A Proposal to Die For

by Vivian Conroy

  Dubois nodded. ‘Perhaps it was chosen with the express purpose of being fastened on that curtain. You cannot do that with a necklace or ring. Thank you for seeing us. We now better be on our way.’

  The countess waved her hand at Oksana Matejevna to see them out. Smiling down on the brooch, she reseated herself in the throne-like chair.

  Alkmene was already at the door, when the countess called after her, ‘Pity it was not some news about the two of you. You make such a handsome pair.’

  Chapter Nine

  Outside in the street Alkmene hoped that Dubois would pretend like he had not heard that last remark, or did not understand it. The countess obviously had no idea how painful it was to pair off people in their presence. If she had not been a Russian princess, and a dear friend, Alkmene might have said something to the point.

  But she wanted to protect the acquaintance, especially now that Oksana Matejevna turned out to have some sleuthing talent of her own.

  ‘Normally,’ Dubois said in a level tone as he walked beside her, hands folded on his back, ‘my next stop would have been the Hotel Metropolitan to see Ms Steinbeck and hear her thoughts on her uncle’s death. I have heard she has been very sparse with information, even to the police. She might be afraid of a scandal; she might also be involved somehow and worried it will all come out. But since Oksana Matejevna might get something useful out of that bellboy first, we should not show our faces at the hotel right now. I think we had better walk down to the coffee shop on the corner and see if my police contact is there for lunch. He’ll have the latest on the murder.’

  ‘I thought you said the police were your worst enemies in some cases?’ Alkmene asked with a frown.

  Dubois straightened up, put his hands in his pockets and inhaled the fresh air with relish. ‘In some cases. Not in all.’

  He seemed to consider how much he could tell her. At last he said, ‘Look, Norwhich’s death was treated as an accident so they just put some young constable on it, who doesn’t feel yet like he is above the rest of the world. He doesn’t see me as a threat, but an opportunity. He thinks it would be great if he could prove it was murder and he could get a promotion out of it.’

  ‘And you the headline,’ Alkmene added.

  Dubois glanced at her. ‘I am just doing my job. It is not something dirty.’

  ‘Why did you become a reporter anyway?’

  He shrugged. ‘I worked in a factory in France and exposed some scheme going on. I earned more with that story than I had in four months of hard labour there. It opened up some doors too, and I suddenly found myself in Paris, investigating a crime ring calling themselves The Accountants, as in those who equalize the balance.’

  ‘Robin Hood like, steal from the rich and give to the poor?’

  Dubois nodded. ‘It was more like: steal from other criminals who can’t go to the police because the things stolen were not theirs to begin with. Suppose you have some stolen jewels in a safe in your home and one morning you find the safe broken into and the jewels missing. What can you do? You cannot report it to the police as they would find out you had stolen them to begin with.’

  ‘The Accountants used the thieves’ only weakness against them.’

  ‘Right. It was an interesting assignment, which took me deep into the heart of the ring.’

  ‘Is that when you got arrested and ended up in prison?’

  He glanced at her. ‘Does my conviction bother you?’

  She shrugged. ‘It is intriguing.’

  Dubois laughed softly. ‘Just dangerous, huh, and almost kind of fun? Well, I can tell you it was not fun.’

  Alkmene bit her lip. He made it sound like she was completely shallow. It was true she had no idea what it was like to be part of a crime ring, and she might see it a little too much like an adventure. But that was merely because she had no idea of what it was really like. How could she ever know what it was like, unless somebody would tell her?

  But she bet that if she asked him to tell her more about it, he’d refuse to share.

  So she said, ‘And after your time with that crime ring, you came here?’

  ‘Yes, after I got exposed, my face was known to a lot of criminals, so I was better off moving. I came here.’

  ‘To your father’s homeland? I assume since you said your mother was French, she was called Dubois? You have her name?’ She wanted to push on and ask if he was looking for his father, but his grim expression at the mention of it made her reconsider. It didn’t look like Dubois was eager for a reunion.

