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…

Desperate to uncover the truth, Lady Alkmene begins to look into Ms Steinbeck’s past – only to be hampered by the arrival of journalist Jake Dubois – who believes she is merely an amateur lady-detective meddling in matters she knows nothing about!

But Lady Alkmene refuses to be deterred from the case and together they dig deeper, only to discover that some secrets should never come to light…

The twenties have never been so dangerous…

Available from Vivian Conroy

A Lady Alkmene Callender Mystery series

A Proposal to Die For

Diamonds of Death

Deadly Treasures

A PROPOSAL TO DIE FOR

Vivian Conroy

www.CarinaUK.com

VIVIAN CONROY

discovered Agatha Christie at thirteen and quickly devoured all the Poirot and Miss Marple stories. Over time Lord Peter Wimsey and Brother Cadfael joined her favourite sleuths. 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 enigmatic 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

Thanks to all editors, agents and authors who share insights into the writing and publishing process.

A special thanks to my fantastic editor at Carina 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

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.

Contents

Cover

Blurb

Book List

Title Page

Author Bio

Acknowledgements

Note

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Excerpt

Endpages

Copyright

Chapter One

‘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 fiancé 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 fiancé 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 soirées 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

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 Schwarzwälder 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

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

‘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

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.

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