Fatal Masquerade

Mrs Hargrove was at the door already. Her cheeks were as crimson as the dress she wore. She waved at the footman present. ‘Baines, coffee in the music room at once.’

Baines nodded and opened the door for her to go out. But the doorway was blocked by the arrogant servant carrying a tray full of dessert bowls. Mrs Hargrove was just able to avoid a collision. She snapped, ‘Take that back to the kitchens at once, Cobb.’

The servant moved into the room, past Mrs Hargrove, so she could get out. He stood tall, his gaze travelling past everyone at the table. Then he said, ‘Very well. I need to get changed into my outfit to serve as gondolier tonight. At the boathouse.’ And pushing the tray with bowls into Baines’s hands, he stepped out of the open door. Baines looked bewildered for a moment, then followed him. A third footman present closed the door with an impeccably soft click.

Blinking at this sudden turn of events, Alkmene lifted her napkin from her lap and folded it. She had never experienced a formal dinner ending quite like this. She glanced at Jake, who seemed as perplexed as they all were. Somehow the conversation about the Steeplechase case had hit a nerve with more than one person present.

Zeilovsky, by her side, cleared his throat and said, ‘Yes, well, it was very nice discussing this with you, Lady Alkmene. Your opinions are very astute for someone with no knowledge of the psychological.’

‘Oh,’ Hargrove said, with a laugh that sounded insincere in the silence, ‘but Lady Alkmene has a knack for the criminal.’

Zeilovsky had just risen and stood towering over Alkmene. His eyes narrowed. ‘Is that so?’

Hargrove added, ‘After all, the two things are often the same, isn’t that right?’ He laughed again, uncomfortably. ‘Gentlemen...’

Zeilovsky, Jake, Aunt Felicia’s husband and Keegan followed him dutifully out of the room.

Denise said, as she rose, ‘Really, Alkmene, such a horrible subject...’

Alkmene hitched a brow at her. ‘Mr Zeilovsky started it.’

‘You need not have embroidered it. Cecily is really upset now. She will hit back at somebody.’ Denise stood up straight, her youthful face tight with tension.

Alkmene remembered the argument between Denise and her stepmother about someone who was supposed to be here tonight and shouldn’t have been. Denise begging her stepmother not to acquaint her father with the fact. Maybe Denise was worried her stepmother, being upset now about her party taking such a turn, would tell on her anyway?

Uncomfortable at what she might have set off, unconsciously, Alkmene straightened her dress and turned to her right, to find Mrs Zeilovsky studying her with her curious light-green eyes. It was as if Alkmene was a patient and Mrs Zeilovsky was trying to see right into all the disturbing repetitive patterns of compulsive behaviour in her mind.

Alkmene shook the unpleasant sensation and forced a smile. ‘Shall we? Denise is quite the singer. You’ll enjoy it.’

Denise sang two arias from an opera before the house guests retired to their rooms to get dressed for the ball. Outside, the Chinese lanterns were lit, bobbing on the wind. Tables were being moved outside, decked out with colourful covers and crystal glasses.

The whole place hummed like a beehive with last-minute party preparations.

On the way to her room, Alkmene passed a few doors, most of them closed. One was ajar, though, and a female voice said in an agitated tone, ‘I’m sure that man knows everything. Why else did he mention the letter?’

‘In the Steeplechase case, silly.’ The male voice sounded gruff, dismissive. ‘It was a coincidence.’

‘Well, I don’t like it.’

Then Alkmene had passed. The voices died down and she entered her room, reaching up to massage her tight neck muscles. The window was still open, letting in the lukewarm evening air. She went over to shut it.

At the window she took a few moments to look down on the servants buzzing about. So, it had been the specific mention of a letter, anonymous and accusing, that had caused the commotion at dinner, at least for Aunt Felicia. Such a thing could arouse unpleasant memories. Alkmene herself had received an anonymous letter just a few months ago, accusing Jake Dubois of being a convict and threatening to acquaint Alkmene’s father – on expedition in India for his botanical exploits – with that fact. She could prevent exposure by handing over a substantial sum of money.

Alkmene had learned through her investigation into Silas Norwhich’s death that more well-to-do people in London had received such letters threatening to expose secrets about them, each asking for money or, in some cases, specific family heirlooms. Jake and she had concluded there was a blackmail ring at work led by someone they had called the London blackmailer. Jake thought it was a man, while Alkmene had proposed the rather bold theory it could be a woman. A brilliant criminal mastermind.

Was this ring still at work? Had people at the dinner table tonight been victims of blackmail? Was that why they had responded so abruptly to Zeilovsky’s discussion of the Steeplechase case?

