Fatal Masquerade

by Vivian Conroy

  A startled silence descended.

  Denise said, ‘I saw you do it. Burn it in the fireplace. And I don’t have to know what’s in that letter to know what it means.’

  Mrs Hargrove said in a thin voice, ‘What does it mean then?’

  Denise leaned forward. ‘Maybe that Papa will soon get an heir who isn’t even his child.’

  Mrs Hargrove arrested Denise’s arm. Alkmene shrank from the violence in that swift movement, which was like a viper striking.

  Denise turned pale and yelped. ‘Ouch! Let me go. You’re hurting me.’

  ‘Mention again that you might talk to your father,’ Mrs Hargrove hissed, ‘and you won’t live to regret it.’

  A cough behind her back made Alkmene jump. She knocked into the door, then backed away from it quickly. The impeccable driver held out her purse to her. ‘You left this in the car, my lady.’

  ‘Thank you.’ Alkmene snatched the purse from his hand and rushed to the stairs.

  The door opened and Mrs Hargrove appeared on the threshold, a fiery glint in her eyes as she looked at the driver, who was on his way to the front door, then at Alkmene, now at the stairs.

  Alkmene waved her purse in the air. ‘Left it in the car, how silly of me. I’d better rush up now and sort out my clothes. We’ll have a chance to talk at dinner.’

  She couldn’t wait to escape those burning eyes and the lingering echo of Mrs Hargrove’s venomous words. A death threat to her own stepdaughter.

  Chapter Two

  Once safely upstairs, Alkmene took a deep breath. It wasn’t just Denise’s odd behaviour on the way over and the vicious spat with her stepmother. This whole house exuded an exaggerated opulence, a need to show off and prove the owners worthy of their place in high society. The guests who were already here and who would be arriving in the next few hours would also be social climbers eager to establish their right to be here. Everybody would be watching the others and trying to rank their own position in comparison. Alkmene intensely disliked social scrutiny and the quiet condemnation that came with not quite being up to par – in her case, because she was still unmarried.

  But she had accepted the invitation to the masked ball, and she had to make the best of it. She had to keep reiterating her solemn pledge to have a night of unspoiled enjoyment.

  Taking another soothing breath, Alkmene went into the corridor. On the way over, Denise had explained the layout of the house to her and described the location of her room. It should be down this corridor.

  Just as Alkmene was halfway there, a man came walking up to her, fast. The smug smile on his face, the air of utter self-confidence, struck her as extremely unpleasant. He gave a mock half-bow in her direction as he breezed past. His clothing suggested he wasn’t one of the guests, but one of the servants.

  It was very odd. Alkmene frowned a moment, her footfalls slowing. She hardly considered herself an expert in domestic affairs in a large country manor household, but she couldn’t see what a male servant would be doing up here, near the guest bedrooms. Getting those ready would be the task of the housekeeper and the maids under her charge. Perhaps the butler might have some errand here, but this man seemed too young and impudent to serve in such a responsible capacity.

  What was his function anyway? Still frowning, Alkmene entered her room.

  At the dressing table, the maid, Megan, stood. She gasped as Alkmene entered, throwing her hands up in a defensive gesture. On the floor in front of her feet was a broken perfume bottle. The contents soaked the expensive carpet while the scent filled the room with a headache-inducing intensity.

  Alkmene inched back from the strong scent. ‘What happened?’

  ‘I’m so sorry. I didn’t know it was you. I’m so sorry. I’ll clean it up.’ Megan leaned down, her face tomato-red.

  Alkmene waved a hand in front of her face to diffuse the sharp perfume smell.

  Megan kept excusing herself, saying she was so sorry and she’d clean it up. With her trembling hands, she gathered the broken pieces of glass.

  ‘Be careful with that,’ Alkmene admonished her. ‘You could cut yourself. I’d better call for...’

  ‘Oh no, please. Don’t tell anybody about this. Please.’ The girl sounded desperate, on the verge of tears. ‘If you tell, I’ll be dismissed, and I need this work.’

  Alkmene suspected she had little experience and that a night full of pressure to perform at her best would prove even more disastrous. But she didn’t want to harm the girl’s prospects here. ‘Very well. I won’t call for anyone and I won’t talk about it. But you must be careful with all that broken glass. I don’t want you to hurt yourself.’

