A family of secrets…

After hearing about the vicious murder of her relation, Lord Winters, Lady Alkmene is intrigued to find out that the cat burglar found standing over his body, the safe emptied of jewels, might not be the murderer after all…

Reporter Jake Dubois believes an innocent man has been imprisoned and turns to Lady Alkmene to assist him in uncovering the truth and finding the real killer – who might just be one of Winters’ own family.

This mystery will test Lady Alkmene to the limit. As she and Jake delve into family secrets, Lady Alkmene isn’t sure who she can trust or who is telling the truth. And even the connection between them might not be enough to save Lady Alkmene from becoming the next murdered victim in search of the diamonds of death…

Available from Vivian Conroy

A Lady Alkmene Callender Mystery series

A Proposal to Die For

Diamonds of Death

Deadly Treasures

Diamonds of Death

Vivian Conroy

Copyright

HQ

An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd.

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

First published in Great Britain by HQ in 2016

Copyright © Vivian Conroy 2016

Vivian Conroy asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

E-book Edition © October 2016 ISBN: 9780008205171

Version date: 2018-06-27

VIVIAN CONROY

discovered Agatha Christie at thirteen and quickly devoured all the Poirot and Miss Marple stories. Over time Lord Peter Wimsey and Brother Cadfael joined her favourite sleuths. Even more fun than reading was thinking up her own fog-filled alleys, missing heirs and priceless artefacts. So Vivian created feisty Lady Alkmene and enigmatic reporter Jake Dubois sleuthing in 1920s’ London and the countryside, first appearing in A Proposal to Die For. For the latest on #LadyAlkmene, with a dash of dogs and chocolate, follow Vivian on Twitter via @VivWrites

Thanks to all editors, agents and authors who share insights into the writing and publishing process.

A special thanks to my editor Victoria Oundjian for her enthusiasm for Lady Alkmene’s adventures

and to the design team for the lovely cover.

Note

Writing mysteries set in the 1920s, I’m grateful for all online information – think dress, transportation, etiquette and much more – to ensure an authentic period feel. Still, Lady Alkmene’s world remains fictional, including street addresses, establishments, country houses and even entire villages of my invention.

Contents

Cover

Blurb

Book List

Title Page

Copyright

Author Bio

Acknowledgements

Note

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Excerpt

Endpages

About the Publisher

Chapter One

It was madness to do this on a night with a full moon.

But then you had to be a little mad to do this work to begin with.

The man, all dressed in black, looked up the manor’s forbidding facade, his eyes slowly travelling over every ledge, protrusion and other irregularity that could offer a hold to his nimble hands and feet. He had studied the facade before, was familiar with its possibilities, but he always liked to take a moment and plan the route ahead, see it in his mind as clearly as he could.

Although there was always the issue of time and the danger of discovery, he liked to be thorough. He had learned early on in his career that rushing in only led to trouble.

And trouble was the last thing he needed on this all-important night.

From the trees in the distance an eerie call resounded, sending a shiver up his spine. It was only an owl, but as a city person he thoroughly disliked animals and the risk they posed in his profession. Once, climbing a front in the city, a pigeon had popped out of a hole, almost making him lose his footing and fall, backwards, ten feet down on the unforgiving pavement. That could have been the end of his career. Of his freedom even – as he would have been discovered for what he was and taken into custody.

But he had survived the pigeon’s surprise attack, and tonight he’d survive whatever was waiting for him on his ascent. It could be bats, or it might even be a guard dog as soon as he stepped through the window. But he was prepared for anything. The loot lured him like it had a scent that he could detect on the air. Already he saw the precious stones, reflecting the light with their carefully honed facets, glittering as if there was fire inside of them. For all of his life he had followed the call of the stones, and the most desirable ones were calling for him tonight. Up there.

His eyes had reached the window that was his destination, and he nodded to himself. The route was the same as he had planned it in his head on his way out here. He had come by train, had walked the stretch out to the manor. It paid to stay out of sight, not be remembered by the make of a car, by a stay in an inn where a nosy innkeeper had taken too close a look at your face. Strangers were always noticed in the countryside.

But in his old dishevelled clothes, with the bottle in his hand, staggering through the fields along dirt tracks suited better to deer than to men, he was just a vagabond that nobody would remember. As soon as the job was done and he’d left the area, he’d turn into his own self again, a far cry from such a pitiful wanderer.

He laughed softly to himself, then sobered to rub his hands. They had to be completely dry to have the best grip.

He cast a look around him, listening for any sound that indicated disturbance.

But there was nothing but the rush of water from the fountain on the lawn.

He put his hands on the stone and began the climb. It was his luck that the house had a pillar on each side beside the steps leading to the front door. These huge pillars were worked into the house’s construction by decorated stony elements that led upwards like rungs of a ladder. If this was your specialty, it was as easy as walking up the stairs in your own home.

Nevertheless he took his time, knowing this was the ideal hour for the thief. People had fallen soundly asleep and were far away, especially if they had enjoyed a drink or two after dinner. He knew the master of this house liked his liquor. He was a widower, so no wife there who might be a light sleeper and who might hear something and prod her husband into action.

The eldest son’s pretty little high-strung wife took laudanum and would not wake either.

The younger son had left the house during the evening, shouting and cursing his father’s name, riding his horse to the local inn. He would not be back before eleven in the morning, and then only if they rode him out on a cart, with the horse being led behind it.

Like any rich man, this house owner had plenty of servants, but those sampled the remains of the meal and the draughts left in the pitchers after wealthy guests had been around.

And this had been an evening full of wealthy guests. He had seen all of them leave, group by group talking, laughing, getting into cars and carriages, reflecting their luxury taste, or by contrast a strict, almost fanatic adherence to the old country ways.

He had watched and grinned as he recognized those who had earlier been the victim of one of his jobs. How they had enjoyed the evening air, waving goodbye to each other, unaware of the man who had robbed them standing so close, waiting to strike again.

Perhaps they had even discussed it over dinner, how sad it was that such crimes had become more common and the police did nothing to prevent them or solve the crime once it had been committed.

The police…

He snarled at the thought of those self-satisfied inspectors, the sergeants desperate for a jump up the ladder, the constables who only cared for keeping their jobs and feeding the kids at home. He liked the latter best, could understand their position. It was work to them, an honest job to keep the family alive and well. He would never do anything to hurt a constable.

But the higher ones with the over-confidence in their abilities, their talents, their intuition, he liked to taunt them, tease them, make them look the fool, as he broke into place after place and left them scratching their heads wondering how on earth he had done it.

He even knew of two instances where the police had arrested someone from the staff, claiming it had to have been an inside job, as there had been no signs of any break-in.

Like he needed to break in!

For a moment he frowned, thinking of those people who had been arrested innocently and dragged through the police courts to the shock and horror of their fellow staff members and their families. Neither had been convicted, fortunately. If it had come to that, he would have fessed up, made sure no innocent man suffered from his doings. The police had chosen the easy way out going for the inside job. Because they could not believe that a man could scale a wall like a fly and enter a house without leaving traces.

Oh, there were always traces, he bet, for the eye that looked in the right places. But those police people were so full of themselves that they forgot to look. Even if they looked, they did not see. They did not understand what it meant.

He put his hands on the stony balcony edge and pulled himself over it in one smooth movement. His physical strength was one of his biggest assets, jealously guarded by exercise and the right food: lots of meat and eggs and milk. He could not afford to lose one bit of muscle power and take a tumble.

He picked thin black leather gloves from his pocket and put them on. In the past he had not bothered much with those, but Scotland Yard was investing serious time and effort in their fingerprint division and what had started off as something quite laughable, had actually led to the solution of major cases. Any criminal with a bit of a brain wore gloves these days and although he was certain his prints were not on record, yet, he had no wish for them to ever be so.

He smiled to himself as he studied the window that was ajar. The new ideas about health made everything so easy for the crook. Sleep with the window open, leave the window open a crack for the condition of your books. Dampness creates illness, begets mould. Oh, he only applauded doctors who wrote pieces in the medical journals saying that. They said a lot of things he did not care for, but opening windows was a good idea.

He put a gloved hand on the window frame and felt downward, searching for the latch. Sure enough it was an easy construction. People rarely secured windows in a higher floor with the same precision they used downstairs. There they had blinds or locks, or even – if they were really careful – bars. But higher up they believed nothing could reach the windows but winged creatures that did no harm.

The window opened, and he stepped in, taking care to stand for a few moments and let his eyes adjust to the pitch-black darkness inside. Some moonlight came in through the window and lifted the worst of the gloom, and he could make out the silhouettes of furniture: the bookcases along the wall, the standing clock between them, then the leather chairs at the fireplace. The huge desk to his right, with the lamp on top. He could not see the lamp, but he knew it was there from his visit.

