A Proposal to Die For (12 page)

‘It means,' Dubois said with emphasis, ‘that one human life is worth more than another. Simply a matter of money. And it's the same thing inside the police force. Crimes against people with money or title are handled with a lot more zeal and dedication than those among poor people. In a back alley you can simply stab someone in passing for a few coins and nobody will bother to find out who did it or punish the killer. But have a brooch stolen from someone like your friend the Russian countess and the
whole police force is out and about looking for the thief.'

‘I thought she was your friend too.' Alkmene stretched her legs. ‘Are you not being a bit hypocritical?'

Dubois sighed. ‘Maybe. But the numbers in the SS
Athena
case rattled me.'

Alkmene nodded. ‘I can understand that. I am still thinking about the little boy and… I hope his father didn't beat him too badly for what I brought. I should have thought better about it. But I was just trying to help.'

Dubois held her gaze. His expression became somewhat softer as he said, ‘I was there late last night. The old man said he had turned the vegetables into a nice soup they could also share with a sickly neighbour. And the boy was playing with the horse. I think the cart got broken when his father kicked it, but it will be repaired.'

‘I just wish that father would vanish and never come home again. Then the boy could have peace.'

‘His grandfather would be all he has and the old man could die any day. What would he do then? Some of the orphanages are worse than living with a drunk father. No, he is well off still having a parent to care for him.'

‘Care?' Alkmene echoed in disbelief. ‘You call that care?'

Dubois shook his head at her. ‘Why do you think he responded so violently? He is worried the vicar with his plan for children will take his son away from him. It is the constant fear of the single parent. My mother was just like that. Thinking: if I die, what will happen to Jake?'

So his name was Jake. It was simple and strong and befitted him.

Alkmene moved her glass over the table. ‘My mother died when I was just four years old. I don't remember much of her, but that she sat on her tabouret at her dressing table and did her hair before leaving for some party. It flowed down her back all golden, and my father brushed it.'

Alkmene fell silent, remembering the tender intimacy of that scene. Her parents had loved each other in a quiet, but intense way. Maybe that was the reason her father had never remarried, even though family and friends had advised it, not just for the sake of ‘the child' as they had called Alkmene, but also to ensure he would get a son, an heir for all of his property and name.

But he had not wanted to replace the love of his life.

‘I guess you are lucky that you had your mother much longer,' Alkmene said slowly.

Dubois huffed. ‘It is easy to think you are lucky when you have a little more than another.'

Alkmene winced. It seemed that whatever she said to Dubois, to show him she understood, or at least tried to, it was always the wrong thing.

After a silence Dubois added, ‘I am glad she is no longer alive, because she would constantly worry about me. Now I am free to do whatever I want. To risk my life in whatever way I want to.'

Alkmene had often met men who talked like that, risking their necks horse riding, polo playing, even experimenting with light planes. They needed danger to feel alive.

Perhaps deep inside of her she understood that feeling, better than Dubois or anybody else would ever guess. So often when she sat at home reading about strange events in times of old, she had wished she could have been there to help solve them. She had been amazed at how easily people had gotten away with murder, simply because nobody had asked the extra question or two.

Now Silas Norwhich's death had given her a perfect opportunity to ask all the questions she wanted. And with Dubois's help she might actually have a chance of proving someone guilty.

But this was real life. Not a book.

If someone was guilty here, and they proved it, he or she would end up on the gallows for it.

Someone would die because they had refused to leave the case alone. The police seemed eager enough to write it off as an accident and be done with it. What right did they have to be poking into it? A mistreated party had not asked them. They could not even know if Silas Norwhich would have been glad to see his death avenged. If he had loved his niece and she turned out to be involved, would he have wanted her to be executed?

‘Hey… What are you thinking about now?'