  The girl swallowed hard. ‘Your precious bottle, my lady.’

  ‘Oh, it’s not important. It was a gift for my birthday. I never took to the scent much, so…’ Alkmene went to the windows and threw them open wide. ‘There. That’s much better.’

  On the lawn the three men were still busy attaching Chinese lanterns to the trees. The gardens had to look like a midsummer night’s dream later on.

  Turning back into the room, Alkmene found the girl rubbing at the stained carpet. ‘Don’t do that. You’ll only make it worse.’

  ‘But if the housekeeper finds out...’

  Alkmene shook her head. ‘I have a much better idea. You come over here. Come over here to me. Come on.’

  The girl rose to her feet and came over, her eyes wide, her breathing shallow. She looked as if she was afraid of being slapped across the cheeks.

  Alkmene said, ‘You were here putting out my clothes. I came into the room to fetch a present for my hostess. I pulled it out of the luggage so wildly the perfume bottle fell out and broke. I broke it. You understand?’

  The girl gaped at her. ‘Why would you say that, my lady?’

  ‘Because I want to call someone up to clean away the glass and get the stain out of the carpet. You don’t know how to do it, and I certainly don’t. We need someone else in here, and as we’re not going to tell anyone it was you who broke the bottle, I’ll just have to say I did. Nobody is going to blame me for it. I can break all of my perfume bottles all over Mrs Hargrove’s precious rugs.’

  Alkmene sounded a little more cheerful than she actually felt, as she suspected Mrs Hargrove would hate damage to any of her things and would blame her for it, even if she’d never say it to her face. And Denise might laugh at her that she was so clumsy, which would be awkward.

  But anything was better than letting this poor girl run the risk of getting dismissed even before she had had a chance to prove herself able. Megan probably had a family somewhere depending on the money she brought in.

  Alkmene said, ‘Are we agreed on this?’

  ‘I don’t understand.’ The girl’s eyes were huge and frightened. ‘Why would you lie for me?’

  ‘Because I’m in a much better position to deal with Mrs Hargrove’s wrath than you.’ Alkmene smiled widely. ‘Now, let me look you over. There’s no telltale stain of perfume that can betray you. No, that looks fine...’

  She did see an odd reddish patch on the girl’s neck, under her left ear. It looked like a rash or something. Maybe she was allergic to perfume and had touched herself with her wet hands?

  ‘You go and take care of my clothes. I’ll ring now.’ Alkmene did, inwardly praising herself for her foresight in bringing a present for her hostess. It was an illustrated book on rose gardens. She pulled the parcel from her case just as there was a knock on the door.

  ‘Come in,’ Alkmene called, holding the parcel in front of her where it could be clearly seen.

  A woman of around fifty in a simple dark-blue gown looked at her with a tight expression on her face. There were lines beside her mouth suggesting she usually disapproved of life.

  Or was in some kind of pain perhaps? Alkmene remembered those facial lines from a friend of her father who suffered from gout.

  The housekeeper looked even darker as she spotted the mess on the floor.

  Alkmene wave
d a hand. ‘So clumsy of me. I was in a hurry to present Mrs Hargrove with this gift I bought for her in London. I knocked the bottle over and, of course, it just had to shatter into a thousand pieces. I have no idea what to do about such a stain, but I trust you know. Thank you, Mrs…?’

  ‘Carruthers, my lady.’ The woman bobbed and dutifully bent down over the stain. Her slow movements suggested a stiff back. So perhaps she did indeed live with constant pain.

  As Alkmene had pretended she wanted to rush out to her hostess with the present, she should really have left right away. But it didn’t seem wise to leave Megan, in her upset state of mind, with Mrs Carruthers, who might ask more questions and see through the ruse.

  Therefore Alkmene gestured at Megan to go on unpacking her luggage. She positioned herself at the open window, partially because the perfume scent was unbearable, partially because she had heard a car arriving and wanted to see who got out.

  But the car didn’t halt in front of the house. It breezed past and disappeared around the corner of the stable building. Almost as if the new arrivals didn’t want to be seen by anybody in the house.

