The change couldn’t have been greater from the distinguished gentleman, entrepreneur, self-made businessman with money to spend Alkmene had met at the Waldeck tea room in the company of the countess.
Hiding her shock, Alkmene held out the parcel in her hands. ‘No hot water, just fish.’
‘No thanks,’ Dubois said. He recovered remarkably quickly from the surprise of finding her in his rooms at this hour. He turned away, back into the other room, slamming the door shut.
After a while, he reappeared in a clean crisp white shirt over the pants of his dark blue suit. There was even a tie in sight.
Raking back his hair, he snapped at her, ‘So what do you want? I thought ladies of standing didn’t go out before noon.’
‘That was twenty years ago,’ Alkmene snapped back. ‘I guess I should have sat at home painting a screen or doing embroidery, to your mind. And I might have, had I not received a blackmail letter.’
Dubois’s eyes widened. ‘A what?’
She put the fish parcel on the table and pulled the offensive envelope out of her purse. ‘Read it for yourself.’
His expression darkened as he read.
A woman with fiery red curls bustled in with a rusty metal bowl full of water. She clanked it on the table, appraised Alkmene, shook her head in bewilderment and scurried out again, apparently relieved her tenant wasn’t going to give her an earful for being late with his hot water.
Dubois returned the letter to her and leaned over the bowl, splashing water into his face. The drops rained on his shirt, leaving spreading stains. His nails scratched over the stubble on his chin.
‘Late night?’ Alkmene asked, half interested, half repulsed at the idea he had been drinking or something. She knew it was pretty normal even in the higher circles, and although her father himself was a moderate man, he had prepared her to accept that men might drink themselves into a stupor every once in a while over something like winning a card game.
Or losing it.
Dubois reached for the thin towel that lay nearby. Rubbing his face vigorously, he grunted. ‘Talking to people can be hard. Just tracking them down can be hard. It takes time.’
He lowered the towel and threw it onto a plain wooden chair.
Alkmene didn’t want to look around like she was appraising his rooms. She kept her eyes on his face. ‘Did you get what you wanted?’
He nodded. ‘You know that by questioning the neighbours I had already found out that a man came to the house on the night Silas Norwhich died. I didn’t think he would have been on foot, so I tried to find the cab that dropped him off. I had hoped I would get a good description of the man. An address where he had been picked up. But it turns out he was cloaked and had a hat pulled over his face. The driver couldn’t tell me a single useful thing. And he picked him up on the corner of Bond Street. No doubt that location has nothing to do with him. At least the driver confirmed for me that the man went to see Silas Norwhich. He rang the bell there and was admitted.’
Alkmene tilted her head. ‘So we were right before. Norwhich admitted his own killer. Which means he knew him and was not afraid of him. Else he would have slammed the door in his face.’ She frowned. ‘So it can’t have been that man who appeared at the theatre. Norwhich was worried about that man. The countess used the words: a man returned from the dead. She must have told you all about that.’
Dubois nodded.
Alkmene continued, ‘So if Norwhich was afraid of this man, because of the past, because it was someone he had believed dead and gone, dealt with, now back in his life, he would not have let him into his house, especially not if he was home alone.’
Dubois shook his head. ‘Not necessarily. Look at it this way: perhaps the appearance of the man at the theatre was a shock to him. But he did know him. Had known him in the past. Would he not want to talk to him if the other asked him? Perhaps he thought it was the only way to solve things. Or the other forced his way into the house with threats.’
Alkmene pursed her lips. ‘Ms Steinbeck wasn’t there that night either, she says. Maybe her uncle sent her away to meet with the man from the theatre?’
Dubois nodded. ‘Could be. I heard Norwhich was supposed to have gone with her to a concert, but he made her go alone at the last instant. He claimed to feel unwell. Now that might have been an outright lie. It seems he was a bit of a hermit, and Ms Steinbeck always wanted to run from one party to the next. Maybe he was just not in a mood to go.’