He smiled to himself. It always paid to know the territory well in advance. He rubbed his hands again, a habit as the gloves did not get sweaty. But he would never forget to make sure his hands were utterly dry as that determined the difference between life and death.

He took a step towards the desk.

His foot made contact with something bulky and heavy on the floor, and he stumbled over it. He tried to regain his balance by waving his arm in the air and putting his other foot some place. But it also hit the bulk and he fell forwards, half over it.

Cursing under his breath, he broke his fall with his hands. He was lying half on top of the thing, which had not been there during his visit. It felt almost like a sack of flour.

His gloved hands examined it, finding a round corner… It was warm and sort of soft and…

With a cry he straightened himself, inching back. The thing was…alive.

Or rather not. It had been alive, but it was no longer.

He sucked in a breath as he realized what he had just fallen on top of.

A dead body.

His mind whirled. As he meticulously prepared each aspect of a job, he was always taken aback by change. He was especially taken aback by the panic that washed through him at the realization he was in a room with a dead person.

He wanted to force himself to stay calm and focus on the stones, but for a few moments he could not even hear their call over the pounding of his blood in his ears.

Then he clenched his hands into fists and regulated his breathing. He held his head back into his neck and stared up at the stuccoed ceiling. He counted to fifty, and then the panic had vanished and his mind was crystal clear again.

He pulled a lighter from his pocket and switched it on. He did not use it to peruse the dead body. He did not care who it was or what it was doing here. He used the light to look at the painting that hid the safe.

The painting was swung outwards, and the safe behind it was in full view. It was open.

He groaned.

He made for it with hasty steps, his eyes on it with a desperate insistence that it could not be the way he believed it was.

But it was that way.

The safe was empty. The stones that had been here for the taking were gone.

Taken already, by another who had left the dead body in his wake.

He turned and knelt beside the body. Despite his better judgement he had to make sure that this man did not have the stones on him. He reached into the pockets of the dead man’s jacket, even patted his chest and sides to feel for any unusual protrusion.

Nothing.

The door into the room was flung open, and light flooded over him as somebody turned the switch at the door. The butler, blinking with his red-rimmed eyes, stood staring at him. ‘Lord Winters?’ Then he caught sight of the body and gasped.

Someone pushed past him into the room. A tall dark woman raising her hands to her face. But instead of the piercing scream he expected, and perhaps a collapse into a dead faint, she looked straight at him and said, ‘He killed him! Look, his gloves are full of blood.’

He looked down and saw the dark stains on his gloves. That had to have happened when he stumbled onto the body and fell across it.

He opened his mouth to protest, deny, proclaim his innocence, but there was no time as more men came into the room, hauling him to his feet and pulling his arms behind his back. They were all shouting something different, but their general feeling was clear enough. He was a killer and he had to be handed over to the police as soon as possible.

Ironic.

Now the Scotland Yard fingerprint division would get his prints anyway.

Chapter Two

Lady Alkmene Callender pulled the dark brown hat with the sequinned band over her hair and looked in the tall standing mirror. She tilted her head to the right and then to the left, admiring the reflection of the light on the sequins. Still, dark brown had never been her favourite colour. ‘Is the same hat available in blue?’ she asked, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear so she could see her new earring.

‘I think you should just be wild and splash out on the one with the ostrich feathers,’ her friend Denise Hargrove said, pointing at the black hat with the fan of feathers attached to the back. ‘Your father will only find out about it when he is back from his trip, if he even finds out about it. I doubt he will go through all the bills accumulated over months.’

‘You don’t know my father,’ Alkmene said, pulling the dark brown hat off her hair and resting it on her hand. ‘One of his great joys in life is sitting down to check the bills and trying to find one little detail that is not in order. Like too much money paid for fish for a dinner or a mention of pineapple while he is sure that we never ate any since New Year’s Eve.’

‘If he has been away for months, how can he know what you ate?’ Denise asked with a hitched brow.

‘Oh, before he leaves, he hands out strict instructions to all the staff to run the household as frugally as possible in his absence. I am to be fed on nothing more extravagant than soup, meat with vegetables and a fruit dessert of the indigenous variety. Pineapple is out of the question, and so are hats with ostrich feathers.’

‘I am glad to hear it,’ an ironic voice said behind her back.

Alkmene spun on her heel to meet the speaker’s inquisitive gaze. Since her adventure with Jake Dubois in Dartmoor looking for a missing heir and a cold-blooded killer, she had only seen him once, during a charity luncheon where she was representing her father, who was one of the charity’s patrons. Dubois had covered the event for his paper. He had barely acknowledged her, as he had been busy following an actress around who had become interested in the charity recently and was contemplating staging a play to benefit it.

Feeling thoroughly ignored, Alkmene had decided she did not want to see Dubois any time soon, and now seeing him perusing her hatless persona in what was supposed to be man-free territory, goaded her to no end.

‘Here to buy a hat for your sister?’ she asked sweetly.

Jake opened his mouth as if to ask since when she believed he had a sister, but then he noticed Denise’s wide-eyed interest in him and said meekly, ‘Just handed in the order at the desk. I would like to speak to you if it is at all possible. It is about…’

‘Phalaktae pelopenosensis,’ Alkmene said with a charming little smile. ‘Father will be so delighted that you managed to solve the mystery of its origin. I will write your results to him this afternoon. Denise, I am so sorry, but I have to run.’

She leaned over and gave her friend two air kisses, hovering before each cheek, so as not to disturb her make-up. Then she waved a hand and ran out of the store, Dubois in tow.

‘Phalaktae what?’ he asked outside.

‘Oh, I have no idea. I only made it sound like some Latin plant name. Denise knows next to nothing about green stuff, whether it is in the wild, in her garden or happens to lie on her plate. She will surely find some other friend she can force into buying the hat with the ostrich feathers so she can borrow it from said friend whenever she feels like it.’

‘Not as wealthy as you are?’ Jake asked cynically.

Alkmene smiled. ‘On the contrary. In theory Denise has more money than I will ever have. She is the daughter of Hargrove, the oil magnate, who is also dabbling in aviation.’

‘Ah. But what do you mean “in theory she has more money”?’ Jake asked, falling into step with her, his hands folded on his back.

‘Well, at the moment she is his only daughter, so she stands to inherit it all. But he is about to change that fact, having married a much younger woman who can no doubt bear him a male heir for all of his fortune. In that case Denise will probably be forced to marry a rich man to have any money to spend.’

She batted her lashes at him. ‘I thought you knew how that worked.’

Jake shook his head but said nothing.

Alkmene swung her arms energetically. Suddenly she halted, grabbing for her head. ‘Oh, dear, now I have left my own hat in the store and…’

‘You can go back for it later. I want to talk to you about a friend of mine.’

He sounded rather insistent, so she could hardly say no. Alkmene sighed. ‘If I don’t go back now, Denise will take my hat home with her and I will be obliged to go visit her to get it back. She is not so bad, but her stepmother is. She is always asking these rather awkward questions about my ancestors. About duels and stuff, you know.’

Jake grinned. ‘Madness in the family, by any chance?’

Alkmene cringed. Jake had no idea what a sore spot he touched with that casual remark. She said quickly, ‘Talk about your friend now, will you?’

He sobered at once and stared ahead. ‘Perhaps you have read about it in the newspapers?’

Alkmene tilted her head. ‘Let’s see. If it was an engagement, I might have read it, but I don’t recall it, because engagements never stick with me unless they are unconventional, but when they are, they are usually not announced in the papers but handled rather secretly because the family feels mortified. Now if it was business-related, a new venture in something adventurous…’

Jake halted her with a hand gesture. ‘Robbery gone wrong.’

Alkmene frowned. ‘I did read something about a theft outside a theatre, a gnarled figure taking off with a lady’s purse. Isn’t he the same one who robbed ladies earlier this year but then outside the church of St Mary of the Humble Heart? Did they not call him the hunchback of the Notre Dame then to make it more sensationalistic?’

‘Could be, but that’s not the one. I mean the robbery gone wrong at Lord Winters’ estate.’

Alkmene froze. Right on top of the remark about madness in the family this was very awkward indeed. She said slowly. ‘Lord Winters, who has returned from India after his father died? The one who is said to have…killed his wife while he was there.’

She knew full well there was only one Lord Winters and this was the one. But his untimely demise at the hands of a burglar was one violent death she had no intention of getting involved with. It hit too close to home.

Jake sighed impatiently. ‘If they claim he killed his wife in India, it is probably high society gossip. I am talking about the very real robbery in his country estate that turned sour.’

