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. The estate is lit up with Chinese lanterns in the gardens, boats operated by footmen float across the pond and the guest list features the distinguished, rich and powerful!

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 before Denise’s family are accused. If only her partner, Jake Dubois, weren’t hiding something from her…

This case might just be more dangerous than either of them could have imagined.

Available from Vivian Conroy

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

Fatal Masquerade

Vivian Conroy

ONE PLACE. MANY STORIES

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. Vivian also writes the contemporary Country Gift Shop Mysteries, set at a British gift shop in smalltown Maine, and the contemporary Cornish Castle Mysteries, about a costume designer from London and her perky dachshund taking a summer job at a castle on a tidal island off the coast of Cornwall. For the latest bookish news, with a dash of dogs and chocolate, follow Vivian on Twitter via @VivWrites.

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

Excerpt

Endpages

Copyright

Acknowledgements

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

Thanks to my fantastic editor, Victoria Oundjian, for her continued enthusiasm for Lady Alkmene’s adventures, and to the design team for the fabulous cover.

A special thanks to all book bloggers and readers who have left reviews for the first three books in the Lady Alkmene series or have reached out to say how much they love the character dynamics. Nothing makes me happier than to know my books bring the same sleuthing fun to readers as I experience myself when I dive into a mystery.

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. Psychology plays a significant part in this story, and although some scenes and theories discussed are inspired by real-life developments at the time, Lady Alkmene’s world is fictional and the characters and their behaviour – whether ethical or unethical – the fruit of my imagination.

Chapter One

‘Can’t this thing go any faster?’ Denise Hargrove snapped at the driver. During the ride she’d consulted her watch over and over again, exuding a nervous energy Lady Alkmene Callender found hard to place.

It seemed odd that Denise was so anxious to get home. Her relationship with her father had never been close, and she endured her stepmother, a woman who was but a few years older than she herself was, making for an awkward atmosphere whenever the two women were forced to spend time together.

Denise’s stepmother would probably soon bear the male child who would push Denise from her current position as her father’s sole heir, leaving her with little more than an annual sum of money until she married. In the circumstances, one might have expected that Denise would have no wish to go home and spend time with her family, but just at the moment it seemed she couldn’t wait to get to the Hargrove estate.

Of course there was a masked ball on tonight, the kind of frivolous pastime Denise lived for.

Still, the ball wouldn’t begin for five hours, and Denise’s fidgeting suggested worry more than happy anticipation.

‘Is anything wrong?’ Alkmene asked in a low tone so the driver wouldn’t overhear.

‘Wrong?’ Denise gave her a wide-eyed look from under her new hat. ‘Why would anything be wrong?’

‘You seem so anxious to get to our destination.’

Denise laughed: a high-pitched, insincere sound. ‘My dress is getting crinkled in the trunk. It has to be put out and cared for. My make-up and wig will also take time. I just wish Cecily hadn’t insisted on having a formal dinner with the house guests before the other guests arrive for the ball.’

Denise insisted on calling her stepmother by her given name as she didn’t want to call her ‘Mother’ or anything else denoting any kind of family tie between them. Her father disapproved of it, but had stopped commenting as he didn’t want to antagonize Denise further.

Alkmene believed Hargrove secretly hoped for better relations between his new wife and daughter, so that, with the birth of a male heir, his familial happiness would be complete. Alkmene hoped, for his sake, this would happen, but Denise’s antipathy towards her stepmother, not to mention the prospect of losing her position in the family to a new baby, made it seem unlikely there would ever be more between them than an icy politeness that sometimes flared into a subtly stinging reminder of the other’s position.

Denise sighed. ‘Dinner with all these tedious house guests will take up so much time, which I would rather spend on my looks.’ She snapped open her purse and extracted a small mirror. She studied her face with a critical intensity. ‘Do you think I’m a beauty?’

Alkmene burst out laughing. ‘Don’t ask me. I’ve never understood what a beauty is.’

Denise gave her an indignant look. ‘I mean, like men adore.’ She returned her attention to her mirror image, cocking her head and batting her lashes. ‘Am I like a Spanish beauty with my wild tresses and pools of fire in my eyes?’

It sounded like the kind of nonsense some overheated earl had whispered in her ear, unaware Denise would soon lose her status as heiress to her father’s insanely large fortune. There were a lot of peers around whose family houses were in dire need of restoration. Those men didn’t shun any means to get their hands on extra funds.

But before Alkmene could voice a warning to her friend, Denise had already thrust the mirror back into her purse and returned to staring out of the window. ‘There is the birch we used to picnic under when my mother was still alive. It can’t be far now.’

She seemed to relax for a moment, a soft smile playing around her lips. Her memories of her mother were all happy, it seemed, something Alkmene herself could easily relate to. Her mother had died when she had been just four years old and she remembered a warm, wonderful woman who sat in front of her dressing table while Father combed her long hair. Those were the happy places Alkmene retreated to whenever life turned grim, and she supposed Denise experienced the same now her father had remarried and was building his new family, of which Denise no longer felt a part.

Alkmene wanted to ask something about those days, about the picnic under the birch, but already Denise was sitting up again and peering ahead intently, as though willing the road to shorten and the country house to come into full view.

Alkmene had never seen the estate before. She had only befriended Denise in the spring, when the two of them had found themselves on the same team for a game of charades at an insanely boring party. Denise had soon proven herself a shrewd player and, before the night was over, Alkmene felt she had known her for a long time.

In fact, sometimes, when the two of them were laughing over tea, she had wondered if it was like this between sisters. Being an only child, Alkmene couldn’t really tell.

Denise could be very silly, spend money like water, and mock other people, especially older women who had lost the best of their beauty, but still powdered their faces and smeared their lips with crimson to look young. Denise had a sharp tongue at all times, but it turned into an outright razor when she judged people from her father’s acquaintance or her stepmother’s circle of ‘silly young wives who live for nothing but the purchase of a feather boa in the exact same shade as their eye make-up’.

That Denise herself had a wardrobe to rival a queen’s, needing every piece in at least three variations, was something Alkmene conveniently ignored. She even found these traits sort of endearing, in a big-sisterly way, perhaps because she was close to very few people and cherished the natural connection she had sensed with Denise upon their first meeting.

Still, driving down the lane to the Hargrove estate, Alkmene had to admit she knew very little of her friend’s family, and she had only accepted the invitation to the masked ball to be away from London for a few days, thus distracting her mind from the morose subjects that had occupied it so frequently during three murder investigations.

During all three she had enjoyed the company of journalist and free spirit Jake Dubois, a man with strong opinions on the rich and privileged, and she couldn’t help wondering what Jake would make of a party night like this. No doubt it was costing a lot of money which, to Jake’s practical mind, might have been better spent.

Alkmene didn’t agree with him on everything – in fact, they often quarrelled about their different outlooks on life – but she had to admit that most parties she went to displayed a lavishness not so much to please the visitor as to show off that the host could afford to spend the money. The motive behind the spending was less than honourable and therefore made her feel slightly awkward, as if Jake were here now and she was having to defend herself to him.

But he wasn’t here, and this night was to be a night of pure enjoyment. She had to drive all thoughts of troublesome subjects out of her mind.

‘There,’ Denise pointed. Two men with a ladder walked to a tree, a third carrying what looked like colourful orbs. Alkmene detected several already attached to other trees in the vicinity.

‘Chinese lanterns,’ Denise said with childlike glee. ‘They look like a fairy tale when they’re lit. The gardens will be a dream tonight.’ She drew in a breath and checked her watch again as if she couldn’t wait for the spectacle to begin.

She looked up and scooted to the edge of the seat. ‘Look, there’s the house. Oh, the draperies behind the windows. And the chimney. Look on top of it. So clever.’

Alkmene leaned forward to see better. The windows were adorned with colourful draperies and on the chimney, high on the roof, where usually a weathercock sat, she detected a gondola with a gondolier, crafted from metal by an expert craftsman.

The theme for the masked ball was Venice, and Alkmene had dutifully shopped for a sequinned mask, a fan and tiara to look the part. But seeing the extent of the preparations en route, she rather thought she should also have bought a dress with the grandeur of Louis XV’s grand court and perhaps even a powdered wig. She might look underdressed in her sleek red gown.

The car whisked down the last stretch of the drive, curved to the right and ended up, after a quarter turn, in front of the house’s immaculate steps. On either side of those steps, a gigantic stone lion guarded the house. But, for this occasion, even the lions wore sequinned masks and their backs were covered with embroidered cloths, full of golden ribbons snaking through flowers. Maids must have put hours of needlework into just these two parts of the house’s elaborate decorations.

Denise had already opened the car door and climbed out, stretching her long body. As a fervent tennis player she was trim, looking younger than she was. There was a sort of hunger in her face as she stared up at the house, a smile lighting her expression, which had been so tense on the way over.