She looked up at Dubois, realizing he was studying her with a frown. He had told her before it was not a game and as they progressed, she began to see what he had meant. This was a matter of life and death. Something stark black and white, while she had an unsettling feeling that nothing in this case was black and white, clear and obvious. They were not even sure Silas Norwhich had been coldly murdered. His fall and subsequent death could have been unplanned, unwanted, by the person who had been present as it happened. He or she might have fled in panic, not out of guilt. How to untangle the whole web?

Dubois was still watching her, waiting for an answer.

She tried to smile. Forcing herself to sound light and unconcerned, she lifted her glass. ‘Shall we finish off the bottle? It sours when it's left too long.'

Chapter Eleven

Still pensive, Alkmene approached the men's wear store to get the old-new handkerchief for Dubois. He had told her as they parted that he was meeting Silas Norwhich's manservant for dinner later that day, to get all the details about the room in which he was found. ‘If he has anything special, I might call upon you tonight, so you'd better have my handkerchief ready and waiting for me.'

The clerk who had taken the assignment from her the other day was there and waved her into the back room at once. He spread a handkerchief on the table for her, gesturing over it with his hand. ‘It is the same quality, material, colour. This should do very well.'

Alkmene demanded the specimen she had left him to make a close examination of similarities and differences, but the clerk claimed to have thrown it out with the trash. ‘I can assure you this was the best I could do.'

Alkmene hoped his best would be good enough and left, having paid for the new-old handkerchief in cash so it would not pop up on her father's bill. He was so chaotic that he might not notice, but just in case he did, she didn't want to answer any difficult questions about it.

She believed Jake was right in saying she should not hand over the money demanded in the blackmail note, but that meant the blackmailer might make good on his threat to inform her father of her alliance with a convict. She could hardly explain to him that the purchases ending up on his bill were for said convict. He might think she had gone mad and sign her over to an asylum before he left on his next botanical expedition.

Actually, merely hiring a chaperon for her would be bad enough.

She needed her freedom to move around.

Once home, Alkmene gave the handkerchief a critical perusal and decided it looked too new, so she crinkled it and put it under a pillow, then sat on the pillow for an hour or so reading in a French novel so she could surprise Dubois with a casual conversational phrase here and there.

Satisfied with the handkerchief's appearance now, she moved to the theme of scent and sniffed it critically. It was too new still.

She used some of the lavender drops she poured on her pillow on occasion to sleep better to create a flowery scent that a man might mistake for soap. After all, despite all his criticism of her, Dubois didn't launder himself either, so what did he know?

At last she put the handkerchief in some brown paper and put it ready to present to him should he appear after his meeting with Norwhich's manservant.

She had some dinner, Cook's leek soup, followed by mutton in cream sauce with rosemary-covered baked potatoes. She took dessert, blanched pear with whipped cream, into the living room and got out
On Rigor Mortis
, to find out what it meant that the dead man's fingers had been so stiff when the police surgeon arrived that he had to break them to get the bit of paper out.

The treatise was very long and dry and not at all conclusive about hours and times of death, and instead of making copious notes that would prove vital to their quest, she just had three lines scribbled
in pencil, when the butler opened the door and announced, ‘A guest for you, Lady Alkmene. He has no calling card and… Hey, wait a moment, sir.'

He was pushed aside by someone who whooshed in with the freshness of summer rain.

Indeed Jake Dubois's dark hair was wet, and drops glistened on his suntanned skin. He raced to her and stood in front of her chair, gesturing widely as he called, ‘I know what the dead man was holding in his hand. What it was that got snatched away from him by the killer. Now we can be sure Evelyn Steinbeck is at the heart of it all.'

Alkmene snapped
On Rigor Mortis
shut and asked, ‘So?'

Jake glanced at the butler, who was still standing at the door, opening and shutting his mouth like a fish out of water.

‘You can go now, Brookes. Please close the door,' Alkmene said quietly and put the volume on the side table. She patted the pillow beside her. ‘Sit down.'

Jake gestured. ‘I am soaking wet; I had better stand.'