‘Hmmm.’ She looked down on the blackmail letter in her hand. ‘Help me deduce something from this charming little letter. The writer is obviously working with another or even a whole gang, for they are using a plural pronoun. They must have been watching me for some time now to find some sort of indiscretion that I’d be eager to cover up. They claim I am going about with some convict. I can’t vouch for every single person in my acquaintance that they are pitch perfect. Some like liquor or spend too much money at their clubs or the hat shop. But convicts? I don’t think I know any. Must have been my adventure in Tar Street the other day.’
She glanced at Dubois. ‘I guess that drunkard could have been to prison. Or the old man who repairs the watches? He looks kind and approachable enough, but I have no idea what he did when he was younger. Maybe he was in prison in another country? Been a sailor, got accused of something? Perhaps really knifed a man in a fight? Never meaning to, but those things can happen.’
She wanted Dubois to know she had not lived away from the world for all of her life, that she did understand people and situations and how violent death came about, even if you had not been looking for it.
Dubois shook his head slowly. Holding her gaze, he said, ‘The convict referred to in that note is me.’
Chapter Seven
‘What?’ Alkmene couldn’t help the disbelief in her own voice. ‘You have been to prison?’
Dubois shrugged. ‘You have come to the wrong person to help you out. At least, I suppose you are here because you want help from me?’
‘I just figured that…’ Alkmene straightened a crinkled edge of the envelope. The sudden revelation left her reeling. Had Dubois knifed a man in a fight abroad?
Something inside of her refused to accept he could take a life. But perhaps the circumstances had been such that he had been forced to, in self-defence?
But because the other one had been local, nobody had believed him and he had ended up behind bars anyway?
She realized he was waiting for her to work herself out of this faux pas and said lamely, ‘I just wanted to know what I should do about the letter.’
Dubois laughed hollowly. ‘You are asking me what to do?’
‘All right, so far I haven’t asked or listened when you’ve said something but that is just because I don’t understand you. Your life, your choices, your connections. How can you leave that little boy with that old man and the drunk father and never think…’
‘I do think.’ His tone was impatient, like he was about to pound the table with a fist. ‘But I can’t change anything about it. Can I take him away from there? Where to? Here?’
He gestured around him. ‘He would have no better life here. I am away for my work all day long. He would be bored and go out into the street, run into trouble. My landlady is not going to look after him. And if he took an apple at the shop down the street or caused trouble breaking something at the tobacconist’s, people would soon force us to move away from here.’
She held his gaze. ‘At least you would not beat him.’
Dubois took a deep breath. ‘No. But that is poor consolation.’
He tilted his chin up as if to defy her. ‘There are countless children like him in the back alleys, Lady Alkmene. What do you want to do about it, start a little Saturday afternoon tea party?’
Alkmene pressed her lips together. ‘It might not be a bad idea for those children to just have fun for a while. Even if it seems superficial to you.’
Dubois made a gesture in the air. ‘Oh, forget about
it. I am just bushed from last night.’
He began to pace the room. ‘You want to know what to do about the blackmail note. Do nothing. Don’t pay. Blackmail never ends. And in this case there is little to deny or set straight. No incriminating correspondence to get back. Your father might be angry when he learns you bought his buttons in the company of a convict, but there is not much he can do about it. I suppose he won’t disinherit you?’
Alkmene laughed. ‘I am his only daughter. Where else would he leave his money?’ She frowned a moment. ‘My father isn’t very attached to his money, I guess, but I doubt he would leave it to anyone who is not related to him. He does have that much sense of family. He hopes I will marry and…’
She fell silent. Her father’s frequent journeys didn’t just mean freedom to do her own thing, but also freedom from his endless suggestions on whom she could marry. He always seemed to think of somebody new. Somebody equally abhorrent to her mind.
Dubois made another dismissive gesture. ‘It is none of my business. Just don’t pay anything.’
‘I was almost tempted to put an empty hat box in the place indicated and watch who will come and get it. Then we have our blackmailer.’ She couldn’t keep the triumphant note out of her voice.
