Diamonds of Death

by Vivian Conroy

  Albert stared at him, the veins on his temples bulging. ‘You dare talk to me like that? I am a peer.’

  ‘I wouldn’t care if you were king of this country. You do not hurt women. That goes for your own wife too.’

  Albert turned even redder. ‘She complained to you, did she? Always smiling at other men, even servants!’ He was shouting now. ‘She has no restraint. I should have known better than to ever marry her.’

  ‘Then why did you?’ Alkmene parried.

  Albert stared at her. His breathing came out in painful gasps.

  ‘Was it just to spite your father?’ Alkmene pushed. ‘Your father who also wanted her?’

  ‘My father never wanted her. That was Helena’s fantasy. She believed she could marry and become Lady Winters, take my mother’s place.’

  ‘And she succeeded,’ Jake said. ‘In a roundabout way, but she succeeded. You helped her to achieve her aim. I am not quite sure if you intended to help her. Or she just used you.’

  Albert winced as if Jake had struck him in the face.

  Jake turned his back on the infuriated lord and took the shovel from the grass, putting it across the wheelbarrow. He grabbed the handles and took off to the shed in the distance.

  Alkmene thought it best to follow his example, retreating, however, in the other direction, back to the house. Her legs were wobbly with anxiety over this turn of events. The digging had not turned up the missing diamonds.

  She had just behaved in a terrible way, breaking every rule of hospitality. If her father ever heard about this, he’d have a fit.

  As she dared halt a moment, to catch her shaky breath and glance back over her shoulder, she saw that Albert had picked up the metal box with debt papers and was clutching it to his chest. His expression was not angry any more, but more…desperate?

  Had he known about this? Did he face financial disaster because of George’s bad behaviour?

  Or had Helena spent money without him knowing about it?

  Had he himself perhaps needed funds badly? Were the debts in the box his own?

  And had his father withheld financial support to solve the situation? Several people had suggested Lord Winters had kept his family members on a short leash because he enjoyed the control this gave him. A frustrating position to be in for somebody who was getting more cornered by debtors as time went by.

  Had Albert seen but one way into more money?

  Killing his father for the title and the accompanying wealth…

  Chapter Nineteen

  ‘Thank you,’ Alkmene said in a demure tone, retracting her hand from the weak grasp of an elderly gentleman who had muttered his condolences at the death of her uncle.

  She stood as last in the line of relatives, Lord Winters up front, his wife beside him, all in black with a lace scarf over her head, looking like a very pretty widow. Then George, reasonably sober and solemn, and Anne in dark blue, keeping her chin up as if defying people to say they were sorry for her. To mention that it was so sad that after she had lost her mother in India, she had now lost her father as well, and in such a tragic manner.

  Alkmene never liked these occasions where you were sort of put on display for the sensationalist crowd, but there was nothing to be done about it and she was actually hoping for some bit of useful gossip to reach her eager ear. Especially about money. The find of the box with the debt statements in it had made it painfully clear that someone had caused a great deal of trouble for the Winters family. Who was the big spender and how did that relate to the murder?

  Jake could of course not show his face here, as he was just a servant, and the Winters knew her well enough now to not buy into her needing constant help. She wasn’t eighty after all. And her constant prodding of painful things hadn’t convinced them she was weak either. Rather a major pain in the back.

  Perhaps even a dangerous one.

  This morning at breakfast Albert had silently glared at her like a tiger who is only waiting for the moment he can pounce. She was not sure what he could do to hurt her, but she was sure that he intended to get even with her for the way in which she had treated him the day before.

  The church bells overhead chimed the hour. The service for the deceased would not start until half past. But most people had come early, had told them they were sorry and were now standing talking amongst each other, their hushed voices droning like bees in a swarm.

  Alkmene shook the last hand and exhaled inaudibly, then moved to stand with a group of people close by. She smiled briefly past their faces and thanked them cordially for having stopped by. ‘It is so nice to see so many people present as we say goodbye to my uncle for the last time.’

