Vivian Conroy - Fatal Masquerade

Denise was in the arms of a man dressed as a doge, with an elaborately embroidered mask. Most men had opted for plain black silk, but this man’s mask even had sequins that reflected the light from the chandelier above. It was not soft and pliable, but hard, as if it had been cast in plaster and then decorated. The nose stood out as a sharp beak, giving the man’s face a malicious appearance. A bird of prey circling the dance floor looking for victims.

Alkmene shook her head, reproaching herself for the sinister turn her thoughts often took, and returned her attention to her own dance partner. His warm baritone as he invited her to the dance had suggested he was Aunt Felicia’s husband, but now she was in his arms, he moved so nimbly that she began to doubt her earlier assumption. This man had to be younger.

He leaned over to her and said, ‘Have you known the Hargroves long?’

‘I’m really more closely acquainted with Denise.’

His eyes seemed to glint with irony for a moment, and Alkmene felt uncomfortable that the tension between her and Denise might have been noticed.

‘Has she been looking forward to this night?’ he asked in a wistful tone.

Alkmene nodded. ‘She talked to me about it on several occasions and on the way over she was thrilled.’

She had the distinct impression her dancing partner was looking past her at Denise and the doge with the predatory appearance. Did her partner guess, as she had guessed herself, that this man was Denise’s reason for having craved this night?

Was Beak-mask also the reason Denise had quarrelled with her stepmother? Was he the man her father wouldn’t have wanted to come here?

It didn’t seem logical. Beak-mask wasn’t acting at all inconspicuously, keeping a low profile to escape attention from the other guests and his host.

On the contrary, he didn’t seem to care if his presence was noted by his host or not. Did he feel so secure behind his mask? After all, the masks would not be removed before two in the morning. And a socially sensitive man like Mr Hargrove would never create a scene by going over and asking this man to remove his mask on the spot, so Hargrove could see his face.

The dance ended, and the guests applauded. The sound rippled through the open doors and windows, rolling like waves into the gardens that were lit like a fairy tale.

Now she had stopped moving, Alkmene noticed that her legs were heavy and there was sweat under her mask and in her neck. She needed a break from dancing and from the imposing heat in the ballroom.

With a smile, she excused herself and walked to the open doors. As she drew near to them, she could already sense the cool upon her hot cheeks.

Outside, the night air crept along her neck and arms. She breathed in deeply, listening to a call in the distance. Probably an owl, calling for his mate. The male and female had different calls, but Alkmene couldn’t tell them apart. If her father had been with her now, he would have scolded her that she had no head for the simplest of things, while she was always curious about things it wasn’t proper for a lady to know.

The terrace was built higher, broad steps ahead of her leading into the gardens below. To Alkmene’s left and right there were stone railings resting on decorated pillars.

From underneath one of these railings she heard a rustling sound. She walked over quickly, ensuring her shoes made no sound on the stone slabs.

Looking down, she spied a tall figure in a lilac dress hurrying away from the house. It had to be Mrs Zeilovsky. She had been the only woman present wearing that shade of dress. The feathers on the headband she wore moved in the breeze as she rushed along. It was a miracle she could walk so fast in her high heels.

Something moved in the shadow of a group of yews, and a figure stepped out, following Mrs Zeilovsky at a distance. He wore trousers, so it was a man, but he seemed too tall and trim to be the sinister psychiatrist. Who else could have an interest in Mrs Zeilovsky’s secretive behaviour?

Alkmene frowned. Was Mrs Zeilovsky hurrying to some secret rendezvous? Was her lover following her at a discreet distance?

Or was the man in pursuit spying on her?

Under orders from her husband?

Puzzled, Alkmene followed the two shadowy figures with her eyes for as long as she could make them out. Then, as the tall birch hedge concealed them from view, she stood back, raising her arms to wrap them around her shoulders. Now the exertion of the dance was passing, she was chilly in her thin dress and knew she should really step inside again before catching a cold and regretting her own stupidity.

But something about the surreptitious movements of people in the dark fascinated her. The idea that the real events of this evening were taking place, not in the lit ballroom behind her, but right in front of her in the darkened gardens.

Alkmene decided it couldn’t hurt to take a look at the boathouse. It had been described as one of the highlights of the ball, so it was only logical she would want to see it. Perhaps one of the boats would be free and she could enjoy a trip across the smooth waterways and quiet ponds of the estate. Her thoughtful hostess would have provided blankets to snuggle under against the nightly chill on the water.

As Alkmene approached the boathouse, she saw the shape of a boat moving away from her in the distance. The man standing in the back was handling the oar with jerky movements, rocking the boat. The Hargroves had apparently selected a few servants for the task, based on physical strength or perhaps pleasant appearance, but not on agility with the oar. The way the man was stabbing with it and thrashing about in the water, he could overturn the whole boat.

Alkmene shook her head in distaste. No boat ride for her tonight. Her dress was too valuable to risk. Not to mention the embarrassment if she had to return to the house soaked to the skin. But as she had walked this far, she might as well go in for a drink. Having seen Mrs Hargrove’s opulent house decorations, she was curious what her hostess had been able to do with the plain boathouse.

The boathouse’s front was lit by two braziers, one on either side of the door. The light played on the golden draperies attached to the wood. It had transformed the normally simple building into an enchanting little dwelling, a doorway into a fairy-tale kingdom.

The entry door was half open. Inside the boathouse it seemed to be dark. That was odd as Denise had told Alkmene on their way over to the estate that you could get drinks inside the boathouse while you waited for your turn in the gondola. Had she misunderstood?

Alkmene approached cautiously, her neck tingling with a strange sensation. It was as if her senses grew more acute, her eyes straining to detect movement inside the dark boathouse, her ears alert for the slightest sound that would betray the presence of someone close to her. Even the wind rustling the leaves overhead startled her.

Suddenly the fire in the braziers wasn’t pleasant and enchanting any more, but throwing strangely distorted shadows that seemed to grasp at her.

Gooseflesh stood on Alkmene’s arms, not because of the chill, but the unpleasant sensation that somebody was moving around close by, keeping an eye on her.

She glanced over her shoulder, first in one direction, then the other. Nothing. But she couldn’t be sure who was hiding in the shadows. Had the man who had been following Mrs Zeilovsky now transferred his attentions to her? Who was he and what did he want?

Nonsense, old girl, she chided herself. Your mind is just a little shaken up by all that talk of poison murders at dinner. Push that door open now and get yourself a stiff drink to steady the nerves.

Alkmene placed her right hand flat against the wood and pushed. Her heart beat fast and her whole body was tense, ready to jump back if something got at her from the dark interior of the boathouse.