Fatal Masquerade

by Vivian Conroy

  She gently turned the knob.

  Inside the room, crammed with a bed, a chair with clothes hanging over the back, a writing table at the window, and a windowsill overflowing with cheap trinkets won at fairs, Jake was on his knees knocking on the floorboards. He started as he heard her, then exhaled in relief. ‘You!’

  Alkmene looked around, crinkling her nose in distaste. ‘You should put things back the way you found them.’

  ‘I found them like this. Either Cobb was messy or someone beat me to it and searched this room first.’

  ‘The police?’

  ‘Could be.’ Jake continued his inspection of the floorboards. ‘Although there are plenty of things in this room, there’s nothing personal. Nothing of value. No savings, no documents. I assume Cobb had some secret hiding place for them. He might not have trusted the other servants and suspected them of snooping in his room while he was at work.’

  Alkmene frowned. ‘Maybe whoever searched the room before you burned the documents he found?’

  ‘There’s no fireplace here. Must be cold as a stone in winter.’ Jake pretended to shiver. ‘If somebody did find something here and wanted to burn it, they would have had to take it somewhere else.’

  Alkmene nodded. ‘I see. We won’t know for sure then, will we?’

  She looked around the room slowly, trying to form an opinion of Cobb. He had good clothes and was careful with them, having put the trousers neatly over the chair. Shined shoes stood underneath. There was even a small brass mirror attached to the wall so he could study his appearance before stepping out for the day.

  She checked the items on the narrow ledge underneath the mirror. Shaving soap, scented water, a nail file. Cobb had spent money on his appearance, fitting the image of the vain womanizer she had already formed. She could just picture him standing here, studying his reflection in the glass, the smug smile as he concluded how irresistible he was.

  Megan’s repeated rejection must have made him furious.

  Jake said, ‘I rang a few people to find out where Cobb served before he came here. You guess.’

  His tone already gave something away. Alkmene said, ‘At a place where he could have met all the house guests.’

  ‘Exactly. He was with a duchess at her summer residence and she had a big garden party to which the Hargroves and Denise were invited. The Zeilovskys and even our friend Keegan were also present. So, if we suppose Cobb was killed because of something he knew from earlier on that cropped up when the murderer came here and recognized him at dinner, we’re still left with the same list of suspects. They could all have been in that position.’

  ‘The killer recognized a danger in the dead man… The dead man also recognized the killer and asked Keegan for help. That would exclude Keegan as the killer.’

  ‘If the note was real. He could have written it himself.’ Jake glanced up at her. ‘Besides, maybe Cobb knew something about one of the Hargroves and, when he confided in Keegan, Keegan felt obliged to kill him to protect the family. He does work for the firm that’s handled their affairs for a long time.’

  Alkmene frowned. Denise had claimed Keegan was in love with her. If he was, would that have induced him to kill for her? Stab a cocky, greedy man who threatened her safety?

  It was possible.

  She made an impatient gesture. ‘Let’s try another angle. What can Cobb have overheard or seen or found out at this duchess’s summer garden party that would be dangerous to the person in question? It need not have been murder or something quite as drastic. Remember, the discussion at dinner was as much about the anonymous letter exposing Vera as it was about Mary’s death.’

  Jake glanced at her. ‘The heart of the Steeplechase case was forbidden love. Vera craving her sister’s husband and wanting him for herself so badly she stooped to murdering her own sister in cold blood. Cobb could have seen a clandestine meeting, a forbidden kiss. A liaison between two people, one of whom was married. If Cobb told about it, the person concerned might have found themselves in serious trouble. With his or her spouse, for one.’

  Alkmene nodded. ‘But that doesn’t narrow down our suspect list. After all, Cobb could have seen Hargrove, Mrs Hargrove, Zeilovsky, Mrs Zeilovsky. Even Denise, if her meeting was with a married man or someone otherwise controversial. Like the comte Hargrove told me about.’

  She gave Jake a quick overview of the situation and her altercation with Denise about it.