Alkmene frowned as if she had dredged it up from her memory. In reality the newspaper article had shocked her to the core. Winters dead, in exactly the same way as his late wife. The one he was rumoured to have murdered. It could not be a coincidence. ‘Oh, you mean the burglar who was caught standing over the dead body? The piece mentioned as an aside that this man is suspected of having perpetrated various daring robberies over the years, but he had never been caught. Until now.’

‘One of the finest professionals in his trade,’ Jake said.

Alkmene shook her head. ‘How professional can he be when he gets caught red-handed? And with a dead body at his feet too.’ She clicked her tongue.

Then she glanced at Jake. ‘You knew he was also behind the other robberies? I mean, you suspected him earlier? Did you write pieces on the earlier robberies perhaps, and had a hunch he was involved?’

Jake shook his head. ‘I knew he had committed those robberies. They were all trademark crimes.’

‘Trademark?’

Jake gestured with both hands. ‘Bearing certain identifying traits that mark them as his, like a signature underneath a document. But the police are too stupid to see it. In two cases they even arrested a servant as the culprit, because, and I quote, it was impossible to commit the crime from outside the house. But that is right what Mac did.’

Alkmene whistled. ‘Impressive. Never once caught and now like this. Kind of sour. But I guess when you stoop to murder, you do deserve to get caught, no matter how wonderful an artist you are.’

She glanced at him again. ‘Will you cover the trial?’ There was a chance then Anne Winters might come to London for it. She could probably avoid no longer what she had avoided before. But where a meeting with her cousin would have been rather painful in the past, it would now be even more so.

Jake shrugged. ‘Maybe. Right now I am more concerned with proving Mac’s innocence.’

‘Innocence?’ Alkmene’s mind recalled the details she had gleaned from the newspaper coverage. ‘I thought he was caught inside the estate in question? The safe in the room was open and the stones missing, a fortune in diamonds Lord Winters had brought with him from India.’ The infamous gems that had featured in the murder of the wife also.

Jake nodded. ‘Oh, Mac was there all right to steal the stones. But somebody had gotten to them before him and had killed Winters.’

‘You mean…he found Winters dead in the room and his intended loot gone?’

‘That is right.’ Jake looked at her. ‘They caught him on the spot, but not a trace of the stones either on his person or outside. He had not dropped them out of the window or anything. They looked everywhere in the garden.’

Alkmene frowned. ‘So there might be something to his story that he found the dead body after the real thief had left with the stones. Did they look elsewhere in the house for them? Among the servants, the family members, any guests that were staying there?’ Her thoughts raced.

Jake laughed. ‘Of course not. Like the police always do, they jumped to a conclusion. Burglar caught on the scene. Must be the killer. Where the stones are? Who cares? Lord Winters is dead, and this man can swing for it. Nice and neat, tied up with a red ribbon around it, open and shut from day one.’

Alkmene rubbed her nose. ‘But you do not believe that?’

‘Look, I have known Mac for years. He is a thief, yes, a master cat burglar – one of the finest in his art. But he is not a killer.’

Alkmene tilted her head. ‘Not even when he was caught out, cornered, when the victim stood between him and freedom? Would he not kill to ensure he could get away and not end up in prison? Most people would do a lot to avoid prison. And on the spur of the moment he might have grabbed something off the desk and struck out with it.’

Jake was silent.

Alkmene studied his profile. ‘You are not one hundred per cent sure he is innocent, are you?’

Jake sighed. ‘Mac loves his freedom. I doubt he will do well in jail. I cannot be sure he would not strike out, if cornered, just to get away. But if he tells me he did not kill Lord Winters, I believe him. I have to.’ He glanced at Alkmene. ‘Mac saved my life once. I owe him.’

Alkmene held his gaze, waiting for him to tell her more about it. But Jake merely said, ‘Acting on Mac’s behalf I have to start from the assumption that everything he told me is true and ferret out what really happened that night from there.’

Alkmene shook her head. ‘You can’t just mention in passing how this man Mac saved your life and then expect me to accept it and move on.’

Jake sighed. He walked a few moments in silence, then he said, ‘I told you before that back in Paris I looked into a crime ring called the Accountants.’

‘They stole from people who had themselves stolen these things.’

‘Right. Mac did a job for them on the Riviera. It was his favourite haunt: rich people, flaunting their wealth, acting carelessly. He wasn’t quite as professional then as he later became and he made a mistake one night and got arrested. Before he was at the police station, the car had to stop for a group of drunken men. Turned out they were hardly drunken and overpowered the policemen, cuffing them with their own cuffs and leaving them in the street. They took Mac with them and told him he could go free if he did a job for them. He did.’

Alkmene hitched a brow. ‘Original way of enlisting somebody’s services. But what does this have to do with you?’

‘Later when I was undercover with the Accountants, I met Mac. He was suspicious of me, thinking I was not quite what I pretended to be. When he overheard some of the men saying that they distrusted me and wanted to set a trap to get rid of me, he warned me. I was able to escape. I would certainly not have been the first journalist to be found dead in a back alley because of some story he had gotten too close to. Or the last. So I owe Mac my life.’

Jake took a deep breath. ‘What I learned about his character then is that he does steal from people, but he can’t stand violence, especially killing. Warning me meant I would get away with my story and might have exposed them all, including Mac. It was not in his own interest to save me. Still he did. That pushes me now to look beyond the scenario the police have jumped at. It is too easy to just assume Mac killed Lord Winters to get away.’

Alkmene nodded. ‘Makes perfect sense to me. So you have taken up his case? You intend to prove that somebody else did it? That might be quite difficult. I suppose the family is happy enough with the assumption the burglar did it.’

Jake nodded. ‘Yes. For more than one reason.’

Alkmene perked up at his tone. ‘Oh. What can that be?’

Jake halted and faced her squarely. ‘It is more than just a gut feeling, Alkmene. More than a belief in an old friend. I would have taken up his defence just based on my assumption that he would never kill someone, but I have more than that. An actual lead to another person who is probably the killer.’

‘How did you find a lead so fast?’

‘It came from Mac himself. I went to see him in his cell. He told me that he didn’t pick the Winters estate just because he had heard there were diamonds there. He had been alerted to the job, the possibilities. I think one may safely say he had been hired to do it.’

‘What?’ Alkmene leaned over to him. ‘Someone hired your friend to steal those diamonds? And then deliver them to him?’

Jake nodded. ‘And not just anybody. A member of the family.’

Alkmene held her breath.

Jake said, ‘That is why I need you. I have to act fast before the trail turns cold. I need to get inside the Winters household.’

Alkmene held his gaze. She sensed what was going to come. The muscles in her neck pulled tight at the prospect. She had managed to avoid this for a long time. Now all of a sudden she would have to make a new decision about it. A decision that might affect a man’s life. The life of the cat burglar whom Jake called a friend.

Jake said, ‘Mac told me a few things about the Winters family. I was rather surprised to hear that Lord Winters had been married to your mother’s sister.’

‘Half-sister,’ Alkmene corrected quickly. It was a part of her family history she rather preferred not to be reminded of. Her father’s reticence about the subject suggested trouble she’d better stay away from.

She said carefully, ‘They were not on very good terms with each other, if Father is to be believed. Of course it is all a long time ago. My mother died when I was just four years old. After that contact with Mother’s relatives has been rather irregular.’

She didn’t mention that Anne Winters, the only daughter of her late mother’s half-sister, had written to her several times upon the family’s return to England, asking her to come stay with them at the Winters estate. Alkmene had not quite understood why Anne was seeking her out all of a sudden.

Jake asked, ‘And you never felt the need to figure out if the rumours were true? About your mother’s half-sister being murdered by her husband? I can’t imagine that someone with an analytical mind like you would ignore a murder in her own family. You’d have to make sure whether it was just a tale from fanciful people or the truth.’

‘Maybe I ignored it just because it happened in my own family,’ Alkmene said. She hesitated a moment, wondering if it was wise to tell Dubois any more. His jibe about madness in the family had been far from funny. Rumours didn’t just say that Lord Winters had killed his wife, but also that she had acted quite strangely in the months before her death. That she had perhaps suffered from delusions.

And Anne’s last letter, begging her to come out for a few weeks, had sounded rather…strange as well. It had mentioned how the house made her so depressed – like it was sucking life away from her. That sounded quite fanciful.

‘Well,’ Jake said, ‘either way you are related to Lord Winters and since your father is away from home, and you sort of represent him, it would be expected that you’d call on the family to offer your condolences now that Lord Winters has died a violent death. As the estate is quite isolated, you’d have to stay with them for a few days. Else you will just have to invent a headache, a cold, some ache in your back, which will force you to stay for a few days. You have to get into that household and find out what you can about the possible suspects. Especially about George Winters. He hired Mac to steal the stones.’