  Alkmene tapped a finger to her lips. Interesting. There seemed to be quite a few mysterious things going on.

  After a rather tense wait for Mrs Carruthers to finish with the stain without discovering the nervous Megan had anything to do with it, Alkmene was left alone to change for dinner with the house guests. The perfume scent had thinned on the fresh air let in by the open window, and the stain on the carpet was much less visible. Of course, it was still wet, and Alkmene realized she wouldn’t be able to ascertain how lasting the damage would be until it was all dry. Well, she had taken the blame, so there was nothing more to be done about it.

  Humming to herself, she changed into her attire for the pre-ball dinner: a deep-green evening dress she had rarely worn before. It was important to remember who had seen you in what, so you could avoid walking around in the same thing too often. One might think the Callenders had fallen on hard times financially and that would never do.

  Alkmene leaned over, close to the glass of her dressing table, to insert the thin silver hooks of her long diamond ear hangers. The light reflected in the facets, shimmering in prisms. She had brought other jewellery to wear with her red ball gown. A bit extravagant, but opulence was expected this evening.

  In the corridor outside her room, Alkmene heard voices. She couldn’t make out the words but it seemed a woman was speaking reproachfully and a man grunted in reply.

  Always curious, Alkmene made for the door quickly and opened it a crack to see, indeed, the backs of a woman and a man, making for the staircase. He had grey in his dark hair, and her blonde locks seemed dyed. It was typical. Turning grey was fashionable for men, making them look mature and worthwhile, while women had to hide every sign of ageing, lest their beauty be ruined.

  Shaking her head, Alkmene straightened her dress and stepped into the corridor herself.

  Just as she was at the head of the stairs, she heard the front door slam. A voice said, ‘You’re going to explain this to Lady Alkmene.’

  She hurried down, calling, ‘Explain what to Lady Alkmene?’

  At the front door two men stood. One of them, tall, broad, his hair still reddish-blond despite his age, was Mr Hargrove. And beside him, just as tall and broad in the shoulders, but dark and brooding as always, was the reporter and her partner in crime for several adventures, Jake Dubois.

  ‘What on earth are you doing here?’ Alkmene exclaimed.

  Jake hitched a brow at Mr Hargrove. ‘I told you she wouldn’t like it.’

  Alkmene wanted to say she did like it, but thought better of it. Jake had enough self-confidence already. He used to joke he always had to save her life. Of course, he had been rather useful on more than one occasion, but there was no need to confirm that to him.

  Frowning at the pair of them, Alkmene said, ‘I had no idea you two knew each other.’

  Mr Hargrove shrugged. ‘We bumped into each other at some social event and got to talking about aviation. Mr Dubois is going to write up a piece about my involvement in creating a new type of engine. I thought it only appropriate to invite him to our little party tonight.’

  Alkmene hitched a brow. As Denise had aptly put it to her stepmother: ‘Papa loathes these parties.’ Why would Hargrove then invite someone to it, someone who didn’t move in the same social circles either? Hargrove might work on a new type of engine and enjoy a reporter’s interest in it, but he wouldn’t invite him into his family home, among his distinguished guests.

  Hargrove walked away into the drawing room where he greeted his wife with a peck on the cheek. She gave him a critical once-over and straightened his tie, speaking to him in what appeared to be an urgent or reproachful manner.

  Alkmene spied through the open door that the couple she had observed upstairs were also in there with her hostess. The man had a Mephistopheles beard that gave him a decidedly diabolical appearance. His wife had a cold, expressionless face, with remarkable light-green eyes.

  Alkmene turned back to Jake Dubois before he could brush past her to greet Mrs Hargrove. ‘So, why are you really here?’

  Jake feigned innocence. ‘Didn’t Hargrove just explain that?’

  ‘He might be grateful you’re going to extol his virtues as an aviation pioneer in the London papers, but not grateful enough to invite you to his manor, into his inner circle, for his wife’s celebrated masked ball.’

  ‘Hargrove isn’t old money. A man like him can see beyond old-fashioned class distinctions,’ Jake said softly.

