Читать книгу Fatal Masquerade - Vivian Conroy - Страница 11

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?