion, an elderly woman who never stopped knitting, sat over her work, head down, needles clicking furiously, her demure fervour a silent reproach against her mistress’s behaviour. Alkmene had to agree the countess’s cheeks were suspiciously red and her laughter was high-pitched with excitement. The man looked up from the countess, straight at Alkmene. He had dark, probing eyes in a face exposed to rather too much sunshine. His suit was an unobtrusive dark blue, but the sunshine sparkled on the gold cuff links. Alkmene bet his shoes would turn out to be handmade, of the finest leather. A man who liked to treat himself. A self-made millionaire like Buck Seaton perhaps, looking for titled friends to add the lustre of old names to the shine of his fortune. People like him would buy their way into the peerage if they could. Always reluctant to be used to any purpose, Alkmene put her plate down on an empty table and took the time to strip off her immaculate gloves. Keeping her back straight the way her nanny had told her a thousand times, she scanned the other side of the room for an acquaintance who might enlighten her about Mr Silas Norwhich’s unfortunate ‘accident’. After all, that was what she was here for. But already there were light footfalls behind her, and the countess’s companion put a hand on her arm. ‘Come,’ she said in such a heavy accent that the word was almost unrecognizable. ‘Come!’ Alkmene picked up the plate again and followed the scurrying figure to the countess’s table. The waiter who had just appeared to take her order came dutifully along, staying one pace behind her. The countess waved at him. ‘More tea for all of us. Sit down, Alkmene. We were just having the most interesting conversation. This young man is telling me everything about the terrible disaster with the SS Athena.’ Alkmene shot him a quick glance as she seated herself. She had only read about the disaster, but the account had raised a number of pertinent questions in her mind. Especially about the part played by those members of the crew who had survived while so many of the passengers had not. She asked, ‘You were on the ship when it sank?’ He shook his head. ‘I have been talking to survivors.’ The countess leaned over. ‘Did you know that there have been rumours the captain survived because he fled, while he should have stayed in his place? It is terrible that people have no sense of integrity any more. In the old days people would rather have died in the armour, as you English say, than live on having run away.’ ‘I suppose one does odd things when one looks death in the eye,’ the man said. He studied Alkmene with a critical intensity that made her wince. She hadn’t put on her best clothes because she had not been sure where her quest would take her. If it should be to the lunchroom where secretaries and the like had their lunches, she wanted to blend in, not stand out like a spoiled rich lady who had mistaken the establishment. It was exciting to go undercover, play somebody else, somebody astute and able, who was not forever invited for her family name. But for this man her clothes didn’t appear to be rich enough for Waldeck’s. He probably didn’t consider her worth his time, if he was here to hunt for loaded ladies who felt flattered by the attentions of a much younger man. Admittedly, the countess was married and would never be unfaithful to the love of her life, but she might give this young man some money if he told her in deep earnest about something he wanted, a dream he had already worked hard for. Last summer one of Father’s countryside acquaintances had found out that his sister had lent a substantial sum of money to a smooth-talking young man who had found a gold mine in Africa and only needed the money to mine it. Needless to say, he had vanished with the money – never to be heard of again. The gullible woman had been so mortified she had left her gossiping friends behind for a stay with a friend in Rome. Alkmene agreed with her that if you had to rethink your own stupidity, it could best be done in the Mediterranean sun. The waiter brought a cup for her and filled it with a deliciously aromatic tea. Alkmene detected a hint of lavender and some other sweet fragrance she couldn’t quite identify. She wanted to ask about it, determined to buy it for her own collection at home, but the countess forestalled her by placing a delicate hand on Alkmene’s arm, while saying to the well-dressed man, in a conspiratorial tone, ‘Mr Dubois, you must tell Alkmene what you have discovered so far.’ Alkmene hitched a brow at Mr Dubois. He shrugged, looking at the countess. ‘I told you, madame, that I am still gathering evidence and that I am not yet in a position to lay blame at anybody’s door.’ Alkmene narrowed her eyes at the choice of words. ‘Are you with the police?’ Dubois tilted his head back and laughed. ‘Fortunately not. In some cases they are my worst enemies.’ ‘Cases?’ Alkmene picked up her teacup. ‘So you do investigate matters. More like a consulting detective?’ Perhaps she could engage him to gather some information for her on the man returned from the dead? She had no idea how else one engaged a detective, except by advertising for one, but if her father ever found out about that, he’d burst a vessel. The countess’s Russian companion seemed to have perked up at the word police. Although she was still knitting like her life depended on it, her face was scrunched up in a typical listening expression. But the countess had emphasized time and time again to Alkmene and anybody else who wanted to hear that the woman only spoke Russian and didn’t understand anything of whatever was said around her. Where the countess took the greatest care never to gossip when a servant was around, she considered the presence of this supposedly ignorant woman perfectly safe. ‘Mr Dubois,’ the countess said in the excited tone of a debutante on the eve of her first ball, ‘is a journalist. He has written for papers in Paris.’ Paris was by far the countess’s favourite city, where she had also spent her honeymoon. Whenever she mentioned it, her eyes lit up, and her whole face flushed with happy memories. Alkmene had to admit Paris was probably one of her own dream destinations for a little trip, but saying that right now might look like she was inviting herself. She gave the man another glance. ‘You are French?’ ‘Half.’ ‘Father French, mother English?’ Alkmene conjectured based on his foreign last name. ‘Did they meet on the Riviera? I have heard it is quite the must-see.’ In fact, when one happened to be in Paris and had a fast car at one’s disposal, one could easily pop down to the Riviera for a spell, Freddie had told her. If he hadn’t wasted his entire inheritance at the card table, he might have taken her some time. Perhaps she should be grateful for the card debacle, as Freddie might have gotten it into his head to propose to her, and the whole trip would have been spoiled by her rejection. Not that Freddie was in love with her or anything. They had always just been friends, meeting at the races or the theatre, sharing a laugh and a joke, and forming the ideal object of a lot of gossip about the possibilities if they ever became engaged. It was no secret Freddie was desperate to land a rich heiress, and venomous tongues agreed that Alkmene, at her age and with her temper, should be happy any man wanted her at all. Alkmene just hoped that Freddie would be smarter than to ever propose to her, on the Riviera or wherever, as he was such a sore loser that after her resounding NO! he’d no doubt be sulking for three months. Mr Dubois didn’t seem enticed by the Riviera either. He looked out of the window, even shifting position in his chair to catch a better view of something out there. Alkmene would have thought it rather rude, had not something in his expression convinced her there was something really worthwhile to see. The countess also tried to catch a glimpse of the object of his interest. ‘Ah. It is her.’ She focused on Alkmene, adding, ‘The woman who caused such a commotion at the theatre. You saw her at the party, busy with that…’ she looked for the appropriate word ‘…screen?’ Alkmene nodded. ‘Isn’t she called Evelyn Steinbeck?’ Dubois glanced at her. ‘The American actress, yes. You know her?’ Alkmene shrugged. ‘Casually. What is she doing here this morning? Art perhaps?’ Dubois glanced at her again, sharper this time. ‘What has she told you about the art?’ Alkmene didn’t think it prudent to admit Evelyn hadn’t told her a thing, about any subject. Apparently her knowledge of Evelyn Steinbeck made her interesting to Dubois, and on her part she wanted to know what he knew about the actress and her dead uncle. She said casually, ‘Just that it is one of the best collections in the country. Rembrandt, Van Gogh, Rodin.’ She was just repeating what she had read in the paper an hour ago, but Dubois nodded seriously. ‘I wanted to interview him about his collection. He managed to get his hands on some very wanted pieces. It was hard getting through to him though. Lived like a hermit, hardly showing his face anywhere. And when he did appear, he shied away from strangers like they were rabid dogs.’ ‘Strangers, or just reporters?’ Alkmene asked, holding Dubois’s gaze. ‘The press doesn’t always have a good name.’ ‘I don’t see what harm there is in a nice piece about someone’s art collection,’ Dubois countered with a tight expression. The countess interrupted, saying in a thoughtful tone, ‘It looks like she is taking up residence there. So many suitcases.’ Quickly Alkmene slipped into an empty seat to catch a view of the street. On the other side the Hotel Metropolitan’s uniformed porters carried a dozen suitcases through the open double doors. A familiar statuesque figure with blonde hair catching the sunshine stood watching everything with a critical intensity. Evelyn Steinbeck, fleeing the murder scene… The countess said, ‘I have heard the Metropolitan’s mattresses are quite good, but their bread is bad. All English bread is, by the way. You cannot bake bread like the Russians can.’ ‘But does it relate to the murder?’ Alkmene wondered out loud as she scooted back into her old place. At the word murder the countess’s companion knocked over her teacup. Chapter Three (#ulink_c9b505a7-ecc5-5199-880b-d6195610a955) Although almost empty, a stream of brown liquid flowed over the table’s crisp white damask cover. The woman raised her hands and whimpered in what could be Russian curses or supplications to the saints from the gold-rimmed icons. Dubois pulled out his handkerchief and pushed it on the wet spot. The countess clicked her tongue and said, ‘You shouldn’t be so clumsy, Oksana Matejevna. The whole room is looking at you.’ The woman continued to make high-pitched sounds of regret and frustration while tugging the handkerchief from Dubois’s hand and dabbing herself. That hand, with a small scar on the thumb and the deep tan matching his face, didn’t seem that of someone chained to a typewriter in an office, but of an adventurous sailor who had travelled the seven seas. A bit of jealousy stabbed Alkmene as she imagined Dubois undercover for some story in an exciting foreign city like Venice, hiding in a dark alley and watching the front of an antique palazzo where stolen art would be delivered after nightfall. She bet Dubois had an interest in the dead man’s art collection because he was investigating some big case. Perhaps theft of art from some museum by thieves who worked for a private collector? Not everybody got the objects of their desire by honest means. Ah. Men got to do all the fun things while women were supposed to stay at home because their lungs were weak, or something. ‘Murder, you said?’ Dubois asked with a probing look at her. ‘I thought the untimely death of Evelyn Steinbeck’s uncle was an accident.’ ‘That is what the paper said. A fall on the rim of the hearth. But as nobody was home at the time it happened, we can’t be sure he really fell, can we?’ Dubois held her gaze. ‘Meaning?’ Alkmene hitched a brow. ‘Isn’t it a coincidence he slips and falls and dies on the very night when all the servants have their night off? I don’t suppose it is hard to figure out what night that is, if you just keep an eye on the household for a while.’ She added almost as an afterthought, ‘Or know the routine from the inside, to begin with.’ Dubois leaned back in his chair. ‘You are suspecting a member of the household of involvement?’ Alkmene wasn’t about to make wild accusations. Stories could go and live a life of their own and an innocent person could get in trouble. Sipping her tea, she took a moment to compose her thoughts, then said with a nod at the window, ‘Now that Mr Norwhich is dead and you can’t interview him any more, I suppose you are interested in writing up Ms Steinbeck’s life story? It has to be tragic. I bet her parents died when she was young, she had to fend for herself and now that she has found some fame on the stage and wants to find family, her uncle, her only living relative, has died too. Maybe the newspapers can even turn it into some curse story that the masses will gobble up?’ She gestured in the air in front of her, like unrolling a banner text. ‘Family curse strikes again.’ The Russian companion dropped the damp handkerchief and slumped in her seat, saying something to the countess in an angry tone. The countess said something in return, first soothing, then scolding. She smiled apologetically at Alkmene. ‘Russian country people are terribly superstitious, dushka. They believe that the mere mention of death brings bad luck. She doesn’t want to sit with us while we discuss murder.’ Oksana Matejevna pushed her knitting into a large embroidered bag and stood, her chin up, her eyes staring into the distance. The countess gave her a short instruction, and the woman padded off. ‘I have sent her ahead to the dressmaker’s,’ the countess explained. ‘She is far too nervous to endure this.’ Alkmene smiled at her, then returned her attention to Dubois. ‘You were saying…’ ‘No, you were saying something. Something interesting. The house was empty that night, and the killer, if there was one, might have known that.’ Alkmene nodded. ‘The newspaper article was very low on facts. I’d like to know for instance whether the library door was locked on the inside or not when the manservant tried to enter in the morning. If any visitors called that night, if there were traces of a struggle in the room…’ Dubois nodded appreciatively, but his voice was level when he said, ‘I assume the police have full details, but are not eager to divulge those to the public.’ ‘And there is no way to find out what they know?’ His silence said it all. He had such ways. He did know things about the circumstances surrounding the death. Already! Again she was jealous of him because he had sources, access to people who would tell him things they’d never tell to her. She was a woman, a lady at that. She was supposed to worry about ostrich feathers, not about murder. Or stolen art? Dubois was looking out of the window again, probably at the hotel’s front. She could hardly change seats again to see what distracted him now, so she remained on her chair, upright. She put her next question in a somewhat demanding tone, to pull his attention back to her. ‘You have access to police information?’ He kept staring into the street. ‘I do, but I don’t need them. Street informers are much more reliable.’ ‘Doesn’t it sound exciting?’ the countess gushed. Her cheeks reddened, an obvious sign she wasn’t in the least bothered by any superstition about death. Indeed, she scooted to the edge of her seat and sat with her hands on the table, watching Dubois with her sharp little eyes like a robin’s. ‘Tell me, have you ever been in danger, for your life?’ ‘It is not a game,’ Dubois said. He was not looking at the countess, but at Alkmene, almost as if he was trying to warn her. She pretended not to notice and took a large bite of her pie that had mainly gone unnoticed so far. Dubois said, ‘I hope the coroner can figure out how a healthy man takes a tumble in his own library and is suddenly dead.’ ‘Well, some people do seem to suffer from egg-shell skull,’ Alkmene said round another large bite of chocolate cake with whipped cream and kirsch filling. ‘They are born with a skull that is thin and breakable, but nobody knows it until some fatal day when they either fall or are hit by something… There are several recorded cases of it where just a slight contact could lead to severe damage and even death.’ Dubois hitched a brow at her. ‘How would you have access to such recorded cases? Is your father or brother perhaps involved with the courts?’ She would have to have heard via a male contact of course. Like women couldn’t figure out anything on their own! The countess tittered. ‘Oh, no, Alkmene is a real lady. She has not stolen her English title like me, by marriage, but has inherited it from a straight line going all the way back to the days of William the Conqueror. Her father can tell you all about it.’ Dubois’s jaw set. He emptied his cup in a single draught and stood. ‘You ladies must excuse me. I have other things to do. Good day.’ And he slammed his hat on his head and walked off. The countess waited until he had left the tea room, then shot up straight. ‘Oh, dear me, now I have forgotten to return this.’ She pointed at Dubois’s damp handkerchief left on the table where it had soaked up Oksana Matejevna’s spilled tea. ‘Be a dear and run after him to give it back. You are young and can do it, not me.’ Alkmene would normally have declined any errand that involved running after haughty newspapermen, but Dubois seemed to know more about the death of Silas Norwhich, the art collection, and the wily niece, now sole heir. That might be worth looking into. So for the sake of the case only, she put on her gloves, picked up the handkerchief and left the countess to finish her tea and pie alone. Also to pay the bill, coincidentally. Her father had left money with the household staff to make sure she was provided for in his absence, giving her only a small allowance to get by. That could better be spent on information than on chocolate cake. Outside Alkmene looked down the street in one direction, not seeing Dubois’s tall straight back anywhere. She turned her head and sought him in the other direction. Nothing either. He could not have gone far… Had he hailed a cab and dived into it so quickly she had missed him? Suddenly her eyes focused on the hotel on the other side of the street. Of course. He had said he had other things to do… She bet they involved an attractive American heiress who had been very quick to leave the house where her uncle had died a tragic death. At her hands? Dubois had asked if she suspected someone in the household of involvement in a tone that suggested he could hardly believe it. But she bet he had not missed the fact that Evelyn Steinbeck would inherit her uncle’s entire fortune. Including his coveted art collection. Alkmene crossed the street, avoiding a heavy laden brewery wagon, and smiled at the hotel porters as if she came here every day. She wished she had put on her better clothes anyway, because first-rate hotels could be picky about admitting just anybody and she had no wish to be asked, however discreetly, to leave. Inside she breathed in the scent of the thick carpets, well-waxed oak furniture and fresh flowers that had just been put on the tables in the lobby. A chambermaid in a crisp black and white ensemble was rearranging a stem here and there, lingering as if she didn’t want to return to the heavier duties upstairs: cleaning rooms and making beds. The hushed silence as of a giant old library forced Alkmene to progress with slow steps, avoiding any harsh ticking of her hard-soled shoes. Dubois had probably taken the elevator upstairs to search for the heiress’s suite. Then a hand arrested her arm, and she was whooshed behind a palm. Gasping in indignation, she stared up into the hard features and dark eyes of Dubois. ‘What are you doing here?’ he hissed. Wordlessly Alkmene held up his stained handkerchief. He wanted to take it from her, but she pulled back. ‘Tea stains can be tricky. I suppose you have no one to launder for you?’ He huffed. ‘My landlady, but she has already ruined one of my best shirts with her starch.’ ‘Then let me launder it for you and return it to you later this week.’ She wanted to know where he lived so she could get in touch with him later. He was the closest thing to a detective she had right now and she was not about to let him walk away. He gave her a patronizing little smile. ‘I bet you do not launder. I bet you do not even know how to launder. Or how to cook.’ ‘You’d be surprised,’ Alkmene retorted, although painfully aware she had no idea how her stained skirts from gardening or her blouse with inkblots got clean again. Cook’s niece did the laundering, a nice woman with freckles and too many children crammed into a little house on a back alley. If the stains were particularly difficult, Alkmene made sure to give some extra money to Cook to pass on and she had always felt that was about as much as she needed to know about the process. Now this man made it sound like a crime that she didn’t know how to get this handkerchief cleaned up herself. Probably a communist dead set against English aristocracy. Believed everybody should live on the kolkhoz and share all the work and income equally. But cleaning his handkerchief had to be simple enough, and she would prove it to him. ‘You will get it back, cleaned by my own hands,’ she promised. The corners of his mouth jerked up as if he was about to smile for real, but then he increased the pressure on her arm and pulled her further back. ‘What the…’ Alkmene spluttered and then fell silent with pure surprise. There in the lobby of the grand Metropolitan hotel was Oksana Matejevna, speaking to a bellboy who looked about him furtively as he breathed answers. ‘Either that bellboy happens to be fluent in Russian,’ Dubois said in a low voice beside her, ‘or our dear superstitious country lady speaks better English than she pretends to do.’ ‘I could have sworn she was soaking up every word we said,’ Alkmene responded in a half grim tone. ‘What on earth is she doing here, asking questions?’ ‘I suppose she is after the same person we all are,’ Dubois said pensively. Alkmene stared in fascination as the mousy Russian woman fished a coin from her purse – probably her employer’s money too! – and handed it to the bellboy who accepted it with another guilty glance around him. Then, satisfied it had been unobserved, he stepped away from her and resumed his duties. Oksana Matejevna walked to the exit, her head held high, and disappeared into the brisk morning. Alkmene snapped to it and focused on Dubois. ‘The same… You mean, Evelyn Steinbeck? The dead man’s heiress?’ Dubois nodded. ‘Oksana had a chance like all of us to see her go in here. She must have made up that excuse of being so scared about talk of death and murder to be able to leave ahead of the countess and come in here to bribe that bellboy into giving her information.’ Alkmene chewed her lower lip. ‘Or the countess instructed her to do it. I do not understand Russian so I am not sure what she said to her exactly before she left. You?’ Dubois stood staring at the floorboards, deep in thought. She touched his arm. ‘Are you sure the countess sent her to the dressmaker’s?’ Dubois shook his head. ‘But if she had instructed her to go here, she would have said something like American actress, or Steinbeck, or hotel, other side of the street. I know enough Russian to have caught her out, I’m sure.’ Alkmene sucked in a breath. ‘So Oksana Matejevna came here of her own accord. Apparently wanting to know more about Evelyn Steinbeck. That makes no sense. If Ms Steinbeck is indeed an American actress, what on earth can a Russian maid want to do with her?’ Dubois shrugged. ‘Communists are everywhere. Maybe Ms Steinbeck came here to get in touch with fellow comrades.’ ‘And when her uncle found out about her uh…political disposition and disapproved of it, she pushed him, so he fell on the hearth rim and died?’ Alkmene shook her head. ‘That sounds a bit far-fetched to me. I’d like to know who the man is who returned from the dead.’ ‘Who?’ Dubois’s eyes sparked with interest. Alkmene knew she could only bait him if she dangled the information just out of his reach. ‘I overheard some interesting tidbits at a party I attended earlier this week. That is why I just knew when I read about Mr Norwhich’s death in the paper that it was not an accident. He must have been pushed. Maybe the intention wasn’t to kill him, but just to make a point? Or it happened in an argument, a flare of temper.’ Dubois held her gaze, waiting for her to go on and explain herself. Alkmene said cautiously, ‘I suppose you also have your reasons for looking closer?’ Dubois shrugged. ‘I wanted to interview him about his art. He was suspicious of anyone approaching him. At the time I merely thought he was eccentric. But now that he is dead, I wonder if he was afraid.’ Alkmene nodded. ‘He must have been.’ Dubois said softly, ‘But if he was afraid, why did he open the door to his killer?’ Alkmene stared at him. ‘You are certain he let the killer in? So he wasn’t all alone in the house that night.’ Dubois shrugged again. ‘The police can question the same people I talked to. I suppose they will then hear the same things.’ ‘You questioned people? Who? People in the street perhaps, neighbours or some peddler who was around?’ Dubois grinned. ‘Getting warmer.’ Alkmene tilted her head. ‘Someone saw a man coming to that house on the night of the death. Tall, broad in the shoulders.’ Dubois stood very still. ‘How do you know his physique?’ She shrugged. ‘Because it fits with what I heard at the party. An incident that happened just a few days before Silas Norwhich died. It must be related.’ She waited a few moments to sustain the suspense. ‘I can tell you of course, but then I want in on everything you already know.’ She was certain Dubois would jump at this chance, but he laughed softly. ‘That hardly seems like a fair exchange. What can a bit of high society gossip give me?’ ‘Not gossip. Facts. But if you feel that way, fine.’ She stepped away from him. Why try to work with somebody who had a head full of prejudice about her class and probably also her sex? She added, ‘You had other things to do, you said? Good day then, Mr Dubois.’ She turned on her heel. His demanding voice halted her. ‘When will I get my handkerchief back?’ Alkmene stood, not looking back at him. Upon returning his handkerchief, she might get another chance to convince him that what she knew was valuable. That he had to share what he knew and they might put two and two together. She wouldn’t give up so easily on this chance to investigate a real-life case of suspicious circumstances around a violent death. ‘Where can I reach you?’ ‘I have hired rooms on Meade Street. In case you do not know it…’ Before he could infer she didn’t know a street on the East End, Alkmene held up a hand. ‘Isn’t that where that undertaker used his coffins to smuggle two escaped prisoners right through a police barricade?’ Dubois grinned at her. ‘A sergeant who had been giving me some trouble about a piece I wrote got suspended because of it.’ Alkmene tilted her head. ‘Of course you wouldn’t have known one thing about it.’ ‘Only after the fact. Had I known before, that would have made me an accomplice.’ Alkmene laughed. ‘Somehow, Mr Dubois, I don’t think you would mind.’ She walked to the exit, calling over her shoulder, ‘I will be in touch when I’m done with those tea stains.’ Chapter Four (#ulink_87973a82-a02f-53ed-8ea8-09ea55e5f6e2) ‘By George,’ Alkmene exclaimed. Sweat beaded on her forehead from the heat rising from the hot water in front of her. It was Cook’s day off, so Alkmene had her realm – the kitchen and pantry – all to herself. She had come in humming, assured that she’d have this little thing settled in no time. Green soap cleaned anything, after all. But the green soap had just left ugly rims around the tea stains. So she had thrown the whole thing into hot water mixed with soda, and then put it on the washing board to work it with the pig hair brush Cook used to clean the sink. Dubois had probably envisioned that some muscle was needed to get it clean and had smirked at her because of it. But he had no idea how strong she really was. Working the washboard like it was the arrogant Dubois underneath her hands, instead of merely his innocent handkerchief, Alkmene pushed on with gritted teeth, until she believed it should have worked. And indeed, when lifting the brush, she found the stains were gone. So was most of the fabric. Suppressing something stronger than by George! Alkmene lifted the handkerchief to the light flooding in through the large window. She could see right through some sections. Either Dubois bought a cheap variety of linen, or she knew even less of laundry doing than he had tauntingly suggested. Mopping the sweat off her brow with her sleeve, Alkmene surveyed what was now best called a rag. Her reputation was on the line here. She’d never admit to that arrogant reporter that she had ruined his property. He’d never stop laughing at her. No. There was only one solution. Find an exact duplicate and pass it off as the old one. With the soggy handkerchief remains in her purse, Alkmene made for the man’s attire store where her father was a regular and well-respected customer. Normally the walk, the traffic around her, the nannies pushing prams with babies and calling out to naughty toddlers, would clear her mind and give her a brisk energy for the day, but now she was just anxious to find her replacement and ensure she’d suffer no loss of face. Once inside the store, she asked the clerk if she could speak to him in the back room about a delicate matter. Thinking she had some complaint to make about her father’s purchases there, the anxious man immediately led her into privacy, where she produced the remains of her laundry experiment and explained she needed to have the exact same thing. ‘But it cannot look too new, you understand, or the whole scheme will be obvious.’ The clerk frowned at her. ‘So you want a new handkerchief that looks…used.’ He uttered the last word as if it was absolute horror to him, but Alkmene nodded enthusiastically. ‘Exactly. I will be back tomorrow to pick it up. You can keep this as specimen of what it should be. And please remember: my father is a very satisfied customer and he wants to stay that way.’ The clerk took this statement for the subtle threat it was meant to be and accompanied her to the door, all the way shaking his head and muttering to himself. Alkmene was glad Michaelmas was still a long way off and her father would never hear a thing about this. It wouldn’t bode well for her if he got round to asking why she brought in ruined gentleman’s handkerchiefs that were clearly not his. In the street Alkmene sighed with relief. ‘Shopping?’ a voice said behind her back, and she almost jumped two feet off the pavement. ‘Oh, uh…’ The flush raging into her cheeks made her even madder than Dubois’s stealthy approach. ‘Do you always scare ladies in the street?’ ‘Always,’ Dubois said with a twinkle in his eye. He surveyed the front of the store as if he knew what she had been doing in there. Alkmene started to walk away from it as fast as she could. ‘My father needed a few new buttons.’ ‘I heard he is in India.’ ‘Yes, but he is very specific about his buttons. He wants them shipped out to him from here.’ ‘By the time those buttons reach him he must be on his way back here,’ Dubois mused, walking by her side with his hands folded on his back. He wore a grey suit this time, as if he wanted to blend in with the city surroundings. Perhaps he was out stalking someone? She had heard reporters did that sometimes to get a story. Alkmene cursed the coincidence that had made him pass the very instant she came from that store, but tried to appear calm. ‘I have no idea when he will be back. If he hears about some hitherto unknown valley, he will put together an expedition on the spot to travel there and find new plants. My father is eccentric that way.’ ‘I suppose he can afford to waste his money.’ Alkmene adjusted her shoulder bag and glanced up at him. ‘Perhaps you think this tinge of bitterness is fashionable, Mr Dubois?’ ‘Is it not true? Has your father really worked one single day in his life? I mean, has he driven a cart, chopped wood, gotten coal out of a mine? Has he delivered beer or vegetables, shown people to their seats, swept pavements or cleaned chimneys?’ ‘Should he have?’ Alkmene retorted. She was familiar with the prejudice against her class and usually it didn’t bother her, as she supposed those people were merely jealous of something they wanted to have themselves and had not. But there seemed to be more to Mr Dubois’s quiet questioning. Dubois tilted his head. ‘I think it is very good for any person, man or woman, to work with their hands to make a living. It shows you how tough life can be when you have none of those privileges given at birth, simply passed on with a last name, without being deserved, or earned.’ His words hit a sore spot as she had asked herself on occasion what of her wealth and reputation was earned, by her own endeavours, and not merely a nice gift handed out at her birth. It did seem important to feel accomplished. To do meaningful things in life. But she merely said, sharply, ‘You are an anarchist.’ Dubois laughed softly, a warm throaty sound. ‘No, I suppose that one does need government and a monarch is just as well as any other form. They all cost money, you know. I am talking about the peerage. All those men who have titles because that is just the way it is. Their children…’ He glanced at her pointedly. Alkmene wanted to open her mouth to say that she was not some overprivileged snob who didn’t know what to do with her hands, but her recent laundry disaster made her reconsider. It was true that if the servants left her to herself, in that big house, there would probably be more ruined things than one fine handkerchief. She stared ahead with an angry frown. Dubois laughed again. ‘Not even a sharp retort, Lady Alkmene? Simply ignoring the poor peasant who doesn’t understand your position?’ ‘I hardly think you are a peasant. That is just the point. You understand the system better than people who say everybody should have the same, and flock to those farms where you are supposed to share everything.’ Dubois chuckled. ‘What is wrong with sharing?’ Alkmene looked at him. ‘Sharing implies a choice. I share of my own free will. When I am forced to share, it’s not sharing any more.’ Dubois didn’t laugh this time. ‘I agree. The peerage should see for themselves that they ought to share what they hold back from the people. But they don’t wish to see it. So maybe somebody should make them.’ ‘Those kinds of ideas led to the French revolution, and aside from a couple of people losing their heads it didn’t solve a whole lot.’ Dubois studied her from the side. ‘Are you always employing that sharp tongue of yours or just when I am around?’ ‘I’m afraid you are not that special.’ It was the truth, as most people who knew her well could testify, and still she was trying to make her point a little harder than she would otherwise. In fact, she could not remember any recent occasion where it had mattered to her much what another being thought of her. Raised by an unconventional father, judged by society as the ‘sad girl without a mother’ or ‘the wild child who doesn’t know any rules’ Alkmene had learned at a young age to close her ears to other people’s opinions of her, and usually she was fine with whatever anybody said or thought about her. It often even amused her to see how ignorant people were or what they thought of people with privilege while they had no idea about that kind of life. But Dubois was for some reason different. His bitterness, she guessed, stemmed from experiences. Experiences that she was curious about, but couldn’t ask about right now. Their brief acquaintance didn’t allow for any personal questions, and she doubted a man like him would want to talk about the past. He had probably fled it all to start over, in a new city, a new country even. Why else leave the glittering lights of beautiful Paris where he had even been writing for several papers? True, with the Olympics drawing to an end, the interest in the accomplishments there died down quickly, but she bet there were other engaging stories to take their place. Why come to London in the first place? ‘So what story are you after today?’ she asked. ‘Is it another undertaker smuggling prisoners?’ ‘One thing you learn in journalism early on,’ Dubois said, ‘is that people do not like to hear the same story twice. You have to come up with new things all of the time.’ That made sense. ‘So what is new today? I suppose you could try and interview Ms Steinbeck about her uncle’s art collection. After all, it is hers now. Perhaps she is not suspicious of strangers and will let you see some of the rarer pieces. You were so interested in it before; you can’t just have given up on it now.’ When Dubois didn’t reply, she looked at him sideways. Dubois stared ahead of them with that focused look that betrayed he was in tracking mode and losing attention for anything but the object of his interest. She found it kind of annoying to be ignored, like she was just dissolving into thin air while she was still walking beside him. On the other hand it was also fascinating. He had the bloodhound instinct needed to succeed in his job, and she might learn something worthwhile from him if she just handled it right. What exactly did he see ahead of them? She spied nothing special. Just the usual telegram delivery boy hurrying along, pushing past gentlemen in deep discussion. ‘Come with me,’ Dubois said suddenly, taking her arm and slipping it through his. Now they were walking like an engaged couple. Alkmene was about to shake him off and give him a piece of her mind, when he made a sharp turn left and took her through double doors into the theatre. The foyer was mostly empty. A man in a dust jacket swept something into a corner. He looked up and blinked at them from behind his heavily rimmed glasses. He was obviously not used to people just walking in there when there was no performance scheduled. Dubois approached him with a ready smile. ‘Lady Alkmene here was at an opera last week and she lost an earring in the box. Would you mind terribly if we had a look around to see if it is still there?’ ‘The floors have been swept,’ the man said. ‘I am sure that…’ ‘It was small and might have vanished into the padding of the seats. I will look; you need not bother. Please do go on with your work. Thank you.’ And without even waiting for the man’s response, Dubois pulled Alkmene along, up the carpeted stairs to the corridor that led into the boxes. ‘I have not been to the opera in ages,’ Alkmene protested. ‘What are we doing here?’ ‘I heard from the countess she saw something interesting that night. I want to know which box was hers, what she could have seen from there.’ Alkmene felt a rush of annoyance that the countess had shared her sighting of the man returned from the dead with Dubois. That had been her ace in the hole. But she should have known that the little lady was so excited about Dubois and his quest that she’d be determined to be involved somehow. She sighed. ‘I told you I was not with her. How should I know in what box she was that night?’ Dubois rolled his eyes at her. ‘One moment. I’ll ask if that man in the foyer knows.’ He left her standing and ran down the stairs, taking them two steps at a time. His easy energy rubbed off on her and instead of thinking this was obnoxious and potentially ruinous for her reputation, Alkmene found herself anticipating a bit of childlike fun. She tried to keep her expression straight, but when Dubois came back up and whispered the number at her with an excited grin, she had to return it and follow him down the corridor to the right curtain. They went in and stood a moment in the half darkness. Way down below lay the stage, empty, and all the rows of seats stretching away from it. Even the chandelier in front of them on the ceiling seemed lifeless without the sparkles on the pendants and the little rainbows when you looked at them through squinted eyes. There was a hushed silence here, as of a house in mourning. Dubois stared to the other side, in concentration as if he pictured the scene that the countess had seen that night. Norwhich and his niece in their box, then a man intruding. An argument… Dubois said, ‘It is too bad that we don’t know the name of the man who came in here that night. But then again, if I just knew who he was and could go ask him what he was doing here, it would be too easy.’ ‘He would probably not tell you the truth anyway.’ Alkmene let her gaze wander around the box. Beside the last seat there was a curtain that had no purpose but was just fashionably draped to hide the separating wall to the next box. Alkmene narrowed her eyes to focus on it. Something about that curtain struck her as strange. She turned her head and looked at the same curtain on the other side of the box. It was longer. Longer? She walked over to the curtain and sat on her haunches. ‘I think this was changed.’ ‘What?’ Dubois asked without looking at her. She ran her hands over the curtain’s edge. It had been folded double and was somehow secured with… ‘Ouch!’ She withdrew her hand, holding it up. Blood beaded on the tip of her index finger. A strong grasp caught her hand, and Dubois leaned over it. He tsk-tsk-ed. ‘Not used to handling needles, are you, my lady?’ ‘I had no idea there was a needle or rather a pin in that curtain,’ Alkmene said. Dubois went to pull out another handkerchief to wrap around the injured limb, but Alkmene just slipped the finger into her mouth and sucked. It was unladylike, but she really had no idea how to get a bloodstain out of cloth and she didn’t want any more hassle with laundry than she already had. Dubois grinned at her. ‘Does it hurt?’ ‘Only when I laugh,’ she muttered sourly. Dubois sat down on his haunches, took the curtain in both hands and turned over the edge. ‘It has been secured here,’ he said. Then he whistled. ‘Not with a simple pin either. Look at this.’ Alkmene leaned down to see what he was trying to get loose from the curtain’s thick fabric. When he moved upwards, their heads almost bashed together. ‘Careful,’ Dubois said, but an inch from her face, ‘or you will sustain even more injury.’ His eyes sparkled as he added, ‘If you happen to have such an egg-shell skull as you told me about the other day, I don’t want to be responsible for cracking it and robbing your family line of the only one who can keep passing on the elect genes.’ Alkmene gave him a weak smile. ‘Very funny. Now show me that pin.’ In the little light that was there Dubois held up something that sparkled golden. Alkmene’s jaw slackened. ‘That is real gold. And those stones…’ Dubois nodded. ‘This brooch is worth more than I make in a couple of years running after assignments.’ ‘More importantly – ’ Alkmene ignored the jibe about money ‘ – what is it doing here securing a curtain? Was it used to create a pouch for documents? An important letter maybe? Code?’ Her mind went wild with possibilities of espionage, and exhilaration filled her brain. They could really be onto something here. But Dubois shook his head. ‘There is nothing else there.’ ‘What? That can’t be. You must have looked with your nose.’ She plunged down onto her knees, grabbing at the curtain. ‘Careful,’ Dubois admonished her. ‘I can’t be certain there aren’t more priceless brooches hidden in there.’ But there were none. No documents either, no letters, no plans to some top secret invention or treaty that could throw all of Europe into war again, unless the two of them prevented it. Nothing. Alkmene rose and brushed dust off her knees. ‘That man downstairs claims it gets cleaned here, but they could do a better job.’ Dubois studied the brooch thoughtfully. ‘Does anything strike you as particular about this piece of jewellery?’ Alkmene shrugged. ‘It is probably pretty valuable.’ He gave her a sharp look. ‘You don’t guard the family jewels at all costs?’ Alkmene laughed softly. ‘My mother had some, and I get to wear them when I have to show off the family wares at some special occasion. But most of the time they are in the safe in Father’s study and nobody cares about them much.’ He huffed. ‘Well, this one must be a family heirloom. It has a mark indicating the purity of the gold and the maker, and I bet we can trace it back to its origins.’ ‘Shouldn’t we just turn it in to that little man sweeping the foyer? We might have found it, but it is not ours to keep.’ ‘I didn’t say I was going to keep it. I intend to find out to whom it belongs. I am really curious why it was fastened here in that way. It didn’t fall off because the clasp came loose or something.’ Dubois studied her with a frown. ‘You were right about the pouch. This brooch was used to form the curtain into a container for something. But whatever it was, it is no longer there.’ Alkmene studied the curtain, which now hung in the normal way again. ‘We have no way of knowing for how long it was this way. Who has been in this box and who could be involved.’ Dubois put the brooch into his pocket and looked around. ‘Nothing else to be found here. We’d better leave again.’ In the foyer the sweeping man asked if they had recovered the lost earring. Alkmene said with a smile that she had and that he had helped them a lot. Dubois led her outside. ‘He is probably now telling himself you would have helped him more if you had given him some money,’ he observed. ‘Why? I would feel like I had bribed him. It would have looked suspicious. I merely looked for my own lost earring. Why give him something for that?’ Dubois shook his head. ‘You have no idea of real life. To grease the wheels of cooperation you have to have ready cash on you for all occasions.’ ‘Well, then you should have given him something,’ Alkmene said. They walked down the street away from the theatre. The bright light formed a sharp contrast to the dimness inside of the building. Her eyes almost hurt. ‘Where will you determine who owns the brooch? I mean, what you said before about gold percentage and maker.’ ‘I’ll do that alone.’ ‘Why? Is it not appropriate for a lady to see?’ Dubois laughed softly. ‘You don’t have to make a point for me. I am well aware of the things you have never seen in your life.’ Alkmene halted. ‘I find your attitude patronizing and unjust. You have never even tried me. How do you know what I would do, how I would react, if I was part of an investigation with you?’ Dubois surveyed her a moment. Then he nodded and hailed a cab. Wait a minute. He was agreeing to take her along? Just like that? Her persuasive powers had to be greater than imagined. The cab halted, and Alkmene got in with a sense of excitement, but also a slight feeling of impending doom, throbbing in her hurt finger. She had about as much an idea of investigative work as she had about laundry. She’d better make sure she didn’t interfere with Dubois’s handling of it, or he’d never again take her anywhere. Chapter Five (#ulink_7607bee4-97ec-5324-9709-a8714aa9fffd) The cab dropped them off on the corner of two streets full of small shops and peddlers trying to sell off their wares. Dubois led the way, her clinging to his side, to avoid the grubby hands reaching out for her. Loud voices screamed from all sides, and a scruffy dog on a rope snapped at her ankle. Fortunately, the rope was just too short for him to get a nibble. His teeth just shut with a vicious clang that echoed as they pushed on. On the corner was a tall building of four storeys. The door was open, and in the hallway was a sweet stench of decay. Or was it something cooking? If it was, it was disgusting. Alkmene pretended to rub her face while keeping her nose shut against the stench. They had to walk up an endless amount of steps spiralling to the top floor. Here and there the steps were so worn she was worried she’d tread right through them and plunge down. Her heart pounded with exertion, and her lungs struggled for air. At the top, at last, Dubois knocked on a battered door. A voice from inside called, ‘Who are you?’ ‘Three for the fisherman and two for the priest.’ Dubois leaned his hand against the door as if he expected this magic formula to open it. It did open a crack, and giving full pressure, Dubois pushed his way in. A small man, hunched forward so his chin rested on his chest all the time, sat on a tall stool at a table, covered in parts. Parts of watches, clocks. Cogwheels and tiny springs and bit and pieces Alkmene had never seen before. He was holding a gentleman’s pocket watch in his hand and trying to take some part out or put it in with tweezers. Alkmene stared in awe at the mess around him. The floor was covered with piles of old books, while the shelves on the left wall held stacks of yellowing papers. A kid no older than six had opened the door, and then scurried back into a corner where he was playing with something… It took her a few moments to realize they were actually tin soldiers, but all the paint had rubbed off. The child squatted on the floor moving his hands with the soldiers up and down and muttering something in his play. His hair was matted with dirt, and his clothes could better be thrown out with the trash. Trying to mend them would be no use as on the knees and elbows the fabric had gone so thin it would tear again the moment it was pulled together with needle and thread. The old man looked up at them. ‘Got catch for me?’ Dubois shrugged. ‘Just something for identification.’ The old man shook his head. ‘You should bring me things I can use, not ask me questions I cannot answer.’ Then his eyes focused on Alkmene. ‘Who is that fine lady? Another client?’ ‘Ah,’ Alkmene said, ‘so you are some sort of consulting detective.’ The old man laughed, so loud the boy looked up from his play, with wide eyes. Apparently he didn’t hear this sound very often. The old man said, ‘The police are there to restore order, or at least so they say. They are like these – cogwheels in a bigger whole. They churn because they are put into motion from the outside and they grind to pieces whatever they catch between them.’ Alkmene shivered, not just because of the bleak reality he painted, but also because of the desolate acceptance of it as a fact of life. This man here had no hope at all that things could be different, better, from what he expected. ‘Now our friend here,’ the old man continued, ‘creates his own world of cogwheels and he thinks he controls them. He digs up dirt and then he is surprised he is finding dead bodies. But when you overturn stones, you find critters creeping out from underneath them.’ ‘Enough platitudes for one day,’ Dubois said gruffly and he tossed the precious brooch at the old man. Deftly, he caught it between his weathered hands. Alkmene winced as she imagined the sharp stab again that the pin had put in her finger. But the old man didn’t seem to feel anything. He studied the work with a gleam in his eyes. ‘Very good. Highest level of craft. Certainly not English. Eastern. Russian maybe.’ ‘Russian?’ Alkmene took a step forward. ‘I have to look up the mark in a book,’ the man said and dropped himself off the stool. He limped over to the piles of books and began to run a finger down the spines, muttering to himself. Alkmene glanced at Dubois, who mouthed, ‘He has got a system.’ Alkmene nodded, not convinced it would actually work. She scanned the room some more. Her gaze kept coming back to the child, playing with the worn-down soldiers. So intently like they were brand new. Probably because he didn’t have anything else. She bit her lip. If Dubois had brought her here of all places, to make a point, he was succeeding better than she had thought possible. As a child she had had so many toys and been bored soon with most of them. She had always wanted a pet, but her father had deemed it caused too much trouble with the servants who would have to clean away hair or worse. Out of spite she had immersed her best doll in the bathtub so the body was ruined, having soaked up too much water. Not to mention the time when she had cut off the beautiful brown curls to give the doll a more fashionable short do. Her nanny had wailed about what such a china doll cost, with her hand-painted face and nails and clothes of real velvet and leather shoes with little laces. This boy had probably never even owned wooden toys. ‘Aha.’ The old man had found the volume he wanted and pulled it out of the stack. It collapsed against another. He leafed through the pages, again discussing his attempt with himself. ‘No, that is not it. No, further. Or maybe… No, not that either.’ Alkmene shuffled her feet. ‘You can sit down,’ Dubois said, nodding at a couch in a corner that looked like it would collapse as soon as anybody sat on it. She wasn’t quite sure about bugs either. Glancing down, she was glad her skirt’s hem was not touching the ground. Maybe she should clean her shoes thoroughly tonight. What had Cook said that helped against critters? Petrol? The old man returned the brooch to Dubois. ‘Most certainly Russian, made by one Sergejev of Saint Petersburg.’ ‘You should call it Leningrad these days,’ Dubois said with a glance at Alkmene. The old man shrugged. ‘I don’t follow those things,’ he said. ‘Saint Petersburg had good goldsmiths, that is all I know and care about.’ He shut the book and dumped it where he stood, returning to his desk with that slow painful limp. He seemed too old to have been wounded in the recent war, but perhaps it had simply been an accident, a fall, that had changed his life for ever. Dubois put the brooch back in his pocket and nodded. ‘’Til next time.’ He directed her to the door. Outside she asked in a whisper, ‘Should you not have paid him? He helped us.’ ‘I know what I am doing.’ He sounded irritated. Pushing his hands deep into his pockets, Dubois went down the stairs, his shoulders pulled up as if he was cold. Alkmene followed him closely. ‘Now that you know it is Russian, what will you do?’ ‘I will think about it. The best thing you can do when things are unclear is wait until they become clearer.’ ‘Somehow that doesn’t sound like your kind of philosophy.’ Alkmene took the last steps, panting. ‘I thought that when you wanted something, you dived right in.’ He looked at her, his face half shadowed in the dim hallway. ‘I did dive right in. I found out about the row at the theatre. I also have dug up more information about the dead man’s body: when it was found, and his financial situation. Did you find anything new?’ No, she had not found out anything more, mostly because she was not sure how to go about it. She itched to know what he had dug up. But she wasn’t about to admit that to Dubois. Smiling, she said innocently, ‘I thought we could…exchange our information.’ ‘So you said before. But it seems the deal is becoming more one-sided over time. Besides, sharing has to be one’s free choice, remember?’ It irked her that he threw her own words back in her face like that. She had never met someone who really tried to beat her at her own game. It is not a game, he had said at Waldeck’s. Was that the main brunt of his resentment against her? That to her this was still a game providing her with diversion, excitement, while to him it was a serious thing? Perhaps even a matter of justice? Sobered, she followed him outside. She wanted to say something meaningful and profound, but she had no idea how she could prevent it from sounding thought-up and untrue. Dubois turned away from her. ‘I am looking forward to receiving my handkerchief back.’ She was left standing there, in the middle of this rundown street, like Dubois didn’t care whether she ever found her way home or not. But she didn’t bother to run after him like a little girl. She didn’t need him. She knew what she was doing. And she was not about to leave this place until she had done something about that little boy. She went into one of the small shops and bought vegetables, then went into a bakery that looked neat and bought bread and cookies in a big blue box. They had passed a pawnshop at the start of the street and there she found a wooden horse and cart. The paint was chipped a little, and the horse had once had more hair for manes and tail. But at least you could see what it was without guessing trice. She bought it as well and returned to the house on the corner. She laboured up the steps once again to the fourth floor and banged on the door. As the voice came, she repeated what Dubois had said. ‘Three for the fisherman, two for the priest.’ The door opened again, and she stepped in. Instead of the old man seated at the table, there was a younger man with wild hair and red-rimmed eyes, staring back at her like she was some vision. The little boy had seemed to become even smaller, huddling in his corner as if he was not there. Alkmene quickly dropped the bread and vegetables on the shabby couch, clutching the box with cookies and the horse and cart. ‘Whatdoyouwant?’ the dishevelled man growled. ‘I am here to make payment,’ Alkmene said in a firmer voice than she felt. She went to the boy and smiled down on him. ‘This is for you. A horse and cart to play with and some cookies to eat.’ She held them out to him, but the dishevelled man moved with lightning speed. He slapped the items from her hands, so that the horse and cart tumbled to the floor. The box with cookies, being lighter, first sailed up to the ceiling, hitting a beam. It burst open, and cookies rained down over Alkmene’s head and shoulders. Staring at the mess at her feet, anger raged through her. ‘Why did you have to do that?’ she asked the man. But he was staring at the boy. ‘What did you do?’ he howled. ‘What made this fancy lady want to reward you? Have you been to the church again, speaking to that vicar who thinks he can change the world? Our world never changes, never…’ He came over to Alkmene, kicking at the horse and cart. The fallen cookies crunched under the soles of his coarse boots. The boy yelped and cowered against the wall, throwing up his arms to protect his face. Suddenly a tall figure filled the door. ‘Enough.’ Dubois walked in. He was glowering, not at the man, but at Alkmene. ‘What are you doing here?’ he hissed. ‘Bringing some food to these people,’ she retorted, ‘and making sure this little boy has something decent to play with instead of that.’ She nodded in the direction of what passed as tin soldiers. ‘We don’t want your charity,’ the man snarled. Dubois raised his hands. ‘I was here this afternoon. Your father looked up a few important things for me in his books. This lady was with me. She misunderstood and believed she had to pay for your father’s help. Therefore she bought these things. It is not her fault.’ His tone belied what he said, and the man laughed. ‘Not her fault? Everything here is her fault. People like her have made my life miserable. People like her have killed…’ He began to cough, staggering into a corner and hanging against the wall. Dubois signalled Alkmene with his eyes to leave, quickly. She wasn’t about to argue with him now. She fled through the door and raced down the steps, the cookie crumbs still crunching under her soles. In the landing of the second floor she halted and held her hands against her face. Dubois was so right. She knew next to nothing. She had wanted to help the little boy and she had only hurt him even more. She was almost certain that madman would beat him as soon as Dubois left the two of them alone. Footfalls came down behind her, and she turned, shouting, ‘Why do you leave that miserable drunk alone with the little boy?’ ‘He is his father. Ever since the mother died, he started drinking. They lost their home and moved in here with the old man.’ ‘If there is a child in the house, it should be clean and neat. He should have nutritious food, clean clothes and toys to play with.’ Dubois laughed softly. ‘I would almost say: try taking him home, Lady Alkmene. Give him a nice guest room with a big bed and clean, whole clothes and see how he turns them into a big mess in no time. How he takes the ball you give him to knock down your precious vases like it is a game in itself. This child has never had anything. He doesn’t understand any language but that of physical violence.’ ‘And you accept that?’ Dubois’s jaw tightened. ‘I do not accept anything. But I am realistic enough to see I cannot change it overnight. Your sweet little gesture…’ his voice dripped acid ‘…has only served to push that drunk man into a rage. The boy will be beaten because of you. Because of some cookies and a horse and cart.’ Alkmene’s eyes burned. Her voice croaked as she said, ‘Please go back and make sure he does not beat him. Please.’ Dubois caught her shoulders. For a moment she thought he was going to shake her and scream at her some more about her ignorance and her disastrous good intentions. But he just squeezed for a moment, then dropped his hands. ‘I can’t, Alkmene.’ His voice was soft and weary. ‘I cannot protect the boy.’ Alkmene wet her lips. ‘I am sorry for what I did. I only wanted to help them.’ Dubois nodded. ‘I know.’ His voice was even more bitter now than she had heard it before. She looked up the steps. ‘Shall I go back and try to explain…’ ‘Don’t you see that your presence has only made it worse?’ Dubois inhaled slowly. ‘Your kind of people are what caused all their misery to begin with. I can only hope for the boy that his father will collapse soon, to sleep off his haze, and that he won’t remember a thing when he comes to.’ He took her arm. ‘And now we leave.’ Alkmene did not resist. Chapter Six (#ulink_47453092-4c28-58fd-8097-95f588893bb7) ‘I would sure like to know what happened to all of my soda,’ Cook said the next morning as she bustled into the breakfast room. When Father wasn’t home, she believed she had to look after ‘the young lady’ and scurried in and out with extra bacon or fresh apple sauce. Father would never allow a cook in his dining room, sticking to a strict order of Brookes serving and Cook not leaving the kitchen unless it was on fire. But Alkmene actually enjoyed a little liveliness, plus Cook’s never-ending stream of gossip, gathered mainly via her laundering niece. ‘I needed soda to clean up something that had gotten stained by accident,’ Alkmene said, and when Cook gave her an incredulous look: ‘It wasn’t mine, you know, so I felt kind of responsible for the staining. But it is all solved now.’ She hoped that it was when she’d get to the men’s wear store later that day and see if the clerk had found her the perfect substitute. Just as Cook was at the door, Alkmene said quickly, ‘I was wondering. The people who live in places like Tar Street, is there any form of help for them?’ ‘My heart, Lady Alkmene, what would you want in a place like that?’ Cook gave her a suspicious look. ‘I happened to end up there, by coincidence really, and I saw this very sad little boy whose mother died and his father is drinking and beating him and… He doesn’t have any decent clothes or toys to play with.’ Cook sighed. ‘There are too many of those children all over the city, my lady. They are none of your business, I say.’ Alkmene sat up straight, her back pressed against the chair’s rigid wood. ‘If everybody says that, nothing will ever change.’ Cook sighed. ‘I suppose when you put it like that.’ Alkmene pushed her plate away, still half full with scrambled eggs. She couldn’t eat when her mind was so full of thoughts and plans. ‘Is there anybody doing anything to help them? Like the uh…sailors’ mission but then for the children?’ ‘I suppose you could say Father Williams is doing that. But people say he is a conman, not a real priest. That he takes donations and doesn’t do nothing for the children. I would be careful around him if I were you. He might take your money and leave you in a bind.’ Cook crossed her thick bare arms over her chest. ‘Besides, your father would not be happy if he knew you are going around places like Tar Street.’ As Alkmene ignored the statement and got up, the woman said in a pleading tone, ‘Your father is on his travels too much, ignoring that you should have been married by now. He may not think about that, but I do. And when word about you gets around, running around among the drunks in Tar Street, men will be scared off.’ Alkmene laughed in spite of herself. Men were already scared off, or she would have been married by now. Conversation with the other sex had never come easy to her, probably because men considered her too sharp-tongued. Most must have thought it, though none had put it directly to her, but Dubois. It didn’t even bother her. It was the way she was and if they didn’t like it, nobody forced them to be around her. And nobody would force her to look for a husband, when all she wanted was her freedom and adventures. Cook took her silence as remorse, a sudden flash of insight into the possibly disastrous consequences of her behaviour, and nodded solemnly. ‘You should sober at the thought. It is nothing for you to sit around here and wait on a father who is never there. Find your own household and have some children to keep you busy.’ Alkmene had to think of the little boy again and winced. She had really outdone herself there, making a mess she couldn’t clean up again. Adventures were fine, but when little children got caught in between… She had to find out more about this Father Williams and his mission. If he was a conman, she’d see right through that. He’d never get her money the easy way. Alkmene walked out into the hallway and stared in surprise at the envelope on the shiny cherrywood side table. ‘I thought the post wasn’t due for another hour.’ Cook nodded. ‘This envelope was handed to me as I was cleaning the steps in front. I was just throwing the last water from my bucket over them when this street urchin ran up to me and handed it to me. A scruffy little boy in a too large coat. He said it was for the lady. I assume he meant you. It does say Lady Alkmene on the envelope, but there is no sender.’ Alkmene picked up the envelope. A street urchin could most likely not write, and this envelope had a strong adult hand on it. Masculine, she believed. Her heart skipped a beat, thinking it might be from Dubois. He had mentioned in passing the other day that he had information about the murder, about how the old man’s dead body had been found and some financial complications. The unfortunate end to their visit to the watchmaker had prevented her from asking what those were. But now, after a good night’s sleep, she couldn’t wait to dive back into the investigation again. But why would Dubois write to her? If he wanted her, he knew where she lived. He was the kind of man who simply rang her doorbell, whenever he wanted to, not caring whether he shocked the staff. In fact, he would probably enjoy shocking the staff. No, this could not be from him. Who then? Alkmene opened the envelope and pulled out a sheet of poor quality paper. On it were a few lines in the same strong hand as the writing on the envelope. Your father would not be pleased if he learned his daughter is consorting with a convict. He will hear of it unless you pay. Put a hundred pounds into a hat box and take it out with you. Leave it on the bench underneath the elm next to St Mary of the Humble Heart. Do not stick around to see who will come and take it along. Don’t talk about this with anybody or you will pay in a different way. With your reputation. Perhaps even your life. We are watching you. Alkmene had to read it a couple of times before the truth sank in. She was actually being blackmailed. She glanced over her shoulder at the front door as if she could see right through it into the street and establish if anybody was there right now, watching her. ‘Who is it from?’ Cook asked, carrying the breakfast dishes from the dining room. ‘What does it say?’ Alkmene looked up at her, her mind a whirl. ‘Uh… Oh. It’s nothing special.’ She folded the letter and put it back in the envelope. ‘I will be out this morning. I will probably not be back for lunch. Save me some cold cuts to take around four.’ Cook gave a grunt that could be acceptance or disapproval of this unconventional request. She shuffled off with the dishes. Alkmene ran up the stairs to get dressed. She intended to be in Meade Street as soon as possible and ask Dubois for his take on this blackmail scheme. As she was walking along past the many houses on the street, some harbouring little shops and businesses, others being boarding houses where women polished the bell, she realized Dubois had never told her at what number he rented rooms. It was like him to be evasive, but she supposed he would be known around here and she could ask for him. Loath to get herself into the same kind of trouble as the day before, she went into a reasonably clean-looking fish store to ask the wiry man cleaning the fish behind the counter where to find the reporter Dubois. ‘Oh, that troublemaker, huh?’ the old man replied. Ashes from his cheap cigar rained on the counter and whatever he was cleaning. ‘Number 33, upstairs.’ Alkmene bought some fish by way of thanks, deciding to leave it somewhere for the strays as she could not bear to think of having to eat it after having seen the cigar ashes falling. Carrying the parcel, wrapped in old newspaper pages, she walked up to number 33. The door was open, and she went in, going up the stairs and knocking at a closed door. ‘Yeah,’ a voice called, and she pushed the door handle down and walked in. ‘Put the hot water there,’ Dubois’s voice came from another room. ‘I don’t have time for breakfast. I will eat on the way.’ Footfalls resounded, and he appeared, in a dirty shirt with suspenders holding up dark trousers, which had mud stains on the knees, like he was some dock worker. His hair was dishevelled and his eyes bleary as if he hadn’t slept all night. The change couldn’t have been greater from the distinguished gentleman, entrepreneur, self-made businessman with money to spend Alkmene had met at the Waldeck tea room in the company of the countess. Hiding her shock, Alkmene held out the parcel in her hands. ‘No hot water, just fish.’ ‘No thanks,’ Dubois said. He recovered remarkably quickly from the surprise of finding her in his rooms at this hour. He turned away, back into the other room, slamming the door shut. After a while, he reappeared in a clean crisp white shirt over the pants of his dark blue suit. There was even a tie in sight. Raking back his hair, he snapped at her, ‘So what do you want? I thought ladies of standing didn’t go out before noon.’ ‘That was twenty years ago,’ Alkmene snapped back. ‘I guess I should have sat at home painting a screen or doing embroidery, to your mind. And I might have, had I not received a blackmail letter.’ Dubois’s eyes widened. ‘A what?’ She put the fish parcel on the table and pulled the offensive envelope out of her purse. ‘Read it for yourself.’ His expression darkened as he read. A woman with fiery red curls bustled in with a rusty metal bowl full of water. She clanked it on the table, appraised Alkmene, shook her head in bewilderment and scurried out again, apparently relieved her tenant wasn’t going to give her an earful for being late with his hot water. Dubois returned the letter to her and leaned over the bowl, splashing water into his face. The drops rained on his shirt, leaving spreading stains. His nails scratched over the stubble on his chin. ‘Late night?’ Alkmene asked, half interested, half repulsed at the idea he had been drinking or something. She knew it was pretty normal even in the higher circles, and although her father himself was a moderate man, he had prepared her to accept that men might drink themselves into a stupor every once in a while over something like winning a card game. Or losing it. Dubois reached for the thin towel that lay nearby. Rubbing his face vigorously, he grunted. ‘Talking to people can be hard. Just tracking them down can be hard. It takes time.’ He lowered the towel and threw it onto a plain wooden chair. Alkmene didn’t want to look around like she was appraising his rooms. She kept her eyes on his face. ‘Did you get what you wanted?’ He nodded. ‘You know that by questioning the neighbours I had already found out that a man came to the house on the night Silas Norwhich died. I didn’t think he would have been on foot, so I tried to find the cab that dropped him off. I had hoped I would get a good description of the man. An address where he had been picked up. But it turns out he was cloaked and had a hat pulled over his face. The driver couldn’t tell me a single useful thing. And he picked him up on the corner of Bond Street. No doubt that location has nothing to do with him. At least the driver confirmed for me that the man went to see Silas Norwhich. He rang the bell there and was admitted.’ Alkmene tilted her head. ‘So we were right before. Norwhich admitted his own killer. Which means he knew him and was not afraid of him. Else he would have slammed the door in his face.’ She frowned. ‘So it can’t have been that man who appeared at the theatre. Norwhich was worried about that man. The countess used the words: a man returned from the dead. She must have told you all about that.’ Dubois nodded. Alkmene continued, ‘So if Norwhich was afraid of this man, because of the past, because it was someone he had believed dead and gone, dealt with, now back in his life, he would not have let him into his house, especially not if he was home alone.’ Dubois shook his head. ‘Not necessarily. Look at it this way: perhaps the appearance of the man at the theatre was a shock to him. But he did know him. Had known him in the past. Would he not want to talk to him if the other asked him? Perhaps he thought it was the only way to solve things. Or the other forced his way into the house with threats.’ Alkmene pursed her lips. ‘Ms Steinbeck wasn’t there that night either, she says. Maybe her uncle sent her away to meet with the man from the theatre?’ Dubois nodded. ‘Could be. I heard Norwhich was supposed to have gone with her to a concert, but he made her go alone at the last instant. He claimed to feel unwell. Now that might have been an outright lie. It seems he was a bit of a hermit, and Ms Steinbeck always wanted to run from one party to the next. Maybe he was just not in a mood to go.’ ‘Hmmm.’ She looked down on the blackmail letter in her hand. ‘Help me deduce something from this charming little letter. The writer is obviously working with another or even a whole gang, for they are using a plural pronoun. They must have been watching me for some time now to find some sort of indiscretion that I’d be eager to cover up. They claim I am going about with some convict. I can’t vouch for every single person in my acquaintance that they are pitch perfect. Some like liquor or spend too much money at their clubs or the hat shop. But convicts? I don’t think I know any. Must have been my adventure in Tar Street the other day.’ She glanced at Dubois. ‘I guess that drunkard could have been to prison. Or the old man who repairs the watches? He looks kind and approachable enough, but I have no idea what he did when he was younger. Maybe he was in prison in another country? Been a sailor, got accused of something? Perhaps really knifed a man in a fight? Never meaning to, but those things can happen.’ She wanted Dubois to know she had not lived away from the world for all of her life, that she did understand people and situations and how violent death came about, even if you had not been looking for it. Dubois shook his head slowly. Holding her gaze, he said, ‘The convict referred to in that note is me.’ Chapter Seven (#ulink_0772e969-5e0b-5d62-9c96-1e3e209a9ea6) ‘What?’ Alkmene couldn’t help the disbelief in her own voice. ‘You have been to prison?’ Dubois shrugged. ‘You have come to the wrong person to help you out. At least, I suppose you are here because you want help from me?’ ‘I just figured that…’ Alkmene straightened a crinkled edge of the envelope. The sudden revelation left her reeling. Had Dubois knifed a man in a fight abroad? Something inside of her refused to accept he could take a life. But perhaps the circumstances had been such that he had been forced to, in self-defence? But because the other one had been local, nobody had believed him and he had ended up behind bars anyway? She realized he was waiting for her to work herself out of this faux pas and said lamely, ‘I just wanted to know what I should do about the letter.’ Dubois laughed hollowly. ‘You are asking me what to do?’ ‘All right, so far I haven’t asked or listened when you’ve said something but that is just because I don’t understand you. Your life, your choices, your connections. How can you leave that little boy with that old man and the drunk father and never think…’ ‘I do think.’ His tone was impatient, like he was about to pound the table with a fist. ‘But I can’t change anything about it. Can I take him away from there? Where to? Here?’ He gestured around him. ‘He would have no better life here. I am away for my work all day long. He would be bored and go out into the street, run into trouble. My landlady is not going to look after him. And if he took an apple at the shop down the street or caused trouble breaking something at the tobacconist’s, people would soon force us to move away from here.’ She held his gaze. ‘At least you would not beat him.’ Dubois took a deep breath. ‘No. But that is poor consolation.’ He tilted his chin up as if to defy her. ‘There are countless children like him in the back alleys, Lady Alkmene. What do you want to do about it, start a little Saturday afternoon tea party?’ Alkmene pressed her lips together. ‘It might not be a bad idea for those children to just have fun for a while. Even if it seems superficial to you.’ Dubois made a gesture in the air. ‘Oh, forget about it. I am just bushed from last night.’ He began to pace the room. ‘You want to know what to do about the blackmail note. Do nothing. Don’t pay. Blackmail never ends. And in this case there is little to deny or set straight. No incriminating correspondence to get back. Your father might be angry when he learns you bought his buttons in the company of a convict, but there is not much he can do about it. I suppose he won’t disinherit you?’ Alkmene laughed. ‘I am his only daughter. Where else would he leave his money?’ She frowned a moment. ‘My father isn’t very attached to his money, I guess, but I doubt he would leave it to anyone who is not related to him. He does have that much sense of family. He hopes I will marry and…’ She fell silent. Her father’s frequent journeys didn’t just mean freedom to do her own thing, but also freedom from his endless suggestions on whom she could marry. He always seemed to think of somebody new. Somebody equally abhorrent to her mind. Dubois made another dismissive gesture. ‘It is none of my business. Just don’t pay anything.’ ‘I was almost tempted to put an empty hat box in the place indicated and watch who will come and get it. Then we have our blackmailer.’ She couldn’t keep the triumphant note out of her voice. Dubois shook his head. ‘Not likely. He will send another messenger like the one who delivered this letter to your home. He won’t come in person. He won’t show his face anywhere where he can be seen and captured.’ Alkmene nodded. ‘Probably not. He is the king of this criminal capital, right, and he wants to stay in that position.’ Dubois gave her a hard stare. ‘So meek and understanding of my point of view? You won’t do anything foolish on your own, will you?’ Alkmene shrugged. She dragged the toe of her left shoe over the floorboards with an innocent expression. Dubois sighed. ‘If you are dead set on doing something, don’t do it alone. At least promise me that, huh?’ Alkmene leaned back on her heels, still not affirming anything. She sensed Dubois was getting antsy about her reluctance to promise she was dropping it. She might gain something here. ‘I am just so bored every single day alone, while my father is away. I could do with something…useful to pursue. Now you are after the killer of this Silas Norwhich. I wanted to get him, but I don’t have the connections or resources you do. I can do nothing but…get myself in trouble because I don’t know what is good for me.’ Dubois’s mouth jerked as if he had to laugh at her meek little act, but suppressed it. He said, ‘You are riling me, right? You don’t think my connections or resources mean anything.’ ‘They do. You found the person who dropped the fare there that night. Now we know from two different witnesses that there was a late visitor. The killer or otherwise the last person to see Silas Norwhich alive. That is great. I couldn’t have done that. And you knew the man who determined for us that the brooch came from Saint Petersburg. I mean, Leningrad. Again, I would not have known how to establish that.’ Dubois looked her over. ‘You do have connections of your own. I want to talk to Oksana Matejevna to find out why she asked about Evelyn Steinbeck at the Metropolitan. But I need an excuse to do so. I have decided I will use the brooch. I will ask Oksana if she knows of any Russian acquaintances of the countess who own such a thing. Now if I go there and ring the bell, asking for Oksana, I will be shooed away. But you can ask for her freely and will be admitted on the basis of your title alone. We could go together.’ Alkmene felt excitement rush through her veins, but she tried to sound doubtful. ‘And once we know whose brooch it is, you will discard me again?’ Dubois sighed. ‘No, you can come along then too. Provided you leave that here for dinner.’ He pointed at the wrapped fish. Alkmene had to laugh at his pride that compelled him to ask a payment for taking her along. ‘The seller sprinkled it liberally with cigar ashes as he was cleaning it so you are most welcome to it.’ Dubois grinned. ‘It will be sprinkled with other things when I am done. I know how to prepare fish.’ He waited a moment. ‘Will you eat some with me here when we are back from the countess? We need a little lunch before we tackle any new leads Oksana Matejevna may have provided us with.’ Alkmene hesitated a moment. She had told Cook she wouldn’t lunch at home so she might as well have some with Dubois. Dubois jutted his chin up. ‘Unless this is too lowly for your taste.’ ‘That is not it, and you know it.’ She pulled back her shoulders. ‘All right. We see Oksana Matejevna and find out what we can about the brooch, and about Oksana’s secret meeting with that bellboy at the hotel. Then we come back here, and you make me a lovely fish dish where we discuss our next steps. But you’d better understand I am used to haute cuisine and I expect a lot from you. Especially as you are half French.’ Dubois’s expression softened a moment. ‘My mother made a great apple pie that was baked upside down. A traditional French recipe.’ ‘She learned from your father? Or his mother?’ He shook his head. ‘Your deductions were wrong, Lady Alkmene. My mother was French, not my father.’ ‘But your name is Dubois, right?’ Alkmene was puzzled. ‘I thought that meant that your father had to be…’ She faltered. If his mother was French, and Dubois bore her name, that suggested he had been…born out of wedlock? Had he perhaps travelled to England to look for his father? It would make a compelling reason for him to be here. Dubois had walked away to get the dark blue jacket that belonged with the pants. Returning, he swung it on and handed her the brooch. ‘You handle the subject. I will just observe Oksana’s response and if she is not yielding, I will find a way to make her confess what is up.’ The countess lived in one of those grand city homes that have stood the test of time and have not faded but only increased in beauty. The stone was a soft yellow, the windows painted a dull beige, the door broad and dark green with a little grille in it through which the butler could see who was at the door. He was a tall dark man with little grey in his neatly combed and pomaded hair. He stood very tall like a soldier on duty. His English was polished with a vague hint of an accent that Alkmene could not quite place. She wondered if the man had come from Russia with the countess or was the count’s loyal servant, brought in from Luxembourg. She explained they wanted to speak with Oksana Matejevna. He seemed puzzled by the request, but said she was in the kitchens getting food for the countess’s songbirds. ‘You can wait in the sun room for her return.’ He went ahead of them at once, leading them upstairs. They were brought into a large room, decorated with countless icons on the walls and several cages with colourful canaries singing to their heart’s delight. The left wall was dominated by a big painting of a village among a pine forest. The cute little cottages were covered with snow, and a troika – a sledge drawn by three horses – came across the road towards it. Looking more closely, Alkmene kept spotting details like girls going to the well, a wolf lurking between the trees and birds of prey dabbing the skies above. Father would know which ones just by their silhouette. A small dog with a very flat snout ran for Dubois and circled him, sniffing his trouser legs and yapping excitedly. The long brown silky hair looked so soft to the touch. ‘Pick up Pushkin,’ Alkmene said. ‘He likes to be carried.’ Dubois looked as if he was about to decline, but when he caught Alkmene’s suppressed laughter, he reached down and picked up the dog, carried him in his arms, and held him in his lap as he sat down on the sofa. The embroidered pillows he dislodged piled up behind him, one plunging over the edge. The door opened, but instead of Oksana Matejevna with the bird feed, the countess herself came in. ‘Delighted to see you, Alkmene, and you, Mr Dubois. I hope you have some interesting news for me to hear. But first I must feed my birds. My darlings.’ Dubois threw Alkmene a quick glance asking ‘what now?’ Alkmene shrugged. They’d have to go along with the countess’s chattering and hope they could see Oksana Matejevna alone later. Her large knitting bag lay on a stool so she would probably return here soon. The countess walked around, giving small seeds and bits of apple to the canaries that flew to sit close to the bars to receive their treats from her. She chatted incessantly about a high society engagement that had been announced in the morning paper. Alkmene had not seen it and tried to dredge up the faces of the bride to be and groom from her memory but came up empty. ‘So,’ the countess said at last, pushing a footstool aside with her small slippered foot and seating herself in the chair with the big armrests, ‘why have you come to see me, together?’ She glanced from one to the other. ‘Is there something I should know?’ She winked at Alkmene. ‘I can imagine that you have no idea to share this with your father. Perhaps you want me to write to him? I can explain that Mr Dubois here is a very nice young man even though he has no title and no money.’ Alkmene saw the flush rise in Dubois’s face. His hands tightened on the little dog who sensed the change in his mood and began to lick his hands as if to soften him. She said quickly, ‘We are not here to speak about… We have found something old, antique and valuable from your native country. We want to return it to the owner and maybe you can help us find that person.’ And with a flourish she produced the brooch. The countess stared. ‘How did you get that?’ Alkmene beamed. ‘So you know whose it is?’ The countess nodded violently. ‘Yes. It is mine. I had missed it but I believed I had just mislaid it. On the other dressing table, by my bed, in a little box or… I often lose things for a while. They always turn up again. But this was missing for some time. Oh, it means so much to me. It is the engagement gift my father gave to my mother.’ She smiled at Alkmene. ‘Did I lose it in the tea room the other day? I have lost a pearl necklace there. The clasp came loose, and it slipped off without me noticing. Maurice returned it to me the next day I stopped by. He had found it. Or one of the waiters. I am not sure. But I had it back. That counted. Oh, my husband would say I am careless with my things. While they are so precious. Valuable. But I do try to pay attention. I really do.’ Her friendly face scrunched up in a pained expression. ‘It is just that when you get older you forget things. You need reminding. I have Oksana to remind me. But she is often just like me. She misplaces things and can’t help me find them.’ ‘Had she misplaced this?’ Dubois asked. Alkmene shot him a scorching look. He was supposed to observe, give her the chance to handle this. The countess nodded. ‘I asked her just the other day where it was and she said she had seen it in some place and she would find it back, some time, and she looked but she never turned it up again. I forgot about it again, until you came here now and… Where was it?’ ‘In the theatre.’ Alkmene watched the countess closely. Her eyes went wide. ‘The theatre? But…I am sure I had not worn it to the opera that night. No, most certainly not. I wore my dark blue dress with the diamonds. This doesn’t go with that. I am sure I had not worn it. How could I have lost it there?’ ‘We did not say you lost it there,’ Dubois said. ‘There it was found.’ The countess looked even more confused now. She fidgeted with her hands, turning one of her bejewelled rings around and around. ‘It must have fallen in the seat or on the floor.’ ‘How if you did not wear it?’ ‘Perhaps it was in my evening bag. My husband always says I carry too many things around in my bag and that I will pull out my handkerchief and lose something because it gets torn out and it falls and… Did you get your handkerchief back?’ Dubois smiled. ‘Lady Alkmene was nice enough to offer to launder it for me. With her own two hands. I am really curious to see the result.’ The countess perked up. ‘Me too. I wouldn’t know how to launder a thing, you know. I have never had to.’ Alkmene smiled quickly. ‘I do not think your brooch was pulled out of your bag and fell to the floor. It was stuck in the curtain. On the far left of the box.’ The countess frowned. ‘In the curtain? Stuck? How can that be? I do not sit on the left side. That is Oksana’s place.’ Dubois said, ‘It was not just stuck actually. It was consciously fastened in the curtain. Like uh…the curtain had been turned inside out and fastened with the brooch. It was a change one could only spot if looking closely. Or knowing what to look for.’ The countess pulled up her narrow shoulders. ‘I would not have noticed. I never pay much attention to the curtains and things. I am busy looking at the performance. And the people in the other boxes, I confess. There is a strong temptation to look at people while you do have your opera glasses with you. But I never sit on the left.’ ‘Could Oksana Matejevna have put the brooch in the curtain?’ Dubois’s voice was tense. ‘On purpose. Like to give it to someone else?’ The countess stared. ‘Oksana Matejevna doesn’t know a soul here. She speaks nothing but Russian. She is always afraid to be left alone. She…’ She fell silent. ‘Yes?’ Dubois prompted. ‘Do you remember something?’ ‘Well, that night at the theatre she did leave me. She went back to the box alone. She claimed to have forgotten her shawl. She is always fussing with some shawl to keep draught off her shoulders. Her shoulders and her neck get stiff, she claims, and she can’t do a thing. She is very fussy in that respect. She had left the shawl, she said, and she went back to fetch it.’ ‘So she could have put the brooch in the curtain then?’ Dubois pressed. ‘Yes, but why would she? It is my brooch. A family heirloom.’ The countess’s face turned red with sudden anger. She rose and pulled the bell cord by the fireplace. She stood up straight, her eyes flashing. As soon as her maid entered, head down, shoulders slumped, she barked, ‘Oksana Matejevna, what have you done now?’ A stream of Russian followed. Alkmene couldn’t understand a word, but the tone was crystal clear. The countess was not pleased with her servant’s behaviour and was explaining that to her, in no uncertain terms. Chapter Eight (#ulink_a359cc6f-3154-5365-8482-11742d6e80b6) Dubois leaned over to Alkmene and said softly, ‘She doesn’t look guilty.’ Alkmene studied the mousy woman and had to admit he was right. Oksana stood up straight and let the stream of words flow over her, without wincing or fidgeting. ‘Perhaps she is used to such tirades and doesn’t even hear the words any more,’ she suggested, thinking back on her own childhood where the nanny had tried to explain dangers to her and she had just stood and pretended to listen while her mind had been on her next adventure. Free spirits rarely took advice well. Let alone reproaches. ‘She looks like she is in full battle mode,’ Dubois whispered again. ‘I wonder if she will actually talk back.’ Indeed, when the countess had ended, with a stamp on the floor to underline her point, Oksana began to speak, so fast it sounded like water rushing: wshwshwsh… Alkmene wished she knew a little Russian just to get the gist of it. Was this a confession? Was it a defence? Was it… The countess turned to them. ‘Oksana says you have come here to accuse her wrongly. That you do this because she is a foreigner and foreigners are always suspected. She claims to know nothing about the brooch and how it got in the box curtain.’ ‘And she doesn’t know anything either about going into the Metropolitan hotel and asking for information about the American actress Evelyn Steinbeck?’ Dubois said in a cold tone. Oksana blinked rapidly. Alkmene was sure she had at least understood something of what he said, but it might just have been the names Metropolitan and Evelyn Steinbeck. They were of course familiar to her, so the response might merely be to them. The countess looked puzzled. ‘What do the hotel and that American heiress have to do with my brooch?’ ‘When we were in the tea room together,’ Alkmene picked up the thread of interrogation, ‘and you sent Oksana Matejevna off to go to the dressmaker’s ahead of you, what did you tell her exactly? Did you ask her to go to the hotel across the street and inquire about Ms Steinbeck?’ The countess looked puzzled. ‘Of course not. What for? I hardly know Ms Steinbeck.’ ‘Still,’ Dubois said, ‘she went there and paid a bellboy for information. I suppose with your money.’ Oksana Matejevna took a step forwards as if she wanted to say something to her defence. Her cheeks were red, and her eyes flashed. But she kept her thin lips pressed together. The countess looked at her and asked a question in Russian. The maid shook her head. Dubois laughed. ‘Come on, I saw her there. Lady Alkmene here can confirm I am telling the truth. We both saw her there.’ Alkmene quickly explained, ‘I went after Mr Dubois to give back his handkerchief like you had asked me to. We happened to see Oksana Matejevna talking to a bellboy and offering him money. I saw it clearly; there can be no mistake.’ Dubois said soothingly, ‘I do not dislike foreigners. Most people consider me a foreigner so I should know what prejudice can do. I don’t want to accuse anybody. I am just pointing out that if she denies that, while it is true, she might be denying other things that are true as well. We should get to the bottom of this.’ The countess turned to her maid again and seemed to translate the gist of what Dubois had said for her. The maid looked at her, then around past the canary cages and icons. She seemed to be searching for a clever reply. Then suddenly she clapped her hands to her face and began to sob. The countess exhaled. ‘No, Oksana, no tears to solve it.’ She turned to Dubois and Alkmene and said in an apologetic tone, ‘She often uses tears to get her way, like a little child. But this is too serious to let pass.’ Oksana muttered something. Dubois pressed, ‘She has taken the brooch on purpose. That is not clumsiness or forgetfulness. That is theft.’ The maid’s head came up, and she stared at Dubois. If looks could have killed, he would have fallen on the spot. Russian words lashed at him, probably curses. Dubois stood it quietly. Then he said, ‘Why don’t you tell me what you think of me in a language I can understand? You know a lot more English than you pretend to do. Why not drop the pretence now and talk to me? Unless you’d like to tell your story to the police.’ ‘No police,’ Oksana Matejevna said in a rushed tone. ‘It will hit the papers, and my mistress will be hurt.’ ‘Oksana,’ the countess exclaimed. ‘You speak English!’ Oksana Matejevna walked to Dubois and clutched his sleeve. ‘Please no police, no papers. No hurt to my mistress. I did it all for her. To protect her.’ The countess put her hands on her hips. ‘You stole from me to protect me? That will take some explaining, Oksana Matejevna!’ Oksana whirled round to her. ‘I did it to protect you, your highness. You are a Russian princess. You should live a sheltered life. You should not be…exposed to police officers and rude questions about your life, and vile reports in the papers.’ She turned to Dubois again. ‘You are a reporter too. You write up those lies.’ Dubois shook his head. ‘I never write anything unless I have ascertained that it is true. I do not want to hurt people. I don’t want to hurt your mistress either.’ Alkmene pointed at a chair. ‘Please sit down and tell us everything that happened. Tell us why you did what you did so we may understand it.’ Oksana blinked a few times. Then she seated herself and pulled her skirt straight. ‘Last week, two days before we went to the theatre, a letter came for her highness. It was not in the mail. It was…how do you say? Delivered to the door. The footman took it in. I saw it and I took it from him to bring to her highness.’ ‘And then you opened it and read it,’ the countess said with a grimace. Oksana hung her head. ‘I do not deny it. I thought it was strange there was no name on the envelope, no…emblem, no thing to see who sent it. I opened it and read it. It was terrible.’ Dubois glanced at Alkmene. His lips formed the word blackmail. Alkmene ignored him and focused on Oksana, who pushed on, ‘The letter said that you had deceived your husband. That there was proof. To get the proof back you had to give up on something valuable. The brooch was…how do you say? Outlined?’ ‘Described?’ Dubois scooted to the edge of his seat. ‘You mean, they asked for this particular brooch in the letter you read?’ Oksana nodded. ‘Yes. It had to be delivered in a certain way. In the theatre.’ ‘So the sender also knew you were going to see an opera that night?’ ‘Yes.’ Oksana nodded again. ‘I was so scared. I thought he had been…watching us.’ ‘He had to have been to know so much.’ Dubois looked pensive. He cast a look at Alkmene, who nodded quickly. After all, her letter had said explicitly the perpetrators had been watching her. Dubois asked, ‘What then?’ ‘I didn’t want to show to my mistress. So I took the brooch to the theatre and left it there in the curtain as the letter had said. I was supposed to go back later and take the proof from the hiding place. But it was not there. I doubted what to do: take back the brooch or leave it. I had no time to think well.’ ‘So you left it?’ ‘Yes. I should not have. I am sorry.’ ‘You should not have read a letter addressed to me. Or acted without consulting me first.’ The countess tried to look angry, but she was half smiling. ‘Poor Oksana, you only did what you thought was best.’ Then her face set again. ‘Why have you never told me you understand so much English?’ Oksana hung her head. ‘I bet,’ Dubois said, ‘it is much easier to catch all the gossip when people believe you cannot understand a word they are saying.’ Oksana looked up. ‘It is not always easy, monsieur. They also say things about me thinking I do not understand them. Hurtful things.’ Dubois’s jaw set. Alkmene wondered if he was thinking about the hurtful things flung at him because he was a foreigner. He was after all half French. And a convict at that. She was not sure what it meant exactly. She could not imagine him having committed crimes for which he had deserved to go to prison. Did that mean he had been imprisoned innocently? For a good cause maybe? On an undercover assignment, arrested by mistake? Yes, perhaps he had only been in prison a short while, then released. Maybe they called him a convict to exaggerate and get her money all the easier. The countess sighed. ‘The brooch is back now. I am very glad, for it is a dear memory of my parents’ love.’ ‘And the blackmailers have not been in touch again?’ Dubois asked Oksana Matejevna. The maid shook her head. ‘I believed they had the brooch and were happy now. But as you found it right where I left it…’ Her face scrunched up. ‘I do not understand. Why did they not take it away from there?’ ‘Something must have prevented them from doing so,’ Dubois said with a frown. Alkmene sat up. ‘What were you doing in the Hotel Metropolitan, talking to the bellboy?’ Oksana Matejevna folded her hands together. ‘I believe the American lady, the one whose uncle was murdered, she is the blackmailer.’ Alkmene’s jaw dropped. ‘What? Evelyn Steinbeck, a blackmailer?’ Oksana Matejevna nodded violently. ‘She came to London and then it all began.’ ‘All?’ Dubois queried. ‘You only had one letter, right? Why would it have come from her?’ Oksana Matejevna swallowed. ‘The day after I left the brooch in the curtain we go to the tea room, yes, and while I wait at the ladies’ room, I hear two servants talking. They think I do not understand them so they look around that no one else is there and they talk. One says that morning a letter came for her mistress, but the master opened it and then he screamed at her and she cried. It was terrible, the maid said, and the master left the house saying that when he came back, she had better be gone. He had crinkled the letter and thrown it into the fire, but it had not burned completely and the maid had gotten out a part of it and it said something about proof that she had been unfaithful. It was the same letter my mistress had received. The maid said that there was one odd thing about the writing. That a word used was not English. But American. I do not know what that means. English and American is the same, no?’ Dubois smiled at her. ‘There are differences in spelling. Maybe they meant that?’ Oksana Matejevna nodded. ‘I believed that if the letters were written by someone American, it had to be that Steinbeck woman. I thought so even more when her uncle died. She must have killed him because he had found out what she was doing.’ Oksana Matejevna nervously folded her hands. ‘I was scared after the old man was dead. I thought they might kill other people. I had given them the brooch, yes, but what would they do next? So when I saw her go into the hotel, I thought I should ask the bellboy about her. If he could look out who came to see her. She would not be doing this alone.’ Alkmene nodded. ‘Very smart of you. And did you learn anything?’ Oksana Matejevna looked at her blankly. Alkmene clarified, ‘Did you go back, and could the bellboy tell you anything about visitors to her room?’ ‘Oh. Yes. She had several visitors. Two ladies, all in black, and a man in a great coat.’ Dubois sat up straighter. ‘A man in a coat? Old, young, hunched, straight, what?’ Oksana Matejevna shrugged. ‘The boy said he was…how do you say? Bundled up? I do not know what it means exactly, but he was not to be seen clearly. The boy had no idea who he was.’ Alkmene looked at Dubois. ‘Can it be the same man as the mysterious visitor to her uncle the night he died?’ Dubois grimaced. ‘Could be, but if he manages to conceal his appearance so well, how will we ever find him?’ Oksana Matejevna sighed. ‘I gave the boy more money to look for me.’ ‘You mean watch out for new visitors?’ Oksana Matejevna shook her head. She looked down into her lap. ‘To look through Ms Steinbeck’s things.’ ‘What?’ Dubois sat up straight. ‘And he agreed to do that?’ Oksana Matejevna shifted her weight in her chair. ‘I paid him a great deal.’ The countess tut-tut-ed. ‘You should not be so free with my money, Oksana.’ But there was a half smile around her lips. Dubois said, ‘And what did he find?’ ‘I was going to ask him later today.’ ‘You do that. Then report back to me. I live on Meade Street – 33 upstairs.’ Dubois rose and bowed to the countess. ‘I am sorry if we caused any inconvenience to your household. But we have to discover who is behind this blackmail. It might also help explain the murder of Mr Silas Norwhich.’ The countess nodded. ‘Of course. I can tell you that there can never be any proof of me betraying my husband. I have never done that, nor will I ever do it. I love him.’ ‘They probably feed off people’s fears of being exposed, the idea that where there is smoke, there will probably be a real fire.’ Dubois rubbed his chin thoughtfully. ‘It is strange though that they asked for this particular brooch.’ He walked up to Alkmene, who still held the brooch in her hand. He took it from her and turned the brooch over and over. ‘Is there anything particular about it? Different from other heirlooms you have? Is it worth more?’ The countess gestured at him to come over to her. She accepted the brooch from his hand and studied it with a loving smile. ‘It is precious to me because of the memories attached. My father giving it to my mother when they got engaged. It is worth money, but so is most of what I own. I really have no idea why they did not ask for something else.’ Dubois nodded. ‘Perhaps it was chosen with the express purpose of being fastened on that curtain. You cannot do that with a necklace or ring. Thank you for seeing us. We now better be on our way.’ The countess waved her hand at Oksana Matejevna to see them out. Smiling down on the brooch, she reseated herself in the throne-like chair. Alkmene was already at the door, when the countess called after her, ‘Pity it was not some news about the two of you. You make such a handsome pair.’ Chapter Nine (#ulink_19267435-a3a4-52cc-920c-66904b703f7b) Outside in the street Alkmene hoped that Dubois would pretend like he had not heard that last remark, or did not understand it. The countess obviously had no idea how painful it was to pair off people in their presence. If she had not been a Russian princess, and a dear friend, Alkmene might have said something to the point. But she wanted to protect the acquaintance, especially now that Oksana Matejevna turned out to have some sleuthing talent of her own. ‘Normally,’ Dubois said in a level tone as he walked beside her, hands folded on his back, ‘my next stop would have been the Hotel Metropolitan to see Ms Steinbeck and hear her thoughts on her uncle’s death. I have heard she has been very sparse with information, even to the police. She might be afraid of a scandal; she might also be involved somehow and worried it will all come out. But since Oksana Matejevna might get something useful out of that bellboy first, we should not show our faces at the hotel right now. I think we had better walk down to the coffee shop on the corner and see if my police contact is there for lunch. He’ll have the latest on the murder.’ ‘I thought you said the police were your worst enemies in some cases?’ Alkmene asked with a frown. Dubois straightened up, put his hands in his pockets and inhaled the fresh air with relish. ‘In some cases. Not in all.’ He seemed to consider how much he could tell her. At last he said, ‘Look, Norwhich’s death was treated as an accident so they just put some young constable on it, who doesn’t feel yet like he is above the rest of the world. He doesn’t see me as a threat, but an opportunity. He thinks it would be great if he could prove it was murder and he could get a promotion out of it.’ ‘And you the headline,’ Alkmene added. Dubois glanced at her. ‘I am just doing my job. It is not something dirty.’ ‘Why did you become a reporter anyway?’ He shrugged. ‘I worked in a factory in France and exposed some scheme going on. I earned more with that story than I had in four months of hard labour there. It opened up some doors too, and I suddenly found myself in Paris, investigating a crime ring calling themselves The Accountants, as in those who equalize the balance.’ ‘Robin Hood like, steal from the rich and give to the poor?’ Dubois nodded. ‘It was more like: steal from other criminals who can’t go to the police because the things stolen were not theirs to begin with. Suppose you have some stolen jewels in a safe in your home and one morning you find the safe broken into and the jewels missing. What can you do? You cannot report it to the police as they would find out you had stolen them to begin with.’ ‘The Accountants used the thieves’ only weakness against them.’ ‘Right. It was an interesting assignment, which took me deep into the heart of the ring.’ ‘Is that when you got arrested and ended up in prison?’ He glanced at her. ‘Does my conviction bother you?’ She shrugged. ‘It is intriguing.’ Dubois laughed softly. ‘Just dangerous, huh, and almost kind of fun? Well, I can tell you it was not fun.’ Alkmene bit her lip. He made it sound like she was completely shallow. It was true she had no idea what it was like to be part of a crime ring, and she might see it a little too much like an adventure. But that was merely because she had no idea of what it was really like. How could she ever know what it was like, unless somebody would tell her? But she bet that if she asked him to tell her more about it, he’d refuse to share. So she said, ‘And after your time with that crime ring, you came here?’ ‘Yes, after I got exposed, my face was known to a lot of criminals, so I was better off moving. I came here.’ ‘To your father’s homeland? I assume since you said your mother was French, she was called Dubois? You have her name?’ She wanted to push on and ask if he was looking for his father, but his grim expression at the mention of it made her reconsider. It didn’t look like Dubois was eager for a reunion. He nodded. ‘I grew up believing my father had been killed in a robbery gone wrong, at the bank where he worked, even before I was born. Only when my mother was on her deathbed, she confessed to me he had been English, staying in Provence for the summer. He had met her, made her promises of taking her to England, where she would have her own bakery.’ His face set in hard lines. ‘All lies of course. He deserted her even though she was pregnant by that time. He had never meant to take her back here and give her all the things he had promised her to win her for him. He was already engaged to be married.’ Alkmene winced. That made it painfully clear why he cringed at the idea of what his father had been. A liar who had made his mother’s life miserable. Who had forsaken her and his son. ‘You came here to find him. To confront him.’ Now a smile curled the corners of his mouth. ‘The thought crossed my mind. But no, I am not looking for him. I came here to start a new life, not revel in the past. I don’t want to know who he was and why he did it. I don’t want to know what weak excuses he might have had for his behaviour. I would rather just loathe him for what he did and swear I will be a better man.’ Alkmene stared ahead where the coffee house they were headed for already beckoned with its bright red and blue sign. Dubois touched her a moment, with his elbow, like poking her into attention. ‘I didn’t tell you this to make you feel sorry for me. I just don’t have any liking for my English father and his English privilege. I came here to London to investigate crime stories and see that there is just as much squalor here as in the back alleys of Calais or Marseilles.’ To prove his heritage was no less. ‘There were good people there too, I presume?’ Dubois smiled. ‘Lots.’ ‘It’s the same thing here.’ She glanced at him. ‘One bad apple doesn’t mean the entire basket full of them is wasted.’ He didn’t respond. Outside the coffee house he looked in through one of the narrow windows, divided into threes by small lead bars. ‘Oh, shoot.’ ‘What is it?’ ‘He is not alone but with this large fellow with the red moustache. I don’t know his name, but he saw me once during a bar fight and he got the idea I was the cause of the fight and the damage. Say, how about you go in and engage him in some story of your umbrella having been stolen just now? Once he is out with you to retrieve the missing object, I will talk to the constable and we can meet up again in say half an hour on the corner of Meade Street. I still owe you that fish meal.’ Alkmene was happy he remembered and wanted to treat her, but she wasn’t so happy with having to deceive a member of the official police force with lies about a stolen umbrella. She cast Dubois a doubtful look. ‘If you can’t do it…’ he said slowly. She exhaled and made for the coffee house entrance, calling at him, ‘Your fish had better be excellent.’ Inside it smelled of a strong mocha, mixed with sweet baked wares. The constable was sitting with a mug in his hands, the red moustache with him biting into some large cinnamon-strewn bread-like slice. He looked up at her as she approached, appraising her with his sharp blue eyes. She forced a wide smile. ‘Excuse me…’ She made sure only to look at him, not the other man. ‘My dog ran down some steps and disappeared into somebody’s basement. I called out for it, but it won’t come back to me. I also tried attracting the attention of the inhabitants of the house, but I got no response either. I don’t dare go in myself, as I would be trespassing. Would you mind getting the dog for me?’ The moustache looked at the other man. Before he could delegate this small job to his subordinate, Alkmene added with a smile, ‘I am sure that my father, Lord Horatius Callender, would be most happy to recompense you for any inconvenience this might cause.’ The moustache was on his feet already. ‘I am at your service, Lady Callender.’ He looked down on the other man, snapping, ‘Don’t stare like an idiot, Gordon. Wait here for me. I will be right back.’ He followed her outside, pulling his uniform jacket straight. ‘Now where would this have happened, Lady Callender?’ Ignoring the wrong address – after all, the poor man probably didn’t deal with members of the peerage every day – Alkmene took him down the street, in the same direction Dubois and she had come from. She knew for certain that there was an open basement door there. She had seen nobody at it and suspected that the servants were in the back of the house having lunch and had left the door open by accident. Moustache could have a look inside without disturbing anybody and when the dog wasn’t found – obviously as there had never been one – she would excuse herself and say it had probably found its own way out and would be home by now. Moustache might be chagrined, but he’d never show it to her, for her father’s sake. Under the cover of her title she was cut out for jobs like this, and if Dubois realized that well, he’d need her to complete the case. Moustache, however, did not look into the basement door. He immediately marched up the stone steps of the house in question and rang the doorbell. Cringing, Alkmene waited at the foot of the steps, clenching her hands at this potentially disastrous turn of events. Nobody came to answer the door. Moustache rang once more and then came back down to her. He cast a suspicious look at the basement door, then went down the steps to study it up close. ‘There are footprints here,’ he called out. ‘In coal.’ Alkmene smiled nervously. ‘My dog’s?’ ‘No, of a man.’ Moustache reached for the short stick attached to his belt and with this assault weapon in hand, he disappeared into the darkness. Alkmene waited a moment for an anguished cry of pain as the determined sergeant hit an innocent coal delivery man over the head with his stick only to find he had business there and the allegedly missing dog was nowhere in sight. But there was no sound of grunting, or a struggle, coming from the basement door. Alkmene paced up and down the pavement, smiling innocently at the passers-by who slowed their steps to stare at her. She wished Moustache wouldn’t take for ever searching that basement. Judging by the time he took, it had to run all the way under the house to the other side, where there might be a backyard. If there was an open door there as well, Moustache might conclude the dog had run out and continue searching on the other side. Not bad maybe. After all, Dubois needed his time with the constable, to get the information he needed about the murder case. She was curious what the latest might be. For a moment Alkmene’s thoughts swerved to India where her father would be yelling at his native servants to hold the parasol over his head while he scoured some jungle patch for poisonous plants, having absolutely no idea of the antics of his only daughter whom he believed to be writing some letters or visiting with an innocent female friend. A sound of heavy metal clattering came from the basement. A voice, suspiciously like that of gruff Moustache, called out in surprise and pain. Alkmene froze and stared. Had the unsuspecting Moustache run into someone with evil intentions who was now trying to knock him down to flee? If this attacker appeared from the basement door, could she stop him? Should she call for more police? A huffing sound, coughing… Then Moustache appeared covered in coal dust. He rubbed at his face, leaving stains everywhere. Alkmene suppressed a burst of laughter to ask demurely, ‘Did you see my dog?’ ‘If he is in there, my lady, he will need a bath.’ Moustache coughed again, panting for breath. ‘The place is full of coal like somebody dumped a ton into it.’ His eyes went wide. ‘I do hope they did not do that after your little dog went in. He might have been uh…’ Alkmene forced another smile. ‘My dog is very smart. I am sure he would have run out before he got…into a tight spot. I assume he is on his way home now. I am so sorry for your trouble.’ Moustache tried to dust off his uniform, creating large clouds of black dust in the air. Passers-by shrank into the street or even crossed to the other side to get away from him. Alkmene said quickly, ‘Thank you. Good day,’ and marched off in the direction of Meade Street. She had her fingers crossed Dubois would not still be sitting there with the constable when Moustache came back into the coffee house. Although she didn’t doubt he would have laughed his head off if he could have seen his old enemy this way. Chapter Ten (#ulink_2e13f77b-1093-5562-b40f-39a01e0d45a5) When Alkmene trotted up the stairs of Meade Street 33, a delicious scent of something baking wafted towards her. Her stomach growled and she realized she had had nothing since breakfast and running out of the door with the incriminating blackmail letter in her purse. Instead of Dubois revealing to her which bugger in the Tar Street slums was the alleged convict and helping her set up a trap for the greedy blackmailer, he had told her he was himself the crook in question and denied they could do anything to catch the blackmailer, at least the person behind it all. Normally that would have been a severe setback, but with Oksana Matejevna’s story about the brooch they had a new lead to the blackmailer’s identity, which was far more exciting than her little trap could ever have been. If Evelyn Steinbeck was involved in the blackmail, it might even provide information as to how Mr Norwhich had died. Alkmene did wonder though why the blackmailer in the case of the countess had asked for something so specific as this precious gold heirloom while in her case he had simply wanted a hundred pounds. With that question on her lips, and several more about Dubois’s meet with the constable, she knocked, awaiting his gruff ‘enter’ before opening the door. Dubois had slipped out of his jacket and had rolled up his shirtsleeves, baring his tanned muscled arms. He stood at the small stove in the corner, the fish hissing as it was swept through the buttered pan by his spatula. The scent was more spicy than fishy, and Alkmene approached with her head tilted. ‘What have you done with it?’ ‘Secret recipe,’ Dubois said. ‘Why don’t you uncork the wine?’ He jabbed a thumb over his shoulder at the bottle standing on the plain high table. ‘The corkscrew is beside it.’ Father had one at home where you twisted the corkscrew into the cork, then lowered a steel contraption to keep it in place while by an ingenious little mechanism you lifted the cork out of the bottle’s neck. Alkmene had seen the butler do it countless times and was sure she could have repeated it with ease. But this corkscrew was of a simpler variety. Just insert and pull. ‘Brute strength,’ Dubois said as she was at it in vain. He left the fish a moment to take the bottle from her hands, clench it between his knees and pull. Alkmene squinted, waiting for the moment the cork would come loose and Dubois would fall backwards with bottle and all, spilling all their wine. But no, with a pop the cork came loose, and he managed to balance himself, pull the bottle up and put it on the table. Dropping the corkscrew beside it, he returned to the pan just as the fish was making a sound like it was going to stick to the bottom. ‘Find the glasses, will you?’ he said over his shoulder. ‘In the sideboard.’ Alkmene nodded and went over, sat on her haunches and opened one of the low doors. Inside was a jumble of paper, candlesticks with candles, two bottles of ink, a cardboard box marked Christmas cards, a pitcher with a piece missing from the rim. Finally, by shuffling some stuff around, she detected two glasses in the back, not matching, but as they were the only ones around, she took them. ‘Have you got a cloth or something to dust them off?’ ‘Just blow off the dust,’ Dubois said carelessly. She put the glasses on the table, using her sleeve to polish her own. He could blow off his if he wanted to. She folded her hands behind her back and shifted her weight from the balls of her feet to the heels and back. ‘So what did the constable have to say?’ ‘The police surgeon said that Silas Norwhich died of a blow to the head, but he wasn’t sure whether it had been the fall on the hearth rim or a blow on the head by a person, who then put him near the hearth. Both possible. Odd thing was there was ink on his fingers as if he had been writing when he had been disturbed. By a visitor or an intruder. A servant had said that the pantry door was never locked so as the butler was out, somebody might have come in that way. Which means our mysterious visitor might not have been the only one to come round that night.’ Alkmene grimaced. ‘That is bad luck. I mean, now the police will have an even stronger case to argue that, even if it was someone from the outside, it was a random intruder. They won’t be looking for motive.’ ‘Maybe they will.’ Dubois worked the fish with his spatula. ‘The dead man had something clenched in one hand. Bit of paper. Most of it had been torn off, but this bit was stuck in his grasp. Surgeon had to break his fingers to get to it. Rigor mortis, you know.’ Alkmene pulled a face. ‘I think there are some dull treatises on that at home. But if he clutched a bit and the rest was torn off, it could mean the killer tore it off, to remove incriminating evidence.’ ‘The constable’s thoughts exactly. He is ambitious, so determined to prove foul play.’ Alkmene leaned forward. ‘So what did the bit of paper say?’ ‘Difficult to determine but they think it came off an official paper. Good quality paper, touch of something red that might have been a stamp or seal. So it could have been some document Norwhich obtained in an official office. Marriage licence, birth certificate.’ Alkmene blinked. ‘What could he have wanted with those?’ Dubois shrugged. ‘No idea. Did it come from among his own papers? Or did the killer bring it? Did he show it to him to prove a point?’ ‘Oh.’ Alkmene brightened. ‘Could it have been a will?’ Dubois nodded. ‘Could be. How come?’ ‘Didn’t this niece of his, the American actress, turn up here fairly recently? She told me she had been here for a few weeks only. Maybe Norwhich changed the will in her favour. And maybe the original beneficiary wasn’t too happy with that. Because Norwhich never had any children, his original heir must have been some other relative.’ Dubois nodded. ‘We should look closely at Norwhich’s family relations and dispositions. The constable told me who Norwhich’s lawyer was. One Pemboldt. I wrote down the address. It’s just off Brook Street. Haven’t had time to look him up yet of course.’ Dubois lifted the frying pan off the stove and carried it to the table. He wanted to put it down, but Alkmene snapped, ‘Wait! That will ruin the wood of the surface. You need to put something underneath.’ She looked around her and fetched a metal tray that stood against the wall. ‘My landlady would be grateful for your efforts,’ Dubois said cynically, ‘but as you can see, not much can ruin this table any more.’ ‘Still there is no point in making more marks on it,’ Alkmene insisted. ‘I suppose the wine has breathed enough now. Care to pour?’ She held out her cleaned glass to him. Dubois picked up the bottle and poured just an inch. He also put the same amount in his own dusty glass, then put the bottle down. Alkmene lifted the glass to her nose. She carefully sniffed, then let the wine waltz through the glass. Dubois smiled at her. ‘You know how to drink wine.’ ‘My father has such precious bottles that it would be a crime to just gulp them down.’ At the word precious his face set again, like he was reminded of something hard. He clenched the stem of the glass. Alkmene took another sip. ‘Very nice. Fruity.’ ‘I know it should probably have been white wine with this fish. Red is for pork, beef and venison. But I don’t own a cellar full of it like your father probably does.’ ‘My father is a few thousand miles away.’ Alkmene lifted her glass and smiled at Dubois. ‘Prosit!’ He held her gaze a few moments, then his features relaxed. Leaning over, he touched his glass to hers and said, ‘Prosit!’ The wine gave everything this nice rosy glow, or was it the delicious fish that graced her plate with some potatoes and green beans with sauce? Alkmene ate her fill, listening closely to the further details Dubois gave of his talk with the constable. The police were still treating it as an accident, but one of the neighbours had also testified to them that someone had come to see the master that night. He had not seen more than a shadow slipping to the door. ‘He obviously told them even less than he told me,’ Dubois said. ‘Doesn’t want to get called at the inquest, I bet. Doesn’t want to take the day off from work. Or just hates his name being mentioned in anything messy.’ Alkmene nodded thoughtfully. ‘But if the bundled up man who came to the house that night is the killer, why is he visiting Evelyn Steinbeck at her hotel? Did he act under her orders? Did she have her uncle killed in her absence, so she’d have an ironclad alibi? For the inheritance, the art collection?’ ‘They were taking an awful risk if they played it that way,’ Dubois said. ‘If the police had cried foul play, she would have been the first and most likely suspect. After all, she benefits directly from the death.’ ‘Right. But she wasn’t there that night. Lots of witnesses saw her elsewhere. As long as her accomplice is not caught and confesses, nobody can blame her really.’ Dubois nodded again. ‘There is another possibility. What if the bundled up man was the old beneficiary of the will? Ms Steinbeck’s brother for instance. Maybe he was sole heir before Norwhich became enamoured with her charm and made it all over to her. If her brother killed him, maybe in an argument, giving him some kind of push so he fell, that would explain why he visited her at the hotel and why she is not keen on a police investigation. She is shielding him.’ ‘Bravo,’ Alkmene said, ‘but all of this holds little water as long as we have no idea if Ms Steinbeck has a brother who might have benefited from the will before she turned up. Perhaps she was Norwhich’s beneficiary all along, but she simply never came here because she was building her career on Broadway. We could be looking in the wrong direction altogether. Just consider this. What if Norwhich was blackmailed as well? What if he was writing a cheque before he died and that’s how the ink got on his fingers? Did you ask the constable if any blackmail letters were found among his paperwork? Or if anybody knew he was under strain lately? You said when we first met that he was wary of strangers like one is of rabid dogs. Maybe he was afraid because he was being blackmailed.’ ‘Now I have to say bravo.’ Picking up his wine glass, Dubois leaned back in his chair for a moment. ‘No, I did not ask the constable all that but I will as soon as I can. It is a very interesting point. Find the blackmailer, find the killer. Or at least the link to him.’ His dark eyes sparkled with an energetic light as he surveyed her. ‘How did you manage to keep Moustache away for so long?’ Alkmene shrugged. ‘Instead of making up a theft I invented a runaway pooch. I had him search inside a cellar for it. He got just a teeny bit of coal dust on his uniform.’ Dubois laughed. ‘I bet he enjoyed that little job. Must be your last name that makes people willing to crawl through the dirt, literally, to please you.’ Alkmene dropped her fork with a clatter. ‘I wish you would stop pestering me about my last name. I can no more change it than you can change yours.’ There was a charged silence, then Dubois said, ‘Fair enough.’ He stared up at the ceiling, his eyes suddenly dark. Alkmene took her glass and emptied it, but this last draught of wine was a bit bitter. Dubois said, ‘When the SS Athena sank, how many people were on board? Do you know?’ ‘I have no idea. A few hundred I’d guess.’ ‘More like two thousand. Now I have gone over the passenger lists and I have checked as far as I could how many people survived. Not just in general, but specified into groups. The first class passengers. Second class. Third class. Then crew. What do you think I found?’ Alkmene pursed her lips. ‘I have no idea. I do know crew members are supposed to stay on board longest so I suppose most of them perished.’ ‘Correct. But how about passengers?’ Alkmene had a feeling where this was going. She put her empty glass down and faced him squarely. ‘If you and I had been on board, my chances for survival would have been far better than yours, assuming I would have travelled first class and you third.’ Dubois nodded. ‘About three times better. Now what does that say?’ Alkmene shrugged. ‘That people pay for better service when they take out a first class ticket and that they actually get it.’ ‘It means,’ Dubois said with emphasis, ‘that one human life is worth more than another. Simply a matter of money. And it’s the same thing inside the police force. Crimes against people with money or title are handled with a lot more zeal and dedication than those among poor people. In a back alley you can simply stab someone in passing for a few coins and nobody will bother to find out who did it or punish the killer. But have a brooch stolen from someone like your friend the Russian countess and the whole police force is out and about looking for the thief.’ ‘I thought she was your friend too.’ Alkmene stretched her legs. ‘Are you not being a bit hypocritical?’ Dubois sighed. ‘Maybe. But the numbers in the SS Athena case rattled me.’ Alkmene nodded. ‘I can understand that. I am still thinking about the little boy and… I hope his father didn’t beat him too badly for what I brought. I should have thought better about it. But I was just trying to help.’ Dubois held her gaze. His expression became somewhat softer as he said, ‘I was there late last night. The old man said he had turned the vegetables into a nice soup they could also share with a sickly neighbour. And the boy was playing with the horse. I think the cart got broken when his father kicked it, but it will be repaired.’ ‘I just wish that father would vanish and never come home again. Then the boy could have peace.’ ‘His grandfather would be all he has and the old man could die any day. What would he do then? Some of the orphanages are worse than living with a drunk father. No, he is well off still having a parent to care for him.’ ‘Care?’ Alkmene echoed in disbelief. ‘You call that care?’ Dubois shook his head at her. ‘Why do you think he responded so violently? He is worried the vicar with his plan for children will take his son away from him. It is the constant fear of the single parent. My mother was just like that. Thinking: if I die, what will happen to Jake?’ So his name was Jake. It was simple and strong and befitted him. Alkmene moved her glass over the table. ‘My mother died when I was just four years old. I don’t remember much of her, but that she sat on her tabouret at her dressing table and did her hair before leaving for some party. It flowed down her back all golden, and my father brushed it.’ Alkmene fell silent, remembering the tender intimacy of that scene. Her parents had loved each other in a quiet, but intense way. Maybe that was the reason her father had never remarried, even though family and friends had advised it, not just for the sake of ‘the child’ as they had called Alkmene, but also to ensure he would get a son, an heir for all of his property and name. But he had not wanted to replace the love of his life. ‘I guess you are lucky that you had your mother much longer,’ Alkmene said slowly. Dubois huffed. ‘It is easy to think you are lucky when you have a little more than another.’ Alkmene winced. It seemed that whatever she said to Dubois, to show him she understood, or at least tried to, it was always the wrong thing. After a silence Dubois added, ‘I am glad she is no longer alive, because she would constantly worry about me. Now I am free to do whatever I want. To risk my life in whatever way I want to.’ Alkmene had often met men who talked like that, risking their necks horse riding, polo playing, even experimenting with light planes. They needed danger to feel alive. Perhaps deep inside of her she understood that feeling, better than Dubois or anybody else would ever guess. So often when she sat at home reading about strange events in times of old, she had wished she could have been there to help solve them. She had been amazed at how easily people had gotten away with murder, simply because nobody had asked the extra question or two. Now Silas Norwhich’s death had given her a perfect opportunity to ask all the questions she wanted. And with Dubois’s help she might actually have a chance of proving someone guilty. But this was real life. Not a book. If someone was guilty here, and they proved it, he or she would end up on the gallows for it. Someone would die because they had refused to leave the case alone. The police seemed eager enough to write it off as an accident and be done with it. What right did they have to be poking into it? A mistreated party had not asked them. They could not even know if Silas Norwhich would have been glad to see his death avenged. If he had loved his niece and she turned out to be involved, would he have wanted her to be executed? ‘Hey… What are you thinking about now?’ She looked up at Dubois, realizing he was studying her with a frown. He had told her before it was not a game and as they progressed, she began to see what he had meant. This was a matter of life and death. Something stark black and white, while she had an unsettling feeling that nothing in this case was black and white, clear and obvious. They were not even sure Silas Norwhich had been coldly murdered. His fall and subsequent death could have been unplanned, unwanted, by the person who had been present as it happened. He or she might have fled in panic, not out of guilt. How to untangle the whole web? Dubois was still watching her, waiting for an answer. She tried to smile. Forcing herself to sound light and unconcerned, she lifted her glass. ‘Shall we finish off the bottle? It sours when it’s left too long.’ Chapter Eleven (#ulink_cf441c0d-86d1-5a1e-a51c-e080997eb2aa) Still pensive, Alkmene approached the men’s wear store to get the old-new handkerchief for Dubois. He had told her as they parted that he was meeting Silas Norwhich’s manservant for dinner later that day, to get all the details about the room in which he was found. ‘If he has anything special, I might call upon you tonight, so you’d better have my handkerchief ready and waiting for me.’ The clerk who had taken the assignment from her the other day was there and waved her into the back room at once. He spread a handkerchief on the table for her, gesturing over it with his hand. ‘It is the same quality, material, colour. This should do very well.’ Alkmene demanded the specimen she had left him to make a close examination of similarities and differences, but the clerk claimed to have thrown it out with the trash. ‘I can assure you this was the best I could do.’ Alkmene hoped his best would be good enough and left, having paid for the new-old handkerchief in cash so it would not pop up on her father’s bill. He was so chaotic that he might not notice, but just in case he did, she didn’t want to answer any difficult questions about it. She believed Jake was right in saying she should not hand over the money demanded in the blackmail note, but that meant the blackmailer might make good on his threat to inform her father of her alliance with a convict. She could hardly explain to him that the purchases ending up on his bill were for said convict. He might think she had gone mad and sign her over to an asylum before he left on his next botanical expedition. Actually, merely hiring a chaperon for her would be bad enough. She needed her freedom to move around. Once home, Alkmene gave the handkerchief a critical perusal and decided it looked too new, so she crinkled it and put it under a pillow, then sat on the pillow for an hour or so reading in a French novel so she could surprise Dubois with a casual conversational phrase here and there. Satisfied with the handkerchief’s appearance now, she moved to the theme of scent and sniffed it critically. It was too new still. She used some of the lavender drops she poured on her pillow on occasion to sleep better to create a flowery scent that a man might mistake for soap. After all, despite all his criticism of her, Dubois didn’t launder himself either, so what did he know? At last she put the handkerchief in some brown paper and put it ready to present to him should he appear after his meeting with Norwhich’s manservant. She had some dinner, Cook’s leek soup, followed by mutton in cream sauce with rosemary-covered baked potatoes. She took dessert, blanched pear with whipped cream, into the living room and got out On Rigor Mortis, to find out what it meant that the dead man’s fingers had been so stiff when the police surgeon arrived that he had to break them to get the bit of paper out. The treatise was very long and dry and not at all conclusive about hours and times of death, and instead of making copious notes that would prove vital to their quest, she just had three lines scribbled in pencil, when the butler opened the door and announced, ‘A guest for you, Lady Alkmene. He has no calling card and… Hey, wait a moment, sir.’ He was pushed aside by someone who whooshed in with the freshness of summer rain. Indeed Jake Dubois’s dark hair was wet, and drops glistened on his suntanned skin. He raced to her and stood in front of her chair, gesturing widely as he called, ‘I know what the dead man was holding in his hand. What it was that got snatched away from him by the killer. Now we can be sure Evelyn Steinbeck is at the heart of it all.’ Alkmene snapped On Rigor Mortis shut and asked, ‘So?’ Jake glanced at the butler, who was still standing at the door, opening and shutting his mouth like a fish out of water. ‘You can go now, Brookes. Please close the door,’ Alkmene said quietly and put the volume on the side table. She patted the pillow beside her. ‘Sit down.’ Jake gestured. ‘I am soaking wet; I had better stand.’ ‘Don’t be silly.’ She rose and walked over to the fireplace. ‘Here, you can sit on this stool. The fire will get you warmed and dried up in no time.’ Jake followed her and sat down. Still standing she was now towering over him. He extended his hands to the fire and smiled as he felt the heat. Waiting for him to speak, she straightened her father’s collection of marble elephants on the mantelpiece. He usually brought one from every trip to the east, and had gathered quite a herd of them. At last, as Jake kept silent, she prompted, ‘What did Norwhich have in his hand?’ ‘A birth certificate. I have looked at several, and that bit of paper definitely came from one of them.’ ‘Whose birth certificate?’ ‘No idea. But what if Evelyn Steinbeck wasn’t his niece? Or she wasn’t even Evelyn Steinbeck, but someone pretending to be her? I mean, an actress could play any part. I think we have to interview her as soon as we can to find out who she really is.’ ‘As if she is going to tell us.’ Alkmene blew a strand of hair from her face. ‘By the way, I have your handkerchief for you – like you asked.’ She left the room to go get it. She was a bit nervous about her deception succeeding, so decided to get it over with as soon as possible. As she came back into the room, Jake was stirring up the fire, sending sparks dancing into the chimney. He really had to be cold. She had not even noticed it had begun to rain. The house’s walls were so thick they kept out any sounds of the street. ‘Here.’ She handed him the parcel. He opened the brown paper at once and checked the handkerchief, folding it open, turning it over. Her heart beat like strikes on an anvil. He’d see through her ruse at once and expose her, making this very painful. ‘I don’t see any tea stains any more,’ Jake said. He glanced up at her. ‘Lemon juice?’ Lemon juice? Did that work against tea stains? ‘Uh, no.’ She crossed her arms over her chest. ‘Secret recipe, like your fish thing, you know. From my Irish nanny. Foolproof.’ He nodded slowly. She had no idea if he was buying it. In his line of work he had to have experience with squirming, lying people and maybe he could make out a half-truth or lie from a mile in the distance. ‘So I guess I should never use this again, huh?’ he said. ‘Have to keep it pristine, as a memento.’ With that he put it in the inner pocket of his jacket. Alkmene rubbed her clammy palms. ‘So do you want anything to drink? I can ring for coffee. I think Cook also made ginger cookies.’ Jake shook his head. ‘I had a big dinner.’ He nodded in the direction of her half full dessert bowl. ‘Yours wasn’t any good?’ She flushed. ‘I meant to finish it, but I got sidetracked by the rigor mortis.’ ‘And?’ She shrugged. ‘Doesn’t seem to say all that much. I guess we would be better off if we knew exactly what the room looked like in which the dead man was found.’ ‘Et voila.’ Jake reached into his pocket and produced a folded piece of paper for her. ‘I had that big dinner I just mentioned with Norwhich’s manservant who found the body in the morning. On his night off he didn’t mind me treating him to something nice while he dug in his memory for worthy details of the fatal night. I drew the map myself while we were talking and had him correct me if I was wrong.’ Alkmene accepted the paper and looked over it. It represented a square room, with the door on the upper long side. On the lower long side two windows were indicated. ‘Were the curtains closed that night?’ she asked. Jake nodded. ‘There were even blinds on the inside, which were always closed at night. Not much light got to the outside, let alone a glimpse of what was happening inside that room.’ ‘All right. So we cannot hope for a passer-by who caught a look or even a snooper who is prepared to accept money in exchange for what he saw. We could have advertised, you know, to ask for information. But with the blinds that would be no use. Now there is the desk…’ Alkmene trailed her finger over the square on the left hand short side. ‘The back of his chair was to the wall?’ ‘Yes, he faced out to the room when he was sitting behind it.’ ‘So not likely someone sneaked up from behind and clubbed him while he was sitting there. The visitor coming in would have entered here and walked to here.’ She followed the intended path with her finger from the door on the top of the sheet to the desk on the lower left. ‘And where is the fatal fireplace?’ ‘To the right. It is in the same wall as the fireplace on the other side in the drawing room. The manservant said it had a solid rim with a sharp edge. A maid who was cleaning had once hurt her hand on it, he recalled. It cut a gash right through her skin.’ ‘I see.’ She tried to put herself in the room, see all the details. ‘Walls covered with bookcases?’ ‘Yes. I asked if anything seemed to be missing. He said some books had been pulled off the shelves and were lying on the desk, but more like the master himself had been doing work, research or something, sooner than someone overturning the room. He often worked late at night in that very room.’ ‘I see. What about paperwork on the desk?’ ‘The usual. It seems Mr Silas Norwhich was interested in the history of Dartmoor. He had many books on it, also with folktales, and was writing up some notes on it. That explains the ink on his fingers.’ ‘Dartmoor?’ Alkmene said with a frown. She had expected him to work on accounts or something, a businesslike thing. They had even speculated that he might have been writing a cheque because he had been blackmailed. And now it was notes on folktales from Dartmoor? Jake nodded. He aligned the poker that he had put back in place after stirring up the fire. ‘The manservant said his master had always been fascinated by Dartmoor. It seems he regularly travelled to a small village there. Cunningham. The last time he came back he was very excited. The servant didn’t know what for.’ Alkmene frowned. It might have been nothing, or it could be a vital lead. ‘He might have told his niece. Evelyn Steinbeck should know more about it.’ Jake nodded. ‘She should be our focus now.’ ‘And the birth certificate?’ ‘I intend to find out whose it was of course. I think Silas Norwhich might have gone through his lawyer Mr Pemboldt to get it, so I also need to see him as soon as I can.’ The jangle of the doorbell shocked Alkmene into full alertness. ‘Expecting somebody?’ Jake asked with an innocent look that lit her fire. ‘Nobody,’ she retorted and walked to the door to listen as the butler opened up. It would be unfortunate if it was Freddie or another of her acquaintances. The visitor would have to be introduced to Jake and she was not quite sure how to explain knowing a reporter. In their circles reporters were considered to be like jackals after prey, to be avoided at all costs. Not received inside your home, especially with your father far away. A high-pitched voice talked excitedly, in Russian. Alkmene smiled in relief and stepped into the hallway. ‘It is all right, Brookes. That is just Oksana Matejevna, the countess of Veveine’s companion. Please come in.’ She gestured at the open door behind her. Oksana Matejevna was dressed in a shapeless coat with one of the shawls the countess had referred to wrapped round her shoulders and neck. Of a blue material, it was richly embroidered with peacocks, every tail feather glittering with small sequins. She carried herself with her head held high as she walked in. Jake rose from his stool to greet her. Oksana Matejevna barely gave him a glance. Alkmene directed her to sit on the sofa and asked, ‘Has the countess sent you?’ The Russian maid shook her head. She looked at the door. ‘Do your servants…how do you say? Drop eaves?’ ‘Not at all,’ Alkmene assured her, but she went to check anyway. Blessed with too much curiosity, she knew better than most how tempting a little snippet of illegally obtained information could be. The hallway was empty, and when she took a couple of steps in the direction of the corridor to the kitchens, she heard Cook’s loud voice and the butler’s laughter. She bet poor Oksana Matejevna was the object of a foreigner joke right now. She returned and closed the door. ‘The coast is clear.’ Oksana Matejevna gave her a blank stare. ‘You can tell us the news,’ Jake translated. ‘Oh. I saw the bellboy at the hotel. He came out of the servants’ entrance at the back. He didn’t want to be seen with me, so we stood under an archway. There was a terrible draught there. My neck hurts.’ Oksana Matejevna huddled deeper into her peacocks, rubbing her hands as if it was deep winter outside. Alkmene waited for her to go on and convey the bellboy’s big news, but nothing came out any more. ‘I think you would feel much better with a little something invigorating to drink.’ Jake gave Alkmene a pointed look. ‘Perhaps some uh – ’ ‘Gin?’ Oksana Matejevna smiled at her. ‘I love the fruity taste of it.’ ‘Of course.’ Mentally shaking her head, Alkmene went to get the gin from her father’s study. Father would have a fit if one of his servants wanted to sample his strong liquor. But when said servant had valuable information in a murder case, you had better indulge her. Carrying the glass downstairs, Alkmene noticed the strong perfume on the air that the Russian guest had brought in with her. Probably eau de cologne. Back in the warm room, she handed Oksana Matejevna the glass and smiled. ‘I hope your neck will be better soon. Draughts can be terrible. Please go on.’ Satisfied that her trials were taken seriously, the Russian maid went on, ‘The bellboy said that he had gone through the American’s things while she was down at breakfast. She didn’t eat much, but she liked to show herself in the room to be seen by people. They even came especially to breakfast there, only to see her, because she is tragic now. Her uncle dead, no other family.’ Oksana Matejevna rolled her eyes. ‘The boy said he looked in all the drawers of her dressing table, but there was nothing but make-up and scent bottles and even…how do you call it? Treatment to make your skin look darker.’ ‘Sun-tanning cream?’ Jake whistled. ‘I thought her complexion was real.’ Alkmene made a ‘got you there’ face at him. Oksana Matejevna said, ‘There were also lots of thin paper squares scattered about, stained with make-up. She brought those with her from America. A new invention to clean the face, the bellboy had heard. Very wasteful, if you ask me. But she seems to be very vain, always working her face and spending no end of money on materials for it.’ ‘Did the boy find anything worthwhile?’ Jake asked, apparently bored with the details of Evelyn Steinbeck’s beauty ritual. Oksana Matejevna looked sternly at him. ‘I will get there. In my own time.’ She took another slow sip of her gin. ‘He had also looked under the pillows of her bed. Now there was something there. It was a golden locket, inscribed with the initials FW.’ ‘FW?’ Jake echoed. ‘Who can that be?’ ‘He did not know. He only looked quickly and then put the pillows back in place. He tried the pockets of her dressing gown and found a bill from a tailor for some very expensive dresses. It was dated just the other day. If her uncle is no longer alive to pay for her expenses, where does she get her money?’ ‘Good question,’ Jake said, glancing at Alkmene. ‘He also tried her suitcases, even feeling if there was anything in the lining, but found nothing. I think he did well. There was nothing more to find.’ Oksana Matejevna finished the gin and made a satisfied sound. ‘I doubt she was the one who wrote that vile letter to her highness.’ ‘But she can still be involved.’ Jake sat up straight. ‘That locket under her pillow may be loot she picked up some place to pass on to the person behind the scheme. FW are not her initials, nor those of her uncle or another relative we know of.’ ‘It could be a gift from a special friend,’ Alkmene said. Jake shot her a glance. ‘We don’t know if she was engaged in America, do we?’ Alkmene wanted to say there had been a man proposing to Evelyn Steinbeck, at the party, the conversation she had overheard, coming from behind the Chinese screen. But Jake already said, answering his own question. ‘No, we know nothing about her life in America, so we should look into that, see if we can find FW there.’ He focused on Oksana Matejevna again. ‘Did you get the impression the bellboy was sincere? Or was he lying about all the work he did to get your money?’ The woman shook her head. ‘He was not smart enough to have made it all up. He really did check her things.’ ‘I hope he doesn’t get into trouble for it,’ Alkmene said. ‘He might even lose his job. If it had delivered more, I would feel better about taking the risk.’ Oksana Matejevna pulled her shawl closer around her shoulders. ‘Her highness is at a soir?e. She will not miss me during dinner, but she will expect to see me as soon as the music starts. I hope it is not singing. Shrill voices give me a headache.’ She stood stiffly. ‘Good evening.’ Alkmene saw her to the door in person, then returned to Jake, who was sitting on the floor now with his legs crossed, his eyes closed like he was deep in thought. Alkmene took her own seat and studied the sketch of the dead man’s library again. When Jake didn’t speak, she said, ‘You look like one of those Indian fakirs my father is always telling me about. They conjure up snakes from baskets and trick people into buying carpets that don’t fly.’ Jake laughed softly. It relaxed his expression, making him look younger. ‘I have never been to India. You of course have been everywhere.’ ‘Sadly no.’ Alkmene leaned against the headrest. ‘My father believes women should sit at home instead of travelling around the globe. I try to tell myself he is just worried because he has lost my mother and doesn’t want to lose me as well. But I was seriously piqued when he left, again, without me.’ ‘If you had someone to look after you, would he let you travel?’ She didn’t look at him, but kept her eyes on the heavy oak beams overhead. ‘Maybe. He is old-fashioned, so he’d have to know that person well and trust him.’ Jake made a snorting sound. He was probably thinking of his conviction and how trustworthy that made him in her father’s eyes. A sweet soft scent of something filled the room. She turned her head to look at Jake. He had pulled out the handkerchief she had returned to him and held it to his nose with an elated expression. Then he looked full at her, eyes ablaze with laughter. ‘My handkerchief never had this nice little stitched edge, my lady. Whatever you did with the stained one, this one is brand new.’ Alkmene jumped to her feet to strike at him, but he was already on his feet, thrusting the offensive article back into his pocket. ‘I knew you could not launder.’ ‘So what?’ she called after him as he made for the door. ‘I do know how to trick policemen into looking for missing dogs so you could have information out of Constable Gordon.’ Jake’s laughter floated back at her. She heard the front door open. She ran to the door and halted in the frame, looking at his tall figure outlined against the streetlights outside. She wished he had stayed a little longer. The evening was still young, and On Rigor Mortis was a poor companion. Jake turned his head to her. For a moment his eyes were serious, almost carrying a hint of regret. Then he said, ‘Metropolitan hotel at ten. Where we can see a tragic heiress have breakfast and perhaps ruffle a feather or two.’ Chapter Twelve (#ulink_7cd9753d-f901-50cc-81d8-74c0ccdd20f5) A group of guests was set to leave when they came in, porters carrying out the heavy leather suitcases to put into the waiting cars. A tall woman with white fur casually draped round her shoulders descended the steps with the grace of a duchess, casting an interested look at Jake from under her blackened lashes. Alkmene had sat at her own dressing table this morning studying her face and wondering if it needed more than just the little mascara she put on her lashes and the little red she dabbed to her lips. Evelyn Steinbeck would of course size her up, and she fully intended to be a match for the American heiress. She sailed ahead of Jake, past the elevators where a boy in the hotel’s red uniform with gold buttons was waiting to assist. The doors into the breakfast room were open, and a maid passed them with a tray full of cappuccino cups. Jake asked her to bring them two as well and took a table with full view of the windows and the lone heiress, studying the view with a lost look on her face. She looked younger than she had done the night Alkmene had met her. Like the tragedy had stripped away some of her high society veneer, leaving her exposed. Jake kicked her under the table. Alkmene looked at him, then as he winked, she rose and walked over, her most surprised expression in place. ‘Excuse me… Did we not meet recently? Yes, you were so busy adjusting the screen so it didn’t fall on the table with all the crystal glasses. You saved us from disaster then. I don’t think we were properly introduced at the time. Alkmene Callender.’ She added almost as an afterthought, ‘Lady Alkmene.’ Evelyn Steinbeck’s blank expression changed at once to excitement. ‘Oh, I remember. Please do sit down.’ She gestured at the empty seat across from her. Alkmene said, ‘I am here with a friend. Do you mind if he joins us too?’ She nodded subtly in the direction of Jake Dubois. Evelyn Steinbeck looked. Her eyes lit. ‘Not at all. Yoo-hoo!’ Her piercing voice drew all eyes to her. She waved ecstatically at Jake. ‘Come on over!’ Cringing, Alkmene lowered herself into the seat. Jake approached and shook hands with Evelyn, introducing himself as Dubois, journalist. ‘Mr Dubois is looking into a sea disaster,’ Alkmene said quickly. ‘Hair-raising, when you hear the details. You came here by boat too, I assume?’ ‘Yes. There was such a strong wind during part of the journey. Terrifying.’ ‘Your first time away from home?’ Dubois ventured. ‘You must have felt quite lost on the ship.’ ‘I wasn’t alone.’ Evelyn fell silent as if she had already said too much. She added quickly, ‘My uncle had sent someone to accompany me.’ Alkmene glanced at Jake. That person would have to make the journey twice. Expensive, not to say extravagant. Why had Norwhich not simply written to his niece and arranged for the crossing? Evelyn wasn’t a child who couldn’t be left alone on a boat. She asked, ‘Anyone I might know?’ Evelyn flushed a little. ‘I do not think we move in the same circles.’ Suddenly her American accent was less thick and her tone just a little vicious. Alkmene felt Jake’s shoe press down onto the tip of her own. She moved the toe up against his sole to signal she had caught the change too. She kept smiling at the bereaved heiress. ‘So nice to meet you here. I had no idea you were staying in a hotel. At the party you mentioned – ’ ‘My uncle died.’ Evelyn sounded curt. ‘As it happened in that house, I had no intention of staying there any longer than necessary. I am staying here, at his expense, I mean, of the estate, until it is all settled. Then I will go back home.’ ‘Oh, you inherit? I think I heard he had a son.’ Alkmene had just intended to make conversation, but the word ‘son’ caused a real explosion in the heiress’s composure. She jumped to her feet and yelled, ‘That is a mean accusation. Nothing of it is true, you hear.’ The waiter, who was just approaching with their coffee, struggled not to drop the silver tray. Jake said coldly, ‘So you are aware of the talk going round that you are not the heir to his fortune and you even know it?’ Evelyn Steinbeck stared at him with wide eyes as if he was an adder appearing from under her table. She gestured at the waiter. ‘I want these people removed from here. They are bothering me, threatening me.’ Her voice grew into a frantic wail. ‘Help, I want the police.’ Alkmene looked at Jake. Perhaps it was better if they left before this woman turned it all into a big scene. Her father would certainly not appreciate talk among his friends about the police removing his daughter from a decent establishment. ‘I want the police,’ Evelyn Steinbeck snapped to the waiter, who stepped back, nodded and vanished, with their coffee, apparently to look for an officer in the street. Alkmene cleared her throat. ‘I think we could uh…’ Jake leaned back in his chair as if he was just discussing the weather here. ‘You want the police, fine with me.’ He studied the heiress with cold eyes. ‘I bet they will be very interested in that gold locket with the initials FW under your pillow in the room upstairs.’ Evelyn Steinbeck’s black-rimmed eyes grew huge. She spluttered, ‘How do you know…’ Jake crossed his legs over one another and studied his fingernails. ‘I know much more and I can’t wait to tell it all. Not just to the police, you know, but in a nice expos? in the papers. Certain elements always tickle the public fancy. Beautiful woman…’ he cast her a look ‘…tragic death, fortune at stake.’ ‘Mistaken identity,’ Alkmene added. Her heart was pounding, but she understood what Jake was doing here. They had to bluff their way out of it, force Evelyn Steinbeck into a confession. Once the police had appeared to ask them to leave, there would certainly not be a second chance to get at her. Evelyn Steinbeck stared, her mouth opening and shutting. ‘Personally,’ Jake said, ‘I would rather write about something more serious than wills and lost heirs, you know, but the public just can’t get enough of it. And as my editor does want to sell newspapers, I have no choice but to oblige him. If I want to keep my job that is.’ ‘How much?’ Evelyn hissed. ‘Excuse me?’ ‘How much to shut up about it? I am sure I can pay you more than your lousy editor can. I can even get you a job in New York City. Would you not like to go there? Have a different life?’ Evelyn tried a coquettish smile. ‘Pay is better there, in whatever job you’d take, but I can assure you that newspapers are looking for smart reporters.’ She couldn’t quite keep the venom out of the word smart, but still it was an enticing offer. Alkmene held her breath. Perhaps it had always been Jake’s big dream to cross the Atlantic and make it in America. She would certainly love to see New York City herself some time. Jake leaned over, his palms flat on the table. ‘I would take you up on your offer, if it were up to me to decide. But I took up this business on behalf of a friend and I can’t back out. Word of honour.’ ‘Oh, what is a word given compared to money and fame and a new life?’ Evelyn Steinbeck batted her long lashes. ‘Your friend will certainly not follow you to America to seek revenge for breaking your word.’ ‘That is an interesting term,’ Jake said, ‘for that was the only thing I did not mention yet which people absolutely gobble up in newspaper stories. Revenge.’ Evelyn paled. She uttered a most unladylike curse. ‘What do you want from me?’ The waiter came back in, two policemen in tow. He gestured at their table, looking mortified that the other guests were witnessing this. Jake said to Evelyn, ‘Your call, lady.’ The policemen halted at their table. ‘These people are bothering you? You want to bring charges against them? We can take them down to the station for questioning and…’ ‘It was all a misunderstanding,’ Evelyn Steinbeck said. The oldest policeman blinked. ‘Excuse me, but the waiter ran onto the street to fetch us. He made it sound like murder was being committed here.’ ‘Murder…’ Jake repeated in a soft, seductive tone. Alkmene suppressed a smile. Evelyn Steinbeck snapped at the policemen, ‘It was all a misunderstanding, I tell you. Now scoot.’ And to the waiter, ‘Will you never again embarrass me that way? Or I will complain to the director and you will never ever work in a fashionable hotel again.’The policeman still wanted to argue, but the mortified waiter grabbed his arm and begged him to leave. With a tomato-red head, he led the way out of the breakfast room, followed by curious glances from the other guests. Several coffee cups were suspended in mid-air as the holder speculated about the cause of this early morning commotion. Jake focused on Evelyn Steinbeck. ‘You did the right thing. Now that we understand each other…’ Evelyn looked around her. She seemed to consider her options, quickly. Then she said, ‘Not here. Up in my room where we can talk more freely.’ Alkmene was about to rise, if only to get away from the uncomfortable stares of the other breakfasters, but Jake’s voice made her freeze. ‘No.’ Jake leaned over to Evelyn Steinbeck. ‘If we go up with you, you will accuse us of having broken in, having assaulted you. You will make up a whole story of what we did and there will be no witnesses to prove you wrong. No, my dear lady. We will sit right here in full view of fifty people and discuss the matter. No tricks.’ Alkmene had not even considered the potential risks of stepping out with the heiress. Jake’s experience became more valuable by the moment. Evelyn laughed, deep in her throat. ‘You think you can call the shots?’ Jake shrugged. ‘Either you give me a very good reason why I should keep this story to myself, or you can read it in the afternoon paper. Your choice.’ Evelyn took a deep breath and then leaned back. ‘All right. But I have your word that you will not print any of what I am about to tell you?’ Jake lifted a shoulder and dropped it again. ‘I already know enough to go to print without you. I need not have come here.’ ‘That is why I asked how much you wanted. Why come here, but to get money from me, more than an article can give you? I have access to funds. I can give you more than you ever dreamed of.’ Evelyn Steinbeck sounded like she was about to launch into a second round of negotiating. Alkmene held her breath a moment. Anybody had his price, right, or so they said. But Jake shook his head. ‘I am not after money. I want the truth for a friend.’ ‘You are working for him?’ She held his gaze. ‘It is all his fault the old man is dead now. If he had not shown up at the theatre like he did, it would have worked out fine.’ ‘But it has not,’ Jake said. ‘The old man is dead, and I want your side of the story. You were in the wrong place at the wrong time. You could be blamed for it all. If you want to save your own skin, you had better talk to me now.’ Chapter Thirteen (#ulink_3100cc37-fc2a-59d8-9b75-f4397ed38921) Evelyn Steinbeck took a deep shuddering breath. ‘Talking about being in the wrong place at the wrong time…’ She laughed softly. ‘That was the whole thing. They assured me there would be no risk to this job. No risk!’ She leaned back and twisted the narrow gold band on her finger. ‘I am really Evelyn Steinbeck and I really am an actress from New York City. The Broadway bit is overdone. I have never been in a big show. I used to perform in small theatres in those plays where you never know if they are going to earn out and you get paid, or they have to close after a few nights and you are left with little for your trouble.’ Alkmene was sure Evelyn was only saying this to gain sympathy and hoped Jake was not falling for it. His expression didn’t betray anything as he listened, his posture perfectly relaxed. Evelyn Steinbeck continued, ‘I was performing in such a small production one night when a man approached me after the show. He said I was perfect for a part he wanted me to play. I thought at first it was on the stage, in another town maybe, but he explained it was something a bit different, with a matching price attached.’ She inhaled slowly, staring into the distance as if she saw the scene again, herself and the man on that fateful night. ‘I had to travel to England as soon as possible and pretend to be niece to some rich man. It seemed he was obsessed with finding family. If I just pretended to be the family he had wanted to find, he would be happy and I would inherit his fortune. I was a little doubtful about the legality of the thing, but the man assured me that it would be fine and nobody would be hurt by it. As the rich man had no family, his fortune would have gone to the crown and like he said, the crown was rich enough. That made a lot of sense to me.’ She reached into her purse and pulled out a pack of cigarettes. As if on cue Jake produced a lighter and gave her fire. She smiled briefly at him. Alkmene suppressed an impatient sigh. Evelyn exhaled a long draught of smoke. She manipulated the cigarette in her hand. ‘The other actors weren’t happy that I quit the play like that, but I didn’t care. It was a condition that I had to leave at once, get on the first boat that left for England. Everything was prepared. I came here and I was produced to the old man. That was what he called it: produced. Like a rabbit from a magician’s hat, you know.’ She laughed softly. ‘The old man was surprised of course, but happy. He seemed especially impressed with a likeness he saw about me, someone I made him think of. He was sentimental, called me his dear and…’ She tipped off ashes, a little wild. ‘I guess I felt sorry for him sometimes, you know, duping him and all. Pretending to be his long-lost niece that he was so fond of. But life was fine here really. I was an heiress now, and people all wanted to know me. No more auditions for bit parts, no more plays closing on me before I had had a chance to shine. No, instead I went to parties every night, drank fine champagne, had men dying to dance with me. It was kind of funny how much a little change of environment can do for a girl.’ Alkmene wanted to know who the fellow was – the one who had asked her to marry him behind the screen, but it seemed better not to break the flow of the story now. She had to remember to ask the question later, when Evelyn was done. Evelyn smoked without saying anything for a few minutes, then continued, ‘I was about settled into my part, doing my bit of being American… I make a big deal of my accent, you know, because people seem to like it. Truth is, I don’t talk that differently from the way you do. My mother was British for real. But the accent became part of the deal. The old man adored me, showing me off and… I tried not to think about the lies. I sort of started believing I really was his niece.’ She sighed. ‘Then one night at the theatre this man came into our box. He said that of all the injustices done to his mother this was the worst of all. That he was denied and exchanged for another. Openly. Silas was very upset upon seeing him, but they stepped outside to argue further. I was backwards in my seat to follow the discussion but with the singing going on onstage it was hard to hear much.’ Her fine eyebrows drew together in a frown. ‘I do think Silas agreed to something for he came back muttering: that should settle it, settle it for once and all. He was distracted all night and the days afterwards. He went to see his lawyer a few times.’ ‘Mr Pemboldt?’ Jake asked, and Evelyn nodded. She said, ‘I think they argued too, for he came back from those meetings all red in the face and shouting at everybody, even me. He didn’t care that I had no idea what it was all about. I tried to ask him, but he just shooed me away. He even seemed to turn colder towards me, like…he had somehow found out I was a fake. I started to get a bit worried that I would be in trouble for having impersonated someone. That I might be better off going back to the States, before I got in any deeper. Then the night came that he died. I was out to a concert, honestly. I have no idea what happened there. I only heard in the morning that he was dead. I left the house at once because I didn’t want to live there any more. I felt like it was somehow my fault that…’ She wet her lips. Looking up at Jake, she said, ‘I guess I will just go back to America and not ask for any money from his estate. After all, I never really was his niece. But the odd thing is, when I said that, they didn’t want to accept it. They are dead set on continuing the act. I don’t want the money any more, but they do. They even threatened me that if I told the truth to anyone, I would end up in jail.’ She leaned over the table to Jake, her eyes wide. ‘Can they really put me there?’ Jake frowned. ‘I suppose that by “they” you mean the people who hired you to play Norwhich’s niece?’ She nodded. ‘I thought they would agree that I had better leave now that Mr Norwhich is dead. They cannot touch me back in America. I would not even go back to New York City. I would try another city – easy enough if they gave me some money. But he yelled at me that it was even more pertinent now that I played the part and did it well. He was out of his mind.’ ‘He?’ Jake queried. He leaned closer and touched her hand. Alkmene cringed at the move, but supposed it was part of his game to win the girl’s trust. As a reporter he probably had few qualms about applying tactics to get information. Play the nice, concerned semi-friend. All tricks of the trade… Evelyn looked up at Jake, her lips wobbling. Her mascara was a little smudged, as if she had blinked back tears during her story. ‘If I tell you, he will be so mad at me.’ ‘I already know too much. I could go to the papers anyway and…’ ‘You told me you would not.’ Evelyn tried to snatch back her hand from under his grasp, but Jake tightened it. Her face went pale, either with shock or pain from the pressure applied. Jake said, ‘I owe you nothing, but I do owe my friend a great deal. Now tell me who the man is – the man who put you up to all of this.’ Evelyn swallowed audibly. Then she said in a whisper, ‘Mr Pemboldt. Silas Norwhich’s lawyer.’ Chapter Fourteen (#ulink_89f0554a-941f-5f61-9872-b6bee4f7abf3) ‘Can you imagine that?’ Alkmene burst when they had left the perplexed ex-heiress at her breakfast table with her half smoked cigarette. ‘Pemboldt, Norwhich’s own lawyer, hired the girl to play his niece, while he knew, outright knew, she was not the right heiress. Why on earth would he do that? How can he benefit? Aw…’ She froze on the pavement, and Jake grabbed her arm, looking down. ‘Broke your heel?’ he asked cynically. ‘No, I forgot to ask who proposed to her behind the screen. If that was Pemboldt, he was after Norwhich’s fortune all the time. But the fellow I heard talking sounded younger, a bit arrogant, you know, not a stick of a lawyer…’ ‘I won’t even bother to ask what on earth you are referring to,’ Jake said with a snort. ‘I just want to see that fancy Mr Pemboldt and let him explain it all. It’s perfectly legal, he told her, and that being a lawyer…’ He shook his head. ‘She also didn’t say who the major was,’ Alkmene continued out loud. She could just slap herself for having forgotten to ask all these important questions. But after the name Pemboldt had been uttered, her mind had whirred with reasons why, motives, alibis, the whole lot, and she had forgotten all about the proposal behind the screen and the major mentioned in that conversation. Now she understood better why the police at times followed up on fake clues, pursuing one angle, while not seeing other elements that were right under their noses. There were so many elements to a case, and the picture kept shifting like a kaleidoscope. ‘Say…’ She hurried after Jake, who had resumed walking again to Pemboldt’s offices off Brook Street. ‘If you ever eloped, where would you go?’ ‘Why would I elope?’ Jake asked with a frown. ‘I don’t have to ask for anybody’s permission to marry.’ ‘Just for the sake of analysis. If you eloped, took a girl on the run to marry her without her family’s permission, where would you go?’ Jake waved a hand. ‘I don’t know. I’d take the Orient Express probably and decide on the way what stop I’d get off at. Plenty of possibilities, each with its own advantages.’ Alkmene smiled to herself. See. Gretna Green was for amateurs. Jake glanced at her. ‘You would not elope with some cad of a lord, would you? Nah, you would not have to. Your father would love the cad of a lord and agree to the marriage on a whim.’ Before Alkmene could protest he pushed on, ‘We can’t expect this shrewd lawyer Pemboldt to cave as easily as dear Evelyn has. She believed that I already knew a lot about her and the whole impersonation scheme, but Pemboldt is smarter than that, and if he has blood on his hands, he will be desperate to deny it all.’ ‘Well, you can’t always have it easy,’ Alkmene said, a little vicious because of his ‘dear Evelyn’. ‘Perhaps you should go with her to America. Not for a career in journalism in New York City, but to try your luck on the stage. You play “understanding” with real flair.’ Jake hitched a brow at her. ‘Jealous?’ ‘Of course not. You just manipulated her for your own gain. One moment you were luring her with sugar water, the next you about twisted her wrist.’ ‘It got us what we wanted, didn’t it?’ Jake pointed ahead. ‘The offices of our scheming family lawyer. What are we going to say?’ ‘I will announce myself as Lady Alkmene and ask for some legal advice on a delicate matter. It’s amazing how much space people suddenly have in their schedule when you can produce a title. Then once we are in there, he is all yours.’ Jake rolled his eyes at her, but he let her go in ahead of him and announce herself at the desk with the clerks. They were immediately taken into a neat waiting room where a grandfather clock ticked away the minutes and a poster on the wall reminded them that a will prevented family strife. Alkmene sat down and nodded at it. ‘That is one thing my father doesn’t have to worry about. Family strife after he is gone. There is just me.’ She glanced at Jake. ‘Same thing for you, I suppose.’ Jake sat upright, staring in the distance, probably rehearsing his part. She wanted to probe what his plan was, but the door had already opened and the senior clerk took them to see Mr Pemboldt. Upon entry Alkmene realized two things. No way was Mr Pemboldt Evelyn Steinbeck’s suitor. No young woman would cast a second look at the short man with wrinkled face, rimmed spectacles and almost no hair. And how on earth had he travelled to America to find her and take her out here? He didn’t even look able to get up from behind that desk and greet them. He swayed a little as he stood, and the hand he extended was shaking. He had to be eighty! Jake seemed to be taken aback by the wiry figure as well. He seated himself and cleared his throat. ‘I uh…’ ‘We have heard that you are a very good lawyer,’ Alkmene cut across him. A somewhat gentle touch was needed here. If Jake twisted this old man’s arm, they might have another corpse on their hands! ‘Mr Silas Norwhich was so happy with your services.’ Pemboldt shifted his weight. His expression was inscrutable, but then as a lawyer he had probably trained himself to show no emotion whatsoever. He said stiffly, ‘I have served his family all my life. His father before him and then he. It was an honour to do so.’ Jake leaned his elbows on his knees. ‘Yes, family… That meant a lot to Mr Norwhich. You found his niece for him. The long-lost relative he had been looking for.’ Pemboldt blinked a moment. He reminded Alkmene of the reptiles in the London Zoo, patiently waiting on their branches, looking sluggish and harmless, until they suddenly moved with lightning speed to snatch their prey. If he had set up the entire impersonation scheme, he was more dangerous than he looked. The old man said, ‘He was very happy when we found her for him.’ ‘Just so he could have an heir?’ Alkmene asked. Pemboldt smiled. ‘It was much more to him, Lady Alkmene. His money wasn’t his concern foremost, but…doing what was right.’ ‘Do you believe he died, knowing he had done it?’ Jake asked. ‘The right thing, I mean.’ Pemboldt looked pained. He leaned back, considering his answer before he spoke. ‘I am not sure. He died suddenly and…in a shocking way. It is very painful for me to discuss, because of my office’s long service to his family. I trust you will understand this. I would like to hear, Lady Alkmene, how I may serve you. I heard it was a delicate matter?’ Alkmene smiled. ‘It is very simple, Mr Pemboldt. Mr Norwhich told my father how happy he was that you had tracked down his niece and reunited them. Apropos, I believe you did not travel to America yourself to find her?’ ‘No, a very promising young lawyer from my firm did. Fitzroy Walker.’ Alkmene shocked upright. FW… The one who had given the golden locket to Evelyn Steinbeck? The man who had also proposed to her? Pemboldt said, ‘My gout doesn’t permit me to make long journeys any more. I prefer to stay here and see that the business continues to run properly. My staff is excellently equipped to handle the interests of our clients.’ ‘I did hear…’ Alkmene said slowly, as if she was reluctant to share a bit of gossip, ‘that the man in question, this Mr Walker, your employee, was pursuing the young lady’s affections. I do find this a little…unconventional, considering the way in which they met and the official capacity he had towards her.’ Mr Pemboldt reddened. ‘They have spent time together in America and during the journey back here and that might have put the idea in the young man’s head, but I assure you the young lady has reminded him of his place and their relationship has never been…anything worth mentioning.’ Alkmene was certain Mr Walker didn’t hold this view. Jake sat half turned away from them and the conversation, looking at a cabinet with gleaming trophies along the wall. ‘I see you have been in the army, Mr Pemboldt. India, I think?’ Pemboldt smiled; he suddenly seemed to grow. ‘Yes. Several campaigns. Lovely country. Great climate, nice people. Excellent polo fields.’ Alkmene asked, ‘Your rank was major?’ Pemboldt nodded. ‘How do you know?’ ‘I once heard Ms Steinbeck refer to you as the major.’ Pemboldt flushed again. ‘That is a most irritating habit of Mr Walker’s. He started to refer to me that way, and the entire staff followed his example. I assure you I try to discourage it, but you know how young people are these days. It is not what it used to be any more.’ Alkmene nodded polite agreement, but her mind raced. So the major, being Pemboldt, might not have given the money if Walker married Ms Steinbeck. That all fitted together. They were on the right track here. The question was, how much had Pemboldt known of what Walker was doing? When he had just denied that the personal relationship between Walker and Ms Steinbeck was anything serious, had he been lying to cover up an illicit affair? Or did he really believe it was over, while Walker had kept on pursuing Ms Steinbeck without his employer’s knowledge? Jake said, ‘I suppose your time in India taught you about subterfuge? I mean, you must have been cunning to survive out there.’ Pemboldt seemed to relax again as if this topic of conversation was safe. ‘I guess you could put it that way. I always tried to find a solution for the problem at hand, yes. The best answer to a tricky situation.’ ‘And finding a fake heir for Silas Norwhich was the best you could do?’ Jake’s tone had not changed; it was still pleasantly conversational, as if he was simply continuing the theme of India. But the old man paled under his words and was staring at him in shock. Jake continued, ‘Ms Steinbeck is no more related to Mr Norwhich than I am, or Lady Alkmene here. She was only…shall I say, cast, to play the part. I am sure that was the best you could do, Mr Pemboldt, but I admit that I am hard pressed to fit your “solution” with your proclaimed loyalty to the family you served for so many years.’ Pemboldt kept staring. His lips began to tremble. He reached for the bell on his desk to ring for one of the clerks, probably to see them out. But then he pulled his hand back again, his fingers shaking. He breathed deep, then pushed both of his hands to his face. ‘If only he had not died that night. Then it would have worked perfectly.’ Jake cast a glance at Alkmene. She signalled him to give it a moment and wait if the old man went on of his own accord. Pemboldt pulled his hands down and looked at them. ‘What do you want with this? Make a scene? Ruin my firm? Ruin the young lady also? I can assure you that Evelyn Steinbeck is innocent of any form of bad intent. She had no idea what she was getting into when she agreed to be part of this.’ Alkmene shook her head. ‘We are not here to hurt anyone. We are only interested in finding Mr Norwhich’s killer.’ Pemboldt bit his lip. ‘So you do not believe that he fell and struck his head either.’ Jake shook his head. ‘He was murdered. We want to find out by whom and what for. If you really served his family well, Mr Pemboldt, and have a sense of honour, you will help us now.’ Pemboldt stared at his trembling hands. Then he said, ‘Yes, I must. But you must promise me this. If nothing of it need come out in order to catch the killer, you will keep everything I am now about to tell you to yourself. No need to slander a dead man.’ Jake nodded. ‘I agree. I give you my word. The matter will remain entirely between the three of us, unless details of it are vital in unmasking the killer and bringing him to justice.’ Pemboldt nodded. ‘Very well then. The thing is this…’ He took a moment to focus. ‘Mr Norwhich was obsessed with the idea he had an heir somewhere in the world. He himself never had any children, but he had had a younger brother, a rather wild young man, who caused no end of trouble to the family. One summer he was staying in Cunningham…’ Alkmene perked up and looked pointedly at Jake. Pemboldt didn’t seem to notice, staring into the distance as he reminisced, ‘A little town in Dartmoor. There he fell in love with a local girl. Now he was known to fall in love at whim, profess undying affection for the girl and then fall in love with another. So his family didn’t take his letters home very seriously. Unfortunately, as things go in life, this time it was different. He had really fallen in love and he secretly married the girl. She was pregnant when he left her to go see his family in London, promising to be back again soon and buy them a little house with a rose garden.’ Alkmene winced. A bakery, or a little house with a rose garden – men seemed to know exactly what to promise a woman to get their way. She did not dare glance at Jake, but focused on Pemboldt, who was continuing his story. The old man said, ‘Once in London he told his family the whole story and they were appalled. They didn’t believe he had acted in earnest and tried to persuade him not to go back to the girl. In fact, Silas Norwhich himself took his brother to France and installed him on a business venture there, making sure he had lots of money and parties to attend, and soon he was engaged to another and married. Of course that marriage was totally invalid, as long as his first marriage wasn’t annulled, and the woman in question alive.’ Pemboldt rested his hands on his desk. ‘Now this is where it gets…bitter. Silas Norwhich went to Cunningham to look for his sister-in-law and persuade her to agree to set his brother free. He believed she had just married him for money and that the right amount of it could persuade her easily enough to step back and leave him to his new life in France. But when she didn’t want to, saying she loved her husband and wanted him to come back to her, Mr Norwhich threatened her with severe consequences if she did not set his brother free.’ Pemboldt stared ahead. ‘Mr Norwhich was a man of strong temper and very protective of his family name. He threatened her, intimidated her, and that same day she vanished from the town. Rumour has it she wandered into the marshes and drowned. In any case, Silas Norwhich came back from his errand in Dartmoor, carrying a load of guilt. For a long time he talked to no one of it and his brother had a good life in France, but never had a child. He died eventually, of pneumonia. As he grew older, Silas became obsessed with finding out what had happened to the woman in Cunningham and the baby. I should say, he became obsessed with the idea they had not died and could still be traced. He wanted to give them money to set the injustice of old straight. Money up front, and then his entire fortune, upon his death. He was certain it was the only way to clear his conscience before he died, and he engaged me to achieve this aim.’ Pemboldt focused on them again, his eyes weary. ‘I have tried to find out all I could, but I could not establish either the woman’s death or her survival. Meanwhile Silas’s obsession became so strong he was never doing anything else but reading up books about Cunningham, travelling there to see the land, tracking down people who remembered those days, et cetera. In the end I knew for sure there was but one way to stop it and that was to produce the child, the missing heir, to whom he could leave his fortune and set straight what he had done wrong.’ He wet his lips. ‘I knew I would be creating a lie, but it pained me to see him burdened by this guilt, after so much time had passed. It had really been his brother’s wrongdoing, not his. His brother had never bothered to do anything about it, so why should Silas suffer for it? I only wanted to help him.’ He sighed. ‘I had seen a photograph of this girl that his brother had then courted and I sent my most trusted employee Fitzroy Walker to look for someone who was just like her. I also insisted on her having a British mother who was deceased so the story would match the truth as much as possible. When Walker came back from New York with Evelyn Steinbeck, a burden was lifted off my shoulders. She seemed like a decent girl, who could play the part without causing trouble or making bad slips that could betray the secret. Once she was introduced to him, Silas was beyond happy and I was finally free to forget about the whole thing.’ Pemboldt sighed again. ‘I guess his death so soon after his only heir was found made it all look so suspicious. I was worried the police would start an investigation, find out the truth and believe I had been a part of it from the start. That I had planted this false heir on him with a specific purpose. However, I consoled myself with the idea that I could prove that I would not benefit financially in any way, and my innocence would be clear to all.’ Jake said, ‘But you did not know that your partner Fitzroy Walker was getting Evelyn Steinbeck to marry him so everything that was once Silas Norwhich’s would then be his. As an employee in your firm he must have had an excellent idea of how substantial Mr Norwhich’s riches were and how attractive the prospect of inheriting it all, via marriage to the fake heiress he had himself produced.’ Alkmene saw the old man sway. She continued softly, ‘Yes, you had no idea of Mr Walker’s intentions, perhaps, but if he had pulled it off, it would have looked very bad for you indeed.’ The old man sat up straight, his eyes blazing. ‘Then Fitzroy Walker must be the killer. He must have gone over to talk Silas into letting him marry his niece and when Silas refused… I know he will have refused, as he was a proud man who would never accept a simple lawyer as husband for his niece.’ Jake beside her winced a moment. Pemboldt spoke, full of fire about his theory, ‘He must have pushed him so he fell and died. Even if he did not intend to kill him, he is guilty of wanting the niece and the money, of driving Silas into death.’ Pemboldt’s voice broke. ‘I am guilty also for choosing Walker for the mission in America. He has a sharp mind and knows how to improvise, which seemed excellent for the delicate matter at hand. But when he set eyes on Evelyn Steinbeck, he must have believed that everything he normally would have to work for long years to earn was now within his grasp. He forgot all about Silas Norwhich’s anguish and our intent to help him. Instead he decided this was the ideal way to secure a future for himself.’ Pemboldt swallowed hard. ‘I have delivered both my client and this innocent young woman into the hands of a vulture.’ ‘It seems so,’ Jake agreed softly. He sat thinking, his feet planted apart, his hands on his knees. ‘Did you have any knowledge of an argument Silas Norwhich had at the theatre shortly before he died?’ ‘Yes.’ Pemboldt flinched. He seemed to steel himself to be able to tell this part of the story to them. ‘Silas came here, raving mad. Just stormed into my office, while I was speaking with another client, demanded that the client leave, and I talked to him at once. I saw he was too angry to listen to reason, so I did what he asked without protest. As soon as we were alone, he told me that people claiming to be heirs to his fortune now pursued him and that the only way they could have found out about the tie with Cunningham was via me. I denied most strongly that I had ever shared anything with anyone that could have led people with such claims to his door, but he left, still convinced it was all my fault.’ Jake asked sharply, ‘Someone came to see him claiming to be his heir, specifically mentioning Cunningham?’ ‘Yes. I can assure you I never told anybody about the unhappy history. It must have been Walker again. I should never have involved him. I believed I could trust him completely, but I was so wrong.’ Pemboldt buried his head in his hands again. ‘Perhaps it was not your fault as much as you believe,’ Jake said. ‘We are very grateful for your honesty. And no word of this will ever be known to the public, unless it has to be revealed in a court of law to bring Silas Norwhich’s killer to justice.’ ‘In that case,’ Pemboldt said in a stronger voice, ‘I would be the first to demand it would be revealed.’ Jake rose. ‘We understand each other.’ He reached out and carefully shook the old man’s hand. ‘Take care and be wary of Fitzroy Walker until we know for sure he was not the killer. If he can push a big man and kill him, he can certainly kill you.’ Chapter Fifteen (#ulink_f76517f2-8f01-572b-b797-6c57bbba81e2) ‘So what do we have now?’ Alkmene said as they walked down the street away from Pemboldt’s offices. ‘The conversation I overheard was Walker asking Evelyn Steinbeck to marry him, but she refused. He knew that upon her marriage she would come into part of the fortune and he wanted it, right away, for if he knew that there was a man about claiming that he was the heir, Steinbeck’s deception might not last. So he had to marry her, fast. He said something about the major not being able to intervene after the marriage. Therefore he mentioned Gretna Green, because he knew he’d never get permission from either the major or the uncle to let the wedding go ahead and he wanted her anyway, or better, her money. The marriage had to be absolutely valid and he knew Gretna Green would make it so. Now…Evelyn Steinbeck didn’t want to marry him, and she was in no hurry to get the money, so we can rule her out. Besides, she wasn’t the person calling on Silas Norwhich that night.’ ‘And whatever was taken from his dead hand was a birth certificate,’ Jake reminded her. ‘Someone was desperate to keep the fantasy alive that Evelyn Steinbeck was the real heir. It must have been Walker.’ ‘But we can’t rule out the real heir either, or rather the person who appeared at the theatre to claim he was. What if he got so mad that he pushed Silas Norwhich to his death? Never meaning to kill him maybe… What if he came to prove he was the heir and gave Norwhich some sort of document to prove it, then Norwhich denied it was real and he pushed him in anger and killed him, then pulled the paper from his dead hand, not noticing a snippet stayed behind?’ Jake nodded. ‘So it is a tie between Walker and this man who appeared at the theatre.’ ‘The man returned from the dead,’ Alkmene said satisfied. ‘The countess was so right. He did appear like he had risen from those marshes in which the woman and her baby were supposed to have drowned.’ ‘We have no idea if he even knew about Cunningham.’ ‘Yes, he said so. Why else would Silas Norwhich have been so mad at his attorney? He believed Pemboldt had spread the word and provoked these fake claims.’ ‘So if the man at the theatre knew about Cunningham, but not from the lawyer, his claim could have been real.’ ‘That depends.’ Alkmene touched his arm. ‘Consider. Norwhich was obsessed with Cunningham, asking around for information. That must have led to talk. Maybe somebody there thought up the same plan as the lawyers had. Produce a fake heir and cash in.’ Jake nodded. ‘So we have to go and visit Cunningham to find out who was in the know about this summer romance of old and the baby that was supposed to have been born of it. How soon can you pack for a trip?’ Alkmene stared at him. ‘Soon enough. Why?’ ‘I will rent a car, and we are going to Dartmoor.’ ‘Not again!’ Jake Dubois hit the brake as a whole herd of sheep poured into the narrow road. A sleek black and white dog followed, yapping at them. Then a shepherd, with a green felt hat with a feather on his curly hair and a long stick in his hand. He lifted his free hand at them, as he watched the sheep squeeze themselves one by one through a narrow opening in the stone wall on the other side of the road. This kind of natural wall – stones held together by their own weight – had run along their road for miles now, closing in meadows and fields, or orchards with gnarled trees, their trunks covered with moss. Jake drummed on the wheel. ‘At this pace we will never get to Cunningham.’ ‘Don’t be so negative,’ Alkmene said. ‘The last sign said five more miles. We must have done four already. Look around you. Sweet little cottages with chimneys that are about to collapse, authentic characters like this shepherd.’ Alkmene waved at him with her gloved hand as he crossed, whistling to his dog that had strayed a few yards to sniff against the wall. It came running with its tail up, making a weird leap like a lamb outdoors for the first time in spring. Alkmene sighed in satisfaction. ‘It is so peaceful here. No people in a hurry, bustling about, shouting at each other. I’d love to spend summers in the countryside like they did in the old days.’ ‘You’d die of boredom,’ Jake said cynically as he hit the gas and let the engine rev. Alkmene rolled her eyes at him. ‘Really,’ he said. ‘No shops to go to, to spend money on costumes and hats, no countesses to meet up with at fancy tea parlours.’ ‘I’d go out into the fields to paint.’ Alkmene nodded firmly. ‘I’d sit down by a brook and try to capture the essence of the flowing water or I’d do a view of the moor with threatening storm clouds over it. Then just before the weather broke, I’d carry my easel to some rustic inn and order their stew.’ She could just see herself leaning back in a nice leather chair at the fire, rubbing her chilly hands and breathing the delicious scents from the kitchen. ‘You do know they put sheep’s eyes into it?’ ‘In Scotland maybe. Not here.’ Alkmene settled better in the car seat and folded her hands in her lap. ‘I would have the innkeeper’s wife make me a lunch to carry along as I took my car for a spin to visit some old ruin of a castle or a settlement on the moor. I am fascinated by excavations. You?’ ‘Not particularly,’ Jake said in a sour tone. ‘Oh, come on. Any adventurous heart must beat faster at the prospect of finding a gold treasure.’ Jake held his head back and laughed. ‘I don’t think a settlement on the moor would yield a gold treasure. Just shards of used pottery and dry bones. Animal but very possibly also human.’ Alkmene sobered. ‘I do wonder if that poor woman died in the marshes. She must have been desperate that her husband’s brother wanted to force her into setting him free. While she was with child. I guess she had no family who could stand up for her. Maybe they had even warned her when she started the relationship that it might not last.’ ‘They could not have stood up for her either way,’ Jake said with a dark look. ‘They were probably common folk, like that authentic shepherd of yours. People you don’t have to take seriously, when you have money and power.’ Alkmene sighed. ‘Are you going to give me that again?’ ‘Well, do you ever see yourself ending up in that position? Pregnant and forced to relinquish your claim on the man you love, forced by some family member who doesn’t think you good enough for his brother. Let’s be honest. That was it. They did not care for the question whether those two loved each other or not. They just wanted a wife for their son and brother who was in their league.’ Alkmene studied his profile. ‘Probably, but their opinion does make sense.’ ‘Oh, come on,’ Jake said, giving some more gas. ‘Really. Consider. If you are raised a certain way, you have certain expectations hanging upon you. This brother of Silas Norwhich had friends, acquaintances back home who would expect him to present a certain type of wife to them. If the woman was not…in their league, as you put it, she would have been treated with disdain, perhaps not invited to parties, or if she was invited, people would stare at her and whisper. She’d feel outcast, unaccepted, unworthy perhaps.’ ‘And what nonsense that would be.’ ‘Perhaps, but she would sense it and suffer from it. Could her husband’s love compensate for what she would be missing? Her family at home, her simple life, the lack of pressure on her to be a certain way.’ Alkmene held her hands tightly together, staring ahead where a group of houses appeared with a church tower rising over them. ‘You keep saying my position is easy and privileged. But I have never failed to remember what people expect of me. You can never just do what you want, or your father will hear of it, or the people will talk about it.’ ‘Tough,’ Jake said with a ridiculing click of his tongue. Alkmene gave up for the moment. He obviously didn’t understand what she was trying to explain to him, but dug his teeth, like a terrier, into his prejudice against her class. The road declined now and dragged them by a sharp angle into a narrow passage between the stone walls of neat little gardens of modest homes, ending in a village square, with a post office dead ahead, beside the church, and the inn with the sign ‘The Hunted Boar’. The animal in question was pictured pursued by two dogs that snapped at it with large yellowish teeth. Jake parked the car and got out, stretching his long limbs. Alkmene had to agree the ride had made her as stiff as an ironing board. She was happy they were there at last, even if they seemed to have ended up in a deserted town. Nothing was stirring behind the windows, no lace curtains moving as hands lifted them and curious eyes peeked out at the visitors. The square itself lay empty, just some dead leaves rustling as the wind from the moors came to move them. It carried a hint of damp earth like a cemetery. Thinking of the woman who had run in despair and vanished, Alkmene shivered. Jake had rounded the car to stand beside her. ‘What is wrong?’ he asked. ‘I am not quite sure. There is a bit of a…sinister feel to this place.’ He laughed. ‘Just a few minutes ago it was all so idyllic and authentic and you’d go out to paint and see excavation sites.’ He leaned over closer to her. ‘I bet that if you did and some animal stuck its head out of a ditch, you’d think it was some dead body coming back to life and you’d run screaming.’ Alkmene sighed. ‘Don’t be ridiculous. Shall we go in to see if they have rooms?’ Still, she pulled her coat closer around her and didn’t look at the one oak again that was just a dead stump with a few branches clawing at the skies. Why had nobody bothered to cut it down? It had to be ill or something to die like that. It ruined the look of the entire square with its other healthy green oaks. Jake opened the door into The Hunted Boar for her and she went in. The place was crammed with people standing closely together, shouting and raising beer glasses. Alkmene barely managed to squeeze past the last of them to reach a reception desk where a woman with reddish hair and large coarse hands was leafing through the ledger. In front of the room a man with a leather apron stood holding up something that looked suspiciously like… Bleeding meat. Chapter Sixteen (#ulink_d166d995-2518-5bca-b5a2-9f2ac0ade7c5) Alkmene stared, willing her eyes to adjust the scene. Her uncomfortable thoughts must have influenced her vision and changed something perfectly innocent into something grisly. But no, it actually seemed to stay bleeding meat, which the man slapped onto a table in front of him, wrapped into paper and handed to someone who cheered like some Norse warrior carrying off loot. ‘Meat division,’ Jake Dubois said as if it were self-evident. ‘What?’ she asked, leaning over to him to hear him above the roar. ‘Well, these villagers apparently have a communal herd they tend. Once in a while they slaughter a beast or a few and then everybody comes in and according to their share in the herd or the amount of time they put into it or the pasture the beasts grazed on they all get some share in it. They do the same with cheese in the Swiss Alps.’ Alkmene pulled a face. ‘I think cheese would make it look less disgusting.’ Jake grinned. ‘Still thinking it’s sinister here?’ She straightened up under his tone and approached the woman with the ledger. ‘Good day. We have just come down from London and we’d like some rooms, if they are available.’ The woman looked up. ‘Married are you? Single room, double bed?’ Alkmene leaned back on her heels. ‘I thought I said rooms plural.’ The woman held her gaze unperturbed. ‘Married or not? We don’t encourage liberal behaviour here at our inn. If you are not married, you have to take separate rooms.’ ‘We actually want separate rooms,’ Alkmene said. Jake smiled as he leaned on the counter. ‘We are not married, fortunately.’ The woman looked him over, then shrugged and turned away to study the board that held the keys to several rooms. ‘How do you mean fortunately?’ Alkmene asked Jake close to his ear. ‘You would not want to be married to me, would you?’ he retorted. ‘That is not the point. You make it sound like the idea I could be your wife is insulting to you or something.’ She realized as she said it that it might look like she was fishing for a compliment and waved her hand. ‘Never mind. It was a long drive.’ The woman had turned back to them with two keys, labels on them reading 12 and 18. ‘Can we also eat here?’ Alkmene asked. ‘We are famished.’ ‘They finished it all before the division started,’ the woman said with a shrug. ‘I can find you some bread and cheese maybe, but it will cost you.’ Alkmene glanced at Jake, who nodded. ‘And everything must be paid in advance,’ the woman said. Alkmene wanted to reach into her purse, but Jake stalled her and pulled out his wallet. ‘Please take the food up to our rooms if you will. Lady Alkmene will also want some hot water I suppose.’ Alkmene could have kicked him for using her title. She expected the woman’s jaw to drop and a flood of apologies to break loose. Even worse, if she called it out loud, the whole room might turn and start having more interest in her than in the dead cow being divided. But the woman just gave her a dirty look from squinted eyes, grabbed up the money Jake had put on the counter and shuffled off, leaving them to find their own way up the stairs, to their rooms. Jake unlocked Nr. 12 first and peeked in. It was not large but had a fine double bed and a big window with a view of the moors. The sun was just sinking, putting everything in a golden glow. ‘You have this one,’ he said. ‘I’ll go get your bags from the car.’ Leaving the door open, he walked off. His footfalls pounded down the steps. Alkmene pulled the key from the lock and held it in her palm as she walked to the window. It looked out over the village square with the sad dead oak among the live ones, down the road they had followed coming here, and then across an unending stretch of moor. The sunshine over the moor made the greys and greens look more cheerful, almost warm. Still something lingered in her system, a hint of malice conjured up by the empty square, the bleeding beef, the look of hatred in the woman’s eyes. These people lived in their own world, not welcoming strangers into it. Certainly not fancy strangers who had come down from London. She leaned on the windowsill as she stared out, scanning the land for as far as she could see it from left to right. Where was the infamous marshland where the woman whom Silas Norwhich’s unfortunate brother had loved had found her death? Maybe it was further away from here, or it was at the back of the inn? There was a bustle behind her and the woman came in, clanking a tin plate on the table with a chunk of bread and cheese on it. She held a knife in her hand. Pointing it at Alkmene, she asked, ‘What you be wanting here?’ ‘Just sightseeing,’ Alkmene said with an innocent smile. ‘Birdwatching. And rare plants on the moor, you know.’ Her befuddled brain searched for some species her father was always raving about. The woman shook her head. ‘No, you come from London. If you are here about that old business again, asking questions and opening up old hurt, you’d better leave again at first light. We don’t want to hear no more about it.’ Alkmene opened her mouth to say she was not here to hurt anyone, even to set old injustices straight, but the woman was not waiting for a response. Waving the knife, she continued, ‘You’d better leave again, at first light, unless you want something to happen to you.’ ‘Anything wrong here?’ Jake stood in the door opening with her bags in his hands. The woman spun to him. She hissed a moment like an angry tiger, then tossed the knife on the table beside the plate and brushed past Jake, who moved sideways to let her through. Hitching a brow at Alkmene, he asked, ‘Did she mention something happening to somebody?’ ‘Yes, me,’ Alkmene retorted, ‘or rather us unless we are smart and leave again at first light. They don’t welcome strangers who are digging into old hurt or something. I tried to say birdwatching and rare plants, but she didn’t buy into it for a moment. It is all your fault. You should not have mentioned my title.’ Jake dropped her bags on the floorboards beside the bed. ‘You had already said we were from London. Birdwatchers carry field glasses and cameras. Botanists wave the local “What grows where?” in the air.’ ‘My father never waves “What grows where?” in the air,’ Alkmene protested. ‘He goes to places where he writes the “What grows where?” because before he came out, there was none.’ But Jake already said, ‘Besides, if you had wanted to travel incognito, you should have chosen less conspicuous clothes to wear.’ Alkmene glanced down. ‘These are my less conspicuous clothes.’ Jake rolled his eyes. ‘You still have a lot to learn. If you go undercover, you must look the part.’ ‘You have not told me anything about going undercover.’ ‘Well, what do you expect me to do? Go downstairs, stand next to the guy handing out the cow bits and say: By the by, we think somebody died here, say twenty-five years ago, or maybe she was murdered, or maybe it was just an accident, but in any case we’d like to know more about her and the baby she might or might not have borne.’ Alkmene saw his point. ‘That would probably get you lynched.’ Jake lifted a shoulder. ‘Maybe not that bad, but I would be taking a bath in that horse trough outside this inn. One authentic detail of Cunningham that I am not eager to get closely acquainted with if I can help it.’ Alkmene frowned. ‘That woman was hostile enough, but we can’t be sure all people here are the same. It seemed those folks downstairs had eaten their fill, had some beer and were happy with their meat. Maybe if you mingled and started up some conversation, you’d be getting somewhere.’ Jake nodded. ‘Maybe.’ He picked up the knife and skilfully sliced off a chunk of bread, covering it with two slices of cheese. ‘You can feed yourself without cutting off a finger?’ he asked. Alkmene made a hitting gesture at him. ‘Will you go now?’ Laughing, he trotted off, carrying his meagre dinner with him. Chapter Seventeen (#ulink_d25365e6-ef01-5e64-9409-1c357724b474) While Alkmene was chewing on some of the very heavy bread, the woman brought her hot water. It was in a low porcelain basin with a crack in the edge. She put it on the table, still carrying that hateful look. Alkmene said round the bread, ‘I’m sorry if you take offence to questions being asked about things that happened here that were not…right. But not everybody has the same opinion about everything. And not everybody is after a sensationalist tale, you know. Maybe we are here in the interest of someone who was treated unfairly and who should, after all those years, be vindicated.’ The woman stared at her as if she didn’t understand what Alkmene was talking about. ‘Just remember what I said,’ she snapped and left the room, dragging the door to a resounding close. ‘It was too obtuse,’ Alkmene said out loud in the empty room. She felt again like she had felt when in school, where the girls had all been well-bred but none had the extensive vocabulary – full of outdated words – that Alkmene had, being raised by her widowed father with his love of ancient textbooks and botany volumes from ages of old. The girls had laughed at her and avoided her. This situation was just like it. The people downstairs had studied her like she had come from another era. Jake had said she knew nothing about being undercover. And of course he was right. She knew nothing about that. She had thrown herself into this adventure with her usual careless idea it might be fun and she’d cross each bridge as she came to it. But the atmosphere in this village was hostile and not just because Jake and she were from the city: strangers, outsiders. No, these people all remembered a past, something that had happened to one of them, one of whom they had been protective, because she had been one of their own. How would she have felt if somebody she had known for all of her life had died ruined, because of a man who had cared more for his reputation than for her life and that of her unborn child? Letting the hot water sit on the table unused, Alkmene stood in front of the window and stared out over the darkening moors, watching how the golden sunshine changed to orange and blood red, how the skies became purple, then a deep velvet, full of stars. It would be a clear night, with a half moon giving its cold silver light. Suddenly there was the slamming of a door below, raucous voices calling out. Alkmene pushed her forehead against the windowpane to look straight down on the scene in front of the inn. Men came out, carrying a form in their arms. A struggling form. Someone called something she could not make out. Then the carried form was dropped into the horse trough that Jake had mentioned earlier. The men jeered a few moments, then turned and went to the inn again, laughing and slapping each other on the shoulder. The form in the trough sat up, wiping water from his eyes. The light from the lanterns by the inn’s door illuminated his profile and his tall build as he rose and stood in the trough, dripping. Alkmene suppressed a giggle. Turning away from the window, she grabbed the rough towel that the woman had put beside the basin with her hot water and rushed downstairs. Nobody paid attention to her as she walked to the door and went outside. Jake had clambered out of the trough and stood on the square’s cobbles, water seeping from his clothes. Alkmene handed him the towel. ‘I suppose they weren’t eager to talk?’ Jake cast her a look, then accepted the towel and rubbed his face and hair. He sighed. ‘Oh, one of them was, but the others didn’t like it.’ His breath was laced with alcohol, not beer, but strong liquor. Apparently he had felt obliged to drink to induce confidentiality in his drinking buddies. Alkmene tilted her head. ‘What happened exactly?’ Jake lowered his voice. ‘One man in there seems to know a whole lot about what happened back then. He began to tell me about it, but the innkeeper’s wife was not happy that he did. She kept prodding her husband with her elbow. Then he talked to a few men, they came over and dragged me out for this soaking. I think it is just a first warning. I am sure that if I were to go back in there and try again, they would add some bruises and a black eye to the account.’ Alkmene nodded. ‘I think this was enough for tonight. We have to see what we can do in the morning. Do you know the name of this man who was talkative?’ Jake nodded. ‘Wallace Thomson.’ ‘Then we will go see Wallace Thomson in the morning. Come on.’ She plucked at his wet sleeve. ‘You have to get in there now and change your clothes before you catch a cold.’ Jake huffed as he rubbed the towel over his neck. ‘I have been through worse for a story.’ ‘I hope this is more to you than just a story.’ She looked at his chiselled features, the strange contorted shadows cast by the lanterns outside the inn. He held her gaze, his dark eyes deep with some emotion she could not quite identify. Then he pushed the towel into her hands and walked ahead of her, head held high, back into the inn. The next morning as Alkmene bustled down the stairs, she found the large room empty and just one table laid out with plates and cutlery. ‘Good morning,’ she called out to the hostess who came from the kitchen with a jug of milk, pretending not to feel the coldness extended towards her. She walked to the fireplace and admired the painting over it, asking who had made it. The woman seemed to thaw a little, even taking a moment to stand up straight and study the painting with a pensive expression. ‘My father. He was a fine painter.’ ‘He was, indeed,’ Alkmene said. ‘If there are any more of his works, looking like this one, I would like to buy one before I go back to London. My father is a botanist, you know…’ At the woman’s blank look she added hurriedly, ‘He studies plants, and moorland is one of his favourite sort of environment to study. I think he would very much like a painting like this one to hang on his study wall.’ She ambled to the table and peered into the jug of milk. ‘Fresh, I suppose? We don’t have that in the city. I have often wished to live in the countryside for a while and enjoy the fresh food. I suppose your eggs are also of your own chickens?’ The woman affirmed it with a nod. ‘I have a few scrambled for you if you will take them. I knocked on the door of your companion when I did on yours, but he is not showing.’ Alkmene smiled. ‘I think he drank too much last night and is still recovering. Men. You never know how they will behave.’ The woman scurried off, and Alkmene took her seat at the table. Shuffling her cutlery around, she wished Jake would show up so they could talk about small stuff and she would not feel so completely out of place. She tried to focus on the tasks for the day, the first of which was locating Wallace Thomson. She knew better than to ask her hostess where he lived, as the woman had obviously given her all last night to keep the talkative Thomson from revealing too much to the outsiders. Just as the woman carried a bowl with scrambled eggs to the table, the door of the inn opened, and Jake strode in. He wore a tweed jacket with elbow patches over a shirt without a tie. Around his neck were field glasses. He waved at her from the door and called out, ‘I saw a peregrine falcon. It will become a bright day. How about a stroll on the moor right after breakfast? I am sure we will see many more species.’ ‘And I can look for the rare moss Father wanted to know about,’ Alkmene added right away. ‘Splendid idea.’ She gestured to the empty chair opposite to her. ‘Sit down and enjoy this fresh offering.’ Jake put the field glasses down on the table and sat, leaning over to her as soon as the woman had walked off back into the kitchen. He said, ‘I tried a tiny flower shop in a street turning off from the square. A woman was there putting out buckets with fresh flowers. I made sure she saw my field glasses as I started talking about having seen the nests of the barn swallows against the church tower wall, right under the edge of the extension. She engaged at once, telling me she loved those birds and had kept a record of their comings and goings ever since she was a little girl. I let her tell me all about it, biding my time, until I could say I had met one Wallace Thomson at the inn last night who had claimed to know the haunts of pheasants on the moor and to be willing to show me, but that I had been distracted by conversation with another man about hawks and Thomson had left the inn without telling me where he lived. I added with a smile that as he was native of course he had assumed I knew, but I did not. She was more than willing to point it out to me. So as soon as we have finished this, guess where we are going…’ His voice died down on the latter words as their hostess came back with black coffee and bacon that was a little burned at the edges but had a rich salty taste Alkmene had never experienced before. She was surprised that the woman who had appeared so rude last night was plying them with this big breakfast, but perhaps it was only a matter of money. After all, Jake had paid for the stay. She intended to recompense him in full on the way back home, but wasn’t saying anything about that just yet. He was a proud man after all. After they had finished their breakfast, Alkmene went up to get a silk shawl, which she tied loosely around her neck. If they did hit the moor after their visit with Wallace Thomson, it would come in handy to protect her hair-do. Downstairs Jake was talking to a tall man with a large salt and pepper moustache and a hunting dog by his side. She stayed a few steps away from them to give him the opportunity to finish inquiries if he was making some. At last Jake took his leave, and they walked outside into the sunshine and the singing of birds in the live oaks. Jake walked around his car a moment, before they took the cobbled street leading to the right. ‘That was the local constable,’ he explained. ‘He had heard I had received a soaking last night and wanted to know if I was pressing charges against the assailants. I faked surprise and said that I had been drinking myself and so had the lads, and I supposed they had wanted to show me that I was now one of them by dunking me in the local waters. I pretended not to have got any message that I should stop poking around. I was curious if he would warn me to take it more seriously, but he did not. He said he was glad I understood the local customs and wished me a pleasant stay.’ Jake hitched a brow at her. ‘So either he wants me to run into more trouble or he doesn’t understand anything about local sentiments.’ ‘Possibly. If he came to work here after it all happened, he might not understand how sore the spot still is.’ Alkmene fidgeted with the scarf around her neck. ‘How far is it to this Wallace Thomson’s place?’ ‘He seems to live on some small farm.’ Jake shrugged. ‘She said we’d see it easily enough.’ They walked past the natural stone walls of the small front gardens belonging with the neat village cottages, then crossed a wooden bridge running over a fast flooding brook. Alkmene halted a moment to look down on the water that foamed white. Jake picked up a pebble and tossed it in. It vanished in a moment. Alkmene leaned her hands on the rough wooden railing, then said, ‘Hey, there are letters carved into this wood. You see? Initials.’ She studied the scratches, some fresh, others age-old it seemed. ‘Must be initials of couples in love,’ Jake said. Alkmene studied a few closer. ‘I wonder if those two ever put their initials here. Silas Norwhich’s brother and that woman.’ ‘Mary Sullivan,’ Jake said pensively. ‘Wallace Thomson seemed eager enough to share about her, while the others all took offence. I wonder what can be behind that.’ Alkmene straightened up, and they continued, from the bridge down a dirt track that led between hedges and rows of trees. In the distance they discerned a little house, sunken to one side as if it was about to collapse. A goat on a rope grazed outside it, and a few ducks were looking for insects in the tall grass. There was a stone well on the left, with a bucket beside it on a bench covered with moss. Everything was weathered, like time had nibbled away at it and nobody had bothered to ever give anything a dash of paint. Jake knocked on the door, calling out for Wallace. There was no reply, no sound of shuffling from the inside indicating the man was coming to answer the door. Jake gestured at Alkmene to stay out front while he rounded the house and looked in the back. Alkmene stood with the sunshine on her face, closing her eyes a moment to soak up the warmth. The unhappy feeling of the other night seemed to wash away, and a pleasant relaxation spread through her system. She had to believe that Jake and she could solve this matter together. He had expertise and she had brains to help him unravel the clues. Now that Evelyn Steinbeck had been dismissed as a possible killer, she didn’t feel so bad any more about bringing the culprit to justice. From Pemboldt’s tale it had become clear that Fitzroy Walker was a scheming presumptuous young man, and the snippet of conversation she had caught herself had betrayed his predatory nature. If he turned out to be the killer, she would gladly see him arrested. She inhaled the fresh air coming to her with a hint of herbs and flowers. She thought she heard footfalls coming and snapped her eyes open. For a moment among the trees ahead of her something stirred, dark and solid, like the shape of a person, a silhouette of a man bundled up in a thick coat. She blinked to see better, but whatever it had been it was gone now, the trees standing there without movement among their trunks, just the stirring of birds in the branches above. A hand landed on her shoulder, and she yelped, swinging round. Jake grinned at her. ‘See. If an animal reared its head from a ditch in an excavation site, you’d be off like a hare.’ Alkmene shook her head. ‘There really was…’ But she didn’t get a chance to finish her sentence as a thin wiry man with a red scarf around his neck came over to them, not walking, but sort of hobbling, like a gnome. He smiled at her and gestured to follow him, turning away from the cottage down a muddy track. ‘He will lead us to the spot,’ Jake whispered to her. ‘A little money and…’ He made a gesture. The little man was surprisingly fast for someone who moved with such an odd gait. He seemed to have no trouble with the mud that sloshed around Alkmene’s shoes and sucked at her soles with every step. She gave the moor an anxious once-over, wondering if there were stretches here that were so marshy you could get sucked into them, never to get out again. Cold skittered across her back, especially thinking of the figure she believed to have spotted for a moment, watching her. But if she told Jake, he’d only laugh at her again, thinking she was scared of her own shadow. ‘There.’ The little man halted. ‘You can see it clearly. There where the scrubs are. She vanished right there. I saw it myself.’ He stood, lifting his hands to his face and blowing on them like it was the dead of winter. ‘You saw her drown?’ Alkmene asked in awe and some surprise that he had not lent a hand to help. The little man shook his head. ‘She vanished behind the brush, into the marshlands. You see, there are tracks you can follow that are perfectly safe. She knew. Her father was a hunter, for waterfowl. He knew all those tracks and he had taught them to her. She could traverse those paths like she was an elf, her feet never even touching the ground.’ His face was suddenly sad. ‘No, she was not an elf, she was a fairy. So pretty and blonde. He had no right to hurt her, that fancy gentleman from the city.’ ‘I am sure he did not mean to hurt her,’ Alkmene said. But the little man spat, ‘He did hurt her. He took her away from us. She was one of us, but he came and promised her she could be one of them. She could live in the city in a big house with pretty things. Oh, she loved pretty things. A comb for her hair, a necklace. He had promised her a dressing table from the east inlaid with ivory. With elephant figures and tiny men riding them. A mirror over it with a golden rim to frame her face in fire. She told me all about it. She trusted me, you know.’ His expression contorted. ‘Nobody ever listened to me talk. Silly Wally, they say, Wally, who is not right in the head. So she told me everything, because if I ever told another, they would not believe me. She told me all he had promised to her, what he would give her, once they lived in the city. How she would even have a carriage of her own, with a team of snow white horses, like a princess from a fairy tale. That is what she said.’ He stared ahead, sadly. ‘He married her too, she said. It was legal and just. There was a paper to prove it. That was why she allowed him to sleep with her and get her with child. Because he was her husband and it would be all right. His family would have to accept it.’ Jake shot Alkmene a glance. Neither of them said anything to drag the little man from his memories. He let his hands dangle by his sides now, as he studied the moors ahead. ‘She sat there on the moor, weaving flowers into a crown, telling me all about it. The carriage, the horses and the pie she’d have, seven layers, all decorated with white marzipan flowers. And a bed for the baby with a lace curtain that would reach all the way to the floor. She laughed all of the time, so happy she was. She said she would at last leave this place, leave the people who never counted her for anything because she was just the hunter’s daughter, from the marshes. She said she’d be somebody, that she’d have pretty clothes and pretty things. She just wanted to be happy.’ He looked at them with watery blue eyes. ‘Can that be wrong?’ Jake shook his head. A muscle pulled in his jaw. Alkmene wondered if he was thinking about his own mother and his father. How they had met and what might have been promised. Another sad case of a woman led astray by pretty promises about a future that had never been? Wally said, ‘She was sad after he left her, but she was sure he would send for her. He had only gone to prepare everything, buy her all the things he had promised her, and then she would follow him. She often told me I could not tell a soul about what I knew, that they had married and she was with child, that she would push me into the marshes if I told anybody. Hold me down under the mud until I died. I never told them, I swear.’ The little man’s face contorted with pain. ‘I never told anyone. I kept her secret. I cared for her. I would never have betrayed her. But she thought so. When that terrible man came from the city, with his heavy walking cane and his raised voice, she thought I had told and therefore he came. She yelled at me and then she ran away.’ ‘So she fled from you when she vanished?’ Jake asked. Wally hung his head. ‘She was so angry with me. She said I had ruined everything because I always talk too much. But I had never talked about her and the baby. I could not have. I cared for her.’ Alkmene bit her lip. There was something genuine to the man’s pain that made her believe him. Jake said softly, ‘The man who came from the city had found out from his own brother. He did intend to take her to the city and give her all those things he had promised her. He did love her. But his family abducted him and made him forget her.’ ‘How could he have? I would never have forgotten her.’ Jake said, ‘They forced him to marry another and then the brother came here to ask Mary to set her husband free. She believed it was your fault that they had found out, but it was not. I am sorry she thought so and she shouted at you.’ ‘I saw her run away into the marshes,’ Wally said in a sad tone. ‘She ran fast; it was like her feet never touched the ground. She wore a white dress and she looked just like a bride.’ Alkmene asked, ‘Where did she go to?’ Wally looked at her, his eyes sharp with reproach. ‘You want me to betray her again?’ ‘You never betrayed her, Wally,’ Jake said. ‘You loved her.’ The little man hung his head again. ‘People laugh at me about it. They think I was a fool to care for her, while she would never care for an ugly little dwarf like me. But I would have protected her, I would have…’ Jake waited a moment. ‘Is that what you told her? When she had met up with the brother and had heard her husband was not coming back, when she was sad and heartbroken and walking about here on the moor, did you tell her you would care for her and the baby?’ Alkmene held her breath. It was obvious that if Wally had told her something like that, it would have been the last thing Mary Sullivan had been open to. Raw with grief as she was, and fully believing Wally’s loose tongue had caused her lover’s abandonment of her in the first place. ‘Wally?’ Jake prompted gently. Wally nodded, his chin rubbing his chest. ‘I told her that I would always take care of her, and the child, but she laughed at me. She screamed I had ruined everything, on purpose, because I had never wanted to let her go, that I was just an ugly troll who stole people to live in his dirty swamp world.’ He made a strangled sound. ‘Then she ran away from me. I wanted to go after her, but I was afraid that if I hunted her, she might take a wrong step and drown in the marshes.’ Jake waited a moment before he asked softly, ‘Have you ever seen her again?’ Wally stared at the ground and did not speak. ‘Have you?’ Alkmene pressed. He looked up, his eyes on fire. ‘I tell all of them that she died there. All of them. To protect her. To make sure they cannot find her and hurt her. I told that fancy lawyer from the city. That she was dead for sure and the baby with her. I showed him the place. He was so happy. He offered me money and he went away rubbing his hands. Like he was glad she was dead.’ His voice pitched on the latter words. ‘Glad! I should have pushed him into the marshes for it. Made sure he never left this place. Glad that she was dead…’ Alkmene looked at Jake. Jake said, ‘How old was this lawyer?’ ‘Young. Handsome.’ Wally’s voice was full of resentment. ‘Must have been Walker,’ Jake mouthed at Alkmene. She nodded. Jake said to Wally, ‘So you tell people Mary Sullivan is dead, because you want to protect her. I understand that. But what do you think yourself?’ Wally looked at him. ‘Why would I tell you? What are you to me? You offered me drinks last night to get me talking. You think I am dumb like they all do. But they gave you a soaking, yes, they did. For all your nosy questioning.’ The childish glee in his voice made Alkmene smile, but also put a shiver on her spine. This man was mentally twisted. Or at least he lived in a world of his own, holding his version of the past close to his chest like a sacred thing. Anyone who tried to interfere with it did so at his own risk. She said carefully, ‘The woman at the inn is very unfriendly to strangers and she even said we should go away again. Why?’ Wally looked at her with his small red-rimmed eyes. ‘Why, she is Mary’s sister. Did you not know?’ Alkmene shook her head. She had not been able to guess the woman’s age correctly as her red hair had seemed so fiery still, without a trace of grey. She didn’t seem old enough to be the sister of a woman who already had a grown son. The mysterious young man, from the theatre. Returned from the dead… Wally continued in a rush, ‘She also hates me for talking about Mary, keeping her memory alive. She would rather act like she had never existed. And I know why. She never liked her; she hated her. Because Mary was pretty and Mary was bright and all the men looked at Mary and never at her. She made Mary do all the work at home; she forced her to scrub floors so her pretty hands got red and rough. She made her do the cooking, so she would burn her fingers and cry. She would make her do the laundry so she had to stand hunched over the washing board and her back would ache. She told me oh so many times.’ Wally clenched his hands into fists. ‘They all treated her wrong. And they should remember her, remember what they did, how they did not want her to live and be happy. They are all to blame for her death. Not me. I cared for her.’ He lifted his pale eyes to look at Jake. ‘I loved her.’ Jake nodded. ‘We understand.’ Wally stood a moment, fidgeting with his hands. Then he turned away and ran off, with his strange gait. Jake did not go after him. He looked at Alkmene and sighed. ‘So we have confirmation here of everything Pemboldt told us. There was a Mary Sullivan, she was married to Silas Norwhich’s brother and she was pregnant with his child. She vanished into the marshlands, and Wally has been telling people ever since that she is dead. But he himself doesn’t know for sure. Or he knows something he doesn’t want to tell.’ ‘He told Fitzroy Walker that she was dead,’ Alkmene said. The wind was strong upon the moor, and she untied the scarf around her neck and put it over her head, tied it with a knot under her chin. The material made a soft rustling sound as the wind played with it. ‘He showed the place where it happened and all. I bet Walker didn’t get any cooperation elsewhere like we experienced yesterday and he believed Wally. He wanted to believe it badly, so his plans for Evelyn Steinbeck would succeed. The real heir was dead, buried in the marshes here, and the fake heiress could be produced and could cash in and then deliver to him, via the marriage. That’s why he was rubbing his hands in glee when he saw the spot.’ Jake nodded. He stared at the place Wally had indicated. ‘It is possible to get through moor or marshland unharmed if you know the tracks. If her father was indeed familiar with them all for his profession, she could have run off and lived on, some place. But how? She probably had no money.’ ‘Wally suggested her lover had given her gifts. Maybe she sold those off? Maybe she found another man who took her in? Wally made it sound like she was very pretty. Combined with vulnerability, she might have enticed a man to care for her.’ ‘You make it sound like something dirty,’ Jake observed with a smile. Alkmene shrugged. ‘I never like to use my looks, that’s all.’ The wind pulled at her scarf, and suddenly the silk slipped off her hair and the scarf flew off on the gust, across the heather and dirt, flapping like it was resisting its abduction. ‘Hey!’ Alkmene called. Jake rushed after it, jumping over clumps of heather. ‘Be careful!’ Alkmene called. ‘You could step into marshland.’ Jake didn’t seem to hear or care. He ran on, leaping and bounding like a horse in full flight, until he could pluck the scarf out of the air. Holding it up, he waved it at her like a banner. ‘Saved!’ She waved back, calling again, ‘Careful! You don’t know how unstable it is.’ Jake nodded and began to pick his way back, trying his footing before each step. It took him much longer to get back than it had taken him to catch the scarf. Alkmene stood hands on hips, watching his progress with her head tilted. At last he was on the path again. She reached out for the scarf, but he shook his head and folded it and put it in his pocket. ‘I don’t intend to chase it again. You can have it back in the village.’ Before she could protest he looked around them. ‘Not much else we can do here. We know now Fitzroy Walker has been here and left, assured there was no real heir to fear. But he was wrong. There was. At least if the young man who appeared at the theatre had any claim.’ ‘He knew of Cunningham.’ Alkmene frowned. ‘He might even have had a birth certificate that he showed Silas Norwhich right before he died.’ Jake nodded. ‘But why kill Norwhich?’ ‘If he indeed killed him.’ Alkmene turned her back on the cold wind and gestured to the village. ‘We had better return and think it over with some coffee and apple pie. I think I smelled something baking before we left.’ Jake shook his head. ‘It is a miracle to me that someone with such a healthy appetite can have such a slim figure.’ Alkmene cast him an appraising look. Was he criticizing her figure or complimenting her on it? If she could not even tell which was which… Shaking her head to herself, she began to walk back across the seemingly endless moor. Chapter Eighteen (#ulink_ce21805c-dcf2-531d-b940-2c0f18cba56d) By the time they were back at the inn of the hunted boar, the church tower struck one, and Alkmene’s stomach was growling. She wanted a big slice of apple pie, preferably with whipped cream, and coffee. Or no, hot chocolate. She already savoured the taste on her tongue. But as they came in, the innkeeper himself was behind the reception desk, gesturing at them with a cream-coloured envelope in his hand. ‘This message has been delivered here for you, sir.’ Jake took it and studied it. ‘By whom?’ The man shrugged. ‘I have no idea. I was in the back tending to some chores and when I came back here, it was lying on the desk.’ Jake turned the envelope over but there was no sender recorded on it. It just read Mr Jake Dubois on the front in print letters that could disguise a man or woman’s handwriting. Jake thanked the innkeeper and walked into the room, slipping his little finger under the edge and tearing open the envelope. Alkmene followed him curiously, one hand on her hair to feel if it had grown very wild in the wind. Jake whistled softly as he read what was written on the single sheet he had pulled out. Then he handed it to her. It said, ‘Come to the ruins of the old keep on the moor. Anybody can explain the way to you. Information will be waiting for you there. Do not share this message with anyone and do not bring any locals.’ There was no name under it. Alkmene said, ‘I suppose we are not going to see what this is all about? It seems rather fishy. If somebody wanted to give you information, he could have enclosed it in this envelope. He left it without being seen, so anonymity can’t be an issue.’ Jake shrugged. ‘You never know why people are extra secretive. It could be worthwhile. I will go. Alone of course.’ ‘Oh, no. We are in this together. I brought this whole case to your attention.’ ‘Wrong, my lady. I was already on the case before you even knew there was one. Remember? I do not owe you a thing.’ Alkmene felt like grabbing his lapels and shaking him, but she became aware the landlord was watching them curiously from behind the reception desk. She hissed, ‘We will have to decide about that later. I want to come. Pronto.’ Jake held her gaze a moment. ‘I suppose,’ he said in a whisper, ‘that if I left you here you’d go out anyway and land in no end of trouble. I don’t want to have your dead body on my conscience. So I will have to take you so I can protect you.’ Alkmene snorted. ‘What will you do? Carry a gun?’ Jake smiled at her. ‘That is an excellent idea.’ She stared at him. ‘You own a gun? You brought it with you?’ He didn’t reply, but strode to the desk where the landlord pretended to be engrossed in the ledger. ‘The ruins of the old keep…where would that be? I have heard it is a sight worth seeing.’ The landlord frowned. ‘It is nothing but what it says it is, sir. Ruins. There is nothing there like a real keep or castle. Just crumbling walls and weeds.’ ‘I love weeds,’ Alkmene said engagingly. ‘As I told your wife this morning over breakfast, my father is a botanist, a specialist on all kinds of plants. I am collecting some rare specimens for him. I am sure that he will be so grateful for your help. If you can point it out to us…’ She reached into her purse suggestively. ‘It is easy enough,’ the man said at once. He opened the ledger in the back and tore out an empty sheet. Then he picked up his pencil and began to sketch. ‘The inn is right here. Now you round it and then you are here. There is an old track, wide enough for a cart and well used at that. You can follow it for about a mile…’ The explanations dragged on, and the drawing became more complex. Alkmene hoped Jake had a scout instinct that would get them there. All she wanted was lunch before they started out. She was pretty bushed after their first walk and now that a second was imminent… She saw the innkeeper’s wife appear and asked if she could pack a lunch for them. ‘Some bread, cold cuts, cheese. Oh, and the apple pie you were baking this morning.’ ‘That is plum pie, but if you want some…’ ‘If you please. You can all put it on the bill.’ She batted her lashes at Jake, who just picked the sketch off the counter and put it in his pocket. ‘What?’ he said. ‘Never mind. I am glad you are such a perfect gentleman who is taking such good care of me.’ Raising her voice, she added to the innkeeper’s wife. ‘We will be outside in the square waiting for the lunch, thank you.’ And she pulled Jake to the door. ‘What was that?’ he asked suspiciously as they emerged once more into the sunshine. Alkmene shook her hair loose and remodelled it. ‘Nothing. Lunch will be ready soon. Let’s just have a look at the church for a moment. It looks old.’ It was old, as a plaque on the wall told them. Built in 1341, destroyed by war in 1414, rebuilt… Destroyed by fire. Rebuilt. Tower hit by lightning. Rebuilt… Jake seemed intent on reading it all, but Alkmene’s attention waned, and she walked away to the side of the church where old graves were. Family graves of the families who had lived in this town for centuries. The Dawsons, the Millers, the Smiths. And the Sullivans. She stared at their names and the dates on the large stone. There were Marys among them, but those had to be ancestors. The dates were not right to fit the mother of their missing heir. She frowned as a cold draught that breathed around the church building kept hitting her exposed neck. Jake had to give that scarf back to her. She looked up and saw a shadow slip away around the far end of the church. Just a hint of a dark sleeve, a shoulder maybe. She walked a few paces in that direction, then halted, knowing she’d never catch up with whoever it had been. But they were still being watched. First this morning at Wally Thomson’s place, now here. Why? And by whom? ‘Are you coming?’ Jake called for her. ‘Your basket is here for you to carry along.’ He had to be kidding. He would carry it for her. Right? The wind tugging at everything loose and fastened made the basket swing and beat against her leg. She bet she’d have bruises there in the morning. But Jake refused to carry it. She had managed to persuade him to sit down and have the lunch before reaching the old ruins for the precious information, so the basket was considerably lighter now. The plum pie had been excellent, and the little flask of sherry the woman had included had warmed them inside and given them new energy to tackle the hike. For a time they could already see the ruins in the distance, but the moor seemed to have an odd way of distorting proportions. The ruins seemed so close, within reach, and then as they ascended a new hill, the crumbling walls seemed to have stayed just as far away as before. Like the landscape shifted every time. Alkmene halted a moment to wipe her right eye that kept tearing up from the wind. She had never walked this much across uneven tracks, rising and falling all of the time, and both her feet and knees were hurting. Not to mention how sore her palm was from carrying the stupid basket. But she would never admit that to Jake. He was already convinced she was a prissy little lady who had no stamina. She would prove him so wrong. Catching up with him, trying to sound level and not out of breath, she said, ‘What do you expect us to find there? Do we have to scour each crack in every crumpled bit of wall for the envelope with secret information?’ Jake shrugged. ‘I have no idea.’ He stared ahead with a frown. ‘Aren’t you tired?’ He glanced at her. ‘You are welcome to stay here and wait for my return.’ Sitting and enjoying the sunshine for a while would be bliss. But no way was she letting him make the interesting discoveries alone. ‘I am fine.’ She inhaled hard. ‘Healthy air, a nice brisk walk. What more can one want?’ Jake grimaced. ‘The whole invitation could be a trap. The person who sent us the note could be waiting on top of a wall to drop a stone on our heads.’ ‘It would be kind of hard to harm both of us at the same time,’ Alkmene said, although her heart was beating fast. ‘I think we are perfectly safe as long as we stick closely together.’ She glanced at him. ‘Did you bring your gun?’ Jake patted his jacket. She didn’t see anything particular there but…he knew what he was doing. It was kind of nice to know one of them did. She studied the skies with the tiny white clouds. ‘It could have rained, you know. At least we are having a sunny day.’ Jake grunted. ‘I just wish that old keep had not been built so far away.’ She grinned. ‘Sore feet, huh?’ Jake poked her with an elbow. ‘Wanna compare blisters tonight? I bet yours will be bigger than mine.’ Alkmene wrinkled her nose. ‘No, thank you. And in case you are wondering, I do know how to treat blisters. My nanny always told me to prick them with a clean needle or pin.’ Jake grinned. ‘Right, and then pull a thread through so the liquid in the blisters can leak out.’ Alkmene winced. ‘Ugh.’ Jake laughed out loud. A bird took to flight nearby, diving into a clump of heather before she could discern what it was. He took her arm a moment. ‘I think I saw movement behind one of those half broken walls. Somebody is there waiting for us.’ ‘Maybe it is the man who has been watching us all day.’ ‘What?’ Jake asked. ‘I thought I saw somebody.’ She shrugged. ‘You would probably have called it paranoia so I did not mention it before. But now that you say he is waiting, it makes sense he watched us first and when he believed we were getting closer to the truth, he approached us to give us answers.’ ‘He?’ Jake queried. ‘The figure I saw was probably a man. Rather tall and heavily built, you know.’ Jake nodded. ‘You could have said something.’ He glanced at her. ‘Is it even possible he was watching us in the village and he is now at the ruins ahead of us?’ ‘If he knew a short cut…’ Alkmene shrugged. ‘Or he came on horseback.’ They should have looked into the possibility of hiring horses. She was a great rider and could have raced ahead of Jake instead of limping beside him on her tortured feet. Jake said, ‘I wonder if our landlord wrote this note himself. Maybe he wants to meet up with us and tell us something his wife is not supposed to know. After all, his wife is Mary Sullivan’s own sister and fiercely protective of her memory.’ ‘Or her own part in the tragedy. If she hated Mary for being prettier and shovelled all the housework onto her, she might not have been eager to see her leave with this rich and handsome man who could offer her a better life in the city.’ Alkmene’s right foot slipped on some mud, and she was swept off balance, barely managing to stay upright. After an undignified wave with her free arm and a stumble for a few paces, she continued as if nothing had happened, ‘She might have conspired to end the relationship, you know, leaking information about it, or something. But when her sister vanished and was presumed dead, she did blame herself for it.’ She was silent for a minute, wondering what it would be like to hate somebody and wish they were out of your life, and then they vanished and you wished they were back. That you could undo the damage, turn back time. She said, ‘Wally seemed to blame the sister for a lot. His presence here in the village and at her husband’s inn must be a constant reminder to her of that guilt.’ Jake nodded. ‘Perhaps you were right in your first assessment, Alkmene.’ Alkmene perked up, clutching the bothersome basket tighter. ‘I was?’ ‘Yes. There is something sinister here in Cunningham. Not because there is a dark secret, but because people hated and manipulated each other and paid the price for that. They all wanted something – Mary her pretty things in the city, Mary’s sister to be loved like Mary, Wally to be loved by Mary – but in the end nobody got what they wanted. They all ended up unhappy and bitter.’ ‘Well, Mary had the worst lot,’ Alkmene said. ‘She ended up dead.’ ‘If we believe she is dead. Wally spread the tale, but is it true? If the man who appeared in London is her son, she did not die here on the moor.’ Alkmene nodded thoughtfully. At last the ruins came within reach, and they walked up to them, just a few crumbling walls, old stones, covered with moss and weeds, weathered by ages of rain and hail and snow beating down upon them. A raven rose from behind the walls, giving his ominous cry. Alkmene shivered and inched closer to Jack. The basket banged against him, and she transferred it to her other arm. Jake held her elbow as he ushered her through a narrow archway. Alkmene glanced up to see if there was a loose stone about to drop. You never knew… Inside the circle of sadly decayed walls, grass grew and crinkled paper lay, suggesting people came here for sightseeing, or to picnic, and then left something behind. Alkmene suppressed the urge to go pick it up and take it back to the village. Father had taught her to hate it when a pure landscape was desecrated by waste. Jake halted and listened. Then he called out, ‘Is anybody there?’ His voice echoed away across the stones out into the open spaces of the empty moor. The sun was vanishing behind some thin clouds, and the wind became colder, breathing down Alkmene’s neck again. She shivered, narrowing her eyes. ‘I am here,’ a voice said behind them. They both spun. The man was tall and blond, staring at them with a dispassionate expression. His feet were planted apart, his hands dangling loosely by his sides. But his stance crackled with tension. Alkmene noticed the redness of a scar snaking from his neck up behind his right ear. Someone who was not afraid of a fight. ‘What information can you offer us?’ Jake asked. The man shook his head. ‘No. You are going to tell me a thing or two. Why are you here? What are you after?’ Jake held his gaze. ‘You know my name, but I don’t know yours.’ The man shrugged. ‘It would mean nothing to you.’ He pulled back his shoulders. ‘I do know you, Dubois. I looked into you when you first appeared on the scene. You are a reporter, a bloodhound. You do anything for a story. You want something sensational to spread across the papers’ front pages. I am here to convince you not to do that.’ The latter words were uttered calmly enough but with a hint of menace. Jake held his gaze. ‘I have already had a soaking by the friendly villagers here. Do you have worse in mind?’ The man lifted a shoulder and let it drop again. ‘It depends on how much you want the story.’ Jake shook his head. ‘No, you are wrong. I do not want a story. I want justice for Silas Norwhich.’ The young man’s face contorted. He pulled up his lip like a snarling dog. ‘For Silas Norwhich? That bastard?’ Jake didn’t flinch. ‘He was killed in his own home. No man deserves to die that way.’ ‘He had made other people very unhappy. He was living a lie, smiling like he was a happy man.’ Jake said, ‘So? Did he deserve to die for that reason?’ The young man shifted his weight. ‘We are not talking about his death here, but about what he was guilty of.’ Jake was unperturbed. ‘Isn’t the one tied in to the other?’ The young man pursed his lips. ‘Maybe. But I asked you a question. How badly do you want your story? Will you take money to drop it?’ Jake laughed. ‘You are not the first to offer me money to drop it. If I play this well, it could make me a rich man.’ The young man stepped forward. ‘You toad! Using other people’s hurt for gain.’ Jake lifted a hand. ‘I didn’t say that I am actually accepting money. I only observed I could take it and be rich. But I am not. You do have a temper. Were you in Silas Norwhich’s house the night he died? Did you argue with him and push him? Or did he just back away from your grabbing hands and fall on the hearth rim by mistake? Was it really an accident?’ The young man laughed shortly. ‘Oh, he backed away from me all right. But when I left him, he was still alive. I do not know how he died. I am not one bit sorry for it, but I do not know how, and I was certainly not responsible for it.’ Jake smiled. ‘I am glad to hear it. Now I want to know what information you do have for me. Or was your threat against me all I am going to get in exchange for my long walk out here?’ ‘You sniff out people’s private affairs. You deserve some hardship for it.’ The young man raked back his hair. ‘I can only tell you it is better to forget about it.’ Alkmene said, ‘Others have said that too. But nobody has given us any good reason so far.’ She hesitated a moment, then she said, ‘Silas Norwhich was a deluded man. He made mistakes, not just in the past when he came here to convince his brother’s wife to set him free, but also when he took on Evelyn Steinbeck as his heiress. He did not know she was a fake.’ Jake stared at her as if he could not believe she was just telling this to somebody. But Alkmene continued, ‘I assume I am telling you nothing new in revealing she was a fake. That you already knew. But it might be new to you that Silas Norwhich earnestly believed her to be his heiress. The one he had sought for years, to set things right.’ ‘Not even that is new to me,’ the man said with a smile. ‘I heard it from his own lips, but I did not believe him. I believed he had taken her on as an extra insult to my mother.’ Jake shifted his weight. ‘Mary Sullivan?’ The young man nodded. ‘When I read in the papers about Mr Silas Norwhich appearing everywhere with the daughter of his late brother, the heir to it all… I…I know my mother would not have liked me to confront him. She raised me to forget him, to despise the sort of man he was, the class he stood for. Vain privileged people who do anything to preserve their titles and their wealth.’ Alkmene cringed under his assessment, not daring to look at Jake. The young man said, ‘But I went anyway. I wanted to see him and see for myself how he responded when I told him who I was. I chose a public spot so it would be painful if he tried to assault me. I was not afraid of him, but I wanted the encounter to hurt him, not me. He deserved every embarrassment he could get. It turned out differently. He was indignant, as if I was doing him wrong. Apparently he didn’t believe me. So I came to his house to prove it.’ ‘With a birth certificate,’ Alkmene said. He nodded. ‘He wanted to keep a copy to have his lawyers verify it. I told him he could not trust his lawyers as they had lied to him all along, producing this fake heiress for him. This Steinbeck woman who was supposedly my mother’s daughter born after she had left for America.’ He laughed softly. ‘Oh, they had done a clever job, choosing a girl whose mother had come from England and who was dead. A girl who even looked a little like my mother in her youth. So clever. I told him, warned him. But he did not believe me. He had such confidence in those lawyers.’ ‘And then?’ Jake prompted. ‘I left him sitting at his desk, with the copy he had wanted. I left him believing in his stupid lies. And the next day he was dead. I read it in the paper.’ Alkmene waited a moment. ‘Your mother? Is she still alive?’ He nodded. ‘After his death I could do no less than inform her of what I had done. How I had sought a confrontation, which she had been so anxious to avoid, for all of those years. She was angry with me of course, but foremost worried that I would be charged with murder if it ever got out who I was. I tried to reassure her that nobody would make the connection. But then you began to appear everywhere. Even here. In Cunningham, which was supposed to be a place nobody knew about, except for the lawyers engaged by the dead man himself.’ He took a deep breath. ‘There is no point in pursuing this. My father, if I can call him that, is dead. So is his brother who drove my mother into despair. I can only be accused of murder if you push this any further. Is that what you wish? Are you protecting this fake heiress by hounding me?’ Jake shook his head. ‘Far from it. We are after the killer and we now know it was not you. You left him alive. It makes sense. You wanted something of him.’ The young man flushed painfully. ‘Is it not just,’ he said through gritted teeth, ‘that he would pay something for the hurt done to my mother and me? We have lived in poverty for all of our lives. I have done all kinds of lowly jobs. She laundered for people, cleaned house, but she is getting too old for that. All I wanted was a good old age for her.’ Jake nodded. ‘You might still get it.’ The young man looked puzzled. ‘How come?’ ‘Evelyn Steinbeck confessed the truth to us. She will be going back to America, without any form of inheritance. Mr Pemboldt, the lawyer, knows that she was a fake and he will not push for her to stay. You can come forward as the real heir and inherit everything that Mr Silas Norwhich ever owned.’ The young man scoffed. He raised a hand and rubbed his neck. ‘I am not even sure I want that. I have stood face to face with him and he denied my existence to me. He was exactly that vain, presumptuous man I had always believed him to be.’ ‘You can think about it,’ Jake said. ‘There is no need to decide upon the spot. But I think you should go and show yourself to Mr Pemboldt. He wasn’t involved in the disastrous turn the deception took. He honestly wanted to help out, relieve Silas Norwhich’s guilt about the past. If you can prove you are indeed Mary Sullivan’s son, he will fight for you in court to let you have every penny of the estate that is rightfully yours.’ The young man gasped for air. ‘I had not thought that possible.’ He raked a hand through his hair again. ‘Mother might hate me for this. She has raised me to forget about my father and never want a penny of his fortune.’ Alkmene smiled at him. ‘Or she might be grateful when you explain to her what drove you to it. Your love for her, the wish she would be cared for as she gets older. Silas Norwhich wanted to set things straight. He was sorry for the harm he had caused and he spent many years trying to do penance for it. He even died because of it. I think that does mean something.’ The young man hung his head. ‘When I first met him, I was livid with rage. I did not see him clearly and only hated him for denying it all. But when I saw him at his house that night, it was different. He was different. A broken man. He knew he had been lied to, but he still kept saying it could not be true. He was desperate, and it was pitiful to see. I could for the first time in my life believe he might have been sincere in his attempts to set it straight.’ ‘See.’ Jake nodded. His tone was calm and compassionate. ‘So think about contacting Mr Pemboldt. Not at his offices, for his clerks cannot be trusted. Try him at home. And be very cautious in all that you do. The killer is still at large and might come after you too, if he thinks he can still save the fortune he always wanted to have.’ Alkmene looked at Jake. ‘Fitzroy Walker?’ Jake nodded. ‘Has to be.’ He checked his watch. ‘It is too late for us to return to London tonight. We need two hours to get back to the village on foot and… We will have to do it tomorrow.’ He looked at the young man again. ‘Take care.’ He nodded and stepped back. ‘Thank you for coming here. I do not show myself in the village.’ Alkmene frowned at him. ‘You do not… But…how? You were not spying on us at Wallace Thomson’s house this morning, and later at the church when I was looking at the family grave of the Sullivans?’ He shook his head. ‘I never go there. I had a lad take the letter into town and leave it on the counter at the inn.’ Alkmene frowned. If he had not been spying on them, then who had? And why? Jake had already pulled the basket out of her hand. ‘It’s still a long walk back, Lady Alkmene. Let me carry that thing. We’d better think up a plan along the way for how to smoke out Fitzroy Walker. Because I have a feeling he will be harder to get than we thought.’ Chapter Nineteen (#ulink_3fdb2ab6-79d0-5106-b494-9a0aa6c99dbb) Alkmene’s feet were positively on fire when they reached the inn again. She asked the innkeeper’s wife to bring her a basin with lukewarm water, large enough to put her feet into. Also some sherry and some cheese and cold cuts. Jake hitched a brow at her. ‘Used to command?’ Alkmene was too tired to mind, or retort. She just dragged herself up the stairs and once the water had come, dipped her feet into it. It was bliss to sit and let the water play around her feet, through her toes, while the sherry warmed her from the inside out and the cheese caressed her palate. OK, it wasn’t French and refined like at home, but with an empty stomach everything tasted sweet. Sitting with her bed pillow behind her back, she closed her eyes and enjoyed the sense of elation that they were so close to the solution. They had their killer identified and only needed a strategy to smoke him out. Only, hmmm? Jake had been right that it might be harder than they thought. After all, they had no proof that Fitzroy Walker had been at the house that night, face to face with Silas Norwhich. As long as they could not place him there, they had nothing to offer to the police. All the pieces they did have formed an intriguing picture, a motive certainly, but they also needed opportunity. Maybe Fitzroy Walker had already cleverly bought an alibi for the night, convincing some friends or men from a bar to lie for him that he had been with them. Maybe he would snub them to their faces, proving them wrong in their assumption it had to have been him. But who else? Somebody knocked on her door. ‘Yes?’ she called, too tired to get up. Jake came in, carrying her scarf in his hand. ‘This was still in my pocket. I should have returned it to you when we came in.’ She smiled at him a moment. ‘Thank you. Put it on the bed, will you? Thanks also for retrieving it and keeping it safe. It was a present from my father, and he is fussy when I lose things.’ She yawned. ‘I feel bushed. I need sleep more than anything else. You have dinner alone, if you want to. I am turning in just as soon as my poor feet have cooled down.’ Jake laughed. ‘You do know that if you stay too long in that water, your pretty little feet will get all wrinkled?’ ‘Like that lasts for ever.’ She stretched her arms over her head. ‘You can’t rile me tonight, Jake. I feel glorious.’ Jake stood, tall, imposing. ‘Strange. You met a man who was done a grave injustice and you feel glorious?’ ‘Well, he is about to inherit all of Silas Norwhich’s estate. That should make up for something. I suppose if Mary Sullivan still loves pretty things, she will have some now.’ Jake huffed. ‘That is so typical for your kind of people. Thinking money can buy off anything. As if injustice can simply be settled by paying a price into an account.’ He turned to the door. ‘I am glad we are not eating together tonight. I couldn’t swallow a bite.’ He slammed the door shut. The bang reverberated through the floor and creaked in the beams overhead. Alkmene sat stiffly, suddenly sensing the water was getting too cold, her poor feet were freezing and her stomach was warm from sherry but could perhaps have used some more substantial sustenance. But after what Jake had just yelled at her, she was not going down. She didn’t want to see his arrogant face. Not tonight, maybe not tomorrow either. He was dead set on misconstruing everything she said. Blaming her for the bad feeling that he had over his mother’s ordeal. But she had nothing to do with his mother, his father, his past. He should stop making her pay for an injustice that was not her fault. Despite Alkmene’s recent assertion he could not rile her, her happy feeling had vanished completely now, and she felt so tired she could just cry. Whatever they accomplished together, it did not change Jake’s views of her. He wanted to hold on to his prejudice. Perhaps she had to distance herself from him to maintain her dignity. Just look at her – almost shedding tears because he was so unreasonable. First thing in the morning she had to arrange for a car here in the village, to get back to London on her own. What on earth did she need Jake Dubois for anyway? He was just an insufferable cad! Alkmene awoke with a slight tightness behind her eyes. Usually it was only there if she had stayed out too late partying with Freddie and his friends, drinking too much sherry and playing cards for a pound a point. Losing always made her wake up sour. But this was not her bedroom, was it? Opening her eyes, she realized it was the inn where she had spent the night before as well. It was still dark outside. Sleep had not lasted as long as she would have liked. Reality fell upon her: Jake’s harsh assessment of her that had spoiled her happy mood about the day. Her decision to travel back to London alone. It didn’t give her any satisfaction. Their trip here had been such a huge success, they should have congratulated each other on their achievement. Instead Jake had ruined it all with those words. He had some axe to grind about the past, but she refused to be the object of it, all the time. She sat up and rubbed the sleep from her eyes. It was so quiet still. In London there always seemed to be some kind of bustle, liveliness. Here nothing stirred. She slipped out of bed and looked out into the village square. The dead oak stood like a silent sentry, its naked branches clawing at the skies. Among the graves beside the church something took shape in the gloom. A dark silhouette moving among the tombstones. It was impossible to make out whether it was a man or a woman. It seemed like a strange hour to go see a grave. Worried, Alkmene pushed her forehead against the pane but could make out no more. She had no field glasses and even if she did, they would be of little use, with the dim light. She turned to the bed and ditched her nightgown, slipped into a blouse, tweed skirt and coat. Every blister hurt when she stepped into her shoes with bare feet. Then she moved to the door and opened it a crack. Nothing stirred in the corridor. She went down it on tiptoe, then the stairs… One step creaked like a pistol shot popping, and she hurried on, worried someone would call out to her and halt her. In the empty space of the inn’s main room she stared at the painting over the fireplace. Made by the father of the hostess. Mary Sullivan’s father also. The hunter for waterfowl who had known every path across the moor. Mary had used her knowledge to escape, escape the village, her family who used her like a servant, the supposed friend who had betrayed her to her mind. She had probably honestly believed Wally’s loose tongue had brought the vengeance of her lover’s family upon her. It was so sad how one event had torn up this entire community and nothing after had ever been able to put it back in place again. Perhaps catching the killer could help some? Alkmene went to the door and lifted the latch, stepped out into the dark square. She crossed to the right, towards the churchyard, and entered through the open metal gate. The dark shape was scurrying in the distance, disappearing…into the church. There had to be a side door there. Alkmene followed quickly, careful to keep her footing on the muddy path. She found the side door ajar. She slipped in and stood a moment, her blood pounding in her ears. Her eyes adjusted to the darkness inside, lifted by a few lights that burned perpetually. Apparently this was a place of prayer where the villagers could find comfort at whatever hour of the day. It made sense in a farming community where people rose early to work the land or travel to market. Maybe this person had not been doing anything mysterious but had simply ventured in to say a morning prayer. However, she heard a sound as of leaves turning over. She perked up her ears and moved in the direction of the sound. The church was long and straight, but had a side wing on the top left hand, perhaps where the vicar changed before the service began. From that very room, the rustling sound came. Holding her breath, Alkmene went to the door and peeked in. A man stood hunched over a table, leafing through a large old book. He muttered to himself, names it seemed and dates. Was that a registry of members of this congregation? It could easily be in a place like this. He halted, his face lighting in relief. His finger pointed at a certain place on the page. Then it moved upwards, grabbed the edge, and without any care for the antiquity of the book or the sanctity of the place he was in, he ripped the page out of it. Alkmene gasped. Maybe he heard, maybe it was just because he was done and eager to get away, but he looked up at the door and he noticed something. He came for the door, in large strides. Alkmene backed up, collided with something that clattered down. Ignoring it, she turned and ran. Someone overtook her, grabbed her from behind and pinned her against a bench. ‘Lady Alkmene.’ The voice at her ear was low and menacing. ‘Such a shame. You are just too curious for your own good.’ She wanted to say something, but her assailant pushed a cloth thing into her mouth. She bit down on it, hoping it was not a dirty handkerchief. ‘I know the perfect place to put you,’ the voice said at her ear. ‘You might be found eventually. Or not. That would be a shame, I guess. But I have to cover my tracks. With this little piece of paper in my pocket, I am halfway done. There will be nothing left to prove that Silas Norwhich ever had any interest in Cunningham or indeed that a Mary Sullivan ever lived here. Her sister will not testify. When I came here to establish if there was any chance Mary or her dear baby would pop up and cause us trouble, the sister was the first to ask me how much money I was willing to pay to make her swear in court Mary was dead, drowned in the marshes. She was here ready and waiting to make sure dear Mary never surfaced again. Family is a wonderful thing, right?’ He began to pull her back. Alkmene struggled, but knew it was futile. He was much stronger than she was. If only Jake… But he was in bed, sleeping off yesterday’s long hike across the moor. She had been a silly idiot coming here without informing him, thinking it couldn’t hurt to sleuth on her own. Hurt by his remarks, goaded by his rejection, she had endangered her life. It was only fair she was caught and now…locked up. She just hoped that the man had been a little optimistic in surmising she’d never be found. An hour or two of discomfort would be punishment enough. Still dragging her, the man wrestled her down some steps. She stumbled and almost fell. It smelled damp in here, chilly, like a dungeon. He threw her to the ground and hunched beside her, dragging some rough rope around her wrists and then her ankles. Tying it, he laughed softly. ‘You are not all alone in here, Lady Alkmene. But I am afraid the others are not very talkative. All dead, you know, and have been for centuries. But then again with that cloth in your mouth you are not saying a whole lot either.’ He backed away. She tried to scream, crawl after him, grab his ankles, pull him to the floor. But his muddy shoes had walked away already, up the steps, and then a door closed with a thud, and a chain rattled. She was locked up. Under the village church. In a vault or something. Probably where all the prominent citizens had been buried in times past. In a tomb that was. A grave for the rich and wealthy. Ironic. Jake might have had a good laugh about it. Chapter Twenty (#ulink_18debf49-65ee-5e65-9bd0-9f71e8c32909) Alkmene tried to push the despicable gag out of her mouth with her tongue, but it didn’t work. Neither could she get her hands loose. There didn’t seem to be an edge or sharp rim in the vicinity that could aid her in this purpose. Everything she had always imagined you could do when bound and gagged and left to die was not working. Maybe Jake had been right that she knew too little about being undercover. Maybe so little she would actually die on her first investigation. No. That was pathetic. Her father had taught her you didn’t sit down and cry at the first trouble that came into your path. She just had to try harder. Or be smarter. She wriggled herself onto her stomach and tried to crawl like a worm or caterpillar. Those little creatures had no arms or legs and they moved about freely, even dug through earth or crawled up trees. But they had to have special powers to do so, because this was not working either. She was only getting a terrible muscle cramp. Snakes then. How did snakes move? She tried to picture the images of them from her father’s books. Then she heard a sound overhead. Something thudding. She wanted to scream, but the gag would not let her. She had to make a sound, somehow. She lifted her feet and dropped them on the floor. Ouch. That didn’t sound loud enough to reach the world overhead. She needed metal to bash against, but there was none there. No pipes to clink sending out some sort of Morse code. Just nothing. It was terrible to realize, but people would just bustle about the church all day: putting fresh flowers in place, lighting candles, offering prayers, talking to the deacon or the vicar, and they would have no idea of the tragedy playing out down here. She could die of famine here with all those people happily singing glory to God overhead. She tried to swallow down the despair that flooded her. She just had to think. She could come up with something. And maybe people did come down here, every now and then. For… For what?! Alkmene closed her eyes. She thought of her father in India, looking out over the river and listening to the cries of the monkeys and feeling so secure in the knowledge his daughter was safely in London, far away from poisonous beasts and the possibility of rabies from a bite. Safe in their home with the servants, safe among their well-bred friends. Safe because he had made her so. He’d have no idea what kind of trouble she had gotten herself into. All because she had overheard the fatal words ‘marry me’. She sighed, but even that was not as relieving as when you were not gagged. Then a door opened. A voice said, ‘Down here.’ She lifted her head and moaned, groaned, made any sound possible at all. She kicked with her foot against something, hoping despite knowing better that it would make a clanging sound. Somebody knelt down beside her and touched her face. A voice said, ‘Alkmene, are you all right?’ Hands came on her wrists, untying her bonds. She shook her head, willing him to take off the gag first. Carefully he pulled it out. She moved her dry tongue. Her throat refused to let audible words out. Jake untied her ankles and rubbed them with his large hands. She sat on her bottom on the cold stone floor, while other people stood over her, saying things like: terrible and no idea that somebody could be locked in like that. She looked into Jake’s eyes and saw the relief there and the kindness. Almost like he was happy he had found her. But of course the first thing he said was: ‘I can’t believe you were stupid enough to go investigating on your own. What did you want here?’ ‘I caught the…’ Her mind suddenly raced, and she jumped to her feet. She swayed but pushed past the people cluttering her path and ran up the steps. If they wasted any more time, he’d be gone! Jake came after her, shouting, ‘What now? Talk to me, Alkmene. You could at least tell me something, you know.’ She ran through the church’s aisle, her side already stinging with exertion. But she could not stop now. She burst into the sunshine, blinking against the harsh light after the darkness in that cellar. There. There he was. A man in a suit, a nice face, a smile, ready to get into his car that was parked in front of the post office. ‘Mr Walker,’ she called out. He froze. He spun to her, disbelief in his handsome features. He was good-looking all right, but a little weak around the mouth. Exactly like she had pictured him the night he had talked to Evelyn Steinbeck behind the screen. A man who wanted things in life the easy way. But life didn’t work that way. She halted in front of him. Jake came up after her, saying, ‘What is this? It would have been nice if you had at least congratulated me on having found you.’ Walker snapped, ‘I am in a rush, if you will excuse me.’ But Alkmene slipped her hand into his pocket and produced the page he had torn irreverently from the list of names in that church. ‘Here is the proof we need that he is the killer of Silas Norwhich,’ she called, holding it up. ‘He came to remove any proof Mary Sullivan had lived here. He wanted to make sure nobody could prove any more there had ever been a claim in which he was involved.’ Jake took the paper from her hand, studied it and whistled. Walker said coldly, ‘I have no idea what this mad woman is talking about.’ Then a voice said in a screech, ‘You liar!’ Wally Thomson came forward, his face contorted with rage. ‘You came here to find out all about her. I thought you cared for her too, like I had, and wanted the best for her. But you only wanted to erase her. I saw that too late. You want to drive her into the bog for real. You should die for that, die!’ He jumped at Walker, who cried, ‘Get that rabid dog away from me. He is insane.’ ‘He is no more insane than any of us,’ Jake said, restraining Wally, who clawed and kicked at Walker. Two other villagers helped him keep the little man off the lawyer. Jake said, ‘He will testify in court and based on his testimony and that of others, you will swing for having killed Silas Norwhich.’ ‘I am glad he is dead,’ a female voice screeched. The innkeeper’s wife stood there, her red hair blowing in the wind from the moors. ‘He deserved to die. I am glad you did it for us, for justice’s sake.’ ‘Justice?’ Alkmene said in a cold voice. ‘You hated your sister. You were glad that her dream of being rich and happy ended in despair. You never wanted justice for her, just wealth for yourself. You agreed with this man to testify in court that your sister died all those years ago, while carrying her baby. You agreed to testify that no baby had ever been born, no heir. But the heir is alive and well and so is your sister. And now that Silas Norwhich is dead, she will have everything that he once owned. She will be rich like she once dreamed she would be, and you cannot keep her from it.’ The woman stared, her mouth agape with shock. For a moment nothing stirred about her but those fiery locks dancing in the breeze that came from the moor. Then the innkeeper’s wife sank to her knees onto the cobbles and began to sob. ‘Mary. Oh, Mary. Oh, Mary.’ Her husband leaned over and touched her shoulder, helpless to comfort her. The constable with the moustache had rushed over and now clicked the cuffs round Fitzroy Walker’s wrists. The arrogant young lawyer’s face contorted as he spoke. ‘Evelyn deserved to get the money. The art, all of it. She is beautiful and accomplished, the perfect heir. Norwhich wanted someone who would be in his league, right, who would impress the people in his circles. I created her for them. I gave him exactly what he had always wanted. It made him happy. I did him no harm. And Evelyn… She had a hard time growing up. Then those awful bit parts… The constant disappointment when a play was cancelled prematurely and she had to start all over again. She told me all about it on our journey back here.’ Alkmene saw the beautiful actress, sharing her sad life story with Walker, playing him with her smile, a tear here and there, like she had tried to play Jake at the Metropolitan hotel. Perhaps not even on purpose, to deceive, but just because that was her talent: playing a part, appearing a certain way, beguiling people. Fitzroy Walker said, ‘She deserved better than that. Norwhich ached for an heir. And she needed someone to take care of her. It was a perfect arrangement. It would have done nobody any harm. I had made sure beforehand the real heir was dead. I had made sure nobody would suffer from this.’ ‘Or nobody could turn up to spoil things for you?’ Jake asked in a cynical tone. ‘You knew how substantial Norwhich’s fortune was. You may have even been to his house for business, have seen part of his art collection. You coveted it and for it you killed him.’ Walker shook his head. ‘I never wanted him to die. I wanted to marry Evelyn and we’d all be happy. Happy! But that man came and ruined it all, with his talk of Cunningham. Norwhich began to doubt the story, Evelyn’s integrity. It was not right that she was accused, defiled. She was perfect for the part. It all fit. It should have worked out. But he ruined it all. And for what? Revenge over some alleged slight? A thing decades in the past? What right did he have to spoil it all for us?’ ‘The right of a son to defend his mother?’ Jake asked sharply. Walker strained against his bonds. ‘I only wanted to convince Norwhich that Evelyn was the heir he had always wanted. I only wanted to convince him the past should be over and done with. How was I to know that man had just been with him and had shown him the birth certificate? He was out of his mind, shouting at me that I had betrayed him and had drowned her in the marshes all over again. He must have been delirious to say such insane things. He was so red in the face, almost purple, I was afraid he’d suffer a stroke. I grabbed his shoulders to steady him. I shook him a little maybe, to bring him to reason. I didn’t mean him to fall and die. That accursed hearth rim… If he had fallen just a few inches away from it, he would have lived!’ Jake said softly, ‘It is for the jury to decide whether you are guilty of murder or not.’ The constable led him away, Walker’s head down as he went. Mary Sullivan’s sister was still on her knees sobbing her heart out in her hands. Her husband stood bent over her, patting her back with clumsy large hands. Jake watched them with a deep frown, then turned to focus on Alkmene. ‘This whole scene does not mean that I don’t intend to find out exactly what you were doing there in that church, on your own. You could have been killed by this callous sod and I could have done nothing about it.’ Конец ознакомительного фрагмента. Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес». Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию (https://www.litres.ru/vivian-conroy/lady-alkmene-collection-four-fabulous-1920s-murder-mysteries/?lfrom=688855901) на ЛитРес. Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.