Fatal Masquerade

by Vivian Conroy

  Were the Steeplechases known to Mrs Hargrove? Why else would she have responded so strongly to a discussion of the murder case?

  Staring into her own eyes, Alkmene muttered: was it really poison?

  And why would Denise behave so strangely all of a sudden? Ache for a ball when there were so many on her social calendar? Threaten her stepmother with the revelation of some affair going on? Slight Alkmene to her face about some lawyer Alkmene didn’t even know?

  Denise had always been volatile, laughing one moment, pouting the next, like a little girl who wasn’t getting her own way, but now her responses seemed exaggerated. As if she was nervous, and her anxiety translated itself into immediate attack as soon as someone but looked her way.

  The exchange with her stepmother suggested it was about some guest at the ball tonight, someone Denise wanted to see, but her father would not approve of. Some man, probably. The one who had said that nonsense Denise had mentioned in the car: wild tresses and eyes like pools of fire.

  Alkmene made a face at her mirror image. As soon as people fell in love, they started to behave like idiots. She’d hopefully be spared ever acting like that!

  Downstairs a gong resounded, indicating that the first guests to the ball would be arriving in a few minutes. Alkmene checked her mask covered her face, except for her nostrils, mouth and chin, and smiled at the reflection. She looked quite the part and was ready for a night of dancing to take her mind off murder and friends who were suddenly snapping over nothing.

  Coming down the stairs, Alkmene turned away from the open front door, wandered into a room that led into a conservatory full of blooming plants, then through French doors onto a terrace.

  In a deckchair Jake sat, making notes in a notebook poised on his knee. He didn’t hear her coming until she was quite close. He started, shutting the notebook, which slipped off his knee and hit the ground. He retrieved it quickly.

  Alkmene hitched a brow.

  Jake hurried to say, ‘Hargrove shared some details of the new engine with me while we were smoking. I want to get it all down before I forget any of it.’

  ‘Of course,’ Alkmene said. It hurt her more than she cared to admit that he didn’t confide in her. But she could hardly pull the notebook from his hands and look inside.

  Jake put the notebook in his pocket and extracted a black silk mask. He made a face at her before slipping it on. It transformed him from a handsome man in a tuxedo into an intriguing rogue. Alkmene bet women would be dying to dance with him tonight. She fingered her own mask. ‘How did you know it was me, anyway, when I came up to you?’

  Jake shrugged. ‘I’m used to committing people’s posture, movements, total appearance to memory. When I’m stalking someone in the city, I have to recognize him or her in a crowd. Besides, your eyes are quite memorable. I’d recognize them anywhere.’

  Alkmene pursed her lips. ‘Mrs Zeilovsky also has remarkable eyes. I’m sure that shade of light green is unusual and that I’ll recognize her by it, no matter what mask she turns up in.’

  Jake didn’t comment. He lifted a hand. ‘I hear the first expensive cars coming down the driveway.’

  Alkmene tilted her head. ‘If you’re going to comment on everybody’s spending tonight, whether it’s their car you find extravagant or their tiara, you’re not going to have a good time.’

  Jake leaned over to her. ‘I’m not here to have a good time. I’m here to work.’ Then he turned away from her and went back into the house.

  Alkmene stood silently for a moment, relishing the wind that played upon her bare arms. It was clear to her Mr Hargrove had invited Jake over for a very definite purpose. Not an engine, but something Jake had to ferret out for him.

  Did it have to do with anonymous letters? Why else had his mention of them startled Aunt Felicia so much? Was she a victim of the London blackmailer? Did Hargrove believe Jake could unmask him?

  And had Zeilovsky merely touched upon the Steeplechase case because it had been the best recent example of sisterly strife having devastating consequences?

  Or did he also know more? He and his wife had expounded the case as if they had agreed about it in advance.

  And Keegan. He had also said something about the case. Just a legal opinion, or...?

  Were all these people here tonight merely as guests at a masked ball, friends of the hostess, or people she longed to become friendly with, for status and influence?