  ‘Oh, you are the niece from London,’ a woman in tweeds said. ‘My son has seen your car. Quite a number he calls it.’

  ‘I am flattered,’ Alkmene said with genuine pleasure, although the car had been arranged for by Jake and was far from her own. ‘It does pay to have a good car at one’s disposal, I always say. I went to see the Grange earlier this week. It’s quite a lovely countryside here with grand old homes and forests with bubbling brooks. You must of course forgive me that I am doing some sightseeing while I am here, even though it is actually a visit on a sad occasion, but my uncle and I have never been very close. I am sorry that he died of course, and in this shocking manner, but to me it is not a matter of…emotion, more of family loyalty, you understand.’

  ‘I guess he was not an easy man to get close to,’ the woman said in a confidential tone. ‘He did have a lovely wife. We met her once when they were here from India. Such a vibrant personality. Quite colourful. I thought it was good for him to have such a wife. I guess he missed her very much. He was somehow a different man when he came back. Still stern, but a little sad too.’

  Alkmene nodded politely.

  The woman went on, ‘I guess he also had to adjust to the new situation. His son being in charge of the house now and all. Then his foreign wife making all kinds of changes. I was shocked when I came there again for the first time. The whole house had been redecorated. Furniture, curtains. Like she had removed anything that reminded her of the deceased lady of the house. Shocking really. But perhaps it is common where she comes from?’

  ‘Yes, could be,’ Alkmene agreed. ‘I once read a book about Greek customs, and they are quite different from ours.’

  ‘Greek?’ the woman echoed. ‘Oh, no, she is Portuguese. From a very old influential family who owned large stretches of land in Africa. I can’t remember where exactly, but they did hunt elephants.’

  Alkmene recalled that Helena had told her about her mother raising her alone, being afraid of her good looks, of her running off as a young girl and having to work as a governess to make a living, lying about her age and all to get the position. It didn’t seem to fit with this picture of a rich family who had owned land on another continent. Helena had to have made up some story to look good for the people she met in her new homeland.

  In fact, as time went by, it was hard to determine what of the things she had shared about herself was true and what was a fabrication. A fantasy as Albert had called it, referring to his father allegedly wanting Helena for a second wife.

  ‘I have always thought it was a beautiful name,’ the woman said. ‘Elena.’

  ‘Elena?’ Alkmene queried, imitating the woman’s pronunciation without the h and with stress on the second syllable.

  ‘Yes, that is how you are supposed to say it, I guess. Albert does sometimes when he talks to her. I find it so endearing. If they ever have a daughter, they should call her Elena. But I bet Albert will be stuffy about it and want a traditional name like Philippa or Anne. Names that have been in his family for generations.’

  She nodded at Anne, who was engaged by three old spinsters and looking terribly uncomfortable about it. ‘Not that I have anything against Anne, you know. Dear, no, I feel so sorry for that girl. If you really come from London, you should invite her there sometimes, let her go see a play or have dinner in a
fancy restaurant. Her brother is keeping her on such a short leash and, well, it only makes them rebellious at that age. It would be a shame if she ran off with the wrong kind of man and got herself into trouble. Excuse me, I have to go see where my mother-in-law is. She is starting to become a little forgetful, you know, and sometimes she wanders off…’

  Alkmene nodded with a smile and pulled back her stiff shoulders. She was not looking forward to spending more time indoors while the weather was so gorgeous outside. But she had to think of Jake’s friend being locked up in a damp police cell and do her best to find all the clues she could.

  ‘I think it is shameful you dare show your face here.’

  The shrill voice pierced Alkmene’s eardrums, and she looked in the direction of the sound. A tall woman was standing with her arms crossed over her chest, looking straight at George. ‘Even now you have a flask hidden in your pocket to take a swig from whenever you think nobody is looking. But you are a lord’s son and you should behave like one.’