Alkmene’s eyes went wide at this revelation. George was Anne’s brother, the youngest of two sons. The eldest, Albert, had upon his father’s death inherited the title and the lands.

She had never met any of these people. To call upon them to offer condolences might be appreciated, but a stay would be considered a little unusual. Then again, as Anne had written to her before asking her to come over for a few days, she could justify that she wanted to stay at least until the funeral. That would give her a few days. The opportunity was there for the taking.

But she was torn about it inside. On the one hand she could already feel the excitement of sleuthing again, like she had after poor Silas Norwhich’s supposedly accidental death that had turned out to be murder. The investigation had given a zest to her life that was normally sadly missing.

In this case she might even learn something about the late Lady Winters who had died far away from home. She had been her own mother’s half-sister. And perhaps she owed it to her mother, and the special bond of blood, to look into the matter.

On the other hand that was exactly why she was unsure. These people were family. Distant family perhaps, family she had never met before, people who were no more to her than names without faces, for whom she had little feeling. Still they were family. And now Jake suggested there was a killer among them.

Not to mention the possibility she’d learn her mother’s half-sister had indeed been mad before she died.

A madness that might have been passed on down the line.

To Anne?

Jake said, ‘You need not be afraid that you will be out there alone, in a house with people who could all be involved. I will be with you.’

‘How?’ Alkmene asked.

‘I will…’ Jake had to brace himself apparently to get the next words out. ‘Pose as your driver.’

Alkmene suppressed a burst of laughter. ‘As my driver?’

Jake looked sour. ‘I can hardly pose as your lady’s maid. I’ve already arranged for a car and given notice at the papers that I am following up on a story out of town and will not be around for a few days, maybe even longer.’

She looked at him. ‘Wait a moment. You already gave notice at the papers? Before you had even talked to me? You just knew for sure I’d agree to do this?’

Jake grinned at her. ‘I figured you’d enjoy some country air. After all, last time we went into the countryside, you shared all these idyllic plans with me to go paint by a brook and see excavation sites and… It didn’t quite turn out that way then, but hey, here is another chance, to do better.’

Alkmene made a slapping motion at him. ‘Cut it out, or I am not coming at all.’

Jake leaned over, his dark eyes sparkling. ‘Oh, you are coming, my lady. If it is murder, wild horses could not keep you away.’

Chapter Three

Alkmene glanced down her all black outfit and sighed. ‘I do feel a little like I am preying on their grief, you know, and this outfit only makes it worse. It turns me into a crow or raven, such a horrendous scavenger.’

Jake laughed softly. ‘Ravens are very intelligent creatures. You should feel flattered by the likeness, not insulted.’

Alkmene released a breath. ‘I am just wondering if it is at all acceptable. Faking a sudden interest in family members you have ignored for decades, just because you have a morbid fascination for murder.’

‘Just because you want to save an innocent man from the gallows.’ Jake kept his gaze on the road ahead, his expression suddenly solemn and tight.

Large oaks hung over the road from both sides, their branches meeting in the middle so they rode through a natural arched gateway leading up to Lord Winters’ estate. The thick foliage blocked the sunshine, and it was dim underneath and damp, the atmosphere even invading their car.

Alkmene shivered a moment. ‘I will keep that in mind, to soothe my conscience.’

Jake glanced at her. ‘I would not have asked you to do this, if I had not been fairly certain Mac is innocent and the killer still at large.’

‘Right. At large in the very house where I will be staying. Fabulous.’

‘We can assume that the killer had a clear motive for wanting to dispose of Lord Winters. He will not suddenly come after you.’

‘Or she,’ Alkmene said. ‘Killers can be female, you know.’

‘Then they use poison,’ Jake said decidedly. ‘They do not bash somebody’s head in with a polo trophy.’

Alkmene exhaled. ‘Perhaps it was a crime committed in anger. Nothing premeditated.’

Jake shrugged. ‘What difference does it make? We need to know who did it, to clear my friend’s name.’

Alkmene nodded. ‘After all of it is over and his name is cleared, I do want to meet him and be treated to all the stories of the robberies he did manage to pull off.’

Jake grunted. ‘I doubt he will want to go public.’

‘I thought he had already gone public.’

‘The police have not released his name, just said that a burglar was apprehended on the scene. As long as we can keep his real name out of it…’

‘His real name?’

‘The police have him under an alias.’ Jake glanced at her. ‘You do not think he is using his real name, right? He has a fake passport and everything. If he manages to get out of this scrape in one piece, he can assume another identity and hit the Riviera again, or some other place.’

‘You condone theft?’

‘No, but I can understand the appeal of the particular thing he steals. Special gems, stones with a story attached.’

Jake caught her eye in the rear-view mirror. ‘Don’t you?’

Alkmene exhaled. ‘Yes, I guess so. There was some story about Lord Winters and some special stones Father told me once. It is years ago and… I have no idea why he suddenly mentioned it to me. He never was in touch much with those relatives.’

Jake glanced at her. ‘You said that Lady Winters was your mother’s half-sister?’

‘Yes.’ Alkmene realized there was no evading this for ever, so she decided to get it over with now. ‘My mother was the daughter of an earl. After the earl’s death her mother fell in love with an army captain. Her family had wanted a much better match for her, but she insisted she loved him. She wasn’t a sixteen-year-old any more that her parents could force into an alliance, so she did what she wanted and they married. They had three more children, one of whom was the woman who eventually married Lord Winters in India. My mother’s half-sister.’

‘In India?’ Jake asked. ‘Not here?’

Alkmene shook her head. ‘As far as I understand it, the captain was engaged in India for most of his career. No active duty on the battlefield, but being an aide, doing correspondence. The more diplomatic end of things, so to speak. His children were all raised there and married there as well. I think Father mentioned in passing that Lord Winters was quite a good catch.’

No doubt he had only emphasized it to goad her into bringing home a titled man as well. So far the closest she had come to being at ease with a man was with the Honourable Frederick Saltry, Freddie to his friends who were about as manifold as his debts.

Father would hardly think him suitable considering his reputation, and beyond that Alkmene didn’t want to look or think. Being married would mean losing freedom, and one thing she craved was freedom.

Just to take off like she had now and do whatever she wanted to do.

Including pulling Jake into this scrape with her. She did feel better that he would be on the premises, even if he would not exactly be on her level.

She grinned to herself. ‘I can already see you sitting around the kitchen table with the other servants, gossiping about me.’

‘Gossiping?’ Jake echoed.

‘Oh, yes, you have to complain about me, my eccentric ways… That will surely make the others feel sympathy for you. They will share their bit about their masters, providing you with exactly the kind of information you need.’

‘Your eccentric ways?’ Jake asked.

Alkmene shrugged. ‘You can make something up. Be resourceful.’

‘That will be the only part I’ll enjoy,’ Jake groused.

Alkmene stared ahead, folding her hands in her lap. ‘You know how staff know everything that goes on in a house. Who doesn’t like whom, what quarrels there were shortly before the master died. What ways he had, how he kept the stones. Who went to bed early that night or stayed up, scurrying about claiming to have a sleepless night. You know how servants are. They peek and listen and get into cabinets where they are not supposed to go. If caught out, they act like they are contrite about it, but in fact they are gloating and can’t wait to tell their fellows about it. I bet if you would just dump your pride and sit with them in the kitchen at night, you’d scoop up your worthwhile tidbits by the dozens…’

‘Enough,’ Jake said tightly. ‘You are laying it on too thick.’

Alkmene bit her lip, hoping she had not really overdone it. She knew someone fiercely proud and independent like Jake would rather eat his hat than pose as a servant, but it was true that very valuable information could only be gleaned that way. The servants would never confide in her: a titled woman who had never shown her face at the estate before. They would gossip about her, all right, but they would never tell her a thing.

Jake sighed. ‘I am only doing this because I have to, remember. For Mac’s sake.’

‘Of course. Good. I will call you Parker. I have always wanted a valet called Parker.’

Jake rolled his eyes. ‘Don’t push me.’

‘Well, I do need a reason to have you around. I will have to claim my health is much weaker than they ever suspected it was. Of course my mother died pretty young of a weak heart, so I might easily convince them I am not very strong either. That I need you to carry things for me, fetch things for me, drive me around, make sure everything is just right for my needs.’

Jake gritted his teeth audibly.

Alkmene laughed out loud. ‘I am sure it will yield something great and you will be happy we did this.’

Jake shook his head slowly. ‘I hope too that we will get the killer, I really do, but even if we do and I can clear a man whom I respect and value, I will never, ever, be happy about this.’

Chapter Four

They whooshed through the entrance gate, seeing the house up ahead bathing in the afternoon sunshine. Alkmene gasped at its austere beauty, the many touches of refined architecture in the garden. The fountain, the sundial. The dove house. She had to explore soon and see it all up close. If she hadn’t come here on such a sad occasion and with a serious mission in mind, she would have been genuinely excited to see this place at last and meet the family she had never known. Her cousins who had grown up in India and who could no doubt share many fascinating stories about life there.

