Fatal Masquerade Page 3

  Denise whispered in Alkmene’s ear. ‘I wish Cecily hadn’t invited him. Keegan is so tiresome. Simply refuses to be sociable. He made this trip lately, to the lake of Lugano, but he won’t tell a thing about it. I bet he considers it too frivolous. His mind is always on some legal thing, you know. Always contemplating some new change to the law he wants to get through parliament. Can’t talk about plays or operas or the latest work in the galleries.’

  Alkmene studied the brooding figure, concluding it had probably been him who had watched her arrival from the library window. His tight back screamed that he wanted to be left alone.

  ‘If he’s not exactly sociable,’ she said to Denise, ‘I wonder why he came here in the first place. He could have made up some excuse to decline your stepmother’s invitation.’

  Denise smiled. ‘He’s still in love with me.’

  She met Alkmene’s startled look with a grin. ‘Oh yes, he asked Papa if he could court me. I think he felt he should ask because his firm works for my father and it would be awkward if we’d stepped out together and Papa had not approved. Indeed, he did not. Papa had the same idea about it as I do. Keegan is the last person in the world I could ever like, let alone love. But he sticks to this foolish notion that we’re meant to be together. He’s here to pine for me from a distance.’

  ‘I doubt,’ Alkmene said, ‘that someone with the dry legal mind you just described to me would spend one moment on such romantic notions of unrequited love.’

  Denise’s eyes sparked. ‘You probably think he will like you, because you’re so smart and can discuss the law with him on his own level. But let me assure you, he still cares for me and won’t even dance with you once. I will make sure he doesn’t.’

  Alkmene shrank under the spiteful tone. She knew Denise could flare in an instant when she felt denied or snubbed. She wanted to clarify that she didn’t have any interest in discussing the law with the taciturn lawyer or indeed in dancing with him tonight, but before she could do so, a shadow fell over them.

  It was the psychiatrist with the diabolical beard.

  He studied them with a knowing smile. ‘Ah, girls who are close friends, the inevitable and eternal struggle, first for the affection of the mother, then for the attention of men. It often leads to complexes. To very deep, twisted emotions that can lead to… irreparable damage.’

  Irreparable damage to the night of masked fun, Alkmene wondered, if she stepped on Denise’s petite foot to get even with her for these spiteful remarks? What did Zeilovsky expect them to do? They were not four any longer, and retaliation had no place in polite social discourse. Alkmene smiled at Zeilovsky. ‘An interesting theory.’

  Zeilovsky’s blue eyes lit. ‘I can tell you much more about it over dinner. It seems our hostess decided I’m to be seated beside you.’

  Alkmene kept a tight rein on her facial expression. ‘Really? How thoughtful of her. She knows how I enjoy psychology.’ She doubted Mrs Hargrove did know as much, but she had to say something to explain her hostess’s decision. Perhaps Mrs Hargrove had simply wanted to make sure Zeilovsky wouldn’t be engaging her with talk of twisted theories and dark experiments?

  He reminded her of her father’s many friends from the fields of zoology and botany who could spend hours expounding on their favourite topics, be it rabies or mould, to the despair of their hostesses, who saw their dinner parties invariably ruined.

  Alkmene wondered if Zeilovsky would be a man of theory only, or also of practice, having a clinic abroad where he tested his solutions for mental disturbances on his unsuspecting patients. His accent sounded Slavic, which covered quite a lot of ground for him to hide away a country house full of test subjects. The idea of experiments with adults who were considered insane wasn’t very palatable, but it might be even worse if those recent publications that described experiments with children – babies even – were to be believed.

  The idea of a dungeon far away, where Zeilovsky was free to test whatever weird theory he had developed, and on babies, too, gave Alkmene goosebumps.

  But perhaps she was getting carried away by rumours she’d heard about the darker side of the growing insight into the workings of the human mind. Zeilovsky might be a man who hid in his study digging through books and writing up his own theories from thought experiments, never having seen a single patient up close.

  ‘Shall we?’ With a smile, Zeilovsky offered Alkmene his arm to lead her into the dining room, explaining how sibling strife went all the way back to Cain and Abel. Alkmene was aware of Jake Dubois’ expression. He looked innocent enough, but knowing him well she could guess how hard he was laughing inside.

