Читать книгу Lady Alkmene Collection: Four fabulous 1920s murder mysteries you won’t want to miss! - Vivian Conroy - Страница 18

Chapter Seven

‘What?’ Alkmene couldn’t help the disbelief in her own voice. ‘You have been to prison?’

Dubois shrugged. ‘You have come to the wrong person to help you out. At least, I suppose you are here because you want help from me?’

‘I just figured that…’ Alkmene straightened a crinkled edge of the envelope. The sudden revelation left her reeling. Had Dubois knifed a man in a fight abroad?

Something inside of her refused to accept he could take a life. But perhaps the circumstances had been such that he had been forced to, in self-defence?

But because the other one had been local, nobody had believed him and he had ended up behind bars anyway?

She realized he was waiting for her to work herself out of this faux pas and said lamely, ‘I just wanted to know what I should do about the letter.’

Dubois laughed hollowly. ‘You are asking me what to do?’

‘All right, so far I haven’t asked or listened when you’ve said something but that is just because I don’t understand you. Your life, your choices, your connections. How can you leave that little boy with that old man and the drunk father and never think…’

‘I do think.’ His tone was impatient, like he was about to pound the table with a fist. ‘But I can’t change anything about it. Can I take him away from there? Where to? Here?’

He gestured around him. ‘He would have no better life here. I am away for my work all day long. He would be bored and go out into the street, run into trouble. My landlady is not going to look after him. And if he took an apple at the shop down the street or caused trouble breaking something at the tobacconist’s, people would soon force us to move away from here.’

She held his gaze. ‘At least you would not beat him.’

Dubois took a deep breath. ‘No. But that is poor consolation.’

He tilted his chin up as if to defy her. ‘There are countless children like him in the back alleys, Lady Alkmene. What do you want to do about it, start a little Saturday afternoon tea party?’

Alkmene pressed her lips together. ‘It might not be a bad idea for those children to just have fun for a while. Even if it seems superficial to you.’

Dubois made a gesture in the air. ‘Oh, forget about it. I am just bushed from last night.’

He began to pace the room. ‘You want to know what to do about the blackmail note. Do nothing. Don’t pay. Blackmail never ends. And in this case there is little to deny or set straight. No incriminating correspondence to get back. Your father might be angry when he learns you bought his buttons in the company of a convict, but there is not much he can do about it. I suppose he won’t disinherit you?’

Alkmene laughed. ‘I am his only daughter. Where else would he leave his money?’ She frowned a moment. ‘My father isn’t very attached to his money, I guess, but I doubt he would leave it to anyone who is not related to him. He does have that much sense of family. He hopes I will marry and…’

She fell silent. Her father’s frequent journeys didn’t just mean freedom to do her own thing, but also freedom from his endless suggestions on whom she could marry. He always seemed to think of somebody new. Somebody equally abhorrent to her mind.

Dubois made another dismissive gesture. ‘It is none of my business. Just don’t pay anything.’

‘I was almost tempted to put an empty hat box in the place indicated and watch who will come and get it. Then we have our blackmailer.’ She couldn’t keep the triumphant note out of her voice.

Dubois shook his head. ‘Not likely. He will send another messenger like the one who delivered this letter to your home. He won’t come in person. He won’t show his face anywhere where he can be seen and captured.’

Alkmene nodded. ‘Probably not. He is the king of this criminal capital, right, and he wants to stay in that position.’

Dubois gave her a hard stare. ‘So meek and understanding of my point of view? You won’t do anything foolish on your own, will you?’

Alkmene shrugged. She dragged the toe of her left shoe over the floorboards with an innocent expression.

Dubois sighed. ‘If you are dead set on doing something, don’t do it alone. At least promise me that, huh?’

Alkmene leaned back on her heels, still not affirming anything. She sensed Dubois was getting antsy about her reluctance to promise she was dropping it. She might gain something here. ‘I am just so bored every single day alone, while my father is away. I could do with something…useful to pursue. Now you are after the killer of this Silas Norwhich. I wanted to get him, but I don’t have the connections or resources you do. I can do nothing but…get myself in trouble because I don’t know what is good for me.’

Dubois’s mouth jerked as if he had to laugh at her meek little act, but suppressed it.

He said, ‘You are riling me, right? You don’t think my connections or resources mean anything.’

‘They do. You found the person who dropped the fare there that night. Now we know from two different witnesses that there was a late visitor. The killer or otherwise the last person to see Silas Norwhich alive. That is great. I couldn’t have done that. And you knew the man who determined for us that the brooch came from Saint Petersburg. I mean, Leningrad. Again, I would not have known how to establish that.’

Dubois looked her over. ‘You do have connections of your own. I want to talk to Oksana Matejevna to find out why she asked about Evelyn Steinbeck at the Metropolitan. But I need an excuse to do so. I have decided I will use the brooch. I will ask Oksana if she knows of any Russian acquaintances of the countess who own such a thing. Now if I go there and ring the bell, asking for Oksana, I will be shooed away. But you can ask for her freely and will be admitted on the basis of your title alone. We could go together.’

Alkmene felt excitement rush through her veins, but she tried to sound doubtful. ‘And once we know whose brooch it is, you will discard me again?’

Dubois sighed. ‘No, you can come along then too. Provided you leave that here for dinner.’ He pointed at the wrapped fish.

Alkmene had to laugh at his pride that compelled him to ask a payment for taking her along. ‘The seller sprinkled it liberally with cigar ashes as he was cleaning it so you are most welcome to it.’

Dubois grinned. ‘It will be sprinkled with other things when I am done. I know how to prepare fish.’ He waited a moment. ‘Will you eat some with me here when we are back from the countess? We need a little lunch before we tackle any new leads Oksana Matejevna may have provided us with.’

Alkmene hesitated a moment. She had told Cook she wouldn’t lunch at home so she might as well have some with Dubois.

Dubois jutted his chin up. ‘Unless this is too lowly for your taste.’

‘That is not it, and you know it.’ She pulled back her shoulders. ‘All right. We see Oksana Matejevna and find out what we can about the brooch, and about Oksana’s secret meeting with that bellboy at the hotel. Then we come back here, and you make me a lovely fish dish where we discuss our next steps. But you’d better understand I am used to haute cuisine and I expect a lot from you. Especially as you are half French.’

Dubois’s expression softened a moment. ‘My mother made a great apple pie that was baked upside down. A traditional French recipe.’

‘She learned from your father? Or his mother?’

He shook his head. ‘Your deductions were wrong, Lady Alkmene. My mother was French, not my father.’

‘But your name is Dubois, right?’ Alkmene was puzzled. ‘I thought that meant that your father had to be…’ She faltered. If his mother was French, and Dubois bore her name, that suggested he had been…born out of wedlock? Had he perhaps travelled to England to look for his father? It would make a compelling reason for him to be here.

Dubois had walked away to get the dark blue jacket that belonged with the pants. Returning, he swung it on and handed her the brooch. ‘You handle the subject. I will just observe Oksana’s response and if she is not yielding, I will find a way to make her confess what is up.’

The countess lived in one of those grand city homes that have stood the test of time and have not faded but only increased in beauty. The stone was a soft yellow, the windows painted a dull beige, the door broad and dark green with a little grille in it through which the butler could see who was at the door.

He was a tall dark man with little grey in his neatly combed and pomaded hair. He stood very tall like a soldier on duty. His English was polished with a vague hint of an accent that Alkmene could not quite place.

She wondered if the man had come from Russia with the countess or was the count’s loyal servant, brought in from Luxembourg. She explained they wanted to speak with Oksana Matejevna. He seemed puzzled by the request, but said she was in the kitchens getting food for the countess’s songbirds. ‘You can wait in the sun room for her return.’

He went ahead of them at once, leading them upstairs.

They were brought into a large room, decorated with countless icons on the walls and several cages with colourful canaries singing to their heart’s delight. The left wall was dominated by a big painting of a village among a pine forest. The cute little cottages were covered with snow, and a troika – a sledge drawn by three horses – came across the road towards it.

Looking more closely, Alkmene kept spotting details like girls going to the well, a wolf lurking between the trees and birds of prey dabbing the skies above. Father would know which ones just by their silhouette.

A small dog with a very flat snout ran for Dubois and circled him, sniffing his trouser legs and yapping excitedly. The long brown silky hair looked so soft to the touch.

‘Pick up Pushkin,’ Alkmene said. ‘He likes to be carried.’

Dubois looked as if he was about to decline, but when he caught Alkmene’s suppressed laughter, he reached down and picked up the dog, carried him in his arms, and held him in his lap as he sat down on the sofa.

The embroidered pillows he dislodged piled up behind him, one plunging over the edge.

The door opened, but instead of Oksana Matejevna with the bird feed, the countess herself came in. ‘Delighted to see you, Alkmene, and you, Mr Dubois. I hope you have some interesting news for me to hear. But first I must feed my birds. My darlings.’

Dubois threw Alkmene a quick glance asking ‘what now?’

Alkmene shrugged. They’d have to go along with the countess’s chattering and hope they could see Oksana Matejevna alone later. Her large knitting bag lay on a stool so she would probably return here soon.

The countess walked around, giving small seeds and bits of apple to the canaries that flew to sit close to the bars to receive their treats from her.

She chatted incessantly about a high society engagement that had been announced in the morning paper. Alkmene had not seen it and tried to dredge up the faces of the bride to be and groom from her memory but came up empty.

‘So,’ the countess said at last, pushing a footstool aside with her small slippered foot and seating herself in the chair with the big armrests, ‘why have you come to see me, together?’

She glanced from one to the other. ‘Is there something I should know?’ She winked at Alkmene. ‘I can imagine that you have no idea to share this with your father. Perhaps you want me to write to him? I can explain that Mr Dubois here is a very nice young man even though he has no title and no money.’

Alkmene saw the flush rise in Dubois’s face. His hands tightened on the little dog who sensed the change in his mood and began to lick his hands as if to soften him.

She said quickly, ‘We are not here to speak about… We have found something old, antique and valuable from your native country. We want to return it to the owner and maybe you can help us find that person.’

And with a flourish she produced the brooch.

The countess stared. ‘How did you get that?’

Alkmene beamed. ‘So you know whose it is?’

The countess nodded violently. ‘Yes. It is mine. I had missed it but I believed I had just mislaid it. On the other dressing table, by my bed, in a little box or… I often lose things for a while. They always turn up again. But this was missing for some time. Oh, it means so much to me. It is the engagement gift my father gave to my mother.’

She smiled at Alkmene. ‘Did I lose it in the tea room the other day? I have lost a pearl necklace there. The clasp came loose, and it slipped off without me noticing. Maurice returned it to me the next day I stopped by. He had found it. Or one of the waiters. I am not sure. But I had it back. That counted. Oh, my husband would say I am careless with my things. While they are so precious. Valuable. But I do try to pay attention. I really do.’

Her friendly face scrunched up in a pained expression. ‘It is just that when you get older you forget things. You need reminding. I have Oksana to remind me. But she is often just like me. She misplaces things and can’t help me find them.’

‘Had she misplaced this?’ Dubois asked.

Alkmene shot him a scorching look. He was supposed to observe, give her the chance to handle this.

The countess nodded. ‘I asked her just the other day where it was and she said she had seen it in some place and she would find it back, some time, and she looked but she never turned it up again. I forgot about it again, until you came here now and… Where was it?’

‘In the theatre.’ Alkmene watched the countess closely.

Her eyes went wide. ‘The theatre? But…I am sure I had not worn it to the opera that night. No, most certainly not. I wore my dark blue dress with the diamonds. This doesn’t go with that. I am sure I had not worn it. How could I have lost it there?’

‘We did not say you lost it there,’ Dubois said. ‘There it was found.’

The countess looked even more confused now. She fidgeted with her hands, turning one of her bejewelled rings around and around. ‘It must have fallen in the seat or on the floor.’

‘How if you did not wear it?’

‘Perhaps it was in my evening bag. My husband always says I carry too many things around in my bag and that I will pull out my handkerchief and lose something because it gets torn out and it falls and… Did you get your handkerchief back?’

Dubois smiled. ‘Lady Alkmene was nice enough to offer to launder it for me. With her own two hands. I am really curious to see the result.’

The countess perked up. ‘Me too. I wouldn’t know how to launder a thing, you know. I have never had to.’

Alkmene smiled quickly. ‘I do not think your brooch was pulled out of your bag and fell to the floor. It was stuck in the curtain. On the far left of the box.’

The countess frowned. ‘In the curtain? Stuck? How can that be? I do not sit on the left side. That is Oksana’s place.’

Dubois said, ‘It was not just stuck actually. It was consciously fastened in the curtain. Like uh…the curtain had been turned inside out and fastened with the brooch. It was a change one could only spot if looking closely. Or knowing what to look for.’

The countess pulled up her narrow shoulders. ‘I would not have noticed. I never pay much attention to the curtains and things. I am busy looking at the performance. And the people in the other boxes, I confess. There is a strong temptation to look at people while you do have your opera glasses with you. But I never sit on the left.’

‘Could Oksana Matejevna have put the brooch in the curtain?’ Dubois’s voice was tense. ‘On purpose. Like to give it to someone else?’

The countess stared. ‘Oksana Matejevna doesn’t know a soul here. She speaks nothing but Russian. She is always afraid to be left alone. She…’ She fell silent.

‘Yes?’ Dubois prompted. ‘Do you remember something?’

‘Well, that night at the theatre she did leave me. She went back to the box alone. She claimed to have forgotten her shawl. She is always fussing with some shawl to keep draught off her shoulders. Her shoulders and her neck get stiff, she claims, and she can’t do a thing. She is very fussy in that respect. She had left the shawl, she said, and she went back to fetch it.’

‘So she could have put the brooch in the curtain then?’ Dubois pressed.

‘Yes, but why would she? It is my brooch. A family heirloom.’

The countess’s face turned red with sudden anger. She rose and pulled the bell cord by the fireplace. She stood up straight, her eyes flashing. As soon as her maid entered, head down, shoulders slumped, she barked, ‘Oksana Matejevna, what have you done now?’

A stream of Russian followed.

Alkmene couldn’t understand a word, but the tone was crystal clear. The countess was not pleased with her servant’s behaviour and was explaining that to her, in no uncertain terms.