Jake parked the car right in front of the steps. Alkmene opened the door, but he stayed her with a hand on her arm. ‘Remember to get out of the car like you have trouble with it. You can’t dart about like a puppy while claiming to need your driver every step of the way.’

Alkmene acknowledged that he was right and took her time getting out of the car. She put a hand on her back and used the other to shield her eyes as she glanced up at the house’s imposing facade. A lace curtain moved like someone was looking down.

Family member?

Curious servant?

The front door opened, and a butler came down the steps with a solemn expression. ‘Excuse me, but the house is not open for visitors today. We have had a death in the family.’

‘I am aware of that,’ Alkmene said, hiding her surprise that the house had apparently been open to the public previously. Families often decided to do it to collect necessary funds for restoration and upkeep, but she had not realized her own family might be in such a position. As Lord Winters had apparently owned a fortune in diamonds, such a measure would seem unnecessary.

The butler was expecting her to continue and she hastily said, ‘I am Lady Alkmene Callender, the late Lord Winters’ niece from London.’

Niece only by a percentage, but she need not tell that to the butler, she presumed. ‘I have come all the way down here to pay my respects to the family upon Lord Winters’ death.’

The man shot up straight. ‘Of course, Lady Alkmene. Will you be so good as to follow me inside? There is quite a strong wind today, which makes it rather chilly.’ He made an inviting gesture towards the open door.

Alkmene looked at Jake. ‘You can get the bags in, Parker.’

Jake’s jaw set, but he did what he was told without showing any clear signs of rebellion.

Alkmene covered the few yards slowly and with her hand still resting on the small of her back. ‘I do find travelling so very exerting,’ she said to nobody in particular, but surely the butler would be all ears. If a hitherto unknown member of a family showed up, it was usually a momentous occasion for the staff. Who was this? What were they doing here? She had no doubt they would assume her arrival was associated with a will somewhere that might benefit her.

She did feel like a scavenger again.

Inside the cool hallway she looked with admiration at the oil paintings, the mounted deer, the hunting rifles casually hung upon the far wall and over the stairs. The house breathed a true country atmosphere.

The door to her left opened, and a strikingly beautiful tall dark woman came out. ‘What is this?’ she asked in a deep, slightly throaty voice. ‘I told you we would not allow visitors in this week.’

‘Excuse me, my lady.’ The butler bowed his head. ‘This is the late Lord Winters’ niece. Lady Alkmene Callender.’

Alkmene flashed her brightest smile, then remembered she was here because of a death, and wiped the smile away again. She said demurely, ‘I read about Lord Winters’ death in the paper and felt it pertinent to travel here at once to pay my respects to his children. Especially to Anne, who wrote to me several times since your return to England.’

The woman seemed insecure a moment as if she wasn’t certain what to say or do next. Apparently she had not known about Anne’s letters. She glanced at Jake and the bags he was carrying. ‘You intend to stay here?’

It sounded cold and hostile, as if that was the worst plan Alkmene could ever have come up with.

Alkmene resisted smiling too wide again to cover up for the rudeness of this intrusion and said, ‘I came all the way from London. Quite a tiring journey. I intend to stay for a few days and enjoy the country air. So very good for the lungs, you know.’

The woman’s eyes flashed, but she gestured at the butler. ‘Have rooms prepared at once. Lady Alkmene can have the blue room.’

The butler’s eyes went wide. ‘But my lady… The blue room is… Was…’

She waved her hand again. ‘Do as I tell you.’ And to Alkmene she said, ‘Come in. You must wish to have some tea.’

She turned back into the room she had come from, calling over her shoulder at the butler, ‘Have Ms Deeds bring tea and sandwiches at once.’

Alkmene nodded at Jake. ‘You can put the bags in the blue room, Parker. Then you may move the car. The butler can tell you where to put it.’ With a careless, dismissive hand gesture, she entered the room.

It was large with golden curtains, several delicate cherrywood chairs, a desk with inlaid ivory and a large piano with music on top of it. The woman walked over and sat down. She ran her fingers across the keys producing a soft haunting tune.

Alkmene stood listening for a few moments, then seated herself in a chair. She had not been invited to, but then her back was really a little stiff from the long ride and her hostess didn’t seem intent on inviting her to sit at all.

She frowned. The woman’s behaviour was very odd. One moment she was in total command, acting like she ruled the household; the next moment her behaviour changed and she seemed insecure, as if she was only present on the scene by mistake and had no part at all in playing hostess to the sudden visitors.

There was the sound of hoof beats outside and as Alkmene looked out of the window, she saw a tall attractive young man on a black horse racing across the lawn. As he came from the shadows into the sunlight, he threw his head back as if he wanted to feel the sun’s warmth on his face. Could this be George, the younger of the two sons?

He halted in front of the house and dismounted, throwing the reins carelessly to a stable boy who had come running at the sound of his approach.

‘Helena! Helena!’ Bellowing as if he was calling for his dog, the handsome man ascended the steps in front of the house, banged the front door open, then shut, and entered the room where Alkmene sat. He only had eyes for the woman at the piano. He called, ‘The police keep saying the burglar did not have the stones on him. But that is impossible.’

Alkmene froze at the mention of the stones. Jake had said his friend Mac had been hired by George Winters to steal the stones. What on earth could George have intended with that action?

And had this woman been in on it? Was she George’s wife?

Alkmene could not recall whether George had married but then she might have missed the announcement.

At the sudden entrance the woman had stopped playing, rising abruptly. The look on her face made the new arrival fall silent. He followed the direction of her warning gaze and saw Alkmene. She smiled up at him, not bothering to rise. ‘Good afternoon. I am Lady Alkmene Callender, the late Lord Winters’ niece.’

‘I know no one by that name. Get going.’ He gestured at the woman. ‘Come with me. We have to talk.’

The woman flushed. ‘George, please, don’t be so rude. This is really your father’s niece.’

George stood, his feet planted apart, surveying Alkmene with his deep set dark eyes. ‘So what?’ he asked at last. ‘My father is dead, and I don’t care for any niece of his. You sure never bothered to come here before.’

Alkmene blinked at the blunt statement, at the same time acknowledging it was true. Anne had written to her, and she had simply ignored the letters, not really sure what to do with them. Maybe George knew that Anne had written and never received a reply?

Or this rudeness could just be George’s way of dealing with his father’s violent death.

‘My father is away in India,’ she said hurriedly, intending to use his absence as some sort of an excuse, but the young man grabbed at his head, saying, ‘I don’t want to hear anything about that accursed place. That is where it all began, that…’

He looked at the woman, his expression suddenly vaguely panicky. ‘We really have to talk.’

The woman smiled at him and spoke in a slow, soothing tone as if to a child, ‘Of course we will. Please excuse me, Lady Alkmene. I will be back as soon as I can.’

She left the room together with the impetuous young man.

Now at least she had met two family members. Alkmene wished Father had told her more about family relations, but realizing in the same thought that if Father had any idea of what she was doing here, he would be appalled. He had carefully kept from her what exactly had happened to her aunt. There had to be some reason for it.

Nothing good.

Alkmene shifted her weight uncomfortably. Perhaps it was her own pressing awareness of duplicity in coming here. But there seemed to be something odd to this house. Unbalanced.

Vaguely threatening.

Metal clanged outside the door, and moments later, a plump woman entered with a trolley holding fine china and trays with muffins, scones and sandwiches. ‘Did I hear Master George?’ she asked, looking around the room.

Alkmene smiled. ‘He was here a moment ago, but he stepped out with his wife. He will be back soon.’

‘Master George has no wife. You must mean Lady Helena. She is married to Lord Albert. She owns it all now.’

The woman’s tone was resentful.

Alkmene flushed over her faux pas. But George’s apparent dependency on this woman and her way of accommodating him had suggested a closer bond than that of in-laws.

Alkmene said quickly, ‘I see you prepared all these delicious things for George.’

‘Whenever he goes out riding, he comes back with an appetite.’ The woman smiled, her face wrinkling round the eyes and mouth. ‘I do like to spoil him a little.’

She came over two steps and studied Alkmene. ‘You must forgive me, my lady, for saying so, but you do look a lot like your mother. I only saw her in photographs but she was so pretty. The late Lady Winters talked about her sister in England a lot. It is good to see you here.’

Alkmene returned her smile. This sudden rush of appreciation felt like a warm bath after the family members’ cold reception of her. ‘My mother died when I was very young. If you can tell me anything about her, I would be very grateful. Perhaps we can talk some time while I am here?’