  Or were they all here for their own reasons, with ulterior motives?

  And would those motives become clear in the course of the night?

  Chapter Four

  There was nothing like a real orchestra to bring a waltz to life. Alkmene swayed among the many other guests, dressed up and laughing, breathing the building excitement on the air.

  Outside, daylight was fading and the Chinese lanterns became ever more sparkly in the increasing darkness. Couples walked on the lawn, in deep conversation, some of them slipping away to the intimacy of the rose garden or to the boathouse to find a gondola.

  Denise’s high-pitched laughter sounded close by. Alkmene twisted her neck to make out her friend among all the other dancers.

  Denise was in the arms of a man dressed as a doge, with an elaborately embroidered mask. Most men had opted for plain black silk, but this man’s mask even had sequins that reflected the light from the chandelier above. It was not soft and pliable, but hard, as if it had been cast in plaster and then decorated. The nose stood out as a sharp beak, giving the man’s face a malicious appearance. A bird of prey circling the dance floor looking for victims.

  Alkmene shook her head, reproaching herself for the sinister turn her thoughts often took, and returned her attention to her own dance partner. His warm baritone as he invited her to the dance had suggested he was Aunt Felicia’s husband, but now she was in his arms, he moved so nimbly that she began to doubt her earlier assumption. This man had to be younger.

  He leaned over to her and said, ‘Have you known the Hargroves long?’

  ‘I’m really more closely acquainted with Denise.’

  His eyes seemed to glint with irony for a moment, and Alkmene felt uncomfortable that the tension between her and Denise might have been noticed.

  ‘Has she been looking forward to this night?’ he asked in a wistful tone.

  Alkmene nodded. ‘She talked to me about it on several occasions and on the way over she was thrilled.’

  She had the distinct impression her dancing partner was looking past her at Denise and the doge with the predatory appearance. Did her partner guess, as she had guessed herself, that this man was Denise’s reason for having craved this night?

  Was Beak-mask also the reason Denise had quarrelled with her stepmother? Was he the man her father wouldn’t have wanted to come here?

  It didn’t seem logical. Beak-mask wasn’t acting at all inconspicuously, keeping a low profile to escape attention from the other guests and his host.

  On the contrary, he didn’t seem to care if his presence was noted by his host or not. Did he feel so secure behind his mask? After all, the masks would not be removed before two in the morning. And a socially sensitive man like Mr Hargrove would never create a scene by going over and asking this man to remove his mask on the spot, so Hargrove could see his face.

  The dance ended, and the guests applauded. The sound rippled through the open doors and windows, rolling like waves into the gardens that were lit like a fairy tale.

  Now she had stopped moving, Alkmene noticed that her legs were heavy and there was sweat under her mask and in her neck. She needed a break from dancing and from the imposing heat in the ballroom.

  With a smile, she excused herself and walked to the open doors. As she drew near to them, she could already sense the cool upon her hot cheeks.

  Outside, the night air crept along her neck and arms. She breathed in deeply, listening to a call in the distance. Probably an owl, calling for his mate. The male and female had different calls, but Alkmene couldn’t te
ll them apart. If her father had been with her now, he would have scolded her that she had no head for the simplest of things, while she was always curious about things it wasn’t proper for a lady to know.

  The terrace was built higher, broad steps ahead of her leading into the gardens below. To Alkmene’s left and right there were stone railings resting on decorated pillars.

  From underneath one of these railings she heard a rustling sound. She walked over quickly, ensuring her shoes made no sound on the stone slabs.

  Looking down, she spied a tall figure in a lilac dress hurrying away from the house. It had to be Mrs Zeilovsky. She had been the only woman present wearing that shade of dress. The feathers on the headband she wore moved in the breeze as she rushed along. It was a miracle she could walk so fast in her high heels.