Aunt Felicia with the knocked-over wine glass.

Mrs Hargrove, who had quit the table even before dessert had been served. In the argument upon their arrival, Denise had suggested to her there might be something better kept from her father. An affair?

Alkmene stared into the lit gardens in deep thought. Servants were rushing across the lawn. Alkmene remembered Denise saying something about the boathouse being decorated for the night, as it was the starting point for the three gondolas to take guests for a leisurely trip across the waterways that cut through the estate. The servants had probably brought some last necessary items to this boathouse: refreshments, lanterns, blankets for the guests to cover themselves as they sat in the boats.

Halfway across the lawn a man was walking, away from the house. He was dressed up already in his gondolier’s costume, a powdered white wig on his head, a ponytail at his neck with a dark-green ribbon on it. A woman came up from behind, grabbing him by the arm and speaking urgently with him. Her gestures suggested she was pleading.

The gondolier shook her off with an angry jerk and continued to walk. The woman called something after him. He didn’t respond. She stood with her shoulders slumped, an image of complete dejection.

Mrs Carruthers. The housekeeper. It seemed strange that the gondolier hadn’t been more respectful towards her. Mrs Carruthers could report him to the butler, who could in turn complain about his behaviour to the master of the house. In a large household, things only ran smoothly if everybody played their appointed part and didn’t cross any boundaries.

Housekeepers usually also maintained a kind of superior attitude towards the other servants as they considered themselves in their master’s confidence. Why would Mrs Carruthers ask anyone for any favours?

Alkmene frowned in puzzlement, then turned away from the window. She had promised herself she would just enjoy the night and not delve into hidden motives all the time. She had to change into her other dress and get her mask in place to ensure she was ready on time.

But as she went through the familiar movements of dressing and applying her make-up, her head was still full of tales of murderous sisters, anonymous letters and hostesses who broke off dinner before dessert had even been served.

Were the Steeplechases known to Mrs Hargrove? Why else would she have responded so strongly to a discussion of the murder case?

Staring into her own eyes, Alkmene muttered: was it really poison?

And why would Denise behave so strangely all of a sudden? Ache for a ball when there were so many on her social calendar? Threaten her stepmother with the revelation of some affair going on? Slight Alkmene to her face about some lawyer Alkmene didn’t even know?

Denise had always been volatile, laughing one moment, pouting the next, like a little girl who wasn’t getting her own way, but now her responses seemed exaggerated. As if she was nervous, and her anxiety translated itself into immediate attack as soon as someone but looked her way.

The exchange with her stepmother suggested it was about some guest at the ball tonight, someone Denise wanted to see, but her father would not approve of. Some man, probably. The one who had said that nonsense Denise had mentioned in the car: wild tresses and eyes like pools of fire.

Alkmene made a face at her mirror image. As soon as people fell in love, they started to behave like idiots. She’d hopefully be spared ever acting like that!

Downstairs a gong resounded, indicating that the first guests to the ball would be arriving in a few minutes. Alkmene checked her mask covered her face, except for her nostrils, mouth and chin, and smiled at the reflection. She looked quite the part and was ready for a night of dancing to take her mind off murder and friends who were suddenly snapping over nothing.

Coming down the stairs, Alkmene turned away from the open front door, wandered into a room that led into a conservatory full of blooming plants, then through French doors onto a terrace.

In a deckchair Jake sat, making notes in a notebook poised on his knee. He didn’t hear her coming until she was quite close. He started, shutting the notebook, which slipped off his knee and hit the ground. He retrieved it quickly.

Alkmene hitched a brow.

Jake hurried to say, ‘Hargrove shared some details of the new engine with me while we were smoking. I want to get it all down before I forget any of it.’

‘Of course,’ Alkmene said. It hurt her more than she cared to admit that he didn’t confide in her. But she could hardly pull the notebook from his hands and look inside.

Jake put the notebook in his pocket and extracted a black silk mask. He made a face at her before slipping it on. It transformed him from a handsome man in a tuxedo into an intriguing rogue. Alkmene bet women would be dying to dance with him tonight. She fingered her own mask. ‘How did you know it was me, anyway, when I came up to you?’

Jake shrugged. ‘I’m used to committing people’s posture, movements, total appearance to memory. When I’m stalking someone in the city, I have to recognize him or her in a crowd. Besides, your eyes are quite memorable. I’d recognize them anywhere.’

Alkmene pursed her lips. ‘Mrs Zeilovsky also has remarkable eyes. I’m sure that shade of light green is unusual and that I’ll recognize her by it, no matter what mask she turns up in.’

