Vivian Conroy - A Proposal to Die For

Dubois shook his head. ‘But if she had instructed her to go here, she would have said something like American actress, or Steinbeck, or hotel, other side of the street. I know enough Russian to have caught her out, I’m sure.’

Alkmene sucked in a breath. ‘So Oksana Matejevna came here of her own accord. Apparently wanting to know more about Evelyn Steinbeck. That makes no sense. If Ms Steinbeck is indeed an American actress, what on earth can a Russian maid want to do with her?’

Dubois shrugged. ‘Communists are everywhere. Maybe Ms Steinbeck came here to get in touch with fellow comrades.’

‘And when her uncle found out about her uh…political disposition and disapproved of it, she pushed him, so he fell on the hearth rim and died?’ Alkmene shook her head. ‘That sounds a bit far-fetched to me. I’d like to know who the man is who returned from the dead.’

‘Who?’ Dubois’s eyes sparked with interest.

Alkmene knew she could only bait him if she dangled the information just out of his reach. ‘I overheard some interesting tidbits at a party I attended earlier this week. That is why I just knew when I read about Mr Norwhich’s death in the paper that it was not an accident. He must have been pushed. Maybe the intention wasn’t to kill him, but just to make a point? Or it happened in an argument, a flare of temper.’

Dubois held her gaze, waiting for her to go on and explain herself.

Alkmene said cautiously, ‘I suppose you also have your reasons for looking closer?’

Dubois shrugged. ‘I wanted to interview him about his art. He was suspicious of anyone approaching him. At the time I merely thought he was eccentric. But now that he is dead, I wonder if he was afraid.’

Alkmene nodded. ‘He must have been.’

Dubois said softly, ‘But if he was afraid, why did he open the door to his killer?’

Alkmene stared at him. ‘You are certain he let the killer in? So he wasn’t all alone in the house that night.’

Dubois shrugged again. ‘The police can question the same people I talked to. I suppose they will then hear the same things.’

‘You questioned people? Who? People in the street perhaps, neighbours or some peddler who was around?’

Dubois grinned. ‘Getting warmer.’

Alkmene tilted her head. ‘Someone saw a man coming to that house on the night of the death. Tall, broad in the shoulders.’

Dubois stood very still. ‘How do you know his physique?’

She shrugged. ‘Because it fits with what I heard at the party. An incident that happened just a few days before Silas Norwhich died. It must be related.’ She waited a few moments to sustain the suspense. ‘I can tell you of course, but then I want in on everything you already know.’

She was certain Dubois would jump at this chance, but he laughed softly. ‘That hardly seems like a fair exchange. What can a bit of high society gossip give me?’

‘Not gossip. Facts. But if you feel that way, fine.’ She stepped away from him. Why try to work with somebody who had a head full of prejudice about her class and probably also her sex?

She added, ‘You had other things to do, you said? Good day then, Mr Dubois.’ She turned on her heel.

His demanding voice halted her. ‘When will I get my handkerchief back?’

Alkmene stood, not looking back at him. Upon returning his handkerchief, she might get another chance to convince him that what she knew was valuable. That he had to share what he knew and they might put two and two together. She wouldn’t give up so easily on this chance to investigate a real-life case of suspicious circumstances around a violent death. ‘Where can I reach you?’

‘I have hired rooms on Meade Street. In case you do not know it…’

Before he could infer she didn’t know a street on the East End, Alkmene held up a hand. ‘Isn’t that where that undertaker used his coffins to smuggle two escaped prisoners right through a police barricade?’

Dubois grinned at her. ‘A sergeant who had been giving me some trouble about a piece I wrote got suspended because of it.’

Alkmene tilted her head. ‘Of course you wouldn’t have known one thing about it.’

‘Only after the fact. Had I known before, that would have made me an accomplice.’

Alkmene laughed. ‘Somehow, Mr Dubois, I don’t think you would mind.’

She walked to the exit, calling over her shoulder, ‘I will be in touch when I’m done with those tea stains.’

Chapter Four

‘By George,’ Alkmene exclaimed.

Sweat beaded on her forehead from the heat rising from the hot water in front of her.

It was Cook’s day off, so Alkmene had her realm – the kitchen and pantry – all to herself. She had come in humming, assured that she’d have this little thing settled in no time. Green soap cleaned anything, after all.

But the green soap had just left ugly rims around the tea stains. So she had thrown the whole thing into hot water mixed with soda, and then put it on the washing board to work it with the pig hair brush Cook used to clean the sink.

Dubois had probably envisioned that some muscle was needed to get it clean and had smirked at her because of it.

But he had no idea how strong she really was.

Working the washboard like it was the arrogant Dubois underneath her hands, instead of merely his innocent handkerchief, Alkmene pushed on with gritted teeth, until she believed it should have worked.

And indeed, when lifting the brush, she found the stains were gone.

So was most of the fabric.

Suppressing something stronger than by George! Alkmene lifted the handkerchief to the light flooding in through the large window. She could see right through some sections.

Either Dubois bought a cheap variety of linen, or she knew even less of laundry doing than he had tauntingly suggested.

Mopping the sweat off her brow with her sleeve, Alkmene surveyed what was now best called a rag. Her reputation was on the line here. She’d never admit to that arrogant reporter that she had ruined his property. He’d never stop laughing at her.

No. There was only one solution.

Find an exact duplicate and pass it off as the old one.

With the soggy handkerchief remains in her purse, Alkmene made for the man’s attire store where her father was a regular and well-respected customer.

Normally the walk, the traffic around her, the nannies pushing prams with babies and calling out to naughty toddlers, would clear her mind and give her a brisk energy for the day, but now she was just anxious to find her replacement and ensure she’d suffer no loss of face.

Once inside the store, she asked the clerk if she could speak to him in the back room about a delicate matter.

Thinking she had some complaint to make about her father’s purchases there, the anxious man immediately led her into privacy, where she produced the remains of her laundry experiment and explained she needed to have the exact same thing. ‘But it cannot look too new, you understand, or the whole scheme will be obvious.’

The clerk frowned at her. ‘So you want a new handkerchief that looks…used.’

He uttered the last word as if it was absolute horror to him, but Alkmene nodded enthusiastically. ‘Exactly. I will be back tomorrow to pick it up. You can keep this as specimen of what it should be. And please remember: my father is a very satisfied customer and he wants to stay that way.’

The clerk took this statement for the subtle threat it was meant to be and accompanied her to the door, all the way shaking his head and muttering to himself.

Alkmene was glad Michaelmas was still a long way off and her father would never hear a thing about this. It wouldn’t bode well for her if he got round to asking why she brought in ruined gentleman’s handkerchiefs that were clearly not his.