Fatal Masquerade Page 12

  ‘The victim, my lady. He had something clutched in his right hand.’

  Alkmene remembered the hands, clenched into fists as if Cobb had tried to fight off death. ‘What was it?’ she asked.

  ‘A bit of paper. But not just any paper. The chief said it looked like it came from a bearer bond.’

  Jake perked up. ‘A paper that would have had a high monetary value?’

  ‘Yes, sir. It would be odd for a servant to be carrying something like that around.’

  Alkmene stood motionless. So Cobb had indeed tried to get money out of someone, in exchange for the letter that had been on the table, or for something else he would then stay silent about. But the killer had silenced Cobb in a different way.

  She pictured the scene: the killer handing over the bearer bond to Cobb, Cobb looking at it, his attention waning for a moment as relief went through him, exhilaration perhaps that at last he’d be rich and independent.

  While Cobb was off guard, the killer had produced the steak knife and stabbed Cobb, pulling the bearer bond from his hand as he fell to the floor. Not noticing that a little bit had stayed behind in the dead man’s hand.

  ‘Was there anything else worth noticing about the body?’ Jake wanted to know. ‘Have you checked the hands for telltale marks? The arms? Puncture wounds, perhaps?’

  The sergeant looked confused. ‘Puncture wounds, sir?’

  ‘Just a hunch. Have you?’

  ‘No, sir. That’s not for us to do. We’ll get a full report later. But he did die of the stabbing, no doubt about that.’

  Jake nodded, and they took their leave. Alkmene leaned over as they made for the car. ‘Puncture wounds?’

  Jake glanced at her. ‘Megan said Cobb was different at the boathouse. In high spirits, not interested in her all of a sudden. At other times he could be morose, I heard from the other servants – edgy, irritable. It seemed to me to be a clear indication of some sort of substance abuse. The presence of puncture wounds on the arms would indicate he was in the habit of injecting some sort of drug.’

  Alkmene shivered. ‘I abhor needles. If Cobb needed a thrill, why not drink alcohol?’

  ‘The haze from drinking is different to the experiences people have when they use a drug. Maybe Cobb was someone who liked to go further than others. Maybe he craved something special to light up his dull existence? Chasing women and experimenting with a powerful drug. The latter will have been expensive. So he needed money.’

  ‘And therefore he blackmailed people?’

  Jake nodded. ‘He was in the perfect position to spy on people. Hang around and overhear conversations, sneak into rooms and go through things.’

  ‘Yes.’ Alkmene perked up. ‘Hargrove told me he caught Cobb in his bedroom wearing one of his hats. Cobb defended himself by saying he had always wanted to know what it was like to wear a hundred-pound hat. But I bet he wasn’t there for the wardrobe, but to find something incriminating. He must have slammed the hat on when he heard Hargrove enter the room, so as to have an excuse for his prying.’

  Jake nodded. ‘So Cobb was a man who liked to get his hands on dirty little secrets which he could use for personal gain. Only this time he went too far and pushed somebody whose secret was too big for them to ever run the risk of revelation. Someone who came out to the boathouse to pay and then killed Cobb.’

  ‘We didn’t ask the sergeant if there was anything in Cobb’s pockets. All we do know is that the letter accusing Felicia’s husband, Joseph, of spending his brother-in-law’s fortune was there at the scene.’

  Jake nodded again. ‘So we should keep both Joseph and Felicia herself high on our list of suspects.’

  ‘But, as you pointed out yourself, the letter was written by the family solicitors. Even if they managed to keep it from Hargrove for now, the matter will come to light sooner or later. Why kill a man for knowing a secret already known to others? That makes no sense at all.’

  Jake pursed his lips. ‘Maybe the letter was planted at the boathouse by the killer to divert suspicion away from him or her?’

  Alkmene frowned, then shook her head. ‘If we start assuming evidence was planted as a false lead, it’ll only become that much harder. We’ll have to look at everything from two different angles. Who does it implicate if it’s a true lead? What does it say if it was planted for a purpose?’

  Jake laughed softly. ‘Well, you can’t have it easy all the time.’

  Alkmene glared at him. ‘None of our investigations so far has been easy. There are always people involved I don’t want to see hanged.’