Jake didn’t comment. He lifted a hand. ‘I hear the first expensive cars coming down the driveway.’

Alkmene tilted her head. ‘If you’re going to comment on everybody’s spending tonight, whether it’s their car you find extravagant or their tiara, you’re not going to have a good time.’

Jake leaned over to her. ‘I’m not here to have a good time. I’m here to work.’ Then he turned away from her and went back into the house.

Alkmene stood silently for a moment, relishing the wind that played upon her bare arms. It was clear to her Mr Hargrove had invited Jake over for a very definite purpose. Not an engine, but something Jake had to ferret out for him.

Did it have to do with anonymous letters? Why else had his mention of them startled Aunt Felicia so much? Was she a victim of the London blackmailer? Did Hargrove believe Jake could unmask him?

And had Zeilovsky merely touched upon the Steeplechase case because it had been the best recent example of sisterly strife having devastating consequences?

Or did he also know more? He and his wife had expounded the case as if they had agreed about it in advance.

And Keegan. He had also said something about the case. Just a legal opinion, or...?

Were all these people here tonight merely as guests at a masked ball, friends of the hostess, or people she longed to become friendly with, for status and influence?

Or were they all here for their own reasons, with ulterior motives?

And would those motives become clear in the course of the night?

Chapter Four

There was nothing like a real orchestra to bring a waltz to life. Alkmene swayed among the many other guests, dressed up and laughing, breathing the building excitement on the air.

Outside, daylight was fading and the Chinese lanterns became ever more sparkly in the increasing darkness. Couples walked on the lawn, in deep conversation, some of them slipping away to the intimacy of the rose garden or to the boathouse to find a gondola.

Denise’s high-pitched laughter sounded close by. Alkmene twisted her neck to make out her friend among all the other dancers.

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.

The door creaked open.

Inside, in the far corner, a lantern burned so low it had almost gone out. The little light reflected in some glasses filled with a light fluid, champagne or white wine perhaps. Around the silver tray on which they stood, a stretch of white lace had been draped like a bridal veil.

Further back, where the boathouse opened onto the water, the sound of the wind could be heard and a gentle lapping of water, breaking against the wooden poles that supported the building.

Boats could moor there so guests could alight for the gondola trip, but no boats seemed to be there now. The entire boathouse seemed to be empty.

Seemed, as Alkmene had the distinct impression somebody was there.

She froze on the threshold, wondering for a brief moment whom it would be more painful to encounter: the diabolical psychiatrist’s wandering wife or the man who had been shadowing her. She was curious who it could be.

But there was nobody to be seen.

Alkmene’s gaze lingered for a few moments on more golden draperies against the far wall. Could somebody be hiding behind those?

But why would a guest hide? It was perfectly acceptable to be here on a night like this, enjoying a drink and some conversation before the boat ride.

Wasn’t there supposed to be a servant here, too? To look after guests and refill the glasses? Where was he?

Alkmene moved into the room with determination. She had to find another lantern to light. Once the gloom was lifted from the place, she’d feel better. Then a glass of champagne or two…

Confident now, she rounded the table with the dying lantern. Her foot hit something solid, and she squeaked.

Glancing down, she stared full into an upturned face. There was still a lingering haughtiness in the features that were now perfectly still in death. Cobb’s wig had slipped off as he’d fallen. It lay askew, half beside his body, half underneath.

It wasn’t necessary to ask what had caused Cobb’s death. The handle of a steak knife stuck out of his chest. Around it a dark stain was spreading.

Alkmene stood and stared. She had often heard that people screamed when they found a dead body, but she was too surprised to scream. How had the arrogant servant who had walked about upstairs where he had no business died? Who had killed him?

Her eyes stayed fixed with a sort of macabre fascination on Cobb’s hands, which were clutched into fists as if he had tried to fight off death when it had pounced on him.

Then a sound pulled Alkmene’s attention to the door.

Footfalls resounded outside.

Somebody was coming.

Chapter Five

In a dreadful heartbeat, Alkmene became certain it was the killer returning to remove some bit of incriminating evidence from the scene of the crime. Without thinking further, she slipped behind the nearest golden drapery. Even with her back pressed as tightly against the wooden wall as she could manage, there was so little room that the toes of her shoes peeked out from under the drapery. She held her breath, hoping the killer would be too preoccupied with his chore to notice anything amiss.

Nevertheless, she clutched her fan, determined to hit out with it the moment the curtain was torn away and she found herself staring into the evil, twisted features of a killer who wouldn’t hesitate to silence this unfortunate witness. Jake would say it was just like her to land face first in trouble.