A Proposal to Die For (4 page)

‘You'd be surprised,' Alkmene retorted, although painfully aware she had no idea how her stained skirts from gardening or her blouse with inkblots got clean again. Cook's niece did the laundering, a nice woman with freckles and too many children crammed into a little house on a back alley. If the stains were particularly difficult, Alkmene made sure to give some extra money to Cook to pass on and she had always felt that was about as much as she needed to know about the process.

Now this man made it sound like a crime that she didn't know how to get this handkerchief cleaned up herself.

Probably a communist dead set against English aristocracy.

Believed everybody should live on the
kolkhoz
and share all the work and income equally.

But cleaning his handkerchief had to be simple enough, and she would prove it to him.

‘You will get it back, cleaned by my own hands,' she promised.

The corners of his mouth jerked up as if he was about to smile for real, but then he increased the pressure on her arm and pulled her further back.

‘What the…' Alkmene spluttered and then fell silent with pure surprise.

There in the lobby of the grand Metropolitan hotel was Oksana Matejevna, speaking to a bellboy who looked about him furtively as he breathed answers.

‘Either that bellboy happens to be fluent in Russian,' Dubois said in a low voice beside her, ‘or our dear superstitious country lady speaks better English than she pretends to do.'

‘I could have sworn she was soaking up every word we said,' Alkmene responded in a half grim tone. ‘What on earth is she doing here, asking questions?'

‘I suppose she is after the same person we all are,' Dubois said pensively.

Alkmene stared in fascination as the mousy Russian woman fished a coin from her purse – probably her employer's money too! – and handed it to the bellboy who accepted it with another guilty glance around him. Then, satisfied it had been unobserved, he stepped away from her and resumed his duties.

Oksana Matejevna walked to the exit, her head held high, and disappeared into the brisk morning.

Alkmene snapped to it and focused on Dubois. ‘The same… You mean, Evelyn Steinbeck? The dead man's heiress?'

Dubois nodded. ‘Oksana had a chance like all of us to see her go in here. She must have made up that excuse of being so scared about talk of death and murder to be able to leave ahead of the countess and come in here to bribe that bellboy into giving her information.'

Alkmene chewed her lower lip. ‘Or the countess instructed her to do it. I do not understand Russian so I am not sure what she said to her exactly before she left. You?'

Dubois stood staring at the floorboards, deep in thought. She touched his arm. ‘Are you sure the countess sent her to the dressmaker's?'

Dubois shook his head. ‘But if she had instructed her to go here, she would have said something like American actress, or Steinbeck, or hotel, other side of the street. I know enough Russian to have caught her out, I'm sure.'

Alkmene sucked in a breath. ‘So Oksana Matejevna came here of her own accord. Apparently wanting to know more about Evelyn Steinbeck. That makes no sense. If Ms Steinbeck is indeed an American actress, what on earth can a Russian maid want to do with her?'

Dubois shrugged. ‘Communists are everywhere. Maybe Ms Steinbeck came here to get in touch with fellow comrades.'

‘And when her uncle found out about her uh…political disposition and disapproved of it, she pushed him, so he fell on the hearth rim and died?' Alkmene shook her head. ‘That sounds a bit far-fetched to me. I'd like to know who the man is who returned from the dead.'

‘Who?' Dubois's eyes sparked with interest.

Alkmene knew she could only bait him if she dangled the information just out of his reach. ‘I overheard some interesting tidbits at a party I attended earlier this week. That is why I just knew when I read about Mr Norwhich's death in the paper that it was not an accident. He must have been pushed. Maybe the intention wasn't to kill him, but just to make a point? Or it happened in an argument, a flare of temper.'

Dubois held her gaze, waiting for her to go on and explain herself.

Alkmene said cautiously, ‘I suppose you also have your reasons for looking closer?'

Dubois shrugged. ‘I wanted to interview him about his art. He was suspicious of anyone approaching him. At the time I merely thought he was eccentric. But now that he is dead, I wonder if he was afraid.'

Alkmene nodded. ‘He must have been.'

Dubois said softly, ‘But if he was afraid, why did he open the door to his killer?'

Alkmene stared at him. ‘You are certain he let the killer in? So he wasn't all alone in the house that night.'

Dubois shrugged again. ‘The police can question the same people I talked to. I suppose they will then hear the same things.'

‘You questioned people? Who? People in the street perhaps, neighbours or some peddler who was around?'

Dubois grinned. ‘Getting warmer.'

Alkmene tilted her head. ‘Someone saw a man coming to that house on the night of the death. Tall, broad in the shoulders.'

Dubois stood very still. ‘How do you know his physique?'

She shrugged. ‘Because it fits with what I heard at the party. An incident that happened just a few days before Silas Norwhich died. It must be related.' She waited a few moments to sustain the suspense. ‘I can tell you of course, but then I want in on everything you already know.'

She was certain Dubois would jump at this chance, but he laughed softly. ‘That hardly seems like a fair exchange. What can a bit of high society gossip give me?'

‘Not gossip. Facts. But if you feel that way, fine.' She stepped away from him. Why try to work with somebody who had a head full of prejudice about her class and probably also her sex?

She added, ‘You had other things to do, you said? Good day then, Mr Dubois.' She turned on her heel.

His demanding voice halted her. ‘When will I get my handkerchief back?'

Alkmene stood, not looking back at him. Upon returning his handkerchief, she might get another chance to convince him that what she knew was valuable. That he had to share what he knew and they might put two and two together. She wouldn't give up so easily on this chance to investigate a real-life case of suspicious circumstances around a violent death. ‘Where can I reach you?'

‘I have hired rooms on Meade Street. In case you do not know it…'

Before he could infer she didn't know a street on the East End, Alkmene held up a hand. ‘Isn't that where that undertaker used his coffins to smuggle two escaped prisoners right through a police barricade?'

Dubois grinned at her. ‘A sergeant who had been giving me some trouble about a piece I wrote got suspended because of it.'

Alkmene tilted her head. ‘Of course you wouldn't have known one thing about it.'

‘Only
after
the fact. Had I known before, that would have made me an accomplice.'

Alkmene laughed. ‘Somehow, Mr Dubois, I don't think you would mind.'

She walked to the exit, calling over her shoulder, ‘I will be in touch when I'm done with those tea stains.'

Chapter Four

‘By George,' Alkmene exclaimed.

Sweat beaded on her forehead from the heat rising from the hot water in front of her.

It was Cook's day off, so Alkmene had her realm – the kitchen and pantry – all to herself. She had come in humming, assured that she'd have this little thing settled in no time. Green soap cleaned anything, after all.

But the green soap had just left ugly rims around the tea stains. So she had thrown the whole thing into hot water mixed with soda, and then put it on the washing board to work it with the pig hair brush Cook used to clean the sink.

Dubois had probably envisioned that some muscle was needed to get it clean and had smirked at her because of it.

But he had no idea how strong she really was.

Working the washboard like it was the arrogant Dubois underneath her hands, instead of merely his innocent handkerchief, Alkmene pushed on with gritted teeth, until she believed it should have worked.

And indeed, when lifting the brush, she found the stains were gone.

So was most of the fabric.

Suppressing something stronger than
by George!
Alkmene lifted the handkerchief to the light flooding in through the large window. She could see right through some sections.

Either Dubois bought a cheap variety of linen, or she knew even less of laundry doing than he had tauntingly suggested.

Mopping the sweat off her brow with her sleeve, Alkmene surveyed what was now best called a rag. Her reputation was on the line here. She'd never admit to that arrogant reporter that she had ruined his property. He'd never stop laughing at her.

No. There was only one solution.

Find an exact duplicate and pass it off as the old one.

With the soggy handkerchief remains in her purse, Alkmene made for the man's attire store where her father was a regular and well-respected customer.

Normally the walk, the traffic around her, the nannies pushing prams with babies and calling out to naughty toddlers, would clear her mind and give her a brisk energy for the day, but now she was just anxious to find her replacement and ensure she'd suffer no loss of face.