Without waiting for Alkmene to follow her, she dashed up the steps and into the house.

As Alkmene was out of the car, rolling back her shoulders to relieve the tension of the long drive, the taciturn driver had opened the back and was taking out their luggage.

Alkmene glanced up at the house. The curtains of a room on the first floor moved. Someone seemed to stand there, looking down on her. She could not see more than a shadowy figure. Tall, broad, probably male. Denise had mentioned house guests who would dine with them before the guests for the masked ball arrived. Was this man one of them?

The driver carried the first load of luggage up the steps.

Alkmene rested a tentative finger on the embroidery on the back of the nearest lion and then followed him into the hallway. It was dominated by a towering flower arrangement, full of orchids and birds of paradise flowers, rare and expensive as gold.

Alkmene stepped closer to have a better look at the purple orchids with their bright orange spots. She had expected the blooms to be attached to plants with roots from the house’s conservatory, but saw to her dismay that the flowers had been cut off so as to be worked into the arrangement. Although looking fresh and vibrant, they were already dying, removed from their source of life.

‘Do you like it?’ a voice asked with a breathless eagerness.

Alkmene swung round to see her hostess, Denise’s stepmother.

Mrs Hargrove was a tall, slim brunette with large brown eyes like a doe. But her sharp chin and narrow mouth betrayed she also had a temper and could be hard to please.

‘It’s too bad your gardener felt it necessary to cut off the orchids,’ Alkmene said with a pleasant smile. ‘They won’t survive.’

‘He assured me they would last through the ball,’ Mrs Hargrove said with a flick of the hand. ‘That’s enough. When the ball is over, they’ll have served their purpose. They might as well die.’

Alkmene blinked a moment at her callous tone. She was glad her botanist father wasn’t there to lecture the woman on the value of tropical plants.

‘You’ve taken a lot of trouble to make everything look perfect,’ she said to her hostess, nodding at the large, gold-rimmed mirror on the left wall, which had also been adorned with orchids.

Of course, Mrs Hargrove had hardly done anything herself, having staff to do all the preparatory work for her. As she had thought it all up, however, it was her creation, her masterpiece.

Mrs Hargrove looked around. ‘Where’s Denise?’

‘I suspect she’s already gone up. She seemed worried about her dress.’

Mrs Hargrove narrowed her eyes. ‘I told Denise I could order a dress for her that could be sent straight here. But she insisted on buying it herself, in London. It’s not my fault if it’s become crinkled during the journey.’

There was a hint of malicious delight to her tone, as if she would enjoy her stepdaughter walking about in a crinkled dress.

Alkmene forced a smile. ‘If you don’t mind, I would also like to go up and see to my dress for tonight.’

Mrs Hargrove turned away from her, snapping her fingers. A girl in black and white, her cheeks flushed red, came forward quickly. ‘You bring Lady Alkmene’s bags up, Megan,’ Mrs Hargrove said, ‘and start unpacking them.’

Actually, Alkmene preferred to unpack her clothes and jewellery herself, but it would have been impolite to say so. Her father thought personal servants to lay out clothes and heat water a waste of money, but he was the exception in their circle. Mrs Hargrove had probably instructed this girl especially for the ball, to wait on her guests and please them in every possible way.

The girl curtseyed awkwardly and picked up the bags. Alkmene followed her to see to the unpacking. On the landing she realized she’d left her purse in the car and dashed down the steps again to catch up with the driver before he removed the car from the front of the house to the garage.

In the hallway she froze upon hearing angry voices.

‘I wish you hadn’t been so silly. Your father will see through this ruse at once. He’ll never indulge it.’

‘There are plenty of guests coming over for the ball. One more or less will hardly be noticed. Papa loathes these parties. If you don’t mention it, he’ll never know.’

Alkmene tiptoed to the drawing-room door, which was ajar, and glanced in.

Mrs Hargrove stood opposite Denise. Her posture was tight with tension. ‘You can’t just invite people to my ball.’

‘It’s a ball in my family home. I belong here, you don’t.’

Mrs Hargrove’s doe eyes flashed. ‘You’ll soon find out how much you belong here.’ She put a hand on her stomach. ‘Once your father’s heir is born, he won’t even remember you exist.’

Alkmene froze at the biting cold in the woman’s tone.

Denise looked startled. ‘Are you...?’ She gasped for breath a moment. Then her expression changed, her eyes narrowing. ‘If you tell Papa anything about my life, I’ll tell him you received a letter you kept from him and burned.’

A startled silence descended.

Denise said, ‘I saw you do it. Burn it in the fireplace. And I don’t have to know what’s in that letter to know what it means.’

Mrs Hargrove said in a thin voice, ‘What does it mean then?’

Denise leaned forward. ‘Maybe that Papa will soon get an heir who isn’t even his child.’

Mrs Hargrove arrested Denise’s arm. Alkmene shrank from the violence in that swift movement, which was like a viper striking.

Denise turned pale and yelped. ‘Ouch! Let me go. You’re hurting me.’

‘Mention again that you might talk to your father,’ Mrs Hargrove hissed, ‘and you won’t live to regret it.’

A cough behind her back made Alkmene jump. She knocked into the door, then backed away from it quickly. The impeccable driver held out her purse to her. ‘You left this in the car, my lady.’

‘Thank you.’ Alkmene snatched the purse from his hand and rushed to the stairs.

The door opened and Mrs Hargrove appeared on the threshold, a fiery glint in her eyes as she looked at the driver, who was on his way to the front door, then at Alkmene, now at the stairs.

Alkmene waved her purse in the air. ‘Left it in the car, how silly of me. I’d better rush up now and sort out my clothes. We’ll have a chance to talk at dinner.’

She couldn’t wait to escape those burning eyes and the lingering echo of Mrs Hargrove’s venomous words. A death threat to her own stepdaughter.

Chapter Two

Once safely upstairs, Alkmene took a deep breath. It wasn’t just Denise’s odd behaviour on the way over and the vicious spat with her stepmother. This whole house exuded an exaggerated opulence, a need to show off and prove the owners worthy of their place in high society. The guests who were already here and who would be arriving in the next few hours would also be social climbers eager to establish their right to be here. Everybody would be watching the others and trying to rank their own position in comparison. Alkmene intensely disliked social scrutiny and the quiet condemnation that came with not quite being up to par – in her case, because she was still unmarried.

But she had accepted the invitation to the masked ball, and she had to make the best of it. She had to keep reiterating her solemn pledge to have a night of unspoiled enjoyment.

Taking another soothing breath, Alkmene went into the corridor. On the way over, Denise had explained the layout of the house to her and described the location of her room. It should be down this corridor.

Just as Alkmene was halfway there, a man came walking up to her, fast. The smug smile on his face, the air of utter self-confidence, struck her as extremely unpleasant. He gave a mock half-bow in her direction as he breezed past. His clothing suggested he wasn’t one of the guests, but one of the servants.

It was very odd. Alkmene frowned a moment, her footfalls slowing. She hardly considered herself an expert in domestic affairs in a large country manor household, but she couldn’t see what a male servant would be doing up here, near the guest bedrooms. Getting those ready would be the task of the housekeeper and the maids under her charge. Perhaps the butler might have some errand here, but this man seemed too young and impudent to serve in such a responsible capacity.

What was his function anyway? Still frowning, Alkmene entered her room.

At the dressing table, the maid, Megan, stood. She gasped as Alkmene entered, throwing her hands up in a defensive gesture. On the floor in front of her feet was a broken perfume bottle. The contents soaked the expensive carpet while the scent filled the room with a headache-inducing intensity.

Alkmene inched back from the strong scent. ‘What happened?’

‘I’m so sorry. I didn’t know it was you. I’m so sorry. I’ll clean it up.’ Megan leaned down, her face tomato-red.

Alkmene waved a hand in front of her face to diffuse the sharp perfume smell.

Megan kept excusing herself, saying she was so sorry and she’d clean it up. With her trembling hands, she gathered the broken pieces of glass.

‘Be careful with that,’ Alkmene admonished her. ‘You could cut yourself. I’d better call for...’

‘Oh no, please. Don’t tell anybody about this. Please.’ The girl sounded desperate, on the verge of tears. ‘If you tell, I’ll be dismissed, and I need this work.’

Alkmene suspected she had little experience and that a night full of pressure to perform at her best would prove even more disastrous. But she didn’t want to harm the girl’s prospects here. ‘Very well. I won’t call for anyone and I won’t talk about it. But you must be careful with all that broken glass. I don’t want you to hurt yourself.’

The girl swallowed hard. ‘Your precious bottle, my lady.’

‘Oh, it’s not important. It was a gift for my birthday. I never took to the scent much, so…’ Alkmene went to the windows and threw them open wide. ‘There. That’s much better.’