  He nodded. ‘I grew up believing my father had been killed in a robbery gone wrong, at the bank where he worked, even before I was born. Only when my mother was on her deathbed, she confessed to me he had been English, staying in Provence for the summer. He had met her, made her promises of taking her to England, where she would have her own bakery.’

  His face set in hard lines. ‘All lies of course. He deserted her even though she was pregnant by that time. He had never meant to take her back here and give her all the things he had promised her to win her for him. He was already engaged to be married.’

  Alkmene winced. That made it painfully clear why he cringed at the idea of what his father had been. A liar who had made his mother’s life miserable. Who had forsaken her and his son. ‘You came here to find him. To confront him.’

  Now a smile curled the corners of his mouth. ‘The thought crossed my mind. But no, I am not looking for him. I came here to start a new life, not revel in the past. I don’t want to know who he was and why he did it. I don’t want to know what weak excuses he might have had for his behaviour. I would rather just loathe him for what he did and swear I will be a better man.’

  Alkmene stared ahead where the coffee house they were headed for already beckoned with its bright red and blue sign.

  Dubois touched her a moment, with his elbow, like poking her into attention. ‘I didn’t tell you this to make you feel sorry for me. I just don’t have any liking for my English father and his English privilege. I came here to London to investigate crime stories and see that there is just as much squalor here as in the back alleys of Calais or Marseilles.’

  To prove his heritage was no less. ‘There were good people there too, I presume?’

  Dubois smiled. ‘Lots.’

  ‘It’s the same thing here.’ She glanced at him. ‘One bad apple doesn’t mean the entire basket full of them is wasted.’

  He didn’t respond.

  Outside the coffee house he looked in through one of the narrow windows, divided into threes by small lead bars. ‘Oh, shoot.’

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘He is not alone but with this large fellow with the red moustache. I don’t know his name, but he saw me once during a bar fight and he got the idea I was the cause of the fight and the damage. Say, how about you go in and engage him in some story of your umbrella having been stolen just now? Once he is out with you to retrieve the missing object, I will talk to the constable and we can meet up again in say half an hour on the corner of Meade Street. I still owe you that fish meal.’

  Alkmene was happy he remembered and wanted to treat her, but she wasn’t so happy with having to deceive a member of the official police force with lies about a stolen umbrella. She cast Dubois a doubtful look.

  ‘If you can’t do it…’ he said slowly.

  She exhaled and made for the coffee house entrance, calling at him, ‘Your fish had better be excellent.’

  Inside it smelled of a strong mocha, mixed with sweet baked wares. The constable was sitting with a mug in his hands, the red moustache with him biting into some large cinnamon-strewn bread-like slice. He looked up at her as she approached, appraising her with his sharp blue eyes. She forced a wide smile. ‘Excuse me…’

  She made sure only to look at him, not the other man. ‘My dog ran down some steps and disappeared into somebody’s basement. I called out for it, but it won’t come back to me. I also tried attracting the attention of the inhabitants of the
house, but I got no response either. I don’t dare go in myself, as I would be trespassing. Would you mind getting the dog for me?’

  The moustache looked at the other man. Before he could delegate this small job to his subordinate, Alkmene added with a smile, ‘I am sure that my father, Lord Horatius Callender, would be most happy to recompense you for any inconvenience this might cause.’

  The moustache was on his feet already. ‘I am at your service, Lady Callender.’ He looked down on the other man, snapping, ‘Don’t stare like an idiot, Gordon. Wait here for me. I will be right back.’

  He followed her outside, pulling his uniform jacket straight. ‘Now where would this have happened, Lady Callender?’

  Ignoring the wrong address – after all, the poor man probably didn’t deal with members of the peerage every day – Alkmene took him down the street, in the same direction Dubois and she had come from.

  She knew for certain that there was an open basement door there. She had seen nobody at it and suspected that the servants were in the back of the house having lunch and had left the door open by accident.