  Alkmene held his gaze. ‘I don’t pretend to know Hargrove at all. Like you say, he isn’t old money and I doubt he’s been raised in the way an aristocrat would have been. He’s also anything but old-fashioned, so he might even consider befriending journalists the new chic. He would show you off at his club maybe, or introduce you to friends at the races or the theatre. But why bring you home to his wife, who is far more class-conscious because she wants to move up in the world? In case you don’t know yet, Mrs Hargrove decides things around here. Why run the risk of antagonizing her on this happy night? So… what’s really the matter?’

  Jake shook his head. ‘You’ve become oversuspicious, my lady, detecting mystery where there’s none.’

  ‘You’re here for a reason and, since we work together, you should tell me what it is.’

  ‘I don’t understand what you’re referring to,’ Jake said with a sweet smile. ‘Excuse me, I don’t want to keep my hostess waiting.’

  And he walked into the drawing room where Hargrove was standing beside his wife, lighting a small cigar with a silver lighter. Mrs Hargrove hitched a brow at Jake and reached out a hesitant hand, glancing at her husband with an ‘I’ll get back to you about this later’ look.

  Alkmene suppressed a grin and came in as well, making sure she was standing close enough to overhear how Hargrove introduced Jake. ‘Met at the club,’ Hargrove was saying, ‘and we got to talking about Eton.’

  Jake blanched, and Alkmene stepped closer. ‘Eton?’ she asked with an innocent smile. ‘How interesting.’

  Jake shot her a warning glance, but Mrs Hargrove was already distracted because the Mephistopheles bearded man had stepped forward, apparently waiting to be introduced. Not to Jake, but to Alkmene, as the straight stare of his intense blue eyes implied.

  ‘This is Theobald Zeilovsky,’ Mrs Hargrove purred. ‘A famous psychiatrist. He has written extensively on compulsive patterns of behaviour.’

  ‘Recurrent patterns of compulsive behaviour,’ Zeilovsky corrected her with a superior smile.

  ‘Yes,’ Mrs Hargrove said without flinching, ‘very interesting indeed. And Mrs Zeilovsky here is herself an expert in the field of, uh…’

  ‘Experimental psychology,’ Zeilovsky said. ‘She is a great help to me.’

  ‘I’m honoured,’ Mrs Hargrove said, ‘to receive both of them here for our masked ball. Now we must all have a drink before we
go to dinner.’ She gestured at a man in black and white who had waited a few paces away with a tray full of tall glasses with a sparkly liquid in it. Alkmene recognized his smug expression at once. He was the man who had passed her in the corridor upstairs. The servant whose presence there had puzzled her. If he’d been hired to assist with serving at dinner and other kitchen-related chores, he had no business upstairs near the guest rooms.

  He apparently noticed her attention as he held the tray out to her so she could pick up a glass. He winked.

  Alkmene felt a sharp flush rise in her cheeks. It wasn’t the wink itself – for, despite Jake Dubois’ ideas about her, she wasn’t as class-conscious as others of her rank – but the complete confidence with which it was bestowed. Like he was winking at someone who should be happy he had acknowledged her. The superiority of it, even a strange sort of disdain, like he was mocking her, made her feel awkward.

  He had already moved on, was serving drinks to the other guests pouring into the room: a middle-aged lady with her husband and, right behind them, Denise. Her mood seemed to have improved again and she came for Alkmene at once. Gesturing at the middle-aged lady, she said, ‘That’s my Aunt Felicia. I must have mentioned her before.’

  Alkmene nodded. Felicia was the only sister of Denise’s deceased mother. Denise had mentioned the two had always looked alike, so that when they were children, they had been mistaken for twins. Right now, as she surveyed Felicia, she wondered if there was still a strong likeness with the late Mrs Hargrove. If so, it had to be awkward for both Hargrove and his new wife to have her around.

  But apparently Felicia was still a part of the family circle, invited here to spend the highlight of the season with them.

  Holding her glass, Alkmene moved over smoothly and smiled. ‘So nice to meet you. And your husband.’

  At that moment another man came in, a bored expression on his handsome face. He ignored the servant who offered him a drink and went straight for the window, folding his hands at his back and staring out as though he was immensely bored with the proceedings.