The woman’s expression changed at once, from warmth and welcome to fear. ‘I do not think it possible, my lady. The new Lady Winters is very stern; she doesn’t like staff engaging with the guests.’

There was a sound in the hallway, and she shot back, curtsying nervously. ‘Thank you, my lady.’

She retreated in a rush to the door, almost bumping into the dark handsome woman who came back in. ‘Have you poured?’ Helena snapped at the servant.

‘No, but…’ The woman swallowed hard.

Alkmene jumped to her feet. ‘I said I would do it. I enjoy puttering with tea stuff.’ As she said it, she realized how ridiculous it was to act like hostess in this strange house and how she would not endear herself to the other woman by this approach. Barge in, act like she belonged here. While Helena now ‘owned it all’ as the housekeeper had aptly put it.

But Alkmene didn’t want the housekeeper to feel bad about her faux pas. If she had known her mother’s half-sister and had even seen photographs of her mother shown by this half-sister, she wanted to know more about that.

Her hostess came closer with short abrupt steps. ‘I will do it. You must be tired from your journey. You had better sit.’

It sounded like she was instructing a dog.

Alkmene sank back and folded her hands in her lap. ‘Lord Winters’ death must have come as quite a shock to you. I mean, it being so sudden and…violent. I believe he was killed in a burglary?’

‘Yes. I actually saw it happen.’

‘The murder?’ Alkmene cried. Dismay knotted her stomach. Jake had forgotten to mention to her that there was an actual eyewitness for the killing. That would make proving his friend’s innocence kind of hard.

Her hostess said, ‘I saw that dreadful man leaning over my father-in-law, his gloved hands full of blood. It was horrible to see. I was so glad there were able men here who could jump him and control him before he killed me too.’

‘You came upon the scene because you had heard noise?’

‘I saw light under the door and wanted to ask if Lord Winters needed anything.’

‘In the dead of night?’ Alkmene caught her own incredulous tone and added quickly, ‘The papers I read must have had the time of the killing wrong then. It was earlier, in the evening?’

Her hostess fussed with the teapot. ‘No, it was late, but we had had guests who had only left an hour before that. I was still awake. I have trouble sleeping sometimes when it has been an exciting day.’

Again there was this odd change from the woman in charge to a little girl talking, in a wistful tone. ‘I came from the library where I had picked up a book to read.’

‘I thought Lord Winters had died in the library.’

‘No, he had books in that room, but it was more like his private study. The library is another room, for the use of everyone in the household. It holds some precious first editions. You might like to see them later on. If you like books. Do you take sugar in your tea? Cream?’

‘Neither, thank you.’ To continue talk of the murder, Alkmene hurried to say, ‘I like books very much, thank you. So you came from the library and saw this light under the door of Lord Winters’ private study and naturally you knocked to ask if anything was…wanted.’

The woman sighed as she spooned sugar into her own cup. ‘I opened the door and there was this man, leaning over the body of my father-in-law. The blood and… It was terrible. But at least he was caught before he could leave. He will pay for what he did.’

Alkmene hesitated. ‘If you did not see the burglar killing your father-in-law, how can you be sure he actually killed him?’

Helena’s eyes flashed a moment with a strange light. ‘What else could have happened? The police have gotten out of him how he entered via the front of the house. He actually climbed up like a monkey and forced his way in through a window. He then killed my father-in-law who caught him red-handed.’

Alkmene said pensively, ‘If he climbed up, he must have noticed somebody was in the room. Why take the chances and commit murder?’

‘I assume the room was empty when he came in. My father-in-law must have walked in on him.’

‘I suppose so,’ Alkmene said. ‘How fortunate you did not pass the door earlier and were the one to walk in on the burglar.’

Again there was that flash in Helena’s eyes. She picked up Alkmene’s cup. ‘It will take me time to get over it. Get over living in this house after what happened. I never liked it much to begin with. It is so grey and solemn.’

Alkmene looked around. ‘I think it is a very grand old house.’

‘Perhaps you think there is something in the will for you?’ Helena looked her over with cold eyes. ‘That is why you are here?’

Trying to ignore her intimidating attitude, Alkmene leaned back. ‘I have no need of any inheritance. I have money of my own.’

She put a slight emphasis on the word I, implying a subtle contrast with the woman opposite to her.

Her hostess was now right in front of her, holding out the cup of tea on a saucer to her. ‘There you go.’

Then by a sudden movement she let the cup slip off the saucer and spilled the hot tea right across Alkmene’s lap.

Alkmene yelped as the hot liquid scorched her skin. She jumped to her feet and peeled the fabric of her skirt away from her legs. It still burned awfully.

‘I am so sorry,’ Helena said. ‘I will get you a cloth.’ In a flurry of cold air she quit the room.

Alkmene held the soaked garment away from her person. A haze actually came from it, so hot the water had been. She was sure Helena had dropped the tea on purpose, trying to hurt her. Had it just been a response to her subtle reference to the difference between the two of them in terms of position and wealth – born into it or having married into it – or had the woman already decided on this course of action before? From the moment the butler had announced to her who this guest was.

An unwanted guest it seemed.

Alkmene walked to the door, determined to go up to the blue room and change at once. She’d think about getting the tea stains out later.

A hysterical voice said, ‘She is despicable turning up here, like she owns the house. I am sure she thinks she will have it now. She claims to be related to your mother. Always her, always your mother.’

Then a stream of foreign words followed, punctuated by gasps for air.

Alkmene looked into the hallway. A dark-haired thickset man stood opposite to Helena, holding her by the shoulders. He shook her while she raved on, her head moving from side to side like she was in a frenzy.

Then he raised his hand and struck Helena full in the face.

She fell silent at once. Only her eyes stayed alive, on fire, burning at him with an intensity that made Alkmene cringe. She had rarely seen such raw hatred in a human’s eyes. It was more the murderous feeling of a tiger when it looks its captor in the eye, determined to get back at him someday and kill him in order to be free again.

Helena pulled herself free and ran up the stairs, almost bumping into Jake Dubois, who was coming down. The man standing below frowned at him. ‘Who are you?’

‘Lady Alkmene’s driver, sir.’

‘Sir?’ The man scoffed. ‘That is Lord Winters to you, chap. Get yourself to the kitchens and don’t dare show your face around here again.’

Lord Winters turned away from Jake to the room Alkmene was in. She retreated quickly so he found her standing close to the piano, still holding her wet skirt.

‘Ah, Lady Alkmene…’ He wanted to smile at her, but his features froze as he saw her awkward stance. ‘Is something wrong?’

‘Lady Winters spilled tea over me and went to fetch a cloth.’ Alkmene smiled. ‘Lord Winters, I presume?’

‘Yes, but you can call me Albert, if I am allowed to say Alkmene.’ He shook her hand. He had such a nice normal friendly face she could not believe she had just seen him slap his wife across the cheeks. ‘I have not had the pleasure of seeing your father in years, but then he does travel so much. I hope he is well?’

‘Very well, but on a journey again, so I felt obliged to come out here and tell you how sorry I am about your father’s death. So sudden, so violent. To be killed in one’s own home, the place where one feels safe…’

A strange emotion flickered in Albert’s eyes as she said those latter words.

He let go of her hand at once and said, turning away from her, ‘Yes, well, Father did insist on keeping precious gems here, that should better have been put in a safe in a bank. I often warned him it would attract burglars, but he never listened. You must know yourself that stubborn old men are often hard to convince of anything they do not want to hear.’

‘Of course. I dare say your father paid a high price for not heeding your good advice.’

Albert stood and arranged the papers on the piano. ‘Everybody does,’ he said in a low voice, almost like he was talking to himself. ‘Everybody always does.’

Chapter Five

Helena did not reappear with a cloth to clean off Alkmene’s stained skirt.

Alkmene had not expected her to, because the spill had been made on purpose, and the lady probably also had a fiery smudge on her face now, from her husband’s abuse. She had to be hiding in her own rooms upstairs, cooling the sore spot and applying make-up to it, eager to look better when dinner would be served.

Alkmene excused herself after a few minutes of idle chatter about her father’s travels, saying she’d like to change and rest up before dinner. ‘My back aches from sitting in a car seat for such a long stretch, you know,’ she said with a smile.

Albert made a dismissive hand gesture, either waving away her physical complaint or her excuse for wanting to go up. He rang the bell for a servant, and a maid appeared, barely twenty, looking frightened, hovering at the door.

‘Take Lady Alkmene up to her room,’ Albert said. ‘I assume my wife has ordered a room prepared for you?’

‘Yes,’ Alkmene said. She wanted to add it was the blue room, but as the response by the butler had been rather odd, she didn’t want to provoke another outburst of anger in Lord Winters. So she just rose and followed the maid out of the room, up the stairs.