  They stood, one on each side of the car, looking at each other across the roof. Jake said, ‘The bit of bearer bond in Cobb’s hand proves there was money involved in the last contact he had before his death. We have to start from there. Somebody paid him right before the fatal stab. For what? It wasn’t his wages because those aren’t paid in bonds. It was some private transaction he wanted to conduct in the boathouse, unobserved.’

  ‘Still, he took a chance on being seen. After all, there were two other gondoliers who could have returned with their boats.’

  ‘Yes, but look at it this way. If he’d pressured a guest into paying him money in exchange for silence, the meeting would have to look casual. He’s manning the table with drinks. The guest in question enters the boathouse and goes to the table, picks up a drink. Puts the bearer bond, folded, on the table. Cobb picks it up. Even if a gondolier had approached, he wouldn’t have been able to see clearly what was happening between them. Especially not if the light was dim. Remember that Megan said there were two lanterns burning brightly when Cobb sent her off, and that there was only one, almost dead, when you entered after the murder? Cobb must have put one lantern away and turned the other one down to ensure it was dim in the boathouse and his transaction with the guest wouldn’t be seen. He created the ideal circumstances for the murder himself. He mustn’t have realized he was in danger until it was too late.’

  ‘But...’ Alkmene held his gaze. ‘There’s the note written to Keegan asking for a meeting at the boathouse, on a life or death matter. If Cobb wrote that, he knew he was in danger. He wouldn’t have been so careless as to get stabbed in the chest.’

  Jake frowned. ‘You’re right. The scenario of an excited Cobb preparing for an easy win doesn’t fit with the notion he was worried enough after the dinner conversation to call on Keegan for legal advice. So the note can’t have come from Cobb.’

  Alkmene said, ‘You suggested earlier that Keegan had faked the note to explain his presence in the boathouse. If you’re right, we must assume Keegan is the killer. Cobb had something on him, asked for money, Keegan went supposedly to hand it over, but killed Cobb instead. Then he hid and waited until somebody came and acted like he happened upon the scene using the note as an excuse...’

  Jake shook his head. ‘If Keegan had been able to leave unseen after the murder, why come back? If he’d made a perfect escape and there was nothing on the scene to point in his direction, he need not have come back at all. He should have stayed away, leaving somebody else to stumble upon the body. As gondoliers were coming and going, he could be sure somebody would find it. Preferably when he was already back at the house, dancing the night away.’

  Alkmene sighed. ‘That suggests the note was real. But how does a real note asking for Keegan’s help fit in with our theory of Cobb blackmailing somebody with a dangerous secret and being killed for that reason?’

  Jake opened the car door. ‘We have to gather more evidence that Cobb was really holding something against somebody. We still don’t know what that key we found is for. High time we found out about that.’

  Chapter Twelve

  When they came back to the house, they met Mrs Carruthers in the hallway rearranging some flowers in a vase. It replaced the large piece that had been put in for the ball. Alkmene remembered the delicate orchids with regret. Why waste all those beautiful flowers for a few hours of fun?

  ‘Were you close to Cobb?’ Ja
ke asked.

  Mrs Carruthers jerked her hand back, and the vase balanced precariously, threatening to topple and spill water and flowers all over the floor. The housekeeper managed to grab and steady it, but only just. She cursed under her breath.

  ‘Were you?’ Jake pressed.

  ‘He was a servant like the others.’

  ‘Come, come, Mrs Carruthers,’ Jake said, leaning over. ‘You were so eager to protect him earlier on. Someone in your position knows everything that is going on in the household. You knew Cobb was hounding Megan. But you didn’t report him to your master so he could be dismissed. No, you kept his indiscretions a secret, letting a young girl suffer.’

  ‘Suffer?’ Mrs Carruthers scoffed. ‘She thought she was better than all of us. High above us, that was what she acted like. I’m not inclined to cater to such a girl. She should have been dismissed, not him.’

  ‘Well, now she’s in a prison cell,’ Jake said. ‘Does that make you feel better?’

  Indeed, Mrs Carruthers’ eyes gleamed with a vicious light. ‘She only got what she deserved.’

  ‘And did Cobb get what he deserved also?’ Jake held her gaze. ‘Did he deserve to die?’

