Diamonds of Death

A family of secrets…

After hearing about the vicious murder of her relation, Lord Winters, Lady Alkmene is intrigued to find out that the cat burglar found standing over his body, the safe emptied of jewels, might not be the murderer after all…

Reporter Jake Dubois believes an innocent man has been imprisoned and turns to Lady Alkmene to assist him in uncovering the truth and finding the real killer – who might just be one of Winters’ own family.

This mystery will test Lady Alkmene to the limit. As she and Jake delve into family secrets, Lady Alkmene isn’t sure who she can trust or who is telling the truth. And even the connection between them might not be enough to save Lady Alkmene from becoming the next murdered victim in search of the diamonds of death…

Available from Vivian Conroy

A Lady Alkmene Callender Mystery series

A Proposal to Die For

Diamonds of Death

Deadly Treasures

Diamonds of Death

Vivian Conroy

Copyright

HQ

An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd.

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

First published in Great Britain by HQ in 2016

Copyright © Vivian Conroy 2016

Vivian Conroy asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

E-book Edition © October 2016 ISBN: 9780008205171

Version date: 2018-06-27

VIVIAN CONROY

discovered Agatha Christie at thirteen and quickly devoured all the Poirot and Miss Marple stories. Over time Lord Peter Wimsey and Brother Cadfael joined her favourite sleuths. Even more fun than reading was thinking up her own fog-filled alleys, missing heirs and priceless artefacts. So Vivian created feisty Lady Alkmene and enigmatic reporter Jake Dubois sleuthing in 1920s’ London and the countryside, first appearing in A Proposal to Die For. For the latest on #LadyAlkmene, with a dash of dogs and chocolate, follow Vivian on Twitter via @VivWrites

Thanks to all editors, agents and authors who share insights into the writing and publishing process.

A special thanks to my editor Victoria Oundjian for her enthusiasm for Lady Alkmene’s adventures

and to the design team for the lovely cover.

Note

Writing mysteries set in the 1920s, I’m grateful for all online information – think dress, transportation, etiquette and much more – to ensure an authentic period feel. Still, Lady Alkmene’s world remains fictional, including street addresses, establishments, country houses and even entire villages of my invention.

Contents

Cover

Blurb

Book List

Title Page

Copyright

Author Bio

Acknowledgements

Note

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Excerpt

Endpages

About the Publisher

Chapter One

It was madness to do this on a night with a full moon.

But then you had to be a little mad to do this work to begin with.

The man, all dressed in black, looked up the manor’s forbidding facade, his eyes slowly travelling over every ledge, protrusion and other irregularity that could offer a hold to his nimble hands and feet. He had studied the facade before, was familiar with its possibilities, but he always liked to take a moment and plan the route ahead, see it in his mind as clearly as he could.

Although there was always the issue of time and the danger of discovery, he liked to be thorough. He had learned early on in his career that rushing in only led to trouble.

And trouble was the last thing he needed on this all-important night.

From the trees in the distance an eerie call resounded, sending a shiver up his spine. It was only an owl, but as a city person he thoroughly disliked animals and the risk they posed in his profession. Once, climbing a front in the city, a pigeon had popped out of a hole, almost making him lose his footing and fall, backwards, ten feet down on the unforgiving pavement. That could have been the end of his career. Of his freedom even – as he would have been discovered for what he was and taken into custody.

But he had survived the pigeon’s surprise attack, and tonight he’d survive whatever was waiting for him on his ascent. It could be bats, or it might even be a guard dog as soon as he stepped through the window. But he was prepared for anything. The loot lured him like it had a scent that he could detect on the air. Already he saw the precious stones, reflecting the light with their carefully honed facets, glittering as if there was fire inside of them. For all of his life he had followed the call of the stones, and the most desirable ones were calling for him tonight. Up there.

