Читать книгу Lady Alkmene Collection: Four fabulous 1920s murder mysteries you won’t want to miss! - Vivian Conroy - Страница 17

Chapter Six

‘I would sure like to know what happened to all of my soda,’ Cook said the next morning as she bustled into the breakfast room. When Father wasn’t home, she believed she had to look after ‘the young lady’ and scurried in and out with extra bacon or fresh apple sauce. Father would never allow a cook in his dining room, sticking to a strict order of Brookes serving and Cook not leaving the kitchen unless it was on fire.

But Alkmene actually enjoyed a little liveliness, plus Cook’s never-ending stream of gossip, gathered mainly via her laundering niece.

‘I needed soda to clean up something that had gotten stained by accident,’ Alkmene said, and when Cook gave her an incredulous look: ‘It wasn’t mine, you know, so I felt kind of responsible for the staining. But it is all solved now.’

She hoped that it was when she’d get to the men’s wear store later that day and see if the clerk had found her the perfect substitute.

Just as Cook was at the door, Alkmene said quickly, ‘I was wondering. The people who live in places like Tar Street, is there any form of help for them?’

‘My heart, Lady Alkmene, what would you want in a place like that?’ Cook gave her a suspicious look.

‘I happened to end up there, by coincidence really, and I saw this very sad little boy whose mother died and his father is drinking and beating him and… He doesn’t have any decent clothes or toys to play with.’

Cook sighed. ‘There are too many of those children all over the city, my lady. They are none of your business, I say.’

Alkmene sat up straight, her back pressed against the chair’s rigid wood. ‘If everybody says that, nothing will ever change.’

Cook sighed. ‘I suppose when you put it like that.’

Alkmene pushed her plate away, still half full with scrambled eggs. She couldn’t eat when her mind was so full of thoughts and plans. ‘Is there anybody doing anything to help them? Like the uh…sailors’ mission but then for the children?’

‘I suppose you could say Father Williams is doing that. But people say he is a conman, not a real priest. That he takes donations and doesn’t do nothing for the children. I would be careful around him if I were you. He might take your money and leave you in a bind.’

Cook crossed her thick bare arms over her chest. ‘Besides, your father would not be happy if he knew you are going around places like Tar Street.’

As Alkmene ignored the statement and got up, the woman said in a pleading tone, ‘Your father is on his travels too much, ignoring that you should have been married by now. He may not think about that, but I do. And when word about you gets around, running around among the drunks in Tar Street, men will be scared off.’

Alkmene laughed in spite of herself. Men were already scared off, or she would have been married by now. Conversation with the other sex had never come easy to her, probably because men considered her too sharp-tongued. Most must have thought it, though none had put it directly to her, but Dubois.

It didn’t even bother her. It was the way she was and if they didn’t like it, nobody forced them to be around her.

And nobody would force her to look for a husband, when all she wanted was her freedom and adventures.

Cook took her silence as remorse, a sudden flash of insight into the possibly disastrous consequences of her behaviour, and nodded solemnly. ‘You should sober at the thought. It is nothing for you to sit around here and wait on a father who is never there. Find your own household and have some children to keep you busy.’

Alkmene had to think of the little boy again and winced. She had really outdone herself there, making a mess she couldn’t clean up again. Adventures were fine, but when little children got caught in between… She had to find out more about this Father Williams and his mission. If he was a conman, she’d see right through that. He’d never get her money the easy way.

Alkmene walked out into the hallway and stared in surprise at the envelope on the shiny cherrywood side table. ‘I thought the post wasn’t due for another hour.’

Cook nodded. ‘This envelope was handed to me as I was cleaning the steps in front. I was just throwing the last water from my bucket over them when this street urchin ran up to me and handed it to me. A scruffy little boy in a too large coat. He said it was for the lady. I assume he meant you. It does say Lady Alkmene on the envelope, but there is no sender.’

Alkmene picked up the envelope. A street urchin could most likely not write, and this envelope had a strong adult hand on it. Masculine, she believed.