  Jake whistled. ‘Your friend seems to be serious about her plans with this man. But… if her stepmother knew about it, and her father suspected it, why would Cobb’s information have been fateful? Murdering someone to silence him is quite a drastic action.’

  Alkmene nodded. ‘If the comte himself had been killed, it would all be more obvious. To prevent the elopement and a marriage that can only end in disaster, perhaps even...’

  She had to swallow. ‘In Denise’s death.’

  Jake nodded solemnly. ‘Did you get anything from Hargrove about his alleged endless conversation with Zeilovsky?’

  She shook her head. ‘I still can’t figure out why he would have talked so long with Zeilovsky. They seem to have nothing in common.’

  Jake pursed his lips. ‘They must be giving each other an alibi. But why? Why do they need an alibi? Why feel obliged to help each other?’

  Alkmene pursed her lips. ‘Perhaps Zeilovsky was the one who saw something at the duchess’s summer garden party and was holding that information over Hargrove’s head.’

  Jake groaned. ‘We’re dealing with far too many possibilities here. Wait a minute. What’s this?’ He lifted a bit of planking in the corner and poked two fingers in. After some wriggling, he extracted a small shiny something.

  ‘It’s a key,’ Alkmene exclaimed.

  ‘Yes, but a key to what? I don’t see anything with a lock in this room.’ Jake glanced around. ‘And if it fits something here, why hide it?’

  ‘Could it be a duplicate key of something? A drawer in Hargrove’s study? A jewel box on Mrs Hargrove’s dressing table? A cupboard in the pantry?’

  Jake rubbed his face. ‘We can hardly try them all.’

  Alkmene leaned back on her heels. ‘We have to. Megan is locked up for a crime she didn’t commit. The family seems satisfied with that, first and foremost because it removes suspicion from them. We’re the only ones who care about Megan’s fate.’

  Jake rose with the key clutched in his hand. ‘I know that. But we’re guests here. Can we really go snooping in people’s rooms? I haven’t forgotten yet what happened at another estate when we tried digging for lost diamonds.’

  ‘It wasn’t so bad,’ Alkmene said quickly. ‘Besides, look at it this way. Megan is innocent, that we know, so the real killer is still here. We’re doing everybody a favour by clearing up who it really was.’

  Jake came over to her, holding out the key. ‘Then you try first in the ladies’ bedrooms. I’ll keep a lookout on the landing and alert you when somebody comes along.’

  Alkmene accepted the key with some reluctance. It felt cold in her clammy palm. Despite her big, brave words about doing everybody a favour with their investigation, she wasn’t so sure. She would hate people going through her private things.

  And what if they discovered a very unpleasant truth?

  ‘Let’s start in Mrs Zeilovsky’s room,’ she proposed. ‘After all, I wouldn’t mind a whole lot if she turned out to be involved.’

  Chapter Eleven

  The room allotted to the Zeilovskys smelled of something intensely sweet. Alkmene walked over to the dressing table and discovered a box of Turkish delight, almost empty. She wondered for a moment who had the sweet tooth.

  Then her eyes scanned the other items. Perfume bottles, a vase with fresh flowers matching the one in her own room. A silver brush and comb set engraved with the initials RD. So, Mrs Zeilovsky’s maiden name began with a D. She would have to ask Jake if he’d heard any salient details about the couple.

  Reluctantly, she opened t
he drawers of the dressing table, but they were empty. Relieved, she closed them again and turned to the large cupboard. The key was in the lock, adorned with a colourful tassel. It was much larger than the one in her hand.

  She quickly looked under the pillows of the double bed, underneath the bed itself – just suitcases – and on the side tables. His held a book on compulsive behaviour, a glass half full of water and heavily rimmed spectacles. Hers was empty.

  Alkmene turned slowly in a full circle. There was nothing in the room that betrayed anything personal about Mrs Zeilovsky. No novel to give away her taste in reading, no bottle with laudanum testifying to weak nerves, no dressing gown of expensive silk with bold patterns. Nothing that told her anything about the woman with the curious light-green eyes.

  Nothing, either, that could be opened with the key in her palm.