On the lawn the three men were still busy attaching Chinese lanterns to the trees. The gardens had to look like a midsummer night’s dream later on.

Turning back into the room, Alkmene found the girl rubbing at the stained carpet. ‘Don’t do that. You’ll only make it worse.’

‘But if the housekeeper finds out...’

Alkmene shook her head. ‘I have a much better idea. You come over here. Come over here to me. Come on.’

The girl rose to her feet and came over, her eyes wide, her breathing shallow. She looked as if she was afraid of being slapped across the cheeks.

Alkmene said, ‘You were here putting out my clothes. I came into the room to fetch a present for my hostess. I pulled it out of the luggage so wildly the perfume bottle fell out and broke. I broke it. You understand?’

The girl gaped at her. ‘Why would you say that, my lady?’

‘Because I want to call someone up to clean away the glass and get the stain out of the carpet. You don’t know how to do it, and I certainly don’t. We need someone else in here, and as we’re not going to tell anyone it was you who broke the bottle, I’ll just have to say I did. Nobody is going to blame me for it. I can break all of my perfume bottles all over Mrs Hargrove’s precious rugs.’

Alkmene sounded a little more cheerful than she actually felt, as she suspected Mrs Hargrove would hate damage to any of her things and would blame her for it, even if she’d never say it to her face. And Denise might laugh at her that she was so clumsy, which would be awkward.

But anything was better than letting this poor girl run the risk of getting dismissed even before she had had a chance to prove herself able. Megan probably had a family somewhere depending on the money she brought in.

Alkmene said, ‘Are we agreed on this?’

‘I don’t understand.’ The girl’s eyes were huge and frightened. ‘Why would you lie for me?’

‘Because I’m in a much better position to deal with Mrs Hargrove’s wrath than you.’ Alkmene smiled widely. ‘Now, let me look you over. There’s no telltale stain of perfume that can betray you. No, that looks fine...’

She did see an odd reddish patch on the girl’s neck, under her left ear. It looked like a rash or something. Maybe she was allergic to perfume and had touched herself with her wet hands?

‘You go and take care of my clothes. I’ll ring now.’ Alkmene did, inwardly praising herself for her foresight in bringing a present for her hostess. It was an illustrated book on rose gardens. She pulled the parcel from her case just as there was a knock on the door.

‘Come in,’ Alkmene called, holding the parcel in front of her where it could be clearly seen.

A woman of around fifty in a simple dark-blue gown looked at her with a tight expression on her face. There were lines beside her mouth suggesting she usually disapproved of life.

Or was in some kind of pain perhaps? Alkmene remembered those facial lines from a friend of her father who suffered from gout.

The housekeeper looked even darker as she spotted the mess on the floor.

Alkmene waved a hand. ‘So clumsy of me. I was in a hurry to present Mrs Hargrove with this gift I bought for her in London. I knocked the bottle over and, of course, it just had to shatter into a thousand pieces. I have no idea what to do about such a stain, but I trust you know. Thank you, Mrs…?’

‘Carruthers, my lady.’ The woman bobbed and dutifully bent down over the stain. Her slow movements suggested a stiff back. So perhaps she did indeed live with constant pain.

As Alkmene had pretended she wanted to rush out to her hostess with the present, she should really have left right away. But it didn’t seem wise to leave Megan, in her upset state of mind, with Mrs Carruthers, who might ask more questions and see through the ruse.

Therefore Alkmene gestured at Megan to go on unpacking her luggage. She positioned herself at the open window, partially because the perfume scent was unbearable, partially because she had heard a car arriving and wanted to see who got out.

But the car didn’t halt in front of the house. It breezed past and disappeared around the corner of the stable building. Almost as if the new arrivals didn’t want to be seen by anybody in the house.

Alkmene tapped a finger to her lips. Interesting. There seemed to be quite a few mysterious things going on.

After a rather tense wait for Mrs Carruthers to finish with the stain without discovering the nervous Megan had anything to do with it, Alkmene was left alone to change for dinner with the house guests. The perfume scent had thinned on the fresh air let in by the open window, and the stain on the carpet was much less visible. Of course, it was still wet, and Alkmene realized she wouldn’t be able to ascertain how lasting the damage would be until it was all dry. Well, she had taken the blame, so there was nothing more to be done about it.

Humming to herself, she changed into her attire for the pre-ball dinner: a deep-green evening dress she had rarely worn before. It was important to remember who had seen you in what, so you could avoid walking around in the same thing too often. One might think the Callenders had fallen on hard times financially and that would never do.

Alkmene leaned over, close to the glass of her dressing table, to insert the thin silver hooks of her long diamond ear hangers. The light reflected in the facets, shimmering in prisms. She had brought other jewellery to wear with her red ball gown. A bit extravagant, but opulence was expected this evening.

In the corridor outside her room, Alkmene heard voices. She couldn’t make out the words but it seemed a woman was speaking reproachfully and a man grunted in reply.

Always curious, Alkmene made for the door quickly and opened it a crack to see, indeed, the backs of a woman and a man, making for the staircase. He had grey in his dark hair, and her blonde locks seemed dyed. It was typical. Turning grey was fashionable for men, making them look mature and worthwhile, while women had to hide every sign of ageing, lest their beauty be ruined.

Shaking her head, Alkmene straightened her dress and stepped into the corridor herself.

Just as she was at the head of the stairs, she heard the front door slam. A voice said, ‘You’re going to explain this to Lady Alkmene.’

She hurried down, calling, ‘Explain what to Lady Alkmene?’

At the front door two men stood. One of them, tall, broad, his hair still reddish-blond despite his age, was Mr Hargrove. And beside him, just as tall and broad in the shoulders, but dark and brooding as always, was the reporter and her partner in crime for several adventures, Jake Dubois.

‘What on earth are you doing here?’ Alkmene exclaimed.

Jake hitched a brow at Mr Hargrove. ‘I told you she wouldn’t like it.’

Alkmene wanted to say she did like it, but thought better of it. Jake had enough self-confidence already. He used to joke he always had to save her life. Of course, he had been rather useful on more than one occasion, but there was no need to confirm that to him.

Frowning at the pair of them, Alkmene said, ‘I had no idea you two knew each other.’

Mr Hargrove shrugged. ‘We bumped into each other at some social event and got to talking about aviation. Mr Dubois is going to write up a piece about my involvement in creating a new type of engine. I thought it only appropriate to invite him to our little party tonight.’

Alkmene hitched a brow. As Denise had aptly put it to her stepmother: ‘Papa loathes these parties.’ Why would Hargrove then invite someone to it, someone who didn’t move in the same social circles either? Hargrove might work on a new type of engine and enjoy a reporter’s interest in it, but he wouldn’t invite him into his family home, among his distinguished guests.

Hargrove walked away into the drawing room where he greeted his wife with a peck on the cheek. She gave him a critical once-over and straightened his tie, speaking to him in what appeared to be an urgent or reproachful manner.

Alkmene spied through the open door that the couple she had observed upstairs were also in there with her hostess. The man had a Mephistopheles beard that gave him a decidedly diabolical appearance. His wife had a cold, expressionless face, with remarkable light-green eyes.

Alkmene turned back to Jake Dubois before he could brush past her to greet Mrs Hargrove. ‘So, why are you really here?’

Jake feigned innocence. ‘Didn’t Hargrove just explain that?’

‘He might be grateful you’re going to extol his virtues as an aviation pioneer in the London papers, but not grateful enough to invite you to his manor, into his inner circle, for his wife’s celebrated masked ball.’

‘Hargrove isn’t old money. A man like him can see beyond old-fashioned class distinctions,’ Jake said softly.

Alkmene held his gaze. ‘I don’t pretend to know Hargrove at all. Like you say, he isn’t old money and I doubt he’s been raised in the way an aristocrat would have been. He’s also anything but old-fashioned, so he might even consider befriending journalists the new chic. He would show you off at his club maybe, or introduce you to friends at the races or the theatre. But why bring you home to his wife, who is far more class-conscious because she wants to move up in the world? In case you don’t know yet, Mrs Hargrove decides things around here. Why run the risk of antagonizing her on this happy night? So… what’s really the matter?’

Jake shook his head. ‘You’ve become oversuspicious, my lady, detecting mystery where there’s none.’

‘You’re here for a reason and, since we work together, you should tell me what it is.’

‘I don’t understand what you’re referring to,’ Jake said with a sweet smile. ‘Excuse me, I don’t want to keep my hostess waiting.’

And he walked into the drawing room where Hargrove was standing beside his wife, lighting a small cigar with a silver lighter. Mrs Hargrove hitched a brow at Jake and reached out a hesitant hand, glancing at her husband with an ‘I’ll get back to you about this later’ look.

Alkmene suppressed a grin and came in as well, making sure she was standing close enough to overhear how Hargrove introduced Jake. ‘Met at the club,’ Hargrove was saying, ‘and we got to talking about Eton.’