  ‘Maybe,’ Mrs Carruthers said in a strange, pensive tone. Her eyes stared past Jake into the distance. ‘He was a cruel man.’

  Alkmene tried to read the exact emotion behind the flickering eyes, but failed. Had the woman felt a secret admiration for the handsome man? Had she dreamed of being sought out by him herself, while he ignored her and pursued younger staff members?

  Had she even made her interest known to Cobb at some point and had he laughed at her? Was that why she called him a cruel man?

  But, if that was the case, why had she kept him around? It would have been easy, in her position, to make up a reason to have him dismissed.

  If Cobb had indeed rejected Mrs Carruthers, with a smirk, a few crude words, she could have got even with him by having him kicked out of the household. Why had she protected Cobb? Why had she even protected him after his death by denying to the police that he had ever caused any trouble for poor Megan?

  Mrs Carruthers seemed to awaken from her thoughts and shoved the vase with flowers further away from the edge. ‘If you’ll excuse me, I have work to do.’ She marched off in the direction of the kitchens.

  Jake grimaced at Alkmene. ‘That wasn’t very instructive.’

  Alkmene shrugged. ‘Maybe she was in love with Cobb. If she still feels some sort of loyalty towards him, she won’t say a word, no matter how much we try.’

  Soft laughter floated down towards them. Startled, Alkmene peered up and discerned Mrs Zeilovsky coming down the stairs. She was still in her dressing gown, even though – as Alkmene ascertained by a glance at the large standing clock – it was past lunchtime.

  Mrs Zeilovsky seemed to have noticed her checking of the time for her expression became defiant. She halted on the last step, her hand on the railing. On her finger there was a large, unusual ring of worked metal holding a pink crystal. Not a gem, but more like crystal extracted from mountains. A souvenir from a trip to Switzerland or Austria perhaps?

  ‘If you suppose Mrs Carruthers was in love with the dead man, Cobb...’ Mrs Zeilovsky’s voice was throaty. ‘You are even less of a psychologist than I gave you credit for, Lady Alkmene. Mrs Carruthers may have her weaknesses, but an appetite for the wrong kind of man isn’t one of them.’

  ‘You have the advantage of me,’ Alkmene countered, ‘as you’ve met all these people before, while I’ve only just arrived here.’

  ‘Not quite true.’ Mrs Zeilovsky watched her with those almost see-through green eyes. ‘Mrs Carruthers has also worked at the Hargroves’ house in the city. You must have met her there. But perhaps you don’t remember? Perhaps you didn’t look too closely then because there was no crime to arouse your interest?’

  Alkmene flushed. It was true that her sleuthing experiences had only begun recently. During obligatory visits to the Hargroves’ house in the city to take tea with Denise’s stepmother, she had often been bored beyond belief and eager to leave at the earliest opportunity. She had barely noticed any staff, and indeed could not remember Mrs Carruthers from those occasions.

  ‘Mr Cobb never worked in London,’ she said lamely.

  Mrs Zeilovsky laughed again. ‘We were talking about Mrs Carruthers. If you had paid better attention to her before, you might have been able to draw the right conclusion about her behaviour now. But I doubt you saw her at all.’

  Properly chastised, Alkmene looked down.

  Jake said, ‘If you know so much, Mrs Zeilovsky, why don’t you enlighten us?’

  Mrs Zeilovsky looked him over. ‘Why would I, Mr Dubois? I am not part of your little investigation.’

  The irony was thick in the words. Alkmene cringed, but kept her expression neutral.

  Jake said, ‘If you know something that can clear Megan, you’re obliged to share it with us.’

  Mrs Zeilovsky hitched a perfectly shaped brow. ‘Obliged? By whom? By what?’

  ‘A sense of justice. Decency. Perhaps even by the law? Don’t you believe someone who knows something that can acquit another of murder should deliver this information to the police?’

  Mrs Zeilovsky thought a moment. ‘Perhaps if the person concerned has facts, evidence. The police don’t accept mere speculation. From me, or you.’

  The latter carried a subtle emphasis. Mrs Zeilovsky obviously didn’t believe they could unearth hard facts that would persuade the chief of police to let Megan go.