His eyes had reached the window that was his destination, and he nodded to himself. The route was the same as he had planned it in his head on his way out here. He had come by train, had walked the stretch out to the manor. It paid to stay out of sight, not be remembered by the make of a car, by a stay in an inn where a nosy innkeeper had taken too close a look at your face. Strangers were always noticed in the countryside.

But in his old dishevelled clothes, with the bottle in his hand, staggering through the fields along dirt tracks suited better to deer than to men, he was just a vagabond that nobody would remember. As soon as the job was done and he’d left the area, he’d turn into his own self again, a far cry from such a pitiful wanderer.

He laughed softly to himself, then sobered to rub his hands. They had to be completely dry to have the best grip.

He cast a look around him, listening for any sound that indicated disturbance.

But there was nothing but the rush of water from the fountain on the lawn.

He put his hands on the stone and began the climb. It was his luck that the house had a pillar on each side beside the steps leading to the front door. These huge pillars were worked into the house’s construction by decorated stony elements that led upwards like rungs of a ladder. If this was your specialty, it was as easy as walking up the stairs in your own home.

Nevertheless he took his time, knowing this was the ideal hour for the thief. People had fallen soundly asleep and were far away, especially if they had enjoyed a drink or two after dinner. He knew the master of this house liked his liquor. He was a widower, so no wife there who might be a light sleeper and who might hear something and prod her husband into action.

The eldest son’s pretty little high-strung wife took laudanum and would not wake either.

The younger son had left the house during the evening, shouting and cursing his father’s name, riding his horse to the local inn. He would not be back before eleven in the morning, and then only if they rode him out on a cart, with the horse being led behind it.

Like any rich man, this house owner had plenty of servants, but those sampled the remains of the meal and the draughts left in the pitchers after wealthy guests had been around.

And this had been an evening full of wealthy guests. He had seen all of them leave, group by group talking, laughing, getting into cars and carriages, reflecting their luxury taste, or by contrast a strict, almost fanatic adherence to the old country ways.

He had watched and grinned as he recognized those who had earlier been the victim of one of his jobs. How they had enjoyed the evening air, waving goodbye to each other, unaware of the man who had robbed them standing so close, waiting to strike again.

Perhaps they had even discussed it over dinner, how sad it was that such crimes had become more common and the police did nothing to prevent them or solve the crime once it had been committed.

The police…

He snarled at the thought of those self-satisfied inspectors, the sergeants desperate for a jump up the ladder, the constables who only cared for keeping their jobs and feeding the kids at home. He liked the latter best, could understand their position. It was work to them, an honest job to keep the family alive and well. He would never do anything to hurt a constable.

But the higher ones with the over-confidence in their abilities, their talents, their intuition, he liked to taunt them, tease them, make them look the fool, as he broke into place after place and left them scratching their heads wondering how on earth he had done it.

He even knew of two instances where the police had arrested someone from the staff, claiming it had to have been an inside job, as there had been no signs of any break-in.

Like he needed to break in!

For a moment he frowned, thinking of those people who had been arrested innocently and dragged through the police courts to the shock and horror of their fellow staff members and their families. Neither had been convicted, fortunately. If it had come to that, he would have fessed up, made sure no innocent man suffered from his doings. The police had chosen the easy way out going for the inside job. Because they could not believe that a man could scale a wall like a fly and enter a house without leaving traces.

Oh, there were always traces, he bet, for the eye that looked in the right places. But those police people were so full of themselves that they forgot to look. Even if they looked, they did not see. They did not understand what it meant.

He put his hands on the stony balcony edge and pulled himself over it in one smooth movement. His physical strength was one of his biggest assets, jealously guarded by exercise and the right food: lots of meat and eggs and milk. He could not afford to lose one bit of muscle power and take a tumble.

He picked thin black leather gloves from his pocket and put them on. In the past he had not bothered much with those, but Scotland Yard was investing serious time and effort in their fingerprint division and what had started off as something quite laughable, had actually led to the solution of major cases. Any criminal with a bit of a brain wore gloves these days and although he was certain his prints were not on record, yet, he had no wish for them to ever be so.

