Читать книгу Lady Alkmene Collection: Four fabulous 1920s murder mysteries you won’t want to miss! - Vivian Conroy - Страница 22

Chapter Eleven

Still pensive, Alkmene approached the men’s wear store to get the old-new handkerchief for Dubois. He had told her as they parted that he was meeting Silas Norwhich’s manservant for dinner later that day, to get all the details about the room in which he was found. ‘If he has anything special, I might call upon you tonight, so you’d better have my handkerchief ready and waiting for me.’

The clerk who had taken the assignment from her the other day was there and waved her into the back room at once. He spread a handkerchief on the table for her, gesturing over it with his hand. ‘It is the same quality, material, colour. This should do very well.’

Alkmene demanded the specimen she had left him to make a close examination of similarities and differences, but the clerk claimed to have thrown it out with the trash. ‘I can assure you this was the best I could do.’

Alkmene hoped his best would be good enough and left, having paid for the new-old handkerchief in cash so it would not pop up on her father’s bill. He was so chaotic that he might not notice, but just in case he did, she didn’t want to answer any difficult questions about it.

She believed Jake was right in saying she should not hand over the money demanded in the blackmail note, but that meant the blackmailer might make good on his threat to inform her father of her alliance with a convict. She could hardly explain to him that the purchases ending up on his bill were for said convict. He might think she had gone mad and sign her over to an asylum before he left on his next botanical expedition.

Actually, merely hiring a chaperon for her would be bad enough.

She needed her freedom to move around.

Once home, Alkmene gave the handkerchief a critical perusal and decided it looked too new, so she crinkled it and put it under a pillow, then sat on the pillow for an hour or so reading in a French novel so she could surprise Dubois with a casual conversational phrase here and there.

Satisfied with the handkerchief’s appearance now, she moved to the theme of scent and sniffed it critically. It was too new still.

She used some of the lavender drops she poured on her pillow on occasion to sleep better to create a flowery scent that a man might mistake for soap. After all, despite all his criticism of her, Dubois didn’t launder himself either, so what did he know?

At last she put the handkerchief in some brown paper and put it ready to present to him should he appear after his meeting with Norwhich’s manservant.

She had some dinner, Cook’s leek soup, followed by mutton in cream sauce with rosemary-covered baked potatoes. She took dessert, blanched pear with whipped cream, into the living room and got out On Rigor Mortis, to find out what it meant that the dead man’s fingers had been so stiff when the police surgeon arrived that he had to break them to get the bit of paper out.

The treatise was very long and dry and not at all conclusive about hours and times of death, and instead of making copious notes that would prove vital to their quest, she just had three lines scribbled in pencil, when the butler opened the door and announced, ‘A guest for you, Lady Alkmene. He has no calling card and… Hey, wait a moment, sir.’

He was pushed aside by someone who whooshed in with the freshness of summer rain.

Indeed Jake Dubois’s dark hair was wet, and drops glistened on his suntanned skin. He raced to her and stood in front of her chair, gesturing widely as he called, ‘I know what the dead man was holding in his hand. What it was that got snatched away from him by the killer. Now we can be sure Evelyn Steinbeck is at the heart of it all.’

Alkmene snapped On Rigor Mortis shut and asked, ‘So?’

Jake glanced at the butler, who was still standing at the door, opening and shutting his mouth like a fish out of water.

‘You can go now, Brookes. Please close the door,’ Alkmene said quietly and put the volume on the side table. She patted the pillow beside her. ‘Sit down.’

Jake gestured. ‘I am soaking wet; I had better stand.’

‘Don’t be silly.’ She rose and walked over to the fireplace. ‘Here, you can sit on this stool. The fire will get you warmed and dried up in no time.’

Jake followed her and sat down. Still standing she was now towering over him. He extended his hands to the fire and smiled as he felt the heat. Waiting for him to speak, she straightened her father’s collection of marble elephants on the mantelpiece. He usually brought one from every trip to the east, and had gathered quite a herd of them.

At last, as Jake kept silent, she prompted, ‘What did Norwhich have in his hand?’

‘A birth certificate. I have looked at several, and that bit of paper definitely came from one of them.’

‘Whose birth certificate?’

‘No idea. But what if Evelyn Steinbeck wasn’t his niece? Or she wasn’t even Evelyn Steinbeck, but someone pretending to be her? I mean, an actress could play any part. I think we have to interview her as soon as we can to find out who she really is.’

‘As if she is going to tell us.’ Alkmene blew a strand of hair from her face. ‘By the way, I have your handkerchief for you – like you asked.’

She left the room to go get it. She was a bit nervous about her deception succeeding, so decided to get it over with as soon as possible.

As she came back into the room, Jake was stirring up the fire, sending sparks dancing into the chimney. He really had to be cold. She had not even noticed it had begun to rain. The house’s walls were so thick they kept out any sounds of the street.

‘Here.’ She handed him the parcel.

He opened the brown paper at once and checked the handkerchief, folding it open, turning it over.

Her heart beat like strikes on an anvil. He’d see through her ruse at once and expose her, making this very painful.

‘I don’t see any tea stains any more,’ Jake said. He glanced up at her. ‘Lemon juice?’

Lemon juice? Did that work against tea stains?

‘Uh, no.’ She crossed her arms over her chest. ‘Secret recipe, like your fish thing, you know. From my Irish nanny. Foolproof.’

He nodded slowly.

She had no idea if he was buying it. In his line of work he had to have experience with squirming, lying people and maybe he could make out a half-truth or lie from a mile in the distance.

‘So I guess I should never use this again, huh?’ he said. ‘Have to keep it pristine, as a memento.’ With that he put it in the inner pocket of his jacket.

Alkmene rubbed her clammy palms. ‘So do you want anything to drink? I can ring for coffee. I think Cook also made ginger cookies.’

Jake shook his head. ‘I had a big dinner.’ He nodded in the direction of her half full dessert bowl. ‘Yours wasn’t any good?’

She flushed. ‘I meant to finish it, but I got sidetracked by the rigor mortis.’

‘And?’

She shrugged. ‘Doesn’t seem to say all that much. I guess we would be better off if we knew exactly what the room looked like in which the dead man was found.’

‘Et voila.’ Jake reached into his pocket and produced a folded piece of paper for her. ‘I had that big dinner I just mentioned with Norwhich’s manservant who found the body in the morning. On his night off he didn’t mind me treating him to something nice while he dug in his memory for worthy details of the fatal night. I drew the map myself while we were talking and had him correct me if I was wrong.’

Alkmene accepted the paper and looked over it. It represented a square room, with the door on the upper long side. On the lower long side two windows were indicated. ‘Were the curtains closed that night?’ she asked.

Jake nodded. ‘There were even blinds on the inside, which were always closed at night. Not much light got to the outside, let alone a glimpse of what was happening inside that room.’

‘All right. So we cannot hope for a passer-by who caught a look or even a snooper who is prepared to accept money in exchange for what he saw. We could have advertised, you know, to ask for information. But with the blinds that would be no use. Now there is the desk…’ Alkmene trailed her finger over the square on the left hand short side. ‘The back of his chair was to the wall?’

‘Yes, he faced out to the room when he was sitting behind it.’

‘So not likely someone sneaked up from behind and clubbed him while he was sitting there. The visitor coming in would have entered here and walked to here.’

She followed the intended path with her finger from the door on the top of the sheet to the desk on the lower left. ‘And where is the fatal fireplace?’

‘To the right. It is in the same wall as the fireplace on the other side in the drawing room. The manservant said it had a solid rim with a sharp edge. A maid who was cleaning had once hurt her hand on it, he recalled. It cut a gash right through her skin.’

‘I see.’ She tried to put herself in the room, see all the details. ‘Walls covered with bookcases?’

‘Yes. I asked if anything seemed to be missing. He said some books had been pulled off the shelves and were lying on the desk, but more like the master himself had been doing work, research or something, sooner than someone overturning the room. He often worked late at night in that very room.’

‘I see. What about paperwork on the desk?’

‘The usual. It seems Mr Silas Norwhich was interested in the history of Dartmoor. He had many books on it, also with folktales, and was writing up some notes on it. That explains the ink on his fingers.’

‘Dartmoor?’ Alkmene said with a frown. She had expected him to work on accounts or something, a businesslike thing. They had even speculated that he might have been writing a cheque because he had been blackmailed. And now it was notes on folktales from Dartmoor?

Jake nodded. He aligned the poker that he had put back in place after stirring up the fire. ‘The manservant said his master had always been fascinated by Dartmoor. It seems he regularly travelled to a small village there. Cunningham. The last time he came back he was very excited. The servant didn’t know what for.’

Alkmene frowned. It might have been nothing, or it could be a vital lead. ‘He might have told his niece. Evelyn Steinbeck should know more about it.’

Jake nodded. ‘She should be our focus now.’

‘And the birth certificate?’

‘I intend to find out whose it was of course. I think Silas Norwhich might have gone through his lawyer Mr Pemboldt to get it, so I also need to see him as soon as I can.’

The jangle of the doorbell shocked Alkmene into full alertness.

‘Expecting somebody?’ Jake asked with an innocent look that lit her fire.

‘Nobody,’ she retorted and walked to the door to listen as the butler opened up. It would be unfortunate if it was Freddie or another of her acquaintances. The visitor would have to be introduced to Jake and she was not quite sure how to explain knowing a reporter. In their circles reporters were considered to be like jackals after prey, to be avoided at all costs. Not received inside your home, especially with your father far away.

A high-pitched voice talked excitedly, in Russian.

Alkmene smiled in relief and stepped into the hallway. ‘It is all right, Brookes. That is just Oksana Matejevna, the countess of Veveine’s companion. Please come in.’

She gestured at the open door behind her.

Oksana Matejevna was dressed in a shapeless coat with one of the shawls the countess had referred to wrapped round her shoulders and neck. Of a blue material, it was richly embroidered with peacocks, every tail feather glittering with small sequins. She carried herself with her head held high as she walked in.

Jake rose from his stool to greet her. Oksana Matejevna barely gave him a glance.

Alkmene directed her to sit on the sofa and asked, ‘Has the countess sent you?’

The Russian maid shook her head. She looked at the door. ‘Do your servants…how do you say? Drop eaves?’

‘Not at all,’ Alkmene assured her, but she went to check anyway. Blessed with too much curiosity, she knew better than most how tempting a little snippet of illegally obtained information could be.

The hallway was empty, and when she took a couple of steps in the direction of the corridor to the kitchens, she heard Cook’s loud voice and the butler’s laughter. She bet poor Oksana Matejevna was the object of a foreigner joke right now.

She returned and closed the door. ‘The coast is clear.’

Oksana Matejevna gave her a blank stare.

‘You can tell us the news,’ Jake translated.

‘Oh. I saw the bellboy at the hotel. He came out of the servants’ entrance at the back. He didn’t want to be seen with me, so we stood under an archway. There was a terrible draught there. My neck hurts.’

Oksana Matejevna huddled deeper into her peacocks, rubbing her hands as if it was deep winter outside.

Alkmene waited for her to go on and convey the bellboy’s big news, but nothing came out any more.

‘I think you would feel much better with a little something invigorating to drink.’ Jake gave Alkmene a pointed look. ‘Perhaps some uh – ’

‘Gin?’ Oksana Matejevna smiled at her. ‘I love the fruity taste of it.’

‘Of course.’ Mentally shaking her head, Alkmene went to get the gin from her father’s study. Father would have a fit if one of his servants wanted to sample his strong liquor. But when said servant had valuable information in a murder case, you had better indulge her.

Carrying the glass downstairs, Alkmene noticed the strong perfume on the air that the Russian guest had brought in with her. Probably eau de cologne.

Back in the warm room, she handed Oksana Matejevna the glass and smiled. ‘I hope your neck will be better soon. Draughts can be terrible. Please go on.’

Satisfied that her trials were taken seriously, the Russian maid went on, ‘The bellboy said that he had gone through the American’s things while she was down at breakfast. She didn’t eat much, but she liked to show herself in the room to be seen by people. They even came especially to breakfast there, only to see her, because she is tragic now. Her uncle dead, no other family.’

Oksana Matejevna rolled her eyes. ‘The boy said he looked in all the drawers of her dressing table, but there was nothing but make-up and scent bottles and even…how do you call it? Treatment to make your skin look darker.’

‘Sun-tanning cream?’ Jake whistled. ‘I thought her complexion was real.’

Alkmene made a ‘got you there’ face at him.

Oksana Matejevna said, ‘There were also lots of thin paper squares scattered about, stained with make-up. She brought those with her from America. A new invention to clean the face, the bellboy had heard. Very wasteful, if you ask me. But she seems to be very vain, always working her face and spending no end of money on materials for it.’

‘Did the boy find anything worthwhile?’ Jake asked, apparently bored with the details of Evelyn Steinbeck’s beauty ritual.

Oksana Matejevna looked sternly at him. ‘I will get there. In my own time.’

She took another slow sip of her gin. ‘He had also looked under the pillows of her bed. Now there was something there. It was a golden locket, inscribed with the initials FW.’

‘FW?’ Jake echoed. ‘Who can that be?’

‘He did not know. He only looked quickly and then put the pillows back in place. He tried the pockets of her dressing gown and found a bill from a tailor for some very expensive dresses. It was dated just the other day. If her uncle is no longer alive to pay for her expenses, where does she get her money?’

‘Good question,’ Jake said, glancing at Alkmene.

‘He also tried her suitcases, even feeling if there was anything in the lining, but found nothing. I think he did well. There was nothing more to find.’

Oksana Matejevna finished the gin and made a satisfied sound. ‘I doubt she was the one who wrote that vile letter to her highness.’

‘But she can still be involved.’ Jake sat up straight. ‘That locket under her pillow may be loot she picked up some place to pass on to the person behind the scheme. FW are not her initials, nor those of her uncle or another relative we know of.’

‘It could be a gift from a special friend,’ Alkmene said.

Jake shot her a glance. ‘We don’t know if she was engaged in America, do we?’

Alkmene wanted to say there had been a man proposing to Evelyn Steinbeck, at the party, the conversation she had overheard, coming from behind the Chinese screen. But Jake already said, answering his own question. ‘No, we know nothing about her life in America, so we should look into that, see if we can find FW there.’

He focused on Oksana Matejevna again. ‘Did you get the impression the bellboy was sincere? Or was he lying about all the work he did to get your money?’

The woman shook her head. ‘He was not smart enough to have made it all up. He really did check her things.’

‘I hope he doesn’t get into trouble for it,’ Alkmene said. ‘He might even lose his job. If it had delivered more, I would feel better about taking the risk.’

Oksana Matejevna pulled her shawl closer around her shoulders. ‘Her highness is at a soirée. She will not miss me during dinner, but she will expect to see me as soon as the music starts. I hope it is not singing. Shrill voices give me a headache.’ She stood stiffly. ‘Good evening.’

Alkmene saw her to the door in person, then returned to Jake, who was sitting on the floor now with his legs crossed, his eyes closed like he was deep in thought.

Alkmene took her own seat and studied the sketch of the dead man’s library again. When Jake didn’t speak, she said, ‘You look like one of those Indian fakirs my father is always telling me about. They conjure up snakes from baskets and trick people into buying carpets that don’t fly.’

Jake laughed softly. It relaxed his expression, making him look younger. ‘I have never been to India. You of course have been everywhere.’

‘Sadly no.’ Alkmene leaned against the headrest. ‘My father believes women should sit at home instead of travelling around the globe. I try to tell myself he is just worried because he has lost my mother and doesn’t want to lose me as well. But I was seriously piqued when he left, again, without me.’

‘If you had someone to look after you, would he let you travel?’

She didn’t look at him, but kept her eyes on the heavy oak beams overhead. ‘Maybe. He is old-fashioned, so he’d have to know that person well and trust him.’

Jake made a snorting sound. He was probably thinking of his conviction and how trustworthy that made him in her father’s eyes.

A sweet soft scent of something filled the room. She turned her head to look at Jake. He had pulled out the handkerchief she had returned to him and held it to his nose with an elated expression. Then he looked full at her, eyes ablaze with laughter. ‘My handkerchief never had this nice little stitched edge, my lady. Whatever you did with the stained one, this one is brand new.’

Alkmene jumped to her feet to strike at him, but he was already on his feet, thrusting the offensive article back into his pocket. ‘I knew you could not launder.’

‘So what?’ she called after him as he made for the door. ‘I do know how to trick policemen into looking for missing dogs so you could have information out of Constable Gordon.’

Jake’s laughter floated back at her. She heard the front door open. She ran to the door and halted in the frame, looking at his tall figure outlined against the streetlights outside. She wished he had stayed a little longer. The evening was still young, and On Rigor Mortis was a poor companion.

Jake turned his head to her. For a moment his eyes were serious, almost carrying a hint of regret. Then he said, ‘Metropolitan hotel at ten. Where we can see a tragic heiress have breakfast and perhaps ruffle a feather or two.’