  ‘Come, come,’ Jake said, ‘there’s no need for hostility. We’re merely trying to defend an innocent person without means. We would have done the same thing for you.’

  ‘I am hardly without means.’ Mrs Zeilovsky seemed indignant.

  ‘You mean, your husband would make sure you got the best defence?’

  ‘If my husband believed me to be involved in murder, he wouldn’t lift a finger to have me acquitted.’ Mrs Zeilovsky phrased it as if it was as simple as taking morning tea.

  ‘But surely, if he loves you,’ Jake said, ‘he would do everything in his power to save you from death by hanging.’

  Mrs Zeilovsky said nothing. Her provocative silence was more revealing than a long monologue would have been. She didn’t think her husband loved her.

  ‘Why did you marry if it wasn’t for love?’ Alkmene asked curiously.

  Mrs Zeilovsky smiled at her. ‘He thought I had quite an acute mind. For a woman. I suppose that is the highest praise one can expect of him. You must understand, Lady Alkmene, that my husband is not like other men. He doesn’t fall prey to emotions. He doesn’t know love or hate or fear or anger, like other people do. He has studied those feelings so closely, and is so aware of how they originate from wrong conceptions in the mind, that he can prevent them from ever forming in his own being. He understands, better than others ever could, that feelings do not lead an existence of their own. They are the products of wrong thought processes. Thoughts like: I was wronged, I was belittled, I should have got more out of it, I deserve a better life than what I have. People say: he insulted me and then I became angry. But that isn’t true. Between his action and your anger there’s one more step. Your conclusion about his remark, stamping it an insult, concluding it was unjust. So you see, feelings are in fact just the results of thoughts. They originate in the mind. And he who has perfect control over his mind need never feel anything… excessive.’

  ‘I was afraid for a moment you were going to stop after anything.’ Jake studied Mrs Zeilovsky. ‘That you would really claim one can come to a point where one doesn’t feel anything. At all.’

  ‘Is something wrong with that?’ Mrs Zeilovsky enquired quietly.

  ‘I think life would be pretty dull that way.’

  Mrs Zeilovsky looked incredulous. ‘You believe feelings make life interesting?’

  ‘They do add a certain zest to it,’ Jake said.

  Mrs Zeilovsky shook her head. ‘They a
re only distracting. They prevent people from seeing clearly what they really want and which course they should pursue. Let’s suppose that… a woman knows her husband is betraying her. She should divorce him. But instead she lets herself be influenced by feelings, by the memories of the better days when she still believed in him and dreamed of perfect happiness. She stays in the marriage, endures the betrayal for something that only exists in her imagination. Their bond as it was. But shouldn’t we conclude that, if he can coldly betray her, surely he never loved her before and these happy memories she bases her assessment on were lies to begin with?’

  ‘That’s fascinating material for a lecture or perhaps even a book,’ Jake said. ‘But I don’t see what it has to do with the present situation. Why would your idea about feelings and the control of the mind prevent you from helping Megan escape the noose?’

  ‘I don’t know her, so why should I help her? Because she’s innocent and young?’

  ‘And afraid,’ Alkmene added.

  Mrs Zeilovsky looked at her. ‘Afraid?’ she repeated slowly as if tasting the syllables on her tongue. ‘Why should she be afraid if she has done nothing wrong?’

  ‘Because she might die.’ Jake closed in a step or two on the woman. ‘For something she didn’t do. That’s unjust.’

  Mrs Zeilovsky didn’t flinch. ‘If you feel that way, you must try and save her. But you can’t expect others to do the same.’

  ‘Why are you so insistent on hindering our investigation?’ Alkmene said, determined to ruffle the woman’s feathers somehow. ‘Are you worried something will come to light about your husband?’

  Mrs Zeilovsky’s expression changed momentarily. There was some kind of response to the suggestion, but Alkmene couldn’t quite make out what it was. It almost looked like satisfaction Alkmene had reached that conclusion. But if Mrs Zeilovsky wanted to protect her husband’s career, why would she be glad there were questions about it?

  That made no sense at all.

  Alkmene said, ‘You were out in the gardens during the ball. I saw you walking in the direction of the boathouse shortly before I went there myself and found Cobb dead.’