  Something moved in the shadow of a group of yews, and a figure stepped out, following Mrs Zeilovsky at a distance. He wore trousers, so it was a man, but he seemed too tall and trim to be the sinister psychiatrist. Who else could have an interest in Mrs Zeilovsky’s secretive behaviour?

  Alkmene frowned. Was Mrs Zeilovsky hurrying to some secret rendezvous? Was her lover following her at a discreet distance?

  Or was the man in pursuit spying on her?

  Under orders from her husband?

  Puzzled, Alkmene followed the two shadowy figures with her eyes for as long as she could make them out. Then, as the tall birch hedge concealed them from view, she stood back, raising her arms to wrap them around her shoulders. Now the exertion of the dance was passing, she was chilly in her thin dress and knew she should really step inside again before catching a cold and regretting her own stupidity.

  But something about the surreptitious movements of people in the dark fascinated her. The idea that the real events of this evening were taking place, not in the lit ballroom behind her, but right in front of her in the darkened gardens.

  Alkmene decided it couldn’t hurt to take a look at the boathouse. It had been described as one of the highlights of the ball, so it was only logical she would want to see it. Perhaps one of the boats would be free and she could enjoy a trip across the smooth waterways and quiet ponds of the estate. Her thoughtful hostess would have provided blankets to snuggle under against the nightly chill on the water.

  As Alkmene approached the boathouse, she saw the shape of a boat moving away from her in the distance. The man standing in the back was handling the oar with jerky movements, rocking the boat. The Hargroves had apparently selected a few servants for the task, based on physical strength or perhaps pleasant appearance, but not on agility with the oar. The way the man was stabbing with it and thrashing about in the water, he could overturn the whole boat.

  Alkmene shook her head in distaste. No boat ride for her tonight. Her dress was too valuable to risk. Not to mention the embarrassment if she had to return to the house soaked to the skin. But as she had walked this far, she might as well go in for a drink. Having seen Mrs Hargrove’s opulent house decorations, she was curious what her hostess had been able to do with the plain boathouse.

  The boathouse’s front was lit by two braziers, one on either side of the door. The light played on the golden draperies attached to the wood. It had transformed the normally simple building into an enchanting little dwelling, a doorway into a fairy-tale kingdom.

  The entry door was half open. Inside the boathouse it seemed to be dark. That was odd as Denise had told Alkmene on their way over to the estate that you could get drinks inside the boathouse while you waited for your turn in the gondola. Had she misunderstood?

  Alkmene approached cautiously, her neck tingling with a strange sensation. It was as if her senses grew more acute, her eyes straining to detect movement inside the dark boathouse, her ears alert for the slightest sound that would betray the presence of someone close to her. Even the wind rustling the leaves overhead startled her.

  Suddenly the fire in the braziers wasn’t pleasant and enchanting any more, but throwing strangely distorted shadows that seemed to grasp at her.

  Gooseflesh stood on Alkmene’s arms, not because of the chill, but the unpleasant sensation that somebody was moving around close by, keeping an eye on her.

  She glanced over her shoulder, first in one direction, then the other. Nothing. But she couldn’t be sure who was hiding in the shadows. Had the man who had been following Mrs Zeilovsky now transferred his attentions to her? Who was he and what did he want?

  Nonsense, old girl, she chided herself. Your mind is just a little shaken up by all that talk of poison murders at dinner. Push that door open now and get yourself a stiff drink to steady the nerves.

  Alkmene placed her right hand flat against the wood and pushed. Her heart beat fast and her whole body was tense, ready to jump back if something got at her from the dark interior of the boathouse.

  The door creaked open.

  Inside, in the far corner, a lantern burned so low it had almost gone out. The little light reflected in some glasses filled with a light fluid, champagne or white wine perhaps. Around the silver tray on which they stood, a stretch of white lace had been draped like a bridal veil.

  Further back, where the boathouse opened onto the water, the sound of the wind could be heard and a gentle lapping of water, breaking against the wooden poles that supported the building.

  Boats could moor there so guests could alight for the gondola trip, but no boats seemed to be there now. The entire boathouse seemed to be empty.