  George laughed. ‘You are mistaken. My brother here is Lord Winters now. I am nothing but second choice. Have been for all my life. I don’t know why I ever came here in the first place. I should have stayed in India and made something out of my life.’

  ‘No, I don’t want you to leave,’ Anne said, rushing over to stand by his side. ‘You have to stay here and ride with me, talk to me. If you leave, it would get even worse.’

  George looked down on his sister and put his arm around her narrow shoulders. ‘Don’t worry,’ he said softly. ‘I won’t just leave you behind.’

  A pang shot through Alkmene when she saw the two of them standing like that, supporting each other. What if they proved that George had hired Mac, had been back at the house that night? What if he was accused and convicted and Anne lost her brother and her support?

  But George did drink a lot. He was volatile, stubborn, outright impossible at times, not a grown man, but a brat who got himself into no end of trouble. And what was Anne? A hurt girl, young and naive, having missed her mother during a crucial phase of her life, now going about like a ship without anchor, bobbing and threatening to crash on the rocks?

  Or was she truly distorted in her mind, abnormal, manipulative, smarter than they gave her credit for? Was everything she showed to the world just an act, to paint a certain picture of herself and achieve the effect on other people that she wanted to have?

  Had Anne killed her mother in India, strangling her for some supposed injustice done to her? Had she now killed her father as well, and was she standing there on the day of his funeral not even aware of her guilt, because to the distorted mind there was no such thing as guilt, or remorse, only justified retribution?

  Retribution, somehow that word seemed to have an enormous bearing on this case.

  But Alkmene could not work out why.

  No matter how she tried, she could not put all of the pieces of the puzzle she was already holding together, fit them into a meaningful whole.

  Chapter Twenty

  They left the cemetery last of all, a small group of solemn-looking and slowly walking people. Lord Winters up ahead, his hands folded on his back. His wife beside him, holding her head down and sobbing into a tiny handkerchief with lace.

  Then George, still red-faced as if his anger welled anew at the memory of the accusations cast at him by a common villager on his own father’s burial day.

  Anne, now calm again and composed, looking as if she was miles away in a place where nobody could touch her. Her moods did change from one moment to the next, and you were never sure how she would react.

  And Alkmene bringing up the rear, her mind still echoing with the vicar’s words about resurrection and eternal life, while she had not even worked out yet how mortal life, here on this earth, had ended for her uncle.

  Outside the huge metal gate with the ominous words memento mori a uniformed policeman was waiting for them, a man in a suit by his side. He came up to them with a pained expression, excusing himself for the inconvenience on this sad day. ‘I am Inspector Dugan. This is Constable Averley. We have to take Mr George Winters into custody.’

  ‘What on earth for?’ Albert cried, and Anne grabbed George’s arm and clung to it as if she never wanted to let go again.

  The inspector said, ‘We have reason to believe he killed his father.’

  ‘That is preposterous,’ Albert said. ‘Man, can’t you see we are leaving a graveyard? We are a family in mourning and we just want to go home. Save us your stories and come back later, if you have any more questions for my brother.’

  ‘Your brother hired the cat burglar who broke into your father’s room that night. The burglar has given us several details that have convinced us that this is true.’

  Alkmene glanced at George’s expression. He was grey under his tan and was having trouble breathing evenly.

  Albert waved a hand. ‘What is the testimony of a crook worth? He must be lying. My brother has nothing to do with the break-in or my father’s death. He was not even at home that night!’

  ‘This is not about speculations,’ Inspector Dugan said. ‘It is about proof. We are certain your brother did not spend the night away from the estate like he claimed earlier. He did check into the inn, but he did not stay there. He came home that night and he had opportunity to kill his father. He hired a burglar in advance so the murder would be blamed on that man.’

  ‘Nonsense.’ Albert scoffed. ‘Why would George kill my father?’