‘Don't be silly.' She rose and walked over to the fireplace. ‘Here, you can sit on this stool. The fire will get you warmed and dried up in no time.'

Jake followed her and sat down. Still standing she was now towering over him. He extended his hands to the fire and smiled as he felt the heat. Waiting for him to speak, she straightened her father's collection of marble elephants on the mantelpiece. He usually brought one from every trip to the east, and had gathered quite a herd of them.

At last, as Jake kept silent, she prompted, ‘What did Norwhich have in his hand?'

‘A birth certificate. I have looked at several, and that bit of paper definitely came from one of them.'

‘Whose birth certificate?'

‘No idea. But what if Evelyn Steinbeck wasn't his niece? Or she wasn't even Evelyn Steinbeck, but someone pretending to be her? I mean, an actress could play any part. I think we have to interview her as soon as we can to find out who she really is.'

‘As if she is going to tell us.' Alkmene blew a strand of hair from her face. ‘By the way, I have your handkerchief for you – like you asked.'

She left the room to go get it. She was a bit nervous about her deception succeeding, so decided to get it over with as soon as possible.

As she came back into the room, Jake was stirring up the fire, sending sparks dancing into the chimney. He really had to be cold. She had not even noticed it had begun to rain. The house's walls were so thick they kept out any sounds of the street.

‘Here.' She handed him the parcel.

He opened the brown paper at once and checked the handkerchief, folding it open, turning it over.

Her heart beat like strikes on an anvil. He'd see through her ruse at once and expose her, making this very painful.

‘I don't see any tea stains any more,' Jake said. He glanced up at her. ‘Lemon juice?'

Lemon juice? Did that work against tea stains?

‘Uh, no.' She crossed her arms over her chest. ‘Secret recipe, like your fish thing, you know. From my Irish nanny. Foolproof.'

He nodded slowly.

She had no idea if he was buying it. In his line of work he had to have experience with squirming, lying people and maybe he could make out a half-truth or lie from a mile in the distance.

‘So I guess I should never use this again, huh?' he said. ‘Have to keep it pristine, as a memento.' With that he put it in the inner pocket of his jacket.

Alkmene rubbed her clammy palms. ‘So do you want anything to drink? I can ring for coffee. I think Cook also made ginger cookies.'

Jake shook his head. ‘I had a big dinner.' He nodded in the direction of her half full dessert bowl. ‘Yours wasn't any good?'

She flushed. ‘I meant to finish it, but I got sidetracked by the rigor mortis.'

‘And?'

She shrugged. ‘Doesn't seem to say all that much. I guess we would be better off if we knew exactly what the room looked like in which the dead man was found.'

‘
Et voila
.' Jake reached into his pocket and produced a folded piece of paper for her. ‘I had that big dinner I just mentioned with Norwhich's manservant who found the body in the morning. On his night off he didn't mind me treating him to something nice while he dug in his memory for worthy details of the fatal night. I drew the map myself while we were talking and had him correct me if I was wrong.'

Alkmene accepted the paper and looked over it. It represented a square room, with the door on the upper long side. On the lower long side two windows were indicated. ‘Were the curtains closed that night?' she asked.

Jake nodded. ‘There were even blinds on the inside, which were always closed at night. Not much light got to the outside, let alone a glimpse of what was happening inside that room.'

‘All right. So we cannot hope for a passer-by who caught a look or even a snooper who is prepared to accept money in exchange for what he saw. We could have advertised, you know, to ask for information. But with the blinds that would be no use. Now there is the desk…' Alkmene trailed her finger over the square on the left hand short side. ‘The back of his chair was to the wall?'

‘Yes, he faced out to the room when he was sitting behind it.'

‘So not likely someone sneaked up from behind and clubbed him while he was sitting there. The visitor coming in would have entered here and walked to here.'

She followed the intended path with her finger from the door on the top of the sheet to the desk on the lower left. ‘And where is the fatal fireplace?'