A Proposal to Die For (13 page)

‘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.'

Chapter Twelve

A group of guests was set to leave when they came in, porters carrying out the heavy leather suitcases to put into the waiting cars. A tall woman with white fur casually draped round her shoulders descended the steps with the grace of a duchess, casting an interested look at Jake from under her blackened lashes.

Alkmene had sat at her own dressing table this morning studying her face and wondering if it needed more than just the little mascara she put on her lashes and the little red she dabbed to her lips. Evelyn Steinbeck would of course size her up, and she fully intended to be a match for the American heiress.

She sailed ahead of Jake, past the elevators where a boy in the hotel's red uniform with gold buttons was waiting to assist. The doors into the breakfast room were open, and a maid passed them with a tray full of cappuccino cups. Jake asked her to bring them two as well and took a table with full view of the windows and the lone heiress, studying the view with a lost look on her face.

She looked younger than she had done the night Alkmene had met her. Like the tragedy had stripped away some of her high society veneer, leaving her exposed.

Jake kicked her under the table. Alkmene looked at him, then as he winked, she rose and walked over, her most surprised expression in place. ‘Excuse me… Did we not meet recently? Yes, you were so busy adjusting the screen so it didn't fall on the table with all the crystal glasses. You saved us from disaster then. I don't think we were properly introduced at the time. Alkmene Callender.' She added almost as an afterthought, ‘Lady Alkmene.'

Evelyn Steinbeck's blank expression changed at once to excitement. ‘Oh, I remember. Please do sit down.' She gestured at the empty seat across from her.

Alkmene said, ‘I am here with a friend. Do you mind if he joins us too?' She nodded subtly in the direction of Jake Dubois.

Evelyn Steinbeck looked. Her eyes lit. ‘Not at all. Yoo-hoo!' Her piercing voice drew all eyes to her. She waved ecstatically at Jake. ‘Come on over!'

Cringing, Alkmene lowered herself into the seat. Jake approached and shook hands with Evelyn, introducing himself as Dubois, journalist.

‘Mr Dubois is looking into a sea disaster,' Alkmene said quickly. ‘Hair-raising, when you hear the details. You came here by boat too, I assume?'

‘Yes. There was such a strong wind during part of the journey. Terrifying.'

‘Your first time away from home?' Dubois ventured. ‘You must have felt quite lost on the ship.'

‘I wasn't alone.' Evelyn fell silent as if she had already said too much. She added quickly, ‘My uncle had sent someone to accompany me.'