Jake blanched, and Alkmene stepped closer. ‘Eton?’ she asked with an innocent smile. ‘How interesting.’

Jake shot her a warning glance, but Mrs Hargrove was already distracted because the Mephistopheles bearded man had stepped forward, apparently waiting to be introduced. Not to Jake, but to Alkmene, as the straight stare of his intense blue eyes implied.

‘This is Theobald Zeilovsky,’ Mrs Hargrove purred. ‘A famous psychiatrist. He has written extensively on compulsive patterns of behaviour.’

‘Recurrent patterns of compulsive behaviour,’ Zeilovsky corrected her with a superior smile.

‘Yes,’ Mrs Hargrove said without flinching, ‘very interesting indeed. And Mrs Zeilovsky here is herself an expert in the field of, uh…’

‘Experimental psychology,’ Zeilovsky said. ‘She is a great help to me.’

‘I’m honoured,’ Mrs Hargrove said, ‘to receive both of them here for our masked ball. Now we must all have a drink before we go to dinner.’ She gestured at a man in black and white who had waited a few paces away with a tray full of tall glasses with a sparkly liquid in it. Alkmene recognized his smug expression at once. He was the man who had passed her in the corridor upstairs. The servant whose presence there had puzzled her. If he’d been hired to assist with serving at dinner and other kitchen-related chores, he had no business upstairs near the guest rooms.

He apparently noticed her attention as he held the tray out to her so she could pick up a glass. He winked.

Alkmene felt a sharp flush rise in her cheeks. It wasn’t the wink itself – for, despite Jake Dubois’ ideas about her, she wasn’t as class-conscious as others of her rank – but the complete confidence with which it was bestowed. Like he was winking at someone who should be happy he had acknowledged her. The superiority of it, even a strange sort of disdain, like he was mocking her, made her feel awkward.

He had already moved on, was serving drinks to the other guests pouring into the room: a middle-aged lady with her husband and, right behind them, Denise. Her mood seemed to have improved again and she came for Alkmene at once. Gesturing at the middle-aged lady, she said, ‘That’s my Aunt Felicia. I must have mentioned her before.’

Alkmene nodded. Felicia was the only sister of Denise’s deceased mother. Denise had mentioned the two had always looked alike, so that when they were children, they had been mistaken for twins. Right now, as she surveyed Felicia, she wondered if there was still a strong likeness with the late Mrs Hargrove. If so, it had to be awkward for both Hargrove and his new wife to have her around.

But apparently Felicia was still a part of the family circle, invited here to spend the highlight of the season with them.

Holding her glass, Alkmene moved over smoothly and smiled. ‘So nice to meet you. And your husband.’

At that moment another man came in, a bored expression on his handsome face. He ignored the servant who offered him a drink and went straight for the window, folding his hands at his back and staring out as though he was immensely bored with the proceedings.

Denise whispered in Alkmene’s ear. ‘I wish Cecily hadn’t invited him. Keegan is so tiresome. Simply refuses to be sociable. He made this trip lately, to the lake of Lugano, but he won’t tell a thing about it. I bet he considers it too frivolous. His mind is always on some legal thing, you know. Always contemplating some new change to the law he wants to get through parliament. Can’t talk about plays or operas or the latest work in the galleries.’

Alkmene studied the brooding figure, concluding it had probably been him who had watched her arrival from the library window. His tight back screamed that he wanted to be left alone.

‘If he’s not exactly sociable,’ she said to Denise, ‘I wonder why he came here in the first place. He could have made up some excuse to decline your stepmother’s invitation.’

Denise smiled. ‘He’s still in love with me.’

She met Alkmene’s startled look with a grin. ‘Oh yes, he asked Papa if he could court me. I think he felt he should ask because his firm works for my father and it would be awkward if we’d stepped out together and Papa had not approved. Indeed, he did not. Papa had the same idea about it as I do. Keegan is the last person in the world I could ever like, let alone love. But he sticks to this foolish notion that we’re meant to be together. He’s here to pine for me from a distance.’

‘I doubt,’ Alkmene said, ‘that someone with the dry legal mind you just described to me would spend one moment on such romantic notions of unrequited love.’

Denise’s eyes sparked. ‘You probably think he will like you, because you’re so smart and can discuss the law with him on his own level. But let me assure you, he still cares for me and won’t even dance with you once. I will make sure he doesn’t.’

Alkmene shrank under the spiteful tone. She knew Denise could flare in an instant when she felt denied or snubbed. She wanted to clarify that she didn’t have any interest in discussing the law with the taciturn lawyer or indeed in dancing with him tonight, but before she could do so, a shadow fell over them.

It was the psychiatrist with the diabolical beard.

He studied them with a knowing smile. ‘Ah, girls who are close friends, the inevitable and eternal struggle, first for the affection of the mother, then for the attention of men. It often leads to complexes. To very deep, twisted emotions that can lead to… irreparable damage.’

Irreparable damage to the night of masked fun, Alkmene wondered, if she stepped on Denise’s petite foot to get even with her for these spiteful remarks? What did Zeilovsky expect them to do? They were not four any longer, and retaliation had no place in polite social discourse. Alkmene smiled at Zeilovsky. ‘An interesting theory.’

Zeilovsky’s blue eyes lit. ‘I can tell you much more about it over dinner. It seems our hostess decided I’m to be seated beside you.’

Alkmene kept a tight rein on her facial expression. ‘Really? How thoughtful of her. She knows how I enjoy psychology.’ She doubted Mrs Hargrove did know as much, but she had to say something to explain her hostess’s decision. Perhaps Mrs Hargrove had simply wanted to make sure Zeilovsky wouldn’t be engaging her with talk of twisted theories and dark experiments?

He reminded her of her father’s many friends from the fields of zoology and botany who could spend hours expounding on their favourite topics, be it rabies or mould, to the despair of their hostesses, who saw their dinner parties invariably ruined.

Alkmene wondered if Zeilovsky would be a man of theory only, or also of practice, having a clinic abroad where he tested his solutions for mental disturbances on his unsuspecting patients. His accent sounded Slavic, which covered quite a lot of ground for him to hide away a country house full of test subjects. The idea of experiments with adults who were considered insane wasn’t very palatable, but it might be even worse if those recent publications that described experiments with children – babies even – were to be believed.

The idea of a dungeon far away, where Zeilovsky was free to test whatever weird theory he had developed, and on babies, too, gave Alkmene goosebumps.

But perhaps she was getting carried away by rumours she’d heard about the darker side of the growing insight into the workings of the human mind. Zeilovsky might be a man who hid in his study digging through books and writing up his own theories from thought experiments, never having seen a single patient up close.

‘Shall we?’ With a smile, Zeilovsky offered Alkmene his arm to lead her into the dining room, explaining how sibling strife went all the way back to Cain and Abel. Alkmene was aware of Jake Dubois’ expression. He looked innocent enough, but knowing him well she could guess how hard he was laughing inside.

The masked ball she had been looking forward to as a night of innocent amusement was rapidly declining into a social nightmare.

Chapter Three

‘A tragic case,’ Zeilovsky said.

He had engaged Alkmene all during dinner with his talk of warring siblings, going from biblical examples, via English history, to the present-day case of Vera Steeplechase, who had murdered her sister, Mary, so as to be able to marry her brother-in-law, the man she had wanted for herself from their first meeting ten years earlier. Vera had almost got away with it as Mary’s death had been deemed natural at first.

Only two days before Vera’s wedding to the widower, an anonymous letter to the police had caused Mary’s body to be dug up, and a postmortem had shown traces of poison. Instead of going down the aisle in her sumptuous bridal gown – purchased in the presence of her unsuspecting mother, who’d had no idea her one daughter had killed the other – Vera had been taken into custody, to be tried and perhaps eventually hanged.

‘I do wonder,’ Alkmene said, putting her fork down, ‘who wrote the anonymous letter.’

Opposite her, Aunt Felicia knocked over her glass of wine. There was little liquid left in it, and her husband could quickly dab at the stain with a napkin. The woman’s face was on fire as she glanced down into her lap.

Alkmene continued to Zeilovsky. ‘Was it just a spiteful person who wanted to ruin Vera’s wedding, her day of happiness, and who got more than he or she bargained for? I find it hard to accept the writer knew for sure Vera had poisoned her sister. If he or she had known, they should have shared that knowledge with the police at the time of Mary’s death.’

‘Perhaps the person wasn’t sure at the time,’ Mrs Zeilovsky said, speaking past her husband. ‘Perhaps he or she had seen Vera near some bottle with a potion Mary took on occasion to calm her stomach or her nerves. Perhaps only later, when Vera announced she was going to marry her brother-in-law, did that person realize she might have tampered with the contents of the bottle in question to kill her sister and take Mary’s husband for her own. The human mind doesn’t always jump to conclusions straight away. Sometimes we lack information that can make us see the connection.’