  Alkmene opened the door a crack and peeked out. Jake stood nearby, his hands in his pockets, keeping watch. He nodded at her and she came out, closing the door behind her. ‘Nothing,’ she whispered. ‘What now?’

  ‘Keegan’s room.’ Jake nodded at the next door. ‘Pay attention to any notebook or stack of paper from which the note might have come. If we could prove he wrote it himself to explain his presence at the boathouse, we’d be getting somewhere.’

  Alkmene nodded and entered the room. The bed was neatly made, the duvet folded back, and blue-and-white-striped pyjamas, just like her father might have worn, were laid out. It was no wonder Denise preferred the mysterious, adventurous comte over this dry man who seemed old before his time.

  On the nightstand was a leather-bound copy of Wuthering Heights. Maybe Keegan was more romantic than Denise gave him credit for. Alkmene picked up the book and checked the title page. It wasn’t dedicated to anyone. She leafed through it. After a few pages she spotted an article cut from a newspaper.

  Aviation Heiress at Art Exhibition.

  Denise smiled at her from the photograph. Judging by her clothes it had been in winter.

  A few pages later there was another cutout. Auction for Orphanage. Many smiling faces, but Alkmene could pick out Denise right away. Spring, she deduced.

  She put the book on the bed and went through it all. She counted twelve cutouts from newspapers and a women’s magazine, all featuring Denise. Together they covered a period of ten months.

  Alkmene snapped the book shut and returned it to the exact same place. Although it wasn’t forbidden to cut pieces out of the paper and keep them neatly in a book, it did give her a chill that Keegan had bothered to collect these over such a substantial period of time. It was one thing to pine for someone you had seen from afar and didn’t return your feelings, cutting out a picture from a paper to gaze at. However, it was quite another to collect information about social events and keep them all together, even taking them along when you went to stay with friends for a few days.

  The book was almost like a memento.

  It didn’t seem to fit with Keegan’s personality as Alkmene had constructed it from his behaviour the other night: easily bored with people, a man who liked to be alone, analytical, neat, not easily frightened or knocked off balance. If he’d decided to collect cutouts, there had to be some purpose behind it, and this had to be far more than just a romantic feeling of unrequited love.

  But what purpose?

  Alkmene completed her search of the room fairly quickly, not seeing anything that could be opened with the key in her hand. Perhaps Jake and she would be better off trying the servants’ domains – kitchens, pantry, cellars, stables – to see if they could find anything there.

  This peeking in private rooms made her feel bad about herself, almost as if her snooping contaminated her.

  She was approaching the door to sneak out when she heard the voices. Jake’s loud and clear. Louder than his normal tone. To warn her?

  ‘I say, how convenient to see you here. I need some legal advice on a very confidential matter. Do you think we could discuss it? Outside, where we can be certain we won’t be overheard.’

  A voice replied and Jake said immediately, ‘No, I insist on it. Outside is best.’

  Sweat formed on Alkmene’s back as she looked around the room, contemplating where she might hide if Keegan declined Jake’s request and barged in here alone, or if, instead, both of them came in together. There was nowhere except for under the bed.

  Nothing stirred outside the door. In fact, the voices seemed to be moving away. She released her breath slowly. She opened the door a crack and peered in the direction of the stairs. She could just see a glimpse of Jake’s navy-blue suit vanishing. Good. He had succeeded.

  She stepped into the corridor and shut the door. Then she heard the cough behind her. The soft, throaty sound of someone trying to draw attention to his presence.

  With pounding heart she turned to see Zeilovsky looking at her with his penetrating eyes. He didn’t say anything about her coming out of somebody else’s room or ask what she had been doing there.

  His quiet observation made her more uncomfortable than any remark would have. Zeilovsky spoke at last. ‘Hargrove said you have a mind for the criminal, Lady Alkmene. He said it was about the same thing as a mind for psychology. I don’t agree with him.’

  Alkmene waited with bated breath for him to continue.