  Moustache could have a look inside without disturbing anybody and when the dog wasn’t found – obviously as there had never been one – she would excuse herself and say it had probably found its own way out and would be home by now. Moustache might be chagrined, but he’d never show it to her, for her father’s sake. Under the cover of her title she was cut out for jobs like this, and if Dubois realized that well, he’d need her to complete the case.

  Moustache, however, did not look into the basement door. He immediately marched up the stone steps of the house in question and rang the doorbell.

  Cringing, Alkmene waited at the foot of the steps, clenching her hands at this potentially disastrous turn of events.

  Nobody came to answer the door.

  Moustache rang once more and then came back down to her. He cast a suspicious look at the basement door, then went down the steps to study it up close. ‘There are footprints here,’ he called out. ‘In coal.’

  Alkmene smiled nervously. ‘My dog’s?’

  ‘No, of a man.’ Moustache reached for the short stick attached to his belt and with this assault weapon in hand, he disappeared into the darkness.

  Alkmene waited a moment for an anguished cry of pain as the determined sergeant hit an innocent coal delivery man over the head with his stick only to find he had business there and the allegedly missing dog was nowhere in sight.

  But there was no sound of grunting, or a struggle, coming from the basement door.

  Alkmene paced up and down the pavement, smiling innocently at the passers-by who slowed their steps to stare at her. She wished Moustache wouldn’t take for ever searching that basement. Judging by the time he took, it had to run all the way under the house to the other side, where there might be a backyard. If there was an open door there as well, Moustache might conclude the dog had run out and continue searching on the other side.

  Not bad maybe. After all, Dubois needed his time with the constable, to get the information he needed about the murder case. She was curious what the latest might be.

  For a moment Alkmene’s thoughts swerved to India where her father would be yelling at his native servants to hold the parasol over his head while he scoured some jungle patch for poisonous plants, having absolutely no idea of the antics of his only daughter whom he believed to be writing some letters or visiting with an innocent female friend.

  A sound of heavy metal clattering came from the basement. A voice, suspiciously like that of gruff Moustache, called out in surprise and pain.

  Alkmene froze and stared. Had the unsuspecting Moustache run into someone with evil intentions who was now trying to knock him down to flee?

  If this attacker appeared from the basement door, could she stop him?

  Should she call for more police?

  A huffing sound, coughing…

  Then Moustache appeared covered in coal dust. He rubbed at his face, leaving stains everywhere.

  Alkmene suppressed a burst of laughter to ask demurely, ‘Did you see my dog?’

  ‘If he is in there, my lady, he will need a bath.’ Moustache coughed again, panting for breath. ‘The place is full of coal like somebody dumped a ton into it.’ His eyes went wide. ‘I do hope they did not do that after your little dog went in. He might have been uh…’

  Alkmene forced another smile. ‘My dog is very smart. I am sure he would have run out before he got…into a tight spot. I assume he is on his way home now. I am so sorry for your trouble.’

  Moustache tried to dust off his uniform, creating large clouds of black dust in the air. Passers-by shrank into the street or even crossed to the other side to get away from him.

  Alkmene said quickly, ‘Thank you. Good day,’ and marched off in the direction of Meade Street. She had her fingers crossed Dubois would not still be sitting there with the constable when Moustache came back into the coffee house.

  Although she didn’t doubt he would have laughed his head off if he could have seen his old enemy this way.

  Chapter Ten

  When Alkmene trotted up the stairs of Meade Street 33, a delicious scent of something baking wafted towards her. Her stomach growled and she realized she had had nothing since breakfast and running out of the door with the incriminating blackmail letter in her purse.

  Instead of Dubois revealing to her which bugger in the Tar Street slums was the alleged convict and helping her set up a trap for the greedy blackmailer, he had told her he was himself the crook in question and denied they could do anything to catch the blackmailer, at least the person behind it all.