Alkmene nodded slowly. That did make sense.

‘In Vera Steeplechase’s case the information that was first lacking was the motive.’ Zeilovsky picked up his wife’s reasoning as if the couple had agreed on it beforehand. ‘The person who saw her near Mary’s bottles before Mary’s untimely death would never have guessed Vera wanted to kill her own sister. It would be such a heinous thing to do. You don’t expect it of siblings.’

‘No? But you’ve just regaled me with stories of countless murderous siblings,’ Alkmene said with an innocent smile.

Ignoring the flaw in his reasoning, Zeilovsky went on, ‘The mind can even refuse to make a connection because it doesn’t want to. The writer of the anonymous letter might have cared very much for Vera and initially have refused to conclude she was guilty of something as terrible as murder. Only after time had gone by, and Vera’s true intentions revealed themselves in the announcement of the marriage to her brother-in-law, did the person dare write the letter.’

Alkmene leaned back. ‘We won’t know if Vera is really guilty of poisoning Mary until it’s been proven in her trial.’

‘My dear lady,’ Zeilovsky said, ‘Mary’s body was full of poison.’

‘So, we know for certain that Mary didn’t die a natural death. That doesn’t prove her sister Vera killed her.’

‘But Vera agreed to marry Mary’s husband!’ Mrs Zeilovsky cried. ‘So soon after poor Mary was dead.’

‘Perhaps the husband saw, too late, after he had already married Mary, that he wanted Vera anyway. Perhaps he killed Mary, thinking nobody would suspect anything. Now Vera’s been accused, he’ll keep his mouth shut and she might swing for his crime.’

Alkmene realized too late she had spoken quite clearly and other conversations around the table had just come to an end. The words ‘swing for his crime’ seemed to ring out in the sudden silence.

Mrs Hargrove gave her an accusing look from the head of the table. ‘Dear Alkmene, must you be so gruesome over dinner?’

‘On the contrary,’ the dry legal man said. He hadn’t spoken much with anybody, leaning over his plate and wolfing down his food like he never got anything good at home.

But now he sat up straight, fixing her with burning eyes. ‘I think Lady Alkmene has made an excellent point. All we do know is that a woman who died was poisoned and that, some time later, her sister wanted to marry the widower. Does that make her a killer?’

The silence around the table lingered, a little startled and a little chill.

Keegan continued, ‘It certainly makes her a suspect. But, as Lady Alkmene just explained, the husband himself springs to mind as a likely suspect.’

‘Poison is a woman’s means,’ Aunt Felicia’s husband said. He was a handsome man with a deep baritone voice. Alkmene couldn’t remember his name.

Jake laughed softly. ‘A man who wants to kill his wife and get away with it will hardly dig a steak knife into her chest.’

‘Please!’ Mrs Hargrove exclaimed, but Hargrove said, ‘Well put. He would know better than to use a weapon that leaves clear traces. We all know now how clever the choice of poison really was. Without the anonymous letter, nothing would ever have come of it. No case, no conviction.’

Alkmene looked at Aunt Felicia, whose expression had lost the earlier deep red and was now unnaturally pale, as if made of marble. She bit her lip for a moment as she stared down at her plate. The subject seemed to be unbearably painful to her. Had she known the Steeplechase family? Did Vera’s upcoming trial fill her with dread of a possible conviction?

‘Yes,’ Jake Dubois said, looking around the table, ‘there always has to be someone writing an anonymous letter, right? Spoiling it all.’

Mrs Hargrove pushed her chair back in a grate. ‘Gentlemen, I’m sure you want to smoke. Ladies, please accompany me to the music room where Denise will play and sing for us.’

Denise looked astonished. She gestured at the plate in front of her. ‘But dessert hasn’t even been served.’

Mrs Hargrove was at the door already. Her cheeks were as crimson as the dress she wore. She waved at the footman present. ‘Baines, coffee in the music room at once.’

Baines nodded and opened the door for her to go out. But the doorway was blocked by the arrogant servant carrying a tray full of dessert bowls. Mrs Hargrove was just able to avoid a collision. She snapped, ‘Take that back to the kitchens at once, Cobb.’

The servant moved into the room, past Mrs Hargrove, so she could get out. He stood tall, his gaze travelling past everyone at the table. Then he said, ‘Very well. I need to get changed into my outfit to serve as gondolier tonight. At the boathouse.’ And pushing the tray with bowls into Baines’s hands, he stepped out of the open door. Baines looked bewildered for a moment, then followed him. A third footman present closed the door with an impeccably soft click.

Blinking at this sudden turn of events, Alkmene lifted her napkin from her lap and folded it. She had never experienced a formal dinner ending quite like this. She glanced at Jake, who seemed as perplexed as they all were. Somehow the conversation about the Steeplechase case had hit a nerve with more than one person present.

Zeilovsky, by her side, cleared his throat and said, ‘Yes, well, it was very nice discussing this with you, Lady Alkmene. Your opinions are very astute for someone with no knowledge of the psychological.’

‘Oh,’ Hargrove said, with a laugh that sounded insincere in the silence, ‘but Lady Alkmene has a knack for the criminal.’

Zeilovsky had just risen and stood towering over Alkmene. His eyes narrowed. ‘Is that so?’

Hargrove added, ‘After all, the two things are often the same, isn’t that right?’ He laughed again, uncomfortably. ‘Gentlemen...’

Zeilovsky, Jake, Aunt Felicia’s husband and Keegan followed him dutifully out of the room.

Denise said, as she rose, ‘Really, Alkmene, such a horrible subject...’

Alkmene hitched a brow at her. ‘Mr Zeilovsky started it.’

‘You need not have embroidered it. Cecily is really upset now. She will hit back at somebody.’ Denise stood up straight, her youthful face tight with tension.

Alkmene remembered the argument between Denise and her stepmother about someone who was supposed to be here tonight and shouldn’t have been. Denise begging her stepmother not to acquaint her father with the fact. Maybe Denise was worried her stepmother, being upset now about her party taking such a turn, would tell on her anyway?

Uncomfortable at what she might have set off, unconsciously, Alkmene straightened her dress and turned to her right, to find Mrs Zeilovsky studying her with her curious light-green eyes. It was as if Alkmene was a patient and Mrs Zeilovsky was trying to see right into all the disturbing repetitive patterns of compulsive behaviour in her mind.

Alkmene shook the unpleasant sensation and forced a smile. ‘Shall we? Denise is quite the singer. You’ll enjoy it.’

Denise sang two arias from an opera before the house guests retired to their rooms to get dressed for the ball. Outside, the Chinese lanterns were lit, bobbing on the wind. Tables were being moved outside, decked out with colourful covers and crystal glasses.

The whole place hummed like a beehive with last-minute party preparations.

On the way to her room, Alkmene passed a few doors, most of them closed. One was ajar, though, and a female voice said in an agitated tone, ‘I’m sure that man knows everything. Why else did he mention the letter?’

‘In the Steeplechase case, silly.’ The male voice sounded gruff, dismissive. ‘It was a coincidence.’

‘Well, I don’t like it.’

Then Alkmene had passed. The voices died down and she entered her room, reaching up to massage her tight neck muscles. The window was still open, letting in the lukewarm evening air. She went over to shut it.

At the window she took a few moments to look down on the servants buzzing about. So, it had been the specific mention of a letter, anonymous and accusing, that had caused the commotion at dinner, at least for Aunt Felicia. Such a thing could arouse unpleasant memories. Alkmene herself had received an anonymous letter just a few months ago, accusing Jake Dubois of being a convict and threatening to acquaint Alkmene’s father – on expedition in India for his botanical exploits – with that fact. She could prevent exposure by handing over a substantial sum of money.

Alkmene had learned through her investigation into Silas Norwhich’s death that more well-to-do people in London had received such letters threatening to expose secrets about them, each asking for money or, in some cases, specific family heirlooms. Jake and she had concluded there was a blackmail ring at work led by someone they had called the London blackmailer. Jake thought it was a man, while Alkmene had proposed the rather bold theory it could be a woman. A brilliant criminal mastermind.

Was this ring still at work? Had people at the dinner table tonight been victims of blackmail? Was that why they had responded so abruptly to Zeilovsky’s discussion of the Steeplechase case?

Aunt Felicia with the knocked-over wine glass.

Mrs Hargrove, who had quit the table even before dessert had been served. In the argument upon their arrival, Denise had suggested to her there might be something better kept from her father. An affair?

Alkmene stared into the lit gardens in deep thought. Servants were rushing across the lawn. Alkmene remembered Denise saying something about the boathouse being decorated for the night, as it was the starting point for the three gondolas to take guests for a leisurely trip across the waterways that cut through the estate. The servants had probably brought some last necessary items to this boathouse: refreshments, lanterns, blankets for the guests to cover themselves as they sat in the boats.

