full of poison.’
‘So, we know for certain that Mary didn’t die a natural death. That doesn’t prove her sister Vera killed her.’
‘But Vera agreed to marry Mary’s husband!’ Mrs Zeilovsky cried. ‘So soon after poor Mary was dead.’
‘Perhaps the husband saw, too late, after he had already married Mary, that he wanted Vera anyway. Perhaps he killed Mary, thinking nobody would suspect anything. Now Vera’s been accused, he’ll keep his mouth shut and she might swing for his crime.’
Alkmene realized too late she had spoken quite clearly and other conversations around the table had just come to an end. The words ‘swing for his crime’ seemed to ring out in the sudden silence.
Mrs Hargrove gave her an accusing look from the head of the table. ‘Dear Alkmene, must you be so gruesome over dinner?’
‘On the contrary,’ the dry legal man said. He hadn’t spoken much with anybody, leaning over his plate and wolfing down his food like he never got anything good at home.
But now he sat up straight, fixing her with burning eyes. ‘I think Lady Alkmene has made an excellent point. All we do know is that a woman who died was poisoned and that, some time later, her sister wanted to marry the widower. Does that make her a killer?’
The silence around the table lingered, a little startled and a little chill.
Keegan continued, ‘It certainly makes her a suspect. But, as Lady Alkmene just explained, the husband himself springs to mind as a likely suspect.’
‘Poison is a woman’s means,’ Aunt Felicia’s husband said. He was a handsome man with a deep baritone voice. Alkmene couldn’t remember his name.
Jake laughed softly. ‘A man who wants to kill his wife and get away with it will hardly dig a steak knife into her chest.’
‘Please!’ Mrs Hargrove exclaimed, but Hargrove said, ‘Well put. He would know better than to use a weapon that leaves clear traces. We all know now how clever the choice of poison really was. Without the anonymous letter, nothing would ever have come of it. No case, no conviction.’
Alkmene looked at Aunt Felicia, whose expression had lost the earlier deep red and was now unnaturally pale, as if made of marble. She bit her lip for a moment as she stared down at her plate. The subject seemed to be unbearably painful to her. Had she known the Steeplechase family? Did Vera’s upcoming trial fill her with dread of a possible conviction?
‘Yes,’ Jake Dubois said, looking around the table, ‘there always has to be someone writing an anonymous letter, right? Spoiling it all.’
Mrs Hargrove pushed her chair back in a grate. ‘Gentlemen, I’m sure you want to smoke. Ladies, please accompany me to the music room where Denise will play and sing for us.’
Denise looked astonished. She gestured at the plate in front of her. ‘But dessert hasn’t even been served.’
Mrs Hargrove was at the door already. Her cheeks were as crimson as the dress she wore. She waved at the footman present. ‘Baines, coffee in the music room at once.’
Baines nodded and opened the door for her to go out. But the doorway was blocked by the arrogant servant carrying a tray full of dessert bowls. Mrs Hargrove was just able to avoid a collision. She snapped, ‘Take that back to the kitchens at once, Cobb.’
The servant moved into the room, past Mrs Hargrove, so she could get out. He stood tall, his gaze travelling past everyone at the table. Then he said, ‘Very well. I need to get changed into my outfit to serve as gondolier tonight. At the boathouse.’ And pushing the tray with bowls into Baines’s hands, he stepped out of the open door. Baines looked bewildered for a moment, then followed him. A third footman present closed the door with an impeccably soft click.
Blinking at this sudden turn of events, Alkmene lifted her napkin from her lap and folded it. She had never experienced a formal dinner ending quite like this. She glanced at Jake, who seemed as perplexed as they all were. Somehow the conversation about the Steeplechase case had hit a nerve with more than one person present.
Zeilovsky, by her side, cleared his throat and said, ‘Yes, well, it was very nice discussing this with you, Lady Alkmene. Your opinions are very astute for someone with no knowledge of the psychological.’
‘Oh,’ Hargrove said, with a laugh that sounded insincere in the silence, ‘but Lady Alkmene has a knack for the criminal.’
Zeilovsky had just risen and stood towering over Alkmene. His eyes narrowed. ‘Is that so?’
Hargrove added, ‘After all, the two things are often the same, isn’t that right?’ He laughed again, uncomfortably. ‘Gentlemen...’
Zeilovsky, Jake, Aunt Felicia’s husband and Keegan followed him dutifully out of the room.
Denise said, as she rose, ‘Really, Alkmene, such a horrible subject...’
Alkmene hitched a brow at her. ‘Mr Zeilovsky started it.’
‘You need not have embroidered it. Cecily is really upset now. She will hit back at somebody.’ Denise stood up straight, her youthful face tight with tension.
Alkmene remembered the argument between Denise and her stepmother about someone who was supposed to be here tonight and shouldn’t have been. Denise begging her stepmother not to acquaint her father with the fact. Maybe Denise was worried her stepmother, being upset now about her party taking such a turn, would tell on her anyway?
Uncomfortable at what she might have set off, unconsciously, Alkmene straightened her dress and turned to her right, to find Mrs Zeilovsky studying her with her curious light-green eyes. It was as if Alkmene was a patient and Mrs Zeilovsky was trying to see right into all the disturbing repetitive patterns of compulsive behaviour in her mind.
Alkmene shook the unpleasant sensation and forced a smile. ‘Shall we? Denise is quite the singer. You’ll enjoy it.’
Denise sang two arias from an opera before the house guests retired to their rooms to get dressed for the ball. Outside, the Chinese lanterns were lit, bobbing on the wind. Tables were being moved outside, decked out with colourful covers and crystal glasses.
The whole place hummed like a beehive with last-minute party preparations.
On the way to her room, Alkmene passed a few doors, most of them closed. One was ajar, though, and a female voice said in an agitated tone, ‘I’m sure that man knows everything. Why else did he mention the letter?’
‘In the Steeplechase case, silly.’ The male voice sounded gruff, dismissive. ‘It was a coincidence.’
‘Well, I don’t like it.’
Then Alkmene had passed. The voices died down and she entered her room, reaching up to massage her tight neck muscles. The window was still open, letting in the lukewarm evening air. She went over to shut it.
At the window she took a few moments to look down on the servants buzzing about. So, it had been the specific mention of a letter, anonymous and accusing, that had caused the commotion at dinner, at least for Aunt Felicia. Such a thing could arouse unpleasant memories. Alkmene herself had received an anonymous letter just a few months ago, accusing Jake Dubois of being a convict and threatening to acquaint Alkmene’s father – on expedition in India for his botanical exploits – with that fact. She could prevent exposure by handing over a substantial sum of money.
Alkmene had learned through her investigation into Silas Norwhich’s death that more well-to-do people in London had received such letters threatening to expose secrets about them, each asking for money or, in some cases, specific family heirlooms. Jake and she had concluded there was a blackmail ring at work led by someone they had called the London blackmailer. Jake thought it was a man, while Alkmene had proposed the rather bold theory it could be a woman. A brilliant criminal mastermind.
Was this ring still at work? Had people at the dinner table tonight been victims of blackmail?