Читать книгу Lady Alkmene Collection: Four fabulous 1920s murder mysteries you won’t want to miss! - Vivian Conroy - Страница 13

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.