of your business, I say.’
Alkmene sat up straight, her back pressed against the chair’s rigid wood. ‘If everybody says that, nothing will ever change.’
Cook sighed. ‘I suppose when you put it like that.’
Alkmene pushed her plate away, still half full with scrambled eggs. She couldn’t eat when her mind was so full of thoughts and plans. ‘Is there anybody doing anything to help them? Like the uh…sailors’ mission but then for the children?’
‘I suppose you could say Father Williams is doing that. But people say he is a conman, not a real priest. That he takes donations and doesn’t do nothing for the children. I would be careful around him if I were you. He might take your money and leave you in a bind.’
Cook crossed her thick bare arms over her chest. ‘Besides, your father would not be happy if he knew you are going around places like Tar Street.’
As Alkmene ignored the statement and got up, the woman said in a pleading tone, ‘Your father is on his travels too much, ignoring that you should have been married by now. He may not think about that, but I do. And when word about you gets around, running around among the drunks in Tar Street, men will be scared off.’
Alkmene laughed in spite of herself. Men were already scared off, or she would have been married by now. Conversation with the other sex had never come easy to her, probably because men considered her too sharp-tongued. Most must have thought it, though none had put it directly to her, but Dubois.
It didn’t even bother her. It was the way she was and if they didn’t like it, nobody forced them to be around her.
And nobody would force her to look for a husband, when all she wanted was her freedom and adventures.
Cook took her silence as remorse, a sudden flash of insight into the possibly disastrous consequences of her behaviour, and nodded solemnly. ‘You should sober at the thought. It is nothing for you to sit around here and wait on a father who is never there. Find your own household and have some children to keep you busy.’
Alkmene had to think of the little boy again and winced. She had really outdone herself there, making a mess she couldn’t clean up again. Adventures were fine, but when little children got caught in between… She had to find out more about this Father Williams and his mission. If he was a conman, she’d see right through that. He’d never get her money the easy way.
Alkmene walked out into the hallway and stared in surprise at the envelope on the shiny cherrywood side table. ‘I thought the post wasn’t due for another hour.’
Cook nodded. ‘This envelope was handed to me as I was cleaning the steps in front. I was just throwing the last water from my bucket over them when this street urchin ran up to me and handed it to me. A scruffy little boy in a too large coat. He said it was for the lady. I assume he meant you. It does say Lady Alkmene on the envelope, but there is no sender.’
Alkmene picked up the envelope. A street urchin could most likely not write, and this envelope had a strong adult hand on it. Masculine, she believed.
Her heart skipped a beat, thinking it might be from Dubois. He had mentioned in passing the other day that he had information about the murder, about how the old man’s dead body had been found and some financial complications. The unfortunate end to their visit to the watchmaker had prevented her from asking what those were. But now, after a good night’s sleep, she couldn’t wait to dive back into the investigation again.
But why would Dubois write to her? If he wanted her, he knew where she lived. He was the kind of man who simply rang her doorbell, whenever he wanted to, not caring whether he shocked the staff.
In fact, he would probably enjoy shocking the staff.
No, this could not be from him. Who then?
Alkmene opened the envelope and pulled out a sheet of poor quality paper. On it were a few lines in the same strong hand as the writing on the envelope.
Your father would not be pleased if he learned his daughter is consorting with a convict. He will hear of it unless you pay.
Put a hundred pounds into a hat box and take it out with you.
Leave it on the bench underneath the elm next to St Mary of the Humble Heart.
Do not stick around to see who will come and take it along.
Don’t talk about this with anybody or you will pay in a different way. With your reputation. Perhaps even your life.
We are watching you.
Alkmene had to read it a couple of times before the truth sank in. She was actually being blackmailed.
She glanced over her shoulder at the front door as if she could see right through it into the street and establish if anybody was there right now, watching her.
‘Who is it from?’ Cook asked, carrying the breakfast dishes from the dining room. ‘What does it say?’
Alkmene looked up at her, her mind a whirl. ‘Uh… Oh. It’s nothing special.’ She folded the letter and put it back in the envelope. ‘I will be out this morning. I will probably not be back for lunch. Save me some cold cuts to take around four.’
Cook gave a grunt that could be acceptance or disapproval of this unconventional request. She shuffled off with the dishes.
Alkmene ran up the stairs to get dressed. She intended to be in Meade Street as soon as possible and ask Dubois for his take on this blackmail scheme.
As she was walking along past the many houses on the street, some harbouring little shops and businesses, others being boarding houses where women polished the bell, she realized Dubois had never told her at what number he rented rooms. It was like him to be evasive, but she supposed he would be known around here and she could ask for him.
Loath to get herself into the same kind of trouble as the day before, she went into a reasonably clean-looking fish store to ask the wiry man cleaning the fish behind the counter where to find the reporter Dubois.
‘Oh, that troublemaker, huh?’ the old man replied. Ashes from his cheap cigar rained on the counter and whatever he was cleaning. ‘Number 33, upstairs.’
Alkmene bought some fish by way of thanks, deciding to leave it somewhere for the strays as she could not bear to think of having to eat it after having seen the cigar ashes falling.
Carrying the parcel, wrapped in old newspaper pages, she walked up to number 33. The door was open, and she went in, going up the stairs and knocking at a closed door.
‘Yeah,’ a voice called, and she pushed the door handle down and walked in.
‘Put the hot water there,’ Dubois’s voice came from another room. ‘I don’t have time for breakfast. I will eat on the way.’
Footfalls resounded, and he appeared, in a dirty shirt with suspenders holding up dark trousers, which had mud stains on the knees, like he was some dock worker. His hair was dishevelled and his eyes bleary as if he hadn’t slept all night.
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