  Seemed, as Alkmene had the distinct impression somebody was there.

  She froze on the threshold, wondering for a brief moment whom it would be more painful to encounter: the diabolical psychiatrist’s wandering wife or the man who had been shadowing her. She was curious who it could be.

  But there was nobody to be seen.

  Alkmene’s gaze lingered for a few moments on more golden draperies against the far wall. Could somebody be hiding behind those?

  But why would a guest hide? It was perfectly acceptable to be here on a night like this, enjoying a drink and some conversation before the boat ride.

  Wasn’t there supposed to be a servant here, too? To look after guests and refill the glasses? Where was he?

  Alkmene moved into the room with determination. She had to find another lantern to light. Once the gloom was lifted from the place, she’d feel better. Then a glass of champagne or two…

  Confident now, she rounded the table with the dying lantern. Her foot hit something solid, and she squeaked.

  Glancing down, she stared full into an upturned face. There was still a lingering haughtiness in the features that were now perfectly still in death. Cobb’s wig had slipped off as he’d fallen. It lay askew, half beside his body, half underneath.

  It wasn’t necessary to ask what had caused Cobb’s death. The handle of a steak knife stuck out of his chest. Around it a dark stain was spreading.

  Alkmene stood and stared. She had often heard that people screamed when they found a dead body, but she was too surprised to scream. How had the arrogant servant who had walked about upstairs where he had no business died? Who had killed him?

  Her eyes stayed fixed with a sort of macabre fascination on Cobb’s hands, which were clutched into fists as if he had tried to fight off death when it had pounced on him.

  Then a sound pulled Alkmene’s attention to the door.

  Footfalls resounded outside.

  Somebody was coming.

  Chapter Five

  In a dreadful heartbeat, Alkmene became certain it was the killer returning to remove some bit of incriminating evidence from the scene of the crime. Without thinking further, she slipped behind the nearest golden drapery. Even with her back pressed as tightly against the wooden wall as she could manage, there was so little room that the toes of her shoes peeked out from under the drapery. She held her breath, hoping the killer would be too preoccupied with his chore to notice anything amiss.

  Nevertheless, she clutched her fan, determined to hit out with it the
moment the curtain was torn away and she found herself staring into the evil, twisted features of a killer who wouldn’t hesitate to silence this unfortunate witness. Jake would say it was just like her to land face first in trouble.

  She could only hope she’d survive this and have time to laugh about it with him.

  Footfalls neared her hiding place. Her heartbeat was so loud, she was certain the killer could hear it.

  She wanted to peek to see how near he was to her, but did not dare. She had a chance, however small, of going unnoticed, and she couldn’t risk that with a stupid action made out of curiosity or fear.

  The footfalls ceased. She could swear she heard breathing. Male, she figured.

  Muttered words.

  Then silence. As if the figure had looked up and seen something. Her?

  No – what he had come back for, of course. Something he had lost at the scene that might give away his identity. Now he had spotted it, on the floor most likely, he’d fetch it and retreat. He wouldn’t see her, let alone pull aside the drapery and kill her, too.

  Too bad she hadn’t had a chance to look better at possible clues, on the floor or table; too bad she hadn’t seen anything telltale.

  Once the killer had removed it, it would be hard to figure out what it had been and whose identity it might have given away.

  A rustling sound. Too close to give her any reassurance.

  Alkmene resisted the urge to close her eyes as she had done as a little girl when hiding under the blankets of her bed from the violence of a thunderstorm outside. She had to keep her eyes wide open and her fan ready to attack.

  Then the drapery was jerked aside, so hard that the pins attaching it to the wall above gave way and the whole thing fluttered down.

  Alkmene gasped, throwing up both her hands.

  Just a few inches in front of her, a dark, intense stare gazed directly upon her. Without his mask he was easy to recognize.

  Keegan.

  The unsociable legal genius who, according to Denise, was immortally in love with her.