Halfway across the lawn a man was walking, away from the house. He was dressed up already in his gondolier’s costume, a powdered white wig on his head, a ponytail at his neck with a dark-green ribbon on it. A woman came up from behind, grabbing him by the arm and speaking urgently with him. Her gestures suggested she was pleading.

The gondolier shook her off with an angry jerk and continued to walk. The woman called something after him. He didn’t respond. She stood with her shoulders slumped, an image of complete dejection.

Mrs Carruthers. The housekeeper. It seemed strange that the gondolier hadn’t been more respectful towards her. Mrs Carruthers could report him to the butler, who could in turn complain about his behaviour to the master of the house. In a large household, things only ran smoothly if everybody played their appointed part and didn’t cross any boundaries.

Housekeepers usually also maintained a kind of superior attitude towards the other servants as they considered themselves in their master’s confidence. Why would Mrs Carruthers ask anyone for any favours?

Alkmene frowned in puzzlement, then turned away from the window. She had promised herself she would just enjoy the night and not delve into hidden motives all the time. She had to change into her other dress and get her mask in place to ensure she was ready on time.

But as she went through the familiar movements of dressing and applying her make-up, her head was still full of tales of murderous sisters, anonymous letters and hostesses who broke off dinner before dessert had even been served.

Were the Steeplechases known to Mrs Hargrove? Why else would she have responded so strongly to a discussion of the murder case?

Staring into her own eyes, Alkmene muttered: was it really poison?

And why would Denise behave so strangely all of a sudden? Ache for a ball when there were so many on her social calendar? Threaten her stepmother with the revelation of some affair going on? Slight Alkmene to her face about some lawyer Alkmene didn’t even know?

Denise had always been volatile, laughing one moment, pouting the next, like a little girl who wasn’t getting her own way, but now her responses seemed exaggerated. As if she was nervous, and her anxiety translated itself into immediate attack as soon as someone but looked her way.

The exchange with her stepmother suggested it was about some guest at the ball tonight, someone Denise wanted to see, but her father would not approve of. Some man, probably. The one who had said that nonsense Denise had mentioned in the car: wild tresses and eyes like pools of fire.

Alkmene made a face at her mirror image. As soon as people fell in love, they started to behave like idiots. She’d hopefully be spared ever acting like that!

Downstairs a gong resounded, indicating that the first guests to the ball would be arriving in a few minutes. Alkmene checked her mask covered her face, except for her nostrils, mouth and chin, and smiled at the reflection. She looked quite the part and was ready for a night of dancing to take her mind off murder and friends who were suddenly snapping over nothing.

Coming down the stairs, Alkmene turned away from the open front door, wandered into a room that led into a conservatory full of blooming plants, then through French doors onto a terrace.

In a deckchair Jake sat, making notes in a notebook poised on his knee. He didn’t hear her coming until she was quite close. He started, shutting the notebook, which slipped off his knee and hit the ground. He retrieved it quickly.

Alkmene hitched a brow.

Jake hurried to say, ‘Hargrove shared some details of the new engine with me while we were smoking. I want to get it all down before I forget any of it.’

‘Of course,’ Alkmene said. It hurt her more than she cared to admit that he didn’t confide in her. But she could hardly pull the notebook from his hands and look inside.

Jake put the notebook in his pocket and extracted a black silk mask. He made a face at her before slipping it on. It transformed him from a handsome man in a tuxedo into an intriguing rogue. Alkmene bet women would be dying to dance with him tonight. She fingered her own mask. ‘How did you know it was me, anyway, when I came up to you?’

Jake shrugged. ‘I’m used to committing people’s posture, movements, total appearance to memory. When I’m stalking someone in the city, I have to recognize him or her in a crowd. Besides, your eyes are quite memorable. I’d recognize them anywhere.’

Alkmene pursed her lips. ‘Mrs Zeilovsky also has remarkable eyes. I’m sure that shade of light green is unusual and that I’ll recognize her by it, no matter what mask she turns up in.’

Jake didn’t comment. He lifted a hand. ‘I hear the first expensive cars coming down the driveway.’

Alkmene tilted her head. ‘If you’re going to comment on everybody’s spending tonight, whether it’s their car you find extravagant or their tiara, you’re not going to have a good time.’

Jake leaned over to her. ‘I’m not here to have a good time. I’m here to work.’ Then he turned away from her and went back into the house.

Alkmene stood silently for a moment, relishing the wind that played upon her bare arms. It was clear to her Mr Hargrove had invited Jake over for a very definite purpose. Not an engine, but something Jake had to ferret out for him.

Did it have to do with anonymous letters? Why else had his mention of them startled Aunt Felicia so much? Was she a victim of the London blackmailer? Did Hargrove believe Jake could unmask him?

And had Zeilovsky merely touched upon the Steeplechase case because it had been the best recent example of sisterly strife having devastating consequences?

Or did he also know more? He and his wife had expounded the case as if they had agreed about it in advance.

And Keegan. He had also said something about the case. Just a legal opinion, or...?

Were all these people here tonight merely as guests at a masked ball, friends of the hostess, or people she longed to become friendly with, for status and influence?

Or were they all here for their own reasons, with ulterior motives?

And would those motives become clear in the course of the night?

Chapter Four

There was nothing like a real orchestra to bring a waltz to life. Alkmene swayed among the many other guests, dressed up and laughing, breathing the building excitement on the air.

Outside, daylight was fading and the Chinese lanterns became ever more sparkly in the increasing darkness. Couples walked on the lawn, in deep conversation, some of them slipping away to the intimacy of the rose garden or to the boathouse to find a gondola.

Denise’s high-pitched laughter sounded close by. Alkmene twisted her neck to make out her friend among all the other dancers.

Denise was in the arms of a man dressed as a doge, with an elaborately embroidered mask. Most men had opted for plain black silk, but this man’s mask even had sequins that reflected the light from the chandelier above. It was not soft and pliable, but hard, as if it had been cast in plaster and then decorated. The nose stood out as a sharp beak, giving the man’s face a malicious appearance. A bird of prey circling the dance floor looking for victims.

Alkmene shook her head, reproaching herself for the sinister turn her thoughts often took, and returned her attention to her own dance partner. His warm baritone as he invited her to the dance had suggested he was Aunt Felicia’s husband, but now she was in his arms, he moved so nimbly that she began to doubt her earlier assumption. This man had to be younger.

He leaned over to her and said, ‘Have you known the Hargroves long?’

‘I’m really more closely acquainted with Denise.’

His eyes seemed to glint with irony for a moment, and Alkmene felt uncomfortable that the tension between her and Denise might have been noticed.

‘Has she been looking forward to this night?’ he asked in a wistful tone.

Alkmene nodded. ‘She talked to me about it on several occasions and on the way over she was thrilled.’

She had the distinct impression her dancing partner was looking past her at Denise and the doge with the predatory appearance. Did her partner guess, as she had guessed herself, that this man was Denise’s reason for having craved this night?

Was Beak-mask also the reason Denise had quarrelled with her stepmother? Was he the man her father wouldn’t have wanted to come here?

It didn’t seem logical. Beak-mask wasn’t acting at all inconspicuously, keeping a low profile to escape attention from the other guests and his host.

On the contrary, he didn’t seem to care if his presence was noted by his host or not. Did he feel so secure behind his mask? After all, the masks would not be removed before two in the morning. And a socially sensitive man like Mr Hargrove would never create a scene by going over and asking this man to remove his mask on the spot, so Hargrove could see his face.

The dance ended, and the guests applauded. The sound rippled through the open doors and windows, rolling like waves into the gardens that were lit like a fairy tale.

Now she had stopped moving, Alkmene noticed that her legs were heavy and there was sweat under her mask and in her neck. She needed a break from dancing and from the imposing heat in the ballroom.

With a smile, she excused herself and walked to the open doors. As she drew near to them, she could already sense the cool upon her hot cheeks.

Outside, the night air crept along her neck and arms. She breathed in deeply, listening to a call in the distance. Probably an owl, calling for his mate. The male and female had different calls, but Alkmene couldn’t tell them apart. If her father had been with her now, he would have scolded her that she had no head for the simplest of things, while she was always curious about things it wasn’t proper for a lady to know.

The terrace was built higher, broad steps ahead of her leading into the gardens below. To Alkmene’s left and right there were stone railings resting on decorated pillars.

From underneath one of these railings she heard a rustling sound. She walked over quickly, ensuring her shoes made no sound on the stone slabs.

Looking down, she spied a tall figure in a lilac dress hurrying away from the house. It had to be Mrs Zeilovsky. She had been the only woman present wearing that shade of dress. The feathers on the headband she wore moved in the breeze as she rushed along. It was a miracle she could walk so fast in her high heels.

Something moved in the shadow of a group of yews, and a figure stepped out, following Mrs Zeilovsky at a distance. He wore trousers, so it was a man, but he seemed too tall and trim to be the sinister psychiatrist. Who else could have an interest in Mrs Zeilovsky’s secretive behaviour?

Alkmene frowned. Was Mrs Zeilovsky hurrying to some secret rendezvous? Was her lover following her at a discreet distance?

Or was the man in pursuit spying on her?

Under orders from her husband?

Puzzled, Alkmene followed the two shadowy figures with her eyes for as long as she could make them out. Then, as the tall birch hedge concealed them from view, she stood back, raising her arms to wrap them around her shoulders. Now the exertion of the dance was passing, she was chilly in her thin dress and knew she should really step inside again before catching a cold and regretting her own stupidity.

But something about the surreptitious movements of people in the dark fascinated her. The idea that the real events of this evening were taking place, not in the lit ballroom behind her, but right in front of her in the darkened gardens.

Alkmene decided it couldn’t hurt to take a look at the boathouse. It had been described as one of the highlights of the ball, so it was only logical she would want to see it. Perhaps one of the boats would be free and she could enjoy a trip across the smooth waterways and quiet ponds of the estate. Her thoughtful hostess would have provided blankets to snuggle under against the nightly chill on the water.

As Alkmene approached the boathouse, she saw the shape of a boat moving away from her in the distance. The man standing in the back was handling the oar with jerky movements, rocking the boat. The Hargroves had apparently selected a few servants for the task, based on physical strength or perhaps pleasant appearance, but not on agility with the oar. The way the man was stabbing with it and thrashing about in the water, he could overturn the whole boat.

Alkmene shook her head in distaste. No boat ride for her tonight. Her dress was too valuable to risk. Not to mention the embarrassment if she had to return to the house soaked to the skin. But as she had walked this far, she might as well go in for a drink. Having seen Mrs Hargrove’s opulent house decorations, she was curious what her hostess had been able to do with the plain boathouse.

The boathouse’s front was lit by two braziers, one on either side of the door. The light played on the golden draperies attached to the wood. It had transformed the normally simple building into an enchanting little dwelling, a doorway into a fairy-tale kingdom.

The entry door was half open. Inside the boathouse it seemed to be dark. That was odd as Denise had told Alkmene on their way over to the estate that you could get drinks inside the boathouse while you waited for your turn in the gondola. Had she misunderstood?

Alkmene approached cautiously, her neck tingling with a strange sensation. It was as if her senses grew more acute, her eyes straining to detect movement inside the dark boathouse, her ears alert for the slightest sound that would betray the presence of someone close to her. Even the wind rustling the leaves overhead startled her.

Suddenly the fire in the braziers wasn’t pleasant and enchanting any more, but throwing strangely distorted shadows that seemed to grasp at her.

Gooseflesh stood on Alkmene’s arms, not because of the chill, but the unpleasant sensation that somebody was moving around close by, keeping an eye on her.

She glanced over her shoulder, first in one direction, then the other. Nothing. But she couldn’t be sure who was hiding in the shadows. Had the man who had been following Mrs Zeilovsky now transferred his attentions to her? Who was he and what did he want?

Nonsense, old girl, she chided herself. Your mind is just a little shaken up by all that talk of poison murders at dinner. Push that door open now and get yourself a stiff drink to steady the nerves.

Alkmene placed her right hand flat against the wood and pushed. Her heart beat fast and her whole body was tense, ready to jump back if something got at her from the dark interior of the boathouse.

The door creaked open.

Inside, in the far corner, a lantern burned so low it had almost gone out. The little light reflected in some glasses filled with a light fluid, champagne or white wine perhaps. Around the silver tray on which they stood, a stretch of white lace had been draped like a bridal veil.

Further back, where the boathouse opened onto the water, the sound of the wind could be heard and a gentle lapping of water, breaking against the wooden poles that supported the building.

Boats could moor there so guests could alight for the gondola trip, but no boats seemed to be there now. The entire boathouse seemed to be empty.

Seemed, as Alkmene had the distinct impression somebody was there.

She froze on the threshold, wondering for a brief moment whom it would be more painful to encounter: the diabolical psychiatrist’s wandering wife or the man who had been shadowing her. She was curious who it could be.

But there was nobody to be seen.

Alkmene’s gaze lingered for a few moments on more golden draperies against the far wall. Could somebody be hiding behind those?

But why would a guest hide? It was perfectly acceptable to be here on a night like this, enjoying a drink and some conversation before the boat ride.

Wasn’t there supposed to be a servant here, too? To look after guests and refill the glasses? Where was he?

Alkmene moved into the room with determination. She had to find another lantern to light. Once the gloom was lifted from the place, she’d feel better. Then a glass of champagne or two…

Confident now, she rounded the table with the dying lantern. Her foot hit something solid, and she squeaked.

Glancing down, she stared full into an upturned face. There was still a lingering haughtiness in the features that were now perfectly still in death. Cobb’s wig had slipped off as he’d fallen. It lay askew, half beside his body, half underneath.

It wasn’t necessary to ask what had caused Cobb’s death. The handle of a steak knife stuck out of his chest. Around it a dark stain was spreading.

Alkmene stood and stared. She had often heard that people screamed when they found a dead body, but she was too surprised to scream. How had the arrogant servant who had walked about upstairs where he had no business died? Who had killed him?

Her eyes stayed fixed with a sort of macabre fascination on Cobb’s hands, which were clutched into fists as if he had tried to fight off death when it had pounced on him.

Then a sound pulled Alkmene’s attention to the door.

Footfalls resounded outside.

Somebody was coming.

Chapter Five

In a dreadful heartbeat, Alkmene became certain it was the killer returning to remove some bit of incriminating evidence from the scene of the crime. Without thinking further, she slipped behind the nearest golden drapery. Even with her back pressed as tightly against the wooden wall as she could manage, there was so little room that the toes of her shoes peeked out from under the drapery. She held her breath, hoping the killer would be too preoccupied with his chore to notice anything amiss.

Nevertheless, she clutched her fan, determined to hit out with it the moment the curtain was torn away and she found herself staring into the evil, twisted features of a killer who wouldn’t hesitate to silence this unfortunate witness. Jake would say it was just like her to land face first in trouble.

She could only hope she’d survive this and have time to laugh about it with him.

Footfalls neared her hiding place. Her heartbeat was so loud, she was certain the killer could hear it.

She wanted to peek to see how near he was to her, but did not dare. She had a chance, however small, of going unnoticed, and she couldn’t risk that with a stupid action made out of curiosity or fear.

The footfalls ceased. She could swear she heard breathing. Male, she figured.

Muttered words.

Then silence. As if the figure had looked up and seen something. Her?

No – what he had come back for, of course. Something he had lost at the scene that might give away his identity. Now he had spotted it, on the floor most likely, he’d fetch it and retreat. He wouldn’t see her, let alone pull aside the drapery and kill her, too.

Too bad she hadn’t had a chance to look better at possible clues, on the floor or table; too bad she hadn’t seen anything telltale.

Once the killer had removed it, it would be hard to figure out what it had been and whose identity it might have given away.

A rustling sound. Too close to give her any reassurance.

Alkmene resisted the urge to close her eyes as she had done as a little girl when hiding under the blankets of her bed from the violence of a thunderstorm outside. She had to keep her eyes wide open and her fan ready to attack.

Then the drapery was jerked aside, so hard that the pins attaching it to the wall above gave way and the whole thing fluttered down.

Alkmene gasped, throwing up both her hands.

Just a few inches in front of her, a dark, intense stare gazed directly upon her. Without his mask he was easy to recognize.

Keegan.

The unsociable legal genius who, according to Denise, was immortally in love with her.

Alkmene had no idea why Keegan of all people would have wanted to kill Cobb – had the arrogant chap leered at Denise? – but no doubt it didn’t matter any more. The lawyer looked determined enough to kill again. Right here, right now.

‘You killed him?’ Keegan shot in a low voice, gesturing over his shoulder at the dead body.

Alkmene exhaled. ‘Of course not.’

‘Then what are you doing here?’

‘I could ask you the same thing.’

Keegan reached his right hand into the pocket of his jacket. Suntanned and muscled, it suggested he wasn’t always hiding indoors with his law books. As the hand came up again, it was clutching a sheet of paper. He held it out to her.

There were but a few scribbled words on the paper. ‘Meet me in the boathouse at midnight. Life or death situation.’

‘One could say that again,’ Alkmene commented dryly, nodding at the body on the floor. ‘Your would-be client will never get to enjoy your services.’

‘You think he wanted to hire me?’ the lawyer asked with a frown.