Once inside the store, she asked the clerk if she could speak to him in the back room about a delicate matter.

Thinking she had some complaint to make about her father's purchases there, the anxious man immediately led her into privacy, where she produced the remains of her laundry experiment and explained she needed to have the exact same thing. ‘But it cannot look too new, you understand, or the
whole scheme will be obvious.'

The clerk frowned at her. ‘So you want a new handkerchief that looks…used.'

He uttered the last word as if it was absolute horror to him, but Alkmene nodded enthusiastically. ‘Exactly. I will be back tomorrow to pick it up. You can keep this as specimen of what it should be. And please remember: my father is a very satisfied customer and he wants to stay that way.'

The clerk took this statement for the subtle threat it was meant to be and accompanied her to the door, all the way shaking his head and muttering to himself.

Alkmene was glad Michaelmas was still a long way off and her father would never hear a thing about this. It wouldn't bode well for her if he got round to asking why she brought in ruined gentleman's handkerchiefs that were clearly not his.

In the street Alkmene sighed with relief.

‘Shopping?' a voice said behind her back, and she almost jumped two feet off the pavement. ‘Oh, uh…'

The flush raging into her cheeks made her even madder than Dubois's stealthy approach. ‘Do you always scare ladies in the street?'

‘Always,' Dubois said with a twinkle in his eye. He surveyed the front of the store as if he knew what she had been doing in there.

Alkmene started to walk away from it as fast as she could. ‘My father needed a few new buttons.'

‘I heard he is in India.'

‘Yes, but he is very specific about his buttons. He wants them shipped out to him from here.'

‘By the time those buttons reach him he must be on his way back here,' Dubois mused, walking by her side with his hands folded on his back. He wore a grey suit this time, as if he wanted to blend in with the city surroundings.

Perhaps he was out stalking someone? She had heard reporters did that sometimes to get a story.

Alkmene cursed the coincidence that had made him pass the very instant she came from that store, but tried to appear calm. ‘I have no idea when he will be back. If he hears about some hitherto unknown valley, he will put together an expedition on the spot to travel there and find new plants. My father is eccentric that way.'

‘I suppose he can afford to waste his money.'

Alkmene adjusted her shoulder bag and glanced up at him. ‘Perhaps you think this tinge of bitterness is fashionable, Mr Dubois?'

‘Is it not true? Has your father really worked one single day in his life? I mean, has he driven a cart, chopped wood, gotten coal out of a mine? Has he delivered beer or vegetables, shown people to their seats, swept pavements or cleaned chimneys?'

‘Should he have?' Alkmene retorted. She was familiar with the prejudice against her class and usually it didn't bother her, as she supposed those people were merely jealous of something they wanted to have themselves and had not. But there seemed to be more to Mr Dubois's quiet questioning.

Dubois tilted his head. ‘I think it is very good for any person, man or woman, to work with their hands to make a living. It shows you how tough life can be when you have none of those privileges given at birth, simply passed on with a last name, without being deserved, or earned.'

His words hit a sore spot as she had asked herself on occasion what of her wealth and reputation was
earned, by her own endeavours, and not merely a nice gift handed out at her birth. It did seem important to feel accomplished. To do meaningful things in life.

But she merely said, sharply, ‘You are an anarchist.'

Dubois laughed softly, a warm throaty sound. ‘No, I suppose that one does need government and a monarch is just as well as any other form. They all cost money, you know. I am talking about the peerage. All those men who have titles because that is just the way it is. Their children…' He glanced at her pointedly.

Alkmene wanted to open her mouth to say that she was not some overprivileged snob who didn't know what to do with her hands, but her recent laundry disaster made her reconsider. It was true that if the servants left her to herself, in that big house, there would probably be more ruined things than one fine handkerchief.

She stared ahead with an angry frown.

Dubois laughed again. ‘Not even a sharp retort, Lady Alkmene? Simply ignoring the poor peasant who doesn't understand your position?'