  Zeilovsky’s eyes flickered as he spoke. ‘I do admit that the psychiatrist and detective have to have an insight into the human mind, into behavioural patterns, into strong stimulants like jealousy, passion and greed. But the psychiatrist is like someone observing an animal locked in a cage. He may stir the animal’s anger by his presence but he is safe from retribution. The detective, however, faces the animal inside the cage. He has to catch it. And that seems to me to be very dangerous. Potentially lethal.’

  ‘I can assure you,’ Alkmene said, hating the unsteadiness in her voice that gave her away, ‘that, like you, I merely observe the workings of the human mind. I find the thought processes of the criminal fascinating. For example, did he ever ask himself if he could get away with it? Or was the crime so necessary for him to commit that, at the time, the risk of discovery and punishment didn’t even matter? Later, he might have thought up ways to cover his tracks, provide himself with an alibi...’

  She let the words linger for a moment, then continued, ‘But at the moment of the crime, the moment when he could eliminate that person who was a threat to him, to his marriage, his future, his career, his sanity even...’

  Zeilovsky stared at her in fascination, his eyes glowing with that undefinable emotion.

  Alkmene ended, ‘Did he feel anything but sheer satisfaction that he had acted and that he had succeeded, that the threat was gone?’

  ‘Some people have to die,’ Zeilovsky said, ‘to make the world a better place.’

  Alkmene had not been prepared for this outright statement. She blinked a moment. ‘Excuse me?’

  Zeilovsky said, ‘The satisfaction of the killer might not be a personal emotion, enjoyed in a fit of madness. It might be an accurate assessment of the situation at hand. If someone who tortured others, someone with a twisted mind who enjoyed inflicting pain, causing injury, shame and death, dies himself, one cannot help but think the world is better off without him.’

  Alkmene held his gaze. ‘You sound as if you’re thinking of a specific person.’

  Zeilovsky pulled back his shoulders. ‘I am a man of science, Lady Alkmene. I build theories.’

  ‘And test them in reality? Is your field not the one in which we hear of controversial treatments that are supposed to make patients better? Of experiments on babies, even, to register their responses because it is scientifically interesting, while no question is asked about whether these children will be left traumatized for life?’

  Zeilovsky blinked a moment. He didn’t seem nervous, but to be assessing her anew. As if he realized she was more dangerous an opponent than he had first thought?

  He said, ‘Progress cannot be made without sacrifice.’

&nbs
p; ‘The sacrifice of human lives?’

  Zeilovsky made a gesture. ‘If a mind is sick, the body the mind lives in cannot prosper. The person has no true life as you and I know it. By trying to cure the illness, we’re trying to restore life to this person. If we fail, we haven’t taken away anything worth having. If we succeed, we’ve restored the subject to full life.’

  ‘The subject? Is that what you call it? Not even a patient or a client, but a subject? Almost without thought or feeling of its own?’

  Zeilovsky shrugged. ‘I often work with cases where the subject has been committed to confinement by the nearest family to protect them from harming others or themselves. I try to bring improvement. I don’t claim I can always help. But I try.’

  His strange eyes flickered again. ‘You, on the other hand, Lady Alkmene, enjoy the thrill of your little criminal investigations, not caring for the pain you inflict on others while doing so. You believe yourself entitled because you are privileged and rich, bored perhaps and in need of entertainment. You don’t care for the consequences of your acts.’

  ‘On the contrary, I care very much. I’m doing this for Megan.’

  Zeilovsky scoffed. ‘Another wanton woman who lured men to lonely places to have her way with them, but who, when confronted with her behaviour, claims she is an innocent.’

  His hands formed fists by his side and his tone lowered to a hiss. ‘Beauty is not a trait to be admired in a woman. It is to be despised.’

  Alkmene blinked. Megan was a sweet young girl, but by no means an alluring beauty. She bet Cobb had only been so eager to get his hands on her because she had resisted. His pride had been hurt. These words from Zeilovsky seemed to see to another situation altogether.

  Why did Alkmene have to think of Mrs Zeilovsky in her lilac gown, flitting into the garden, alone?

  Zeilovsky seemed to rouse himself from his strange mood and glared at her. ‘I will have to tell Mr Hargrove you are by no means a suitable friend of the family.’