Dubois shook his head. ‘Not likely. He will send another messenger like the one who delivered this letter to your home. He won’t come in person. He won’t show his face anywhere where he can be seen and captured.’
Alkmene nodded. ‘Probably not. He is the king of this criminal capital, right, and he wants to stay in that position.’
Dubois gave her a hard stare. ‘So meek and understanding of my point of view? You won’t do anything foolish on your own, will you?’
Alkmene shrugged. She dragged the toe of her left shoe over the floorboards with an innocent expression.
Dubois sighed. ‘If you are dead set on doing something, don’t do it alone. At least promise me that, huh?’
Alkmene leaned back on her heels, still not affirming anything. She sensed Dubois was getting antsy about her reluctance to promise she was dropping it. She might gain something here. ‘I am just so bored every single day alone, while my father is away. I could do with something…useful to pursue. Now you are after the killer of this Silas Norwhich. I wanted to get him, but I don’t have the connections or resources you do. I can do nothing but…get myself in trouble because I don’t know what is good for me.’
Dubois’s mouth jerked as if he had to laugh at her meek little act, but suppressed it.
He said, ‘You are riling me, right? You don’t think my connections or resources mean anything.’
‘They do. You found the person who dropped the fare there that night. Now we know from two different witnesses that there was a late visitor. The killer or otherwise the last person to see Silas Norwhich alive. That is great. I couldn’t have done that. And you knew the man who determined for us that the brooch came from Saint Petersburg. I mean, Leningrad. Again, I would not have known how to establish that.’
Dubois looked her over. ‘You do have connections of your own. I want to talk to Oksana Matejevna to find out why she asked about Evelyn Steinbeck at the Metropolitan. But I need an excuse to do so. I have decided I will use the brooch. I will ask Oksana if she knows of any Russian acquaintances of the countess who own such a thing. Now if I go there and ring the bell, asking for Oksana, I will be shooed away. But you can ask for her freely and will be admitted on the basis of your title alone. We could go together.’
Alkmene felt excitement rush through her veins, but she tried to sound doubtful. ‘And once we know whose brooch it is, you will discard me again?’
Dubois sighed. ‘No, you can come along then too. Provided you leave that here for dinner.’ He pointed at the wrapped fish.
Alkmene had to laugh at his pride that compelled him to ask a payment for taking her along. ‘The seller sprinkled it liberally with cigar ashes as he was cleaning it so you are most welcome to it.’
Dubois grinned. ‘It will be sprinkled with other things when I am done. I know how to prepare fish.’ He waited a moment. ‘Will you eat some with me here when we are back from the countess? We need a little lunch before we tackle any new leads Oksana Matejevna may have provided us with.’
Alkmene hesitated a moment. She had told Cook she wouldn’t lunch at home so she might as well have some with Dubois.
Dubois jutted his chin up. ‘Unless this is too lowly for your taste.’
‘That is not it, and you know it.’ She pulled back her shoulders. ‘All right. We see Oksana Matejevna and find out what we can about the brooch, and about Oksana’s secret meeting with that bellboy at the hotel. Then we come back here, and you make me a lovely fish dish where we discuss our next steps. But you’d better understand I am used to haute cuisine and I expect a lot from you. Especially as you are half French.’
Dubois’s expression softened a moment. ‘My mother made a great apple pie that was baked upside down. A traditional French recipe.’
‘She learned from your father? Or his mother?’
He shook his head. ‘Your deductions were wrong, Lady Alkmene. My mother was French, not my father.’
‘But your name is Dubois, right?’ Alkmene was puzzled. ‘I thought that meant that your father had to be…’ She faltered. If his mother was French, and Dubois bore her name, that suggested he had been…born out of wedlock? Had he perhaps travelled to England to look for his father? It would make a compelling reason for him to be here.
Dubois had walked away to get the dark blue jacket that belonged with the pants. Returning, he swung it on and handed her the brooch. ‘You handle the subject. I will just observe Oksana’s response and if she is not yielding, I will find a way to make her confess what is up.’