He smiled to himself as he studied the window that was ajar. The new ideas about health made everything so easy for the crook. Sleep with the window open, leave the window open a crack for the condition of your books. Dampness creates illness, begets mould. Oh, he only applauded doctors who wrote pieces in the medical journals saying that. They said a lot of things he did not care for, but opening windows was a good idea.

He put a gloved hand on the window frame and felt downward, searching for the latch. Sure enough it was an easy construction. People rarely secured windows in a higher floor with the same precision they used downstairs. There they had blinds or locks, or even – if they were really careful – bars. But higher up they believed nothing could reach the windows but winged creatures that did no harm.

The window opened, and he stepped in, taking care to stand for a few moments and let his eyes adjust to the pitch-black darkness inside. Some moonlight came in through the window and lifted the worst of the gloom, and he could make out the silhouettes of furniture: the bookcases along the wall, the standing clock between them, then the leather chairs at the fireplace. The huge desk to his right, with the lamp on top. He could not see the lamp, but he knew it was there from his visit.

He smiled to himself. It always paid to know the territory well in advance. He rubbed his hands again, a habit as the gloves did not get sweaty. But he would never forget to make sure his hands were utterly dry as that determined the difference between life and death.

He took a step towards the desk.

His foot made contact with something bulky and heavy on the floor, and he stumbled over it. He tried to regain his balance by waving his arm in the air and putting his other foot some place. But it also hit the bulk and he fell forwards, half over it.

Cursing under his breath, he broke his fall with his hands. He was lying half on top of the thing, which had not been there during his visit. It felt almost like a sack of flour.

His gloved hands examined it, finding a round corner… It was warm and sort of soft and…

With a cry he straightened himself, inching back. The thing was…alive.

Or rather not. It had been alive, but it was no longer.

He sucked in a breath as he realized what he had just fallen on top of.

A dead body.

His mind whirled. As he meticulously prepared each aspect of a job, he was always taken aback by change. He was especially taken aback by the panic that washed through him at the realization he was in a room with a dead person.

He wanted to force himself to stay calm and focus on the stones, but for a few moments he could not even hear their call over the pounding of his blood in his ears.

Then he clenched his hands into fists and regulated his breathing. He held his head back into his neck and stared up at the stuccoed ceiling. He counted to fifty, and then the panic had vanished and his mind was crystal clear again.

He pulled a lighter from his pocket and switched it on. He did not use it to peruse the dead body. He did not care who it was or what it was doing here. He used the light to look at the painting that hid the safe.

The painting was swung outwards, and the safe behind it was in full view. It was open.

He groaned.

He made for it with hasty steps, his eyes on it with a desperate insistence that it could not be the way he believed it was.

But it was that way.

The safe was empty. The stones that had been here for the taking were gone.

Taken already, by another who had left the dead body in his wake.

He turned and knelt beside the body. Despite his better judgement he had to make sure that this man did not have the stones on him. He reached into the pockets of the dead man’s jacket, even patted his chest and sides to feel for any unusual protrusion.

Nothing.

The door into the room was flung open, and light flooded over him as somebody turned the switch at the door. The butler, blinking with his red-rimmed eyes, stood staring at him. ‘Lord Winters?’ Then he caught sight of the body and gasped.

Someone pushed past him into the room. A tall dark woman raising her hands to her face. But instead of the piercing scream he expected, and perhaps a collapse into a dead faint, she looked straight at him and said, ‘He killed him! Look, his gloves are full of blood.’

He looked down and saw the dark stains on his gloves. That had to have happened when he stumbled onto the body and fell across it.

He opened his mouth to protest, deny, proclaim his innocence, but there was no time as more men came into the room, hauling him to his feet and pulling his arms behind his back. They were all shouting something different, but their general feeling was clear enough. He was a killer and he had to be handed over to the police as soon as possible.

Ironic.

Now the Scotland Yard fingerprint division would get his prints anyway.

Chapter Two

Lady Alkmene Callender pulled the dