The countess waved a hand. ‘Ah, but they have never had to work for anything, long for anything, strive for it with all of their energy. They have it all; they get things with a flick of the hand. It doesn’t make men of them. Oh…’ She suddenly focused across the room and said, waving past Alkmene, ‘There is a dear friend I must see. Take care. Greet your father from me.’
Alkmene did not take the trouble to explain her father was off again on one of his botanical quests, this time to India, and was not expected to be back before Michaelmas.
The idea of all those weeks of delicious luxurious freedom beckoned her, and with a smile she reached for another glass of champagne.
Two days later, over toast with Cook’s excellent prune preserve, Alkmene unfolded the morning paper, still pristine as her father was not there to smudge it with egg yolk and bacon grease while he studied the social column so he could send attentions for weddings and births and always appear to be an engaged gentleman instead of a hermit who only knew the Latin names of plants.
He was so good at hiding his social deficiencies that people kept sending him invitations to balls and soirées he had stopped attending two decades ago. In his defence it had to be said that Alkmene usually pinched the envelopes from out between his other letters as soon as the post came in. Her father was a dear but a disaster in the wild, and he preferred the company of his microscope and his mould specimens anyway.
On page 2 a heading read: Banker dies in accident.
Unexpected death always had an unhealthy appeal to Alkmene, and she perused the few lines underneath with great interest.
‘Yesterday morning around eight Mr Silas Norwhich, a former banker, was discovered dead by his manservant in his library, apparently having fallen and struck his head on the rim of the hearth the night before. As it had been the servants’ night off, nobody had noticed the incident until the next morning.
‘A widower with no children, Mr Norwhich lived a very secluded life, focusing solely on his substantial art collection. The collection, containing masterpieces from Rembrandt, Van Gogh, Monet and Rodin, will now pass to his only heir: his niece, the actress Evelyn Steinbeck, recently come in from New York City, where she is a rising star on Broadway.
‘Miss Steinbeck wasn’t home at the time of the accident and has been treated by a doctor for nervous shock.’
It was rather a short and poor piece, lacking any form of useful information about the death, but Alkmene forgot the prune preserve and studied the text as if it contained the vital clues to the whereabouts of a gold mine.Buck Seaton had called the young woman who had appeared from behind the screen the other night Evelyn. She 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