The countess lived in one of those grand city homes that have stood the test of time and have not faded but only increased in beauty. The stone was a soft yellow, the windows painted a dull beige, the door broad and dark green with a little grille in it through which the butler could see who was at the door.
He was a tall dark man with little grey in his neatly combed and pomaded hair. He stood very tall like a soldier on duty. His English was polished with a vague hint of an accent that Alkmene could not quite place.
She wondered if the man had come from Russia with the countess or was the count’s loyal servant, brought in from Luxembourg. She explained they wanted to speak with Oksana Matejevna. He seemed puzzled by the request, but said she was in the kitchens getting food for the countess’s songbirds. ‘You can wait in the sun room for her return.’
He went ahead of them at once, leading them upstairs.
They were brought into a large room, decorated with countless icons on the walls and several cages with colourful canaries singing to their heart’s delight. The left wall was dominated by a big painting of a village among a pine forest. The cute little cottages were covered with snow, and a troika – a sledge drawn by three horses – came across the road towards it.
Looking more closely, Alkmene kept spotting details like girls going to the well, a wolf lurking between the trees and birds of prey dabbing the skies above. Father would know which ones just by their silhouette.
A small dog with a very flat snout ran for Dubois and circled him, sniffing his trouser legs and yapping excitedly. The long brown silky hair looked so soft to the touch.
‘Pick up Pushkin,’ Alkmene said. ‘He likes to be carried.’
Dubois looked as if he was about to decline, but when he caught Alkmene’s suppressed laughter, he reached down and picked up the dog, carried him in his arms, and held him in his lap as he sat down on the sofa.
The embroidered pillows he dislodged piled up behind him, one plunging over the edge.
The door opened, but instead of Oksana Matejevna with the bird feed, the countess herself came in. ‘Delighted to see you, Alkmene, and you, Mr Dubois. I hope you have some interesting news for me to hear. But first I must feed my birds. My
darlings.’
Dubois threw Alkmene a quick glance asking ‘what now?’
Alkmene shrugged. They’d have to go along with the countess’s chattering and hope they could see Oksana Matejevna alone later. Her large knitting bag lay on a stool so she would probably return here soon.
The countess walked around, giving small seeds and bits of apple to the canaries that flew to sit close to the bars to receive their treats from her.
She chatted incessantly about a high society engagement that had been announced in the morning paper. Alkmene had not seen it and tried to dredge up the faces of the bride to be and groom from her memory but came up empty.
‘So,’ the countess said at last, pushing a footstool aside with her small slippered foot and seating herself in the chair with the big armrests, ‘why have you come to see me, together?’
She glanced from one to the other. ‘Is there something I should know?’ She winked at Alkmene. ‘I can imagine that you have no idea to share this with your father. Perhaps you want me to write to him? I can explain that Mr Dubois here is a very nice young man even though he has no title and no money.’
Alkmene saw the flush rise in Dubois’s face. His hands tightened on the little dog who sensed the change in his mood and began to lick his hands as if to soften him.
She said quickly, ‘We are not here to speak about… We have found something old, antique and valuable from your native country. We want to return it to the owner and maybe you can help us find that person.’
And with a flourish she produced the brooch.
The countess stared. ‘How did you get that?’
Alkmene beamed. ‘So you know whose it is?’
The countess nodded violently. ‘Yes. It is mine. I had missed it but I believed I had just mislaid it. On the other dressing table, by my bed, in a little box or… I often lose things for a while. They always turn up again. But this was missing for some time. Oh, it means so much to me. It is the engagement gift my father gave to my mother.’
She smiled at Alkmene. ‘Did I lose it in the tea room the other day? I have lost a pearl necklace there. The clasp came loose, and it slipped off without me noticing. Maurice returned it to me the next day I stopped by. He had found it. Or one of the waiters. I am not sure. But I had it back. That counted. Oh, my husband would say I am careless with my things. While they are so precious. Valuable. But I do try to pay attention. I really do.’
A Proposal to Die For Page 6