  The masked ball she had been looking forward to as a night of innocent amusement was rapidly declining into a social nightmare.

  Chapter Three

  ‘A tragic case,’ Zeilovsky said.

  He had engaged Alkmene all during dinner with his talk of warring siblings, going from biblical examples, via English history, to the present-day case of Vera Steeplechase, who had murdered her sister, Mary, so as to be able to marry her brother-in-law, the man she had wanted for herself from their first meeting ten years earlier. Vera had almost got away with it as Mary’s death had been deemed natural at first.

  Only two days before Vera’s wedding to the widower, an anonymous letter to the police had caused Mary’s body to be dug up, and a postmortem had shown traces of poison. Instead of going down the aisle in her sumptuous bridal gown – purchased in the presence of her unsuspecting mother, who’d had no idea her one daughter had killed the other – Vera had been taken into custody, to be tried and perhaps eventually hanged.

  ‘I do wonder,’ Alkmene said, putting her fork down, ‘who wrote the anonymous letter.’

  Opposite her, Aunt Felicia knocked over her glass of wine. There was little liquid left in it, and her husband could quickly dab at the stain with a napkin. The woman’s face was on fire as she glanced down into her lap.

  Alkmene continued to Zeilovsky. ‘Was it just a spiteful person who wanted to ruin Vera’s wedding, her day of happiness, and who got more than he or she bargained for? I find it hard to accept the writer knew for sure Vera had poisoned her sister. If he or she had known, they should have shared that knowledge with the police at the time of Mary’s death.’

  ‘Perhaps the person wasn’t sure at the time,’ Mrs Zeilovsky said, speaking past her husband. ‘Perhaps he or she had seen Vera near some bottle with a potion Mary took on occasion to calm her stomach or her nerves. Perhaps only later, when Vera announced she was going to marry her brother-in-law, did that person realize she might have tampered with the contents of the bottle in question to kill her sister and take Mary’s husband for her own. The human mind doesn’t always jump to conclusions straight away. Sometimes we lack information that can make us see the connection.’

  Alkmene nodded slowly. That did make sense.

  ‘In Vera Steeplechase’s case the information that was first lacking was the motive.’ Zeilovsky picked up his wife’s reasoning as if the couple had agreed on it beforehand. ‘The person who saw her near Mary’s bottles before Mary’s untimely death would never have guessed Vera wanted to kill her own sister. It would be such a heinous thing to do. You don’t expect it of siblings.’

  ‘No? But you’ve just regaled me with stories of countless murderous siblings,’ Alkmene said with an innocent smile.

  Ignoring the flaw in his reasoning, Zeilovsky went on, ‘The mind can even refuse to make a connection because it doesn’t want to. The writer of the anonymous letter might have cared very much for Vera and initially have refused to conclude she was guilty of something as terrible as murder. Only after time had gone by, and Vera’s true intentions revealed themselves in the announcement of the marriage to her brother-in-law, did the person dare write the letter.’

  Alkmene leaned back. ‘We won’t know if Vera is really guilty of poisoning Mary until it’s been proven in her trial.’

  ‘My dear lady,’ Zeilovsky said
, ‘Mary’s body was full of poison.’

  ‘So, we know for certain that Mary didn’t die a natural death. That doesn’t prove her sister Vera killed her.’

  ‘But Vera agreed to marry Mary’s husband!’ Mrs Zeilovsky cried. ‘So soon after poor Mary was dead.’

  ‘Perhaps the husband saw, too late, after he had already married Mary, that he wanted Vera anyway. Perhaps he killed Mary, thinking nobody would suspect anything. Now Vera’s been accused, he’ll keep his mouth shut and she might swing for his crime.’

  Alkmene realized too late she had spoken quite clearly and other conversations around the table had just come to an end. The words ‘swing for his crime’ seemed to ring out in the sudden silence.

  Mrs Hargrove gave her an accusing look from the head of the table. ‘Dear Alkmene, must you be so gruesome over dinner?’

  ‘On the contrary,’ the dry legal man said. He hadn’t spoken much with anybody, leaning over his plate and wolfing down his food like he never got anything good at home.