‘Obviously Cobb knew something that put his life in danger. He wanted to ask you for advice. But before he could share his knowledge with you, he was killed.’

The lawyer hmmm-ed. ‘The boathouse was full of people tonight.’ He nodded at the tray with the glasses. ‘Why ask for a secret meeting in a place like this?’

Alkmene shrugged. ‘His remark in the dining room suggests he was stationed here for the night. He was a servant, so he could not move about freely. He might have argued that you could come here innocently enough, as anybody seeing you would assume you were here for the gondola trip. Then, once you were here and nobody was around, he would speak with you about this uh… life or death situation. I wonder what it can have been.’

Alkmene wrapped her arms around her shoulders. ‘Cobb didn’t seem like the innocent-victim type, though. I found him rather unpleasant.’

‘Bit of a ladies’ man, I gathered,’ Keegan said, glancing from the dead man to Alkmene. ‘He winked at you when he served the champagne before dinner.’

Alkmene straightened up as far as she could, still standing in her rather cornered position against the wall. ‘I did not meet Cobb here for an illicit assignation if that’s what you’re trying to suggest. And I didn’t stab him when he got a little too… convincing?’

She tilted her head. ‘I can imagine what it must have looked like to you. But I assure you that, until I saw Cobb in the corridor this afternoon, right after my arrival, I had never seen him before. I have no idea why he winked at me. My guess was that he was simply a pompous chap who probably thought he could get any woman he put his mind to. I also saw him from my window when I was getting dressed for the ball. The housekeeper was pleading with him, and he just shrugged her off. At least I think it was him. But with that wig it’s hard to tell. The other gondoliers probably look just like him. In fact, if he had been stabbed in the back, one might have wondered if the right man had been killed. However, as it happened face to face, I assume the killer really did mean to kill Cobb.’

Keegan laughed softly. ‘Clever reasoning, Lady Alkmene. But why would I believe anything you say? You hid when I entered the room.’

‘Yes, because I believed you were the killer coming back to get some clue you’d left behind.’ Alkmene huffed. ‘I was merely afraid, not guilty of anything.’

Keegan studied the dead body again. ‘This is unfortunate. I had hoped to get a few days away from work.’

‘You didn’t look like you were enjoying yourself at all. I bet you’re happy there’s something to do now.’

‘To do?’ Keegan looked up at her. ‘What would there be to do about this? The man is dead. The police will have to be notified. They will come in and make a fuss, asking all the obvious questions, then jump to inane conclusions like they always do. I think...’

There was a hint of a smile round his mouth. ‘I think that, under the circumstances, you would be their prime suspect.’

Alkmene ignored this unfortunate conclusion and said hurriedly, ‘You don’t sound like you have a very high opinion of the police.’

Keegan shrugged. ‘We discussed the Steeplechase case at dinner. They arrested Vera Steeplechase on the sole evidence of an anonymous letter and the fact that her sister was indeed poisoned. The writer might have merely been guessing or intending to harm Vera. He or she need not have known of any actual murder having taken place.’

‘But an actual murder had taken place. Mary did die of poison,’ Alkmene pointed out.

‘I never denied that. But was Vera the one who administered it? It will be hard to tell months after the fact, don’t you think?’ Keegan’s inquisitive brown eyes searched her expression.

Alkmene sighed. ‘Do you mind moving away a few steps? This wall is leaving an imprint in my back.’

‘Oh, excuse me.’ Keegan stepped back with a mock gesture of making way for her.

As Alkmene had some more room, she tilted her head back and eyed him speculatively. ‘Why would I be the police’s prime suspect? Why not you? You did come back here.’

‘Correction.’ Keegan flicked up a hand in a stop signal. ‘I came in here. I did not come back here, because I had never been here before.’

He held her gaze. ‘I have enough experience with murder cases. Don’t you think, if I killed someone, I’d take care to do it right the first time? I wouldn’t have to come back to change anything at the murder scene.’

Alkmene pursed her lips. ‘I’ll have to take your word for it.’

Keegan sighed. ‘Look, we’re standing around here debating. Shouldn’t we raise the alarm or something? If the killer came from the outside, he might be escaping from the grounds as we speak.’

Surprised at the suggestion, Alkmene held his gaze. ‘Do you think he came from the outside?’

The lawyer thought a moment, then shook his head. ‘To be honest, no. I think one of the guests killed him.’ He nodded at the dead body. ‘That steak knife was taken from the dinner table. The killer decided right then and there he was going to kill this man.’

Alkmene considered this. It didn’t seem likely there had been a steak knife lying about in the boathouse. There was nothing served here that had to be cut. ‘But why?’

Keegan held her gaze. ‘Didn’t you notice the odd atmosphere while we were discussing the Steeplechase case? Everybody had such a strong opinion about it. Like they were somehow personally involved. This man was serving us during dinner. He overheard everything that was being said.’

‘True, but there were other servants about besides him. And I don’t see how it all fits together. Even if some people present knew more about the Steeplechase case than they admitted, why would that have forced any of them to kill this servant?’

‘Your friend Mr Dubois even said something about digging a steak knife into somebody’s back. That must have given the killer the idea.’

Alkmene remembered Felicia’s expression as Jake had spoken. How her complexion had turned from the fiery red of embarrassment to the deadly pale realization of something terrible. Something inevitable? The need to kill someone?

Alkmene shook herself. She was making assumptions about people without knowing a thing about them. She said to Keegan, ‘You’d better leave and tell Mr Hargrove what’s happened here so he can notify the police. I will stay here.’

Alkmene didn’t want to leave the lawyer here with the dead body where he might change things or destroy evidence. She knew she wasn’t the killer and had no interest in taking anything away, but of Keegan she wasn’t so sure. He was quick to draw conclusions about the knife and the motive for the murder when, actually, they didn’t know anything yet about the victim. About Cobb’s position in the household and reasons people might have had for wanting him dead.

‘Are you sure?’ Keegan asked.

‘Yes. Just hurry. The killer might be getting away as we speak.’

Keegan left reluctantly, the grudge clear in his posture.

Alkmene glanced over the items on the table. Glasses on a tray, the white lace draped round it. There seemed to be something sticking out from underneath. Just a little corner of something.

Of course, you weren’t supposed to touch anything at a crime scene.

But then she would never forgive herself if she didn’t check what it was. It could be highly significant, while the police wouldn’t see or even care. Keegan had just said they’d jump to conclusions.

For the good of the case, she would take a look…

Alkmene took a deep breath, then reached out and pulled at the visible corner. She wore gloves, so she wouldn’t leave any fingerprints on the paper.

The corner turned out to be attached to an envelope. It was already slit open, so Alkmene could easily extract the sheet inside.

It was full of a dense handwriting.

Not knowing how much time she had, Alkmene skimmed over the contents. Her heart skipped a beat. It was a letter from the family’s solicitor in London, accusing Aunt Felicia’s husband, Joseph, of having incurred substantial debts. He was even supposed to have sold off a racehorse that belonged to Mr Hargrove’s Dorset stable without consent.

The solicitor ended the letter by requiring Hargrove to take action against his brother-in-law, or he would feel obliged to inform the police.

That was quite a shock. It proved Felicia had every reason to be worried about her reputation and her position in this household if it became known what her husband had been doing.

Alkmene put the sheet back in the envelope and returned it to its hiding place under the white lace, making sure the corner stuck out again and could be seen. The police should find this and read it, draw their own conclusions about it. The first question that came to mind was, of course: what was it doing here, of all places?

A letter like this, about a sensitive matter, so dangerous to the family name, would have been locked away in a drawer of Mr Hargrove’s desk in his study, or perhaps even kept in a safe. What was it doing in a boathouse? Concealed under a tray of glasses?

Alkmene’s mind raced back to the discussion over dinner, Felicia’s start when a letter was mentioned accusing someone of a crime. Did she know about this letter putting her husband in such a very peculiar position?

Was she being blackmailed with this letter?

By the dead servant?

Cobb had mentioned loud and clear that he would be working at the boathouse that night. Just a casual remark?

Or a message meant for someone at the dinner table?

Alkmene heard voices coming and withdrew to stand where no one would suspect her of having touched anything on the table. Her mind whirled with the possibility that the death of the servant was connected with the discussion over dinner. That Keegan had been right in his assumption that someone at the dinner table had decided to kill to protect himself or herself.

Hargrove burst into the room. He had taken off his mask and looked pale below his tan. ‘Alkmene! Are you all right? Terrible thing to be happening. All over again, it seems.’

At her startled look he said, ‘I heard about Cornwall.’

Alkmene was puzzled by the reference to the murder investigation she had been a part of just a few weeks ago, in Cornwall, where a childhood friend was excavating to discover the Black Castle gold. He had been accused of killing someone on his dig, and it hadn’t been easy to prove who had actually carried out the killing and why.

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