of her. Now that Jake was gone and the bustle of their short interaction was over, the silence was stifling, descending upon her like a heavy woollen cloak, closing round her, taking her breath away.
In this deep silence a sudden sound filled the room, like a soft moan. It came at her from all sides, making it hard to detect what it was or where it originated.
Her heart pulsating in her neck, she looked around.
It took her a few minutes of concentrated listening to deduce it was only wind coming down the chimney and rustling around in the fireplace.
She exhaled in laughter at her own jumpiness. Of course somebody had recently been murdered in this house, but like Jake had explained to her on the way over, there had been a clear motive for that. The killer had murdered Lord Winters because he or she felt Lord Winters had to die. It did not mean that she, Alkmene, would be in any danger staying here.
Right?
Still thinking of the odd high-strung Helena, her violent husband Albert, demanding George who had actually hired a burglar to steal his own father’s stones, the nervous staff, she felt a shiver go up her spine and cold settle into her stomach. There didn’t seem to be a normal soul around this place. Just people who were all watching each other as if they were afraid for their lives, and scrambling to make sure they dealt the lethal blow first, instead of receiving it.
From an investigative point of view this was a good thing, because nervous people made mistakes, talked too much, might be persuaded to tell on others to save their own skin. She had to be happy that it seemed like something could be gotten here, and soon too.
But from a personal point of view, it just felt like a highly volatile household to be a part of, even for a little while.
Like sitting on a barrel full of gunpowder while a slow burning fuse led a spark of fire to it.
You never quite knew when it was going to blow up.
Because the household was grieving for the dead master, Alkmene decided not to wear an evening dress to dinner, but a simple blouse and skirt, in dark tones. She selected minimal jewellery – only a thin gold necklace and a matching bracelet. She brushed her hair but didn’t do it up or decorate it. She wanted to look very plain and demure. Not a threat to anybody.
However, as she came down the stairs and saw the company awaiting her in the drawing room, she realized her mistake.
The brothers were both in dark suits, the likeness between them eye-catching as they stood discussing something, each holding a glass of a honey-coloured liquid in their hands.
Helena was just filling her own glass. She wore a deep red dress with a daringly low-cut neckline, drawing attention to the necklace of fine rubies she wore. The stones sparkled under the light from on high, as if there was fire within them.
Helena’s hair was brushed back and decorated with a fine net of golden filigree as if a painter had worked his magic on it. Her mouth was the same colour as her dress, her cheeks heavily powdered, probably to hide the spot where her husband’s hand had made the mark.
Alkmene hesitated on the threshold. The two men didn’t notice her, but Helena did. She fixated on her with her deep dark eyes for a few moments, giving her a critical once-over. Then she smiled as if she was certain she was superior in this new meeting, this new struggle for the upper hand. She came over quickly, her dress rustling. Standing in front of Alkmene, she reached out the glass she had just filled. ‘Sherry.’
‘Thank you,’ Alkmene said, accepting it. She hesitated a moment wondering whether she should excuse herself for her clothes, but decided not to. It seemed that her better appearance had induced instant confidence in Helena, and Alkmene meant to draw her out as soon as she could. The mention of having seen light underneath the study door had been an outright lie. Helena had been up and about in the night for something, and Alkmene intended to find out exactly what it was.
She smiled and sipped her sherry.
The men turned to them. Albert’s relaxed expression changed the instant he saw his wife, his gaze settling on the rubies around her neck. ‘By George, did you have to wear those?’ he exclaimed. ‘We are a house in mourning.’
Helena reached up to run her fingers over the stones. It seemed almost like a caress. ‘They are so beautiful,’ she murmured.
Albert shook his head, but did not comment any more as if he did not want Alkmene to witness a scene. He probably didn’t realize she had seen him slapping his wife earlier. Perhaps he was eager to protect the facade of their perfect marriage?
His brother George just emptied his glass in a single draught and went to refill it.
‘George!’ Albert called to him. ‘Do meet our guest, Lady Alkmene. She is actually our cousin.’
George looked up, his cheeks reddish, his eyes aglow with something close to fever. ‘The poor branch of the family?’ he said, letting his eyes travel in a provocative way across Alkmene’s outfit.
Alkmene wanted to say something but refrained from it. George’s sense of superiority might make him underestimate her, and that was the very thing she wanted.
She focused on her glass of sherry as if she was embarrassed by his remark, too mortified to meet his eyes, let alone say something in return.
‘We have not heard from you for years,’ George said in the loud tone of someone trying to make a point. ‘Your father does something with plants, right? Write books or what?’
‘Treatises for journals.’ Alkmene sipped again. ‘It is a rather dry pursuit that I take little interest in.’
‘What do you take an interest in?’ George asked, his tone still too loud to be polite. Either he was trying to drown out his own insecurity or he was already tipsy.
‘Horse racing.’ Alkmene looked up to meet his eye. ‘Opera, theatre.’ She shrugged. ‘What else can one fill one’s time with these days?’
George laughed softly. He emptied the glass he had filled in two draughts and clanked it on the table.
Helena cringed at the sound.
George said, ‘If you know your bit about horse racing, we can talk, Alkmene. You don’t mind me calling you Alkmene, do you? You can just call me George. I haven’t got a title anyway. Second son, you know. Got the burden of family expectations, but no rewards to go with it. Now that Father has moved on, all of this belongs to dear Albert here. I get nothing.’
‘That is not exactly true,’ Albert said, his voice calm, but his eyes betraying his annoyance at his brother’s attitude. ‘Father has left you a substantial sum of money to live off, if you spend it wisely.’
His tone left little doubt that he didn’t believe his brother could manage the latter.
George held his head back and laughed. He was quite an attractive man, but his demeanour was marred by the weakness around his mouth and the exaggerated way in which he did everything. It was somehow forced, fake and therefore unappetizing.
George said, ‘You dare call that a substantial sum of money while you got this house, the land, the horses, the rents and the income from the businesses? You dare act like I got something, while I got absolutely nothing, all because I happened to have been born a year or two too late?’
Albert kept his expression neutral, but his tone was a bit vicious as he said, ‘I cannot help the order of our births, brother. But one could say when one considers closely that nature did not make a mistake.’
George opened his mouth to retort, no doubt with a jibe, when the door opened and a girl in a green dress walked in. The dress was simple but accentuated her trim figure. Her arms were bare, except for a few bracelets. Her hair was pulled back from her face in a bun that made her features stern, like they were hewn from stone. She halted two paces inside