  ‘It is true,’ Helena said, her face pale. ‘George did come back to the house that night. I saw him. He was there and not being loud and drunk like he usually was, but careful and stealthy. I have always known he had come back to kill him, just like he said he would.’

  ‘Elena,’ Albert said, using his wife’s original name as if to snap her out of her talkativeness.

  But Helena continued, ‘Everybody heard George make the accusation and the threat. All of our guests the night before your father died. They all stood there and heard George say it, watched him storm off. They have not spoken up because they are protective of our family name. But I am sure that if asked, they will confirm it. I myself will swear to it during the inquest.’

  She looked at George, her face even paler now. ‘I am sorry, George. I can no longer protect you.’

  He stared at her as if she had slapped him across the face.

  Anne made a constricted sound, grabbing his arm harder. ‘No, you cannot have. You cannot be arrested. You have to stay with me. After Mother died, you promised me you’d take care of me. You just told me in church how you would never leave me behind.’

  George looked into his sister’s eyes, despair on his young face. The usual arrogance was washed away, and he looked vulnerable, exposed. Uncertain as to what his next move should be.

  The inspector said, ‘You have to come with us to answer questions. From what we know now, there is enough to charge you and lock you up.’

  ‘I thought,’ Alkmene said, ‘that you had someone under lock and key for the crime. It would be a bit unusual to arrest another now. Unless you simply arrest every possible suspect and keep them until one of them confesses to the deed?’

  ‘Hardly,’ the inspector said, red with anger. ‘The other man has been released this afternoon. We are not convinced any longer that he was involved in the murder. He did break into the building, but he did that under the explicit orders of this gentleman.’

  He looked at George. ‘Do you deny it?’

  George hung his head. ‘No, I do not.’

  ‘What?’ Anne cried, letting go of him. ‘You asked that man to break into our home?’

  ‘Only to steal Father’s precious stones so he would be desperate.’ George looked at Anne, a plea in his eyes that she’d understand his reasoning. ‘Then I would find them back for him and he would be happy. He would see me. For once he would see me and like me better than Albert.’ His voice broke.

  Albert laughed, a snorting sound. ‘He would not
have. You have never been good for anything. He would have seen through your ruse. You never were a good liar.’

  ‘No, you were much better at that, brother dear,’ George sneered, colour returning to his ashen face.

  ‘Please stop it,’ Helena said in a strained tone. ‘George has already confessed to having hired that man to break into our home and steal the stones. He had now better confess to the murder as well. How he killed his father and wanted to frame an innocent man for it. Then we can be done with it.’

  Her words were cold and final like the banging of a judge’s gavel.

  ‘I did not kill my father,’ George said. ‘I just told you I wanted the theft to succeed so I could play the hero in recovering the stones. Why kill my father first? That would have ruined my entire plan.’

  ‘Nobody here believes you,’ Albert sneered. ‘You hated Father, and he hated you. You got into an argument and you hit him with that preposterous polo trophy of yours. He died. You might not have meant to kill him. You were never determined in anything you did. You could never make anything work. But kill him you did, whether you meant to or not, and now there is a price to pay. I say, arrest him.’ He gestured at the constable.

  ‘You bastard!’ George jumped at his brother, grabbing for his throat. He got him and pressed, Albert turning scarlet and gasping for breath. The constable and the inspector each had to grab one of George’s arms and pull him away.

  Anne cried.

  Lady Winters was looking at the scene with a distant expression as if she was not really there. Just waiting until the commotion had passed and she could get on with her life.

  At last George was constrained.

  There were fiery fingerprints left on Albert’s pale neck, and rubbing them, he said, ‘You have now seen what he is capable of. I have no doubt he killed my father. Lock him up and convict him. The sooner he swings, the better.’

  Anne cried harder. Alkmene put an arm around her shoulders. She looked at George who was being dragged away, screaming he had done nothing. He had hired the thief, yes, for the stones, so he could be a hero, but he had not killed Father. He had not.