  But now he sat up straight, fixing her with burning eyes. ‘I think Lady Alkmene has made an excellent point. All we do know is that a woman who died was poisoned and that, some time later, her sister wanted to marry the widower. Does that make her a killer?’

  The silence around the table lingered, a little startled and a little chill.

  Keegan continued, ‘It certainly makes her a suspect. But, as Lady Alkmene just explained, the husband himself springs to mind as a likely suspect.’

  ‘Poison is a woman’s means,’ Aunt Felicia’s husband said. He was a handsome man with a deep baritone voice. Alkmene couldn’t remember his name.

  Jake laughed softly. ‘A man who wants to kill his wife and get away with it will hardly dig a steak knife into her chest.’

  ‘Please!’ Mrs Hargrove exclaimed, but Hargrove said, ‘Well put. He would know better than to use a weapon that leaves clear traces. We all know now how clever the choice of poison really was. Without the anonymous letter, nothing would ever have come of it. No case, no conviction.’

  Alkmene looked at Aunt Felicia, whose expression had lost the earlier deep red and was now unnaturally pale, as if made of marble. She bit her lip for a moment as she stared down at her plate. The subject seemed to be unbearably painful to her. Had she known the Steeplechase family? Did Vera’s upcoming trial fill her with dread of a possible conviction?

  ‘Yes,’ Jake Dubois said, looking around the table, ‘there always has to be someone writing an anonymous letter, right? Spoiling it all.’

  Mrs Hargrove pushed her chair back in a grate. ‘Gentlemen, I’m sure you want to smoke. Ladies, please accompany me to the music room where Denise will play and sing for us.’

  Denise looked astonished. She gestured at the plate in front of her. ‘But dessert hasn’t even been served.’

  Mrs Hargrove was at the door already. Her cheeks were as crimson as the dress she wore. She waved at the footman present. ‘Baines, coffee in the music room at once.’

  Baines nodded and opened the door for her to go out. But the doorway was blocked by the arrogant servant carrying a tray full of dessert bowls. Mrs Hargrove was just able to avoid a collision. She snapped, ‘Take that back to the kitchens at once, Cobb.’

  The servant moved into the room, past Mrs Hargrove, so she could get out. He stood tall, his gaze travelling past everyone at the table. Then he said, ‘Very well. I need to get changed into my outfit to serve as gondolier tonight. At the boathouse.’ And pushing the tray with bowls into Baines’s hands, he stepped out of the open door. Baines looked bewildered for a moment, then followed him. A third footman present closed the door with an impeccably soft click.

  Blinking at this sudden turn of events, Alkmene lifted her napkin from her lap and folded it. She had never experienced a formal dinner ending quite like this. She glanced at Jake, who seemed as perplexed as they all were. Somehow the conversation about the Steeplechase case had hit a nerve with more than one person present.

  Zeilovsky, by her side, cleared his throat and said, ‘Yes, well, it was very nice discussing this with you, Lady Alkmene. Your opinions are very astute for someone with no knowledge of the psychological.’

  ‘Oh,’ Hargrove said, with a laugh that sounded insincere in the silence, ‘but Lady Alkmene has a knack for the criminal.’

  Zeilovsky had just risen and stood towering over Alkmene. His eyes narrowed. ‘Is that so?’

  Hargrove added, ‘After all, the two things are often the same, isn’t that right?’ He laughed again, uncomfortably. ‘Gentlemen...’

  Zeilovsky, Jake, Aunt Felicia’s husband and Keegan followed him dutifully out of the room.

  Denise said, as she rose, ‘Really, Alkmene, such a horrible subject...’

  Alkmene hitched a brow at her. ‘Mr Zeilovsky started it.’

  ‘You need not have embroidered it. Cecily is really upset now. She will hit back at somebody.’ Denise stood up straight, her youthful face tight with tension.

  Alkmene remembered the argument between Denise and her stepmother about someone who was supposed to be here tonight and shouldn’t have been. Denise begging her stepmother not to acquaint her father with the fact. Maybe Denise was worried her stepmother, being upset now about her party taking such a turn, would tell on her anyway?

