had spoken with an American accent and admitted she had only been in London for a few weeks. She had also mentioned an uncle who was an art lover.
The countess, who had seen the blonde at the theatre, had mentioned her being there with an older man who was not known to her socially, which fit with the newspaper’s assertion that the murdered man had lived a very secluded life.
Apparently until his vivacious niece from New York had arrived.
He had wanted to have her portrait painted and had taken her out to the theatre.
Not that Evelyn Steinbeck seemed to have appreciated the trouble her uncle took for her. She had spurned the portrait in favour of photographs.
Of her balancing on the railing of London Bridge no less. A testimony to a daring character, taking risks rather than fitting the mould.
And her talk of the old man and him dying of apoplexy behind the screen had been callous, almost cruel. Like she wanted to get rid of excess weight.
Alkmene stared into the distance. Evelyn had discussed her uncle’s death with a man, and lo and behold, two days later he was dead and she would inherit his art collection. Judging by the mention of some of the pieces it contained, it had to be worth a fortune. An excellent motive for murder.
But what about the young intruder into the theatre who had given the old man such a fright? The argument between them had been the cause for the old man to leave the performance early. Out of fear?
Had the intruder followed him to see where he lived? Killed him when he had been alone? It had been the servants’ night off so if somebody had rung the bell, the old man would have answered the door himself.
Alkmene narrowed her eyes. A push, a fall and no one around to see a thing…
With a beautiful, manipulative heiress and an intimidating stranger part of this story, there had to be something more behind the ‘accidental’ death. It warranted further investigation.
She left her breakfast for what it was, already shrugging out of her purple embroidered dressing gown while still climbing the stairs.
There was no place like the Waldeck tea room to catch some gossip about a sudden death.
Alkmene entered the Waldeck tea room through the double doors with elaborate glass-in-lead overhead. The sunshine piercing the coloured glass conjured up a mosaic of rainbows on the wall above the counter filled with pastries. Customers ordered their pie of choice there and carried it to their table where a waiter served them with tea or coffee from delicate china cups decorated with the tea room’s trademark roses.
As Alkmene let her eye wander across the mouth-watering offerings, her ears picked up on the light laughter of the countess of Veveine.
The Russian princess visited the tea room every day but Sundays, taking a seat by the window where she could watch people go by and putting her order on her ever-growing bill.
With the money she could spend, she could have several pies, but she always took the pavlova, a special creation by the French chef Maurice.
Alkmene wasn’t entirely sure if the pavlova was that good, or Maurice would be mortally insulted if the countess didn’t order it. As a typical chef with a fierce pride in what he did, he didn’t allow anybody to slight his creations and it was whispered he had even refused to do a big banquet at an earl’s New Year’s party after the earl’s wife had made a comment about his mayonnaise.
‘I’ll have the Schwarzwälder Kirsch.’ Alkmene smiled at the young woman behind the counter who ably manoeuvred a gleaming steel spatula underneath the largest piece and transferred it onto a plate.
Carrying the masterpiece carefully down the two steps leading into the tea room’s main room, Alkmene pretended to be engrossed and unaware of the countess’s presence. In reality she was sure the woman had already seen her come in and would call out to her the moment she put her foot on the black-and-white inlaid floor.
But nothing happened.
Surprised, Alkmene glanced at the window table, seeing the countess, in a deep purple gown with matching stones in her necklace and bracelet, sitting and leaning over to a handsome man with a shock of black hair, rather too long to be decent.
The countess’s companion, an elderly woman who never stopped knitting, sat over her work, head down, needles clicking furiously, her demure fervour a silent reproach against her mistress’s behaviour.
Alkmene had to agree the countess’s cheeks were suspiciously red and her laughter was high-pitched with excitement.
The man looked up from the countess, straight at Alkmene. He had dark, probing eyes in a face exposed to rather too much sunshine. His suit was an unobtrusive dark blue, but the sunshine sparkled on the gold cuff links. Alkmene bet his shoes would turn out to be handmade, of the finest leather.
A man who liked to treat himself.
A self-made millionaire like Buck Seaton perhaps, looking for titled friends to add the lustre of old names to the shine of his fortune. People like him would buy their way into the peerage if they could.
Always reluctant to be used to any purpose, Alkmene put her plate down on an empty table and took the time to strip off her immaculate gloves. Keeping her back straight the way her nanny had told her a thousand times, she scanned the other side of the room for an acquaintance who might enlighten her about Mr Silas Norwhich’s unfortunate ‘accident’.
After all, that was what she was here for.
But already there were light footfalls behind her, and the countess’s companion put a hand on her arm. ‘Come,’ she said in such a heavy accent that the word was almost unrecognizable. ‘Come!’
Alkmene picked up the plate again and followed the scurrying figure to the countess’s table.
The waiter who had just appeared to take her order came dutifully along, staying one pace behind her.
The countess waved at him. ‘More tea for all of us. Sit down, Alkmene. We were just having the most interesting conversation. This young man is telling me everything about the terrible disaster with the SS Athena.’
Alkmene shot him a quick glance as she seated herself. She had only read about the disaster, but the account had raised a number of pertinent questions in her mind.
Especially about the part played by those members of the crew who had survived while so many of the passengers had not.
She asked, ‘You were on the ship when it sank?’
He shook his head. ‘I have been talking to survivors.’
The countess leaned over. ‘Did you know that there have been rumours the captain survived because he fled, while he should have stayed in his place? It is terrible that people have no sense of integrity any more. In the old days people would rather have died in the armour, as you English say, than live on having run away.’
‘I suppose one does odd things when one looks death in the eye,’ the man said.
He studied Alkmene with a critical intensity that made her wince. She hadn’t put on her best clothes because she had not been sure where her quest would take her. If it should be to the lunchroom where secretaries and the like had their lunches, she wanted to blend in, not stand out like a spoiled rich lady who had mistaken the establishment. It was exciting to go undercover, play somebody else, somebody astute and able, who was not forever invited for her family name.
But for this man her clothes didn’t appear to be rich enough for Waldeck’s.
He probably didn’t consider her worth his time, if he was here to hunt for loaded ladies who felt flattered by the attentions of a much younger man.
Admittedly, the countess was married and would never be unfaithful to the love of her life, but she