  Normally that would have been a severe setback, but with Oksana Matejevna’s story about the brooch they had a new lead to the blackmailer’s identity, which was far more exciting than her little trap could ever have been. If Evelyn Steinbeck was involved in the blackmail, it might even provide information as to how Mr Norwhich had died.

  Alkmene did wonder though why the blackmailer in the case of the countess had asked for something so specific as this precious gold heirloom while in her case he had simply wanted a hundred pounds.

  With that question on her lips, and several more about Dubois’s meet with the constable, she knocked, awaiting his gruff ‘enter’ before opening the door.

  Dubois had slipped out of his jacket and had rolled up his shirtsleeves, baring his tanned muscled arms. He stood at the small stove in the corner, the fish hissing as it was swept through the buttered pan by his spatula. The scent was more spicy than fishy, and Alkmene approached with her head tilted. ‘What have you done with it?’

  ‘Secret recipe,’ Dubois said. ‘Why don’t you uncork the wine?’

  He jabbed a thumb over his shoulder at the bottle standing on the plain high table. ‘The corkscrew is beside it.’

  Father had one at home where you twisted the corkscrew into the cork, then lowered a steel contraption to keep it in place while by an ingenious little mechanism you lifted the cork out of the bottle’s neck. Alkmene had seen the butler do it countless times and was sure she could have repeated it with ease. But this corkscrew was of a simpler variety. Just insert and pull.

  ‘Brute strength,’ Dubois said as she was at it in vain.

  He left the fish a moment to take the bottle from her hands, clench it between his knees and pull.

  Alkmene squinted, waiting for the moment the cork would come loose and Dubois would fall backwards with bottle and all, spilling all their wine.

  But no, with a pop the cork came loose, and he managed to balance himself, pull the bottle up and put it on the table. Dropping the corkscrew beside it, he returned to the pan just as the fish was making a sound like it was going to stick to the bottom.

  ‘Find the glasses, will you?’ he said over his shoulder. ‘In the sideboard.’

  Alkmene nodded and went over, sat on her haunches and opened one of the low doors. Inside was a jumble of paper, candlesticks with candles, two bottle
s of ink, a cardboard box marked Christmas cards, a pitcher with a piece missing from the rim.

  Finally, by shuffling some stuff around, she detected two glasses in the back, not matching, but as they were the only ones around, she took them. ‘Have you got a cloth or something to dust them off?’

  ‘Just blow off the dust,’ Dubois said carelessly.

  She put the glasses on the table, using her sleeve to polish her own. He could blow off his if he wanted to.

  She folded her hands behind her back and shifted her weight from the balls of her feet to the heels and back. ‘So what did the constable have to say?’

  ‘The police surgeon said that Silas Norwhich died of a blow to the head, but he wasn’t sure whether it had been the fall on the hearth rim or a blow on the head by a person, who then put him near the hearth. Both possible. Odd thing was there was ink on his fingers as if he had been writing when he had been disturbed. By a visitor or an intruder. A servant had said that the pantry door was never locked so as the butler was out, somebody might have come in that way. Which means our mysterious visitor might not have been the only one to come round that night.’

  Alkmene grimaced. ‘That is bad luck. I mean, now the police will have an even stronger case to argue that, even if it was someone from the outside, it was a random intruder. They won’t be looking for motive.’

  ‘Maybe they will.’ Dubois worked the fish with his spatula. ‘The dead man had something clenched in one hand. Bit of paper. Most of it had been torn off, but this bit was stuck in his grasp. Surgeon had to break his fingers to get to it. Rigor mortis, you know.’

  Alkmene pulled a face. ‘I think there are some dull treatises on that at home. But if he clutched a bit and the rest was torn off, it could mean the killer tore it off, to remove incriminating evidence.’

  ‘The constable’s thoughts exactly. He is ambitious, so determined to prove foul play.’

  Alkmene leaned forward. ‘So what did the bit of paper say?’