  Uncomfortable at what she might have set off, unconsciously, Alkmene straightened her dress and turned to her right, to find Mrs Zeilovsky studying her with her curious light-green eyes. It was as if Alkmene was a patient and Mrs Zeilovsky was trying to see right into all the disturbing repetitive patterns of compulsive behaviour in her mind.

  Alkmene shook the unpleasant sensation and forced a smile. ‘Shall we? Denise is quite the singer. You’ll enjoy it.’

  Denise sang two arias from an opera before the house guests retired to their rooms to get dressed for the ball. Outside, the Chinese lanterns were lit, bobbing on the wind. Tables were being moved outside, decked out with colourful covers and crystal glasses.

  The whole place hummed like a beehive with last-minute party preparations.

  On the way to her room, Alkmene passed a few doors, most of them closed. One was ajar, though, and a female voice said in an agitated tone, ‘I’m sure that man knows everything. Why else did he mention the letter?’

  ‘In the Steeplechase case, silly.’ The male voice sounded gruff, dismissive. ‘It was a coincidence.’

  ‘Well, I don’t like it.’

  Then Alkmene had passed. The voices died down and she entered her room, reaching up to massage her tight neck muscles. The window was still open, letting in the lukewarm evening air. She went over to shut it.

  At the window she took a few moments to look down on the servants buzzing about. So, it had been the specific mention of a letter, anonymous and accusing, that had caused the commotion at dinner, at least for Aunt Felicia. Such a thing could arouse unpleasant memories. Alkmene herself had received an anonymous letter just a few months ago, accusing Jake Dubois of being a convict and threatening to acquaint Alkmene’s father – on expedition in India for his botanical exploits – with that fact. She could prevent exposure by handing over a substantial sum of money.

  Alkmene had learned through her investigation into Silas Norwhich’s death that more well-to-do people in London had received such letters threatening to expose secrets about them, each asking for money or, in some cases, specific family heirlooms. Jake and she had concluded there was a blackmail ring at work led by someone they had called the London blackmailer. Jake thought it was a man, while Alkmene had proposed the rather bold theory it could be a woman. A brilliant criminal mastermind.

  Was this ring still at work? Had people at the dinner table tonight been victims of blackmail? Was that why they had responded so abruptly to Zeilovsky’s discussion of the Steeplechase case?

  Aunt Felicia with the knocked-over wine glass.

  Mrs Hargrove, who had quit the table even before dessert had been served. In the argument upon their ar
rival, Denise had suggested to her there might be something better kept from her father. An affair?

  Alkmene stared into the lit gardens in deep thought. Servants were rushing across the lawn. Alkmene remembered Denise saying something about the boathouse being decorated for the night, as it was the starting point for the three gondolas to take guests for a leisurely trip across the waterways that cut through the estate. The servants had probably brought some last necessary items to this boathouse: refreshments, lanterns, blankets for the guests to cover themselves as they sat in the boats.

  Halfway across the lawn a man was walking, away from the house. He was dressed up already in his gondolier’s costume, a powdered white wig on his head, a ponytail at his neck with a dark-green ribbon on it. A woman came up from behind, grabbing him by the arm and speaking urgently with him. Her gestures suggested she was pleading.

  The gondolier shook her off with an angry jerk and continued to walk. The woman called something after him. He didn’t respond. She stood with her shoulders slumped, an image of complete dejection.

  Mrs Carruthers. The housekeeper. It seemed strange that the gondolier hadn’t been more respectful towards her. Mrs Carruthers could report him to the butler, who could in turn complain about his behaviour to the master of the house. In a large household, things only ran smoothly if everybody played their appointed part and didn’t cross any boundaries.

  Housekeepers usually also maintained a kind of superior attitude towards the other servants as they considered themselves in their master’s confidence. Why would Mrs Carruthers ask anyone for any favours?

  Alkmene frowned in puzzlement, then turned away from the window. She had promised herself she would just enjoy the night and not delve into hidden motives all the time. She had to change into her other dress and get her mask in place to ensure she was ready on time.

  But as she went through the familiar movements of dressing and applying her make-up, her head was still full of tales of murderous sisters, anonymous letters and hostesses who broke off dinner before dessert had even been served.