Her heart skipped a beat, thinking it might be from Dubois. He had mentioned in passing the other day that he had information about the murder, about how the old man’s dead body had been found and some financial complications. The unfortunate end to their visit to the watchmaker had prevented her from asking what those were. But now, after a good night’s sleep, she couldn’t wait to dive back into the investigation again.

But why would Dubois write to her? If he wanted her, he knew where she lived. He was the kind of man who simply rang her doorbell, whenever he wanted to, not caring whether he shocked the staff.

In fact, he would probably enjoy shocking the staff.

No, this could not be from him. Who then?

Alkmene opened the envelope and pulled out a sheet of poor quality paper. On it were a few lines in the same strong hand as the writing on the envelope.

Your father would not be pleased if he learned his daughter is consorting with a convict. He will hear of it unless you pay.

Put a hundred pounds into a hat box and take it out with you.

Leave it on the bench underneath the elm next to St Mary of the Humble Heart.

Do not stick around to see who will come and take it along.

Don’t talk about this with anybody or you will pay in a different way. With your reputation. Perhaps even your life.

We are watching you.

Alkmene had to read it a couple of times before the truth sank in. She was actually being blackmailed.

She glanced over her shoulder at the front door as if she could see right through it into the street and establish if anybody was there right now, watching her.

‘Who is it from?’ Cook asked, carrying the breakfast dishes from the dining room. ‘What does it say?’

Alkmene looked up at her, her mind a whirl. ‘Uh… Oh. It’s nothing special.’ She folded the letter and put it back in the envelope. ‘I will be out this morning. I will probably not be back for lunch. Save me some cold cuts to take around four.’

Cook gave a grunt that could be acceptance or disapproval of this unconventional request. She shuffled off with the dishes.

Alkmene ran up the stairs to get dressed. She intended to be in Meade Street as soon as possible and ask Dubois for his take on this blackmail scheme.

As she was walking along past the many houses on the street, some harbouring little shops and businesses, others being boarding houses where women polished the bell, she realized Dubois had never told her at what number he rented rooms. It was like him to be evasive, but she supposed he would be known around here and she could ask for him.

Loath to get herself into the same kind of trouble as the day before, she went into a reasonably clean-looking fish store to ask the wiry man cleaning the fish behind the counter where to find the reporter Dubois.

‘Oh, that troublemaker, huh?’ the old man replied. Ashes from his cheap cigar rained on the counter and whatever he was cleaning. ‘Number 33, upstairs.’

Alkmene bought some fish by way of thanks, deciding to leave it somewhere for the strays as she could not bear to think of having to eat it after having seen the cigar ashes falling.

Carrying the parcel, wrapped in old newspaper pages, she walked up to number 33. The door was open, and she went in, going up the stairs and knocking at a closed door.

‘Yeah,’ a voice called, and she pushed the door handle down and walked in.

‘Put the hot water there,’ Dubois’s voice came from another room. ‘I don’t have time for breakfast. I will eat on the way.’

Footfalls resounded, and he appeared, in a dirty shirt with suspenders holding up dark trousers, which had mud stains on the knees, like he was some dock worker. His hair was dishevelled and his eyes bleary as if he hadn’t slept all night.

The change couldn’t have been greater from the distinguished gentleman, entrepreneur, self-made businessman with money to spend Alkmene had met at the Waldeck tea room in the company of the countess.

Hiding her shock, Alkmene held out the parcel in her hands. ‘No hot water, just fish.’

‘No thanks,’ Dubois said. He recovered remarkably quickly from the surprise of finding her in his rooms at this hour. He turned away, back into the other room, slamming the door shut.

After a while, he reappeared in a clean crisp white shirt over the pants of his dark blue suit. There was even a tie in sight.

Raking back his hair, he snapped at her, ‘So what do you want? I thought ladies of standing didn’t go out before noon.’

‘That was twenty years ago,’ Alkmene snapped back. ‘I guess I should have sat at home painting a screen or doing embroidery, to your mind. And I might have, had I not received a blackmail letter.’

Dubois’s eyes widened. ‘A what?’

She put the fish parcel on the table and pulled the offensive envelope out of her purse. ‘Read it for yourself.’

His expression darkened as he read.

A woman with fiery red curls bustled in with a rusty metal bowl full of water. She clanked it on the table, appraised Alkmene, shook her head in bewilderment and scurried out again, apparently relieved her tenant wasn’t going to give her an earful for being late with his hot water.

Dubois returned the letter to her and leaned over the bowl, splashing water into his face. The drops rained on his shirt, leaving spreading stains. His nails scratched over the stubble on his chin.

‘Late night?’ Alkmene asked, half interested, half repulsed at the idea he had been drinking or something. She knew it was pretty normal even in the higher circles, and although her father himself was a moderate man, he had prepared her to accept that men might drink themselves into a stupor every once in a while over something like winning a card game.

Or losing it.

Dubois reached for the thin towel that lay nearby. Rubbing his face vigorously, he grunted. ‘Talking to people can be hard. Just tracking them down can be hard. It takes time.’

He lowered the towel and threw it onto a plain wooden chair.

Alkmene didn’t want to look around like she was appraising his rooms. She kept her eyes on his face. ‘Did you get what you wanted?’

He nodded. ‘You know that by questioning the neighbours I had already found out that a man came to the house on the night Silas Norwhich died. I didn’t think he would have been on foot, so I tried to find the cab that dropped him off. I had hoped I would get a good description of the man. An address where he had been picked up. But it turns out he was cloaked and had a hat pulled over his face. The driver couldn’t tell me a single useful thing. And he picked him up on the corner of Bond Street. No doubt that location has nothing to do with him. At least the driver confirmed for me that the man went to see Silas Norwhich. He rang the bell there and was admitted.’

Alkmene tilted her head. ‘So we were right before. Norwhich admitted his own killer. Which means he knew him and was not afraid of him. Else he would have slammed the door in his face.’ She frowned. ‘So it can’t have been that man who appeared at the theatre. Norwhich was worried about that man. The countess used the words: a man returned from the dead. She must have told you all about that.’

Dubois nodded.

Alkmene continued, ‘So if Norwhich was afraid of this man, because of the past, because it was someone he had believed dead and gone, dealt with, now back in his life, he would not have let him into his house, especially not if he was home alone.’

Dubois shook his head. ‘Not necessarily. Look at it this way: perhaps the appearance of the man at the theatre was a shock to him. But he did know him. Had known him in the past. Would he not want to talk to him if the other asked him? Perhaps he thought it was the only way to solve things. Or the other forced his way into the house with threats.’

Alkmene pursed her lips. ‘Ms Steinbeck wasn’t there that night either, she says. Maybe her uncle sent her away to meet with the man from the theatre?’

Dubois nodded. ‘Could be. I heard Norwhich was supposed to have gone with her to a concert, but he made her go alone at the last instant. He claimed to feel unwell. Now that might have been an outright lie. It seems he was a bit of a hermit, and Ms Steinbeck always wanted to run from one party to the next. Maybe he was just not in a mood to go.’

‘Hmmm.’ She looked down on the blackmail letter in her hand. ‘Help me deduce something from this charming little letter. The writer is obviously working with another or even a whole gang, for they are using a plural pronoun. They must have been watching me for some time now to find some sort of indiscretion that I’d be eager to cover up. They claim I am going about with some convict. I can’t vouch for every single person in my acquaintance that they are pitch perfect. Some like liquor or spend too much money at their clubs or the hat shop. But convicts? I don’t think I know any. Must have been my adventure in Tar Street the other day.’

She glanced at Dubois. ‘I guess that drunkard could have been to prison. Or the old man who repairs the watches? He looks kind and approachable enough, but I have no idea what he did when he was younger. Maybe he was in prison in another country? Been a sailor, got accused of something? Perhaps really knifed a man in a fight? Never meaning to, but those things can happen.’

She wanted Dubois to know she had not lived away from the world for all of her life, that she did understand people and situations and how violent death came about, even if you had not been looking for it.

Dubois shook his head slowly. Holding her gaze, he said, ‘The convict referred to in that note is me.’