She wondered how Jake was getting on in the kitchen with the staff. She assumed it would be easy enough for an attractive man like him to flirt a little with the maids and inspire confidence, although he might then meet an enemy in the stiff butler who would no doubt disapprove of such forward behaviour.

She had no idea who held the vital information, so Jake would do best to stay on good terms with everybody who might have something worthwhile to share.

Catching up with the maid on the landing, she said, ‘You must all be shocked after the murder.’

The girl cringed at the word murder. ‘It was terrible. I saw the body when they carried him away. There was a lot of blood. And his face.’

‘His face?’

‘His expression, his features. It was like he had seen a spectre.’

‘I suppose his muscles could have been contorted in pain,’ Alkmene said. ‘Or fear when he realized there was a stranger in his room waiting to club him. I heard it was done with a polo trophy?’

‘I could not say. I was not in the room. But he did have a lot of trophies there, large ones. We always had to dust them all, and make sure not a speck of dust was left on them. He liked them gleaming. He checked when the sun shone in to see if it had been done properly.’

The maid’s tone suggested that it had not been good if the master of the house found something wanting. Perhaps he had been endowed with the same nasty temper as his eldest son Albert?

‘It must be hard to run a household when there is no lady of the house to oversee to everything,’ she said casually.

The maid blinked. ‘But there is Lady Winters.’

‘I thought she died in India,’ Alkmene countered.

‘I mean, Master Albert’s wife. She has been acting like Lady Winters ever since they came here.’

The maid halted at a broad oak door with metalwork on it. ‘I never knew the real Lady Winters. As you say, she died in India.’

The maid nodded at the door. ‘This used to be her room. Her things were put there when the lord came back from India.’

Alkmene’s eyes widened. Her hostess had put her in the room that used to belong to Alkmene’s aunt? That was a little unconventional to say the least. No wonder the butler had tried to protest.

The maid retreated two steps. ‘If you need anything, you can ring.’ She turned and hurried off.

Alkmene frowned. When a servant accompanied a guest to a room, it was common for them to open the door, show the room, ask if anything was wanted. They didn’t take off like something scary was at their heels.

Or rather, waiting for them, inside of that room?

Having just encountered Helena’s venomous nature in the tea spill, she wondered if the room held another unpleasant surprise for her.

Alkmene put her hand on the door handle and took a deep breath. Her neck tingled with anticipation.

Or was it sweat?

Then she pushed the handle down.

The room was large but still seemed cramped because of everything that was in it. A huge four-poster bed, a dressing table with a chair in front of it. A side table beside the bed, a writing desk along the wall, a bookcase.

And boxes.

A lot of boxes stacked into rows of three or four on top of each other. It looked like a storage room instead of a guest room. Why had Helena put her in here?

Alkmene walked to the window and pulled the curtain aside to look out.

The view was of the back of the house, with a formal garden to the right, the stables to the left. A groom was walking a bay horse, patting it on the neck as he went. Someone had put the black horse that the youngest son had ridden home in a fenced-off area where it walked up and down, shaking its head restlessly. A dog lay lounging in the sunshine, ignoring the bustle about it.

Alkmene dropped the curtain back into place and studied the room again. She now saw her bags, which Jake had deposited on the other side of the bed. She wondered what he had thought of this room, of the many boxes in it.

She went over to them and opened the lid of the top box of one of the stacks. It was filled with clothes. Of the finest fabric with delicate lace, embroidery. A vague scent of lavender wafted out, mixed with stale perfume. Alkmene closed the lid again. She was not supposed to pry into things stored here, but instead needed to get out of her wet skirt.

She had just changed into something else when there was a knock on the door. She called, ‘Enter,’ and Jake appeared carrying a tray with a bowl of steaming water on it. ‘I heard from the butler that your skirt got stained in a little tea mishap,’ he said. ‘I insisted on taking water up to you to clean it at once.’

‘That is not your task. You will attract attention this way.’ Still she was relieved to see him and desperate to chat for a few minutes and alleviate the tension that hummed around her like an irritating mosquito.

Jake put the tray down and looked around. ‘Strange place to put a guest.’

‘This was actually my aunt’s room. Those must be all of her things transferred here after her death in India.’ Alkmene gestured at the boxes. ‘I am not sure why Helena gave me this room. She is the new Lady Winters, wife of the eldest son Albert. You met him when you came down the stairs. The house is so big that there must be other rooms available. Why of all those did she choose this room for me?’

Jake frowned as he surveyed her. ‘You look pale. Does it worry you that this is your deceased aunt’s old room?’

Alkmene straightened up. ‘Why should it worry me?’ Her heart was still beating in an irregular rhythm, but if she confessed any of her confusion to Jake, he’d just laugh at her. Think she was a rabbit, like he had thought before in Dartmoor.

She fetched the ruined garment from the bed and began to wet the tea stains over the bowl. ‘I agree it is odd, but it doesn’t bother me at all.’

Jake shrugged. ‘There seems to be a strange tense atmosphere in this place in general. I don’t think most ladies when pouring tea spill it all over their distinguished guests. She must be shaky somehow.’

‘I think she did it on purpose.’

‘What?’ Jake surveyed her with a frown. ‘Why?’

‘Either she wanted to end our cosy little tea party before it had begun, perhaps because of the questions I was asking about the death, or she wanted to get even with me for some reason. It felt like a child’s way of retaliating. Kicking into somebody, you know, throwing something all over him?’

Jake tilted his head. ‘Seems far-fetched to me. She is used to high society engagements. Whether she likes somebody or not, she can’t just go and ruin people’s clothes.’

‘You’d think not,’ Alkmene agreed. ‘Well, maybe it was just a way to avoid further conversation. I felt like I was just getting somewhere. She admitted she was up that night, walking about in the house, before Lord Winters died. She came to the study because she saw a light under the door and then found your friend standing over the dead body.’

Jake shook his head. ‘That is not right. Mac told me how he found the room. It was pitch dark. He stumbled over the body. He used a lighter to see around the room and noticed the safe was open and empty. Then people burst in and he was arrested. The light from his lighter can never have given so much light that it was visible under the door.’

Alkmene pursed her lips. ‘So Helena lied about having seen the light. She went to Lord Winters’ study for another reason. Maybe there is something to be discovered there?’

She dropped the stained skirt with a sigh. ‘I am no good at this. Take it along to the kitchen downstairs and ask some maid or the cook or whoever does the laundering here to look after it. Their new mistress stained it, so they should clean it up.’

Jake laughed softly. ‘At least now you admit to your deficiencies.’

Ignoring him, Alkmene looked at the boxes again. ‘It is odd that my aunt’s entire life is packed into those boxes that are now standing here in my room. Her clothes, her personal belongings. I never knew much about her. Now I am suddenly almost on top of her.’

Jake had picked up the skirt and was already at the door. He glanced back at her. ‘Are you sorry you came? Is it a problem?’ He didn’t sound teasing, but like he was genuinely concerned.

That actually made her own unrest worse.

Reluctantly, Alkmene shook her head. ‘It is not a problem. It is just a strange sensation, you know. For all of my life she has been like a shadow. I knew she existed but she was always so far away. Now she is suddenly here in my life. Or rather I am here in hers.’

Jake made a dismissive gesture with his free hand. ‘Don’t think too much about it. She is not important to us. We have to figure out which one of these people killed the late Lord Winters and framed my friend Mac for it.’

He held her gaze with a frown. ‘If I discover something worthwhile and want to share right away, I will sneak up here and put a note with the information…’ He glanced around for the perfect hiding place.

‘Don’t put it under my pillow or any place a servant might have any business with in my room.’

Jake nodded. ‘Behind that painting. No servant has business looking there.’

‘Remember you have no business coming to my bedroom either. You are a driver. Don’t arouse suspicion by acting out of character.’

‘I will only leave a note if it is really important. Take care.’ Jake walked out with the stained garment and closed the door.

Alkmene stood motionless, her hands folded in front of her. Now that Jake was gone and the bustle of their short interaction was over, the silence was stifling, descending upon her like a heavy woollen cloak, closing round her, taking her breath away.

In this deep silence a sudden sound filled the room, like a soft moan. It came at her from all sides, making it hard to detect what it was or where it originated.

Her heart pulsating in her neck, she looked around.

It took her a few minutes of concentrated listening to deduce it was only wind coming down the chimney and rustling around in the fireplace.

She exhaled in laughter at her own jumpiness. Of course somebody had recently been murdered in this house, but like Jake had explained to her on the way over, there had been a clear motive for that. The killer had murdered Lord Winters because he or she felt Lord Winters had to die. It did not mean that she, Alkmene, would be in any danger staying here.

Right?

Still thinking of the odd high-strung Helena, her violent husband Albert, demanding George who had actually hired a burglar to steal his own father’s stones, the nervous staff, she felt a shiver go up her spine and cold settle into her stomach. There didn’t seem to be a normal soul around this place. Just people who were all watching each other as if they were afraid for their lives, and scrambling to make sure they dealt the lethal blow first, instead of receiving it.

From an investigative point of view this was a good thing, because nervous people made mistakes, talked too much, might be persuaded to tell on others to save their own skin. She had to be happy that it seemed like something could be gotten here, and soon too.

But from a personal point of view, it just felt like a highly volatile household to be a part of, even for a little while.

Like sitting on a barrel full of gunpowder while a slow burning fuse led a spark of fire to it.

You never quite knew when it was going to blow up.

Chapter Six

Because the household was grieving for the dead master, Alkmene decided not to wear an evening dress to dinner, but a simple blouse and skirt, in dark tones. She selected minimal jewellery – only a thin gold necklace and a matching bracelet. She brushed her hair but didn’t do it up or decorate it. She wanted to look very plain and demure. Not a threat to anybody.

However, as she came down the stairs and saw the company awaiting her in the drawing room, she realized her mistake.

The brothers were both in dark suits, the likeness between them eye-catching as they stood discussing something, each holding a glass of a honey-coloured liquid in their hands.

Helena was just filling her own glass. She wore a deep red dress with a daringly low-cut neckline, drawing attention to the necklace of fine rubies she wore. The stones sparkled under the light from on high, as if there was fire within them.

Helena’s hair was brushed back and decorated with a fine net of golden filigree as if a painter had worked his magic on it. Her mouth was the same colour as her dress, her cheeks heavily powdered, probably to hide the spot where her husband’s hand had made the mark.

Alkmene hesitated on the threshold. The two men didn’t notice her, but Helena did. She fixated on her with her deep dark eyes for a few moments, giving her a critical once-over. Then she smiled as if she was certain she was superior in this new meeting, this new struggle for the upper hand. She came over quickly, her dress rustling. Standing in front of Alkmene, she reached out the glass she had just filled. ‘Sherry.’

‘Thank you,’ Alkmene said, accepting it. She hesitated a moment wondering whether she should excuse herself for her clothes, but decided not to. It seemed that her better appearance had induced instant confidence in Helena, and Alkmene meant to draw her out as soon as she could. The mention of having seen light underneath the study door had been an outright lie. Helena had been up and about in the night for something, and Alkmene intended to find out exactly what it was.

She smiled and sipped her sherry.

The men turned to them. Albert’s relaxed expression changed the instant he saw his wife, his gaze settling on the rubies around her neck. ‘By George, did you have to wear those?’ he exclaimed. ‘We are a house in mourning.’

Helena reached up to run her fingers over the stones. It seemed almost like a caress. ‘They are so beautiful,’ she murmured.

Albert shook his head, but did not comment any more as if he did not want Alkmene to witness a scene. He probably didn’t realize she had seen him slapping his wife earlier. Perhaps he was eager to protect the facade of their perfect marriage?

His brother George just emptied his glass in a single draught and went to refill it.

‘George!’ Albert called to him. ‘Do meet our guest, Lady Alkmene. She is actually our cousin.’

George looked up, his cheeks reddish, his eyes aglow with something close to fever. ‘The poor branch of the family?’ he said, letting his eyes travel in a provocative way across Alkmene’s outfit.

Alkmene wanted to say something but refrained from it. George’s sense of superiority might make him underestimate her, and that was the very thing she wanted.

She focused on her glass of sherry as if she was embarrassed by his remark, too mortified to meet his eyes, let alone say something in return.

‘We have not heard from you for years,’ George said in the loud tone of someone trying to make a point. ‘Your father does something with plants, right? Write books or what?’

‘Treatises for journals.’ Alkmene sipped again. ‘It is a rather dry pursuit that I take little interest in.’

‘What do you take an interest in?’ George asked, his tone still too loud to be polite. Either he was trying to drown out his own insecurity or he was already tipsy.

‘Horse racing.’ Alkmene looked up to meet his eye. ‘Opera, theatre.’ She shrugged. ‘What else can one fill one’s time with these days?’

George laughed softly. He emptied the glass he had filled in two draughts and clanked it on the table.

Helena cringed at the sound.

George said, ‘If you know your bit about horse racing, we can talk, Alkmene. You don’t mind me calling you Alkmene, do you? You can just call me George. I haven’t got a title anyway. Second son, you know. Got the burden of family expectations, but no rewards to go with it. Now that Father has moved on, all of this belongs to dear Albert here. I get nothing.’

‘That is not exactly true,’ Albert said, his voice calm, but his eyes betraying his annoyance at his brother’s attitude. ‘Father has left you a substantial sum of money to live off, if you spend it wisely.’

His tone left little doubt that he didn’t believe his brother could manage the latter.

George held his head back and laughed. He was quite an attractive man, but his demeanour was marred by the weakness around his mouth and the exaggerated way in which he did everything. It was somehow forced, fake and therefore unappetizing.

George said, ‘You dare call that a substantial sum of money while you got this house, the land, the horses, the rents and the income from the businesses? You dare act like I got something, while I got absolutely nothing, all because I happened to have been born a year or two too late?’

Albert kept his expression neutral, but his tone was a bit vicious as he said, ‘I cannot help the order of our births, brother. But one could say when one considers closely that nature did not make a mistake.’

George opened his mouth to retort, no doubt with a jibe, when the door opened and a girl in a green dress walked in. The dress was simple but accentuated her trim figure. Her arms were bare, except for a few bracelets. Her hair was pulled back from her face in a bun that made her features stern, like they were hewn from stone. She halted two paces inside the room and looked at Alkmene. ‘I did not know we were entertaining tonight.’

The disapproval in her voice was obvious.

‘This is our cousin: Lady Alkmene,’ George said, his tongue catching on the combination of l-k-m. ‘She has come to pay her respects to dear deceased Daddy.’

The girl’s eyes went wide. ‘Alkmene. But… You never replied to any of my letters. I thought…’

Alkmene hurried to say, ‘I am very sorry about that. I did receive them and thought it was very kind of you to write to me. You must understand I have been quite busy this summer and… Well, I do hope I can make up for my earlier absence now. I am so sorry that your father died.’

‘He had it coming,’ George said.

The quiet conviction in the words was worse than any outburst of anger could have been. This was something George meant from the bottom of his heart.

‘Time to go to dinner,’ Albert said hurriedly.

Alkmene took a step in George’s direction, hoping he’d offer to lead her to the dinner table and she could ask a quick question and find out why he had said such a thing about his father’s death.

But Albert quickly closed in on her and offered her his arm. She had to take it and walk beside him, while George offered his arm to his sister-in-law and Anne was left to follow the two pairs on her own.

The table in the dining room was laid out for five. Albert sat at the head of the table with his wife on his left side, Alkmene on his right. George was beside her, knocking into her with his elbow all the time. Anne sat beside Helena, studying Alkmene with an intent but neutral expression. She seemed curious rather than offended by her presence. Alkmene intended to apologize more fully for her lack of response to the letters as soon as she had a moment alone with the girl. She did look sad. A little lost in the room.

The butler came in to fill their bowls with soup. Alkmene sought for an opening remark that might help to return to George’s statement about his father’s death, but knew there was none. Albert had tried to cover up his brother’s faux pas. By consciously going back to it, Alkmene would only create an awkward moment and not learn anything. It would have to wait until later.

Anne leaned back, her shoulders straight, her neck stiff. ‘You must forgive us that we never wrote to you when we were still in India. But Father never spoke about you.’

‘Why would he have?’ George said, banging his spoon against the bowl as he picked it up with a wild gesture. ‘He never talked about Mother, so why talk about her family?’ He dipped the spoon into the bowl, scratching over the china. The sound was hair-raising, like the scrape of a fingernail over a chalkboard.

Helena cringed again. Her fingers rearranged the silk napkin in her lap.

Albert said hurriedly, ‘I think we have to consider that Father was very distraught after Mother’s death. Mentioning her was infinitely painful to him.’

George laughed softly. ‘Oh, it was.’

He cast a fiery, significant look around the table that all present seemed to understand, but Alkmene.

Flushing, Helena focused on her soup. Albert gave an almost imperceptible shake of the head, while Anne’s blue eyes remained on Alkmene as if trying to read what she made of all of this.

‘I was never really sure…’ Alkmene said, lifting the spoon to her mouth. ‘What my aunt died of. I suppose it was one of those horrible tropical diseases you read about in the papers every now and then?’

‘Oh, it was a disease she died of, all right,’ George said.

Albert sat up straight. ‘There is no need to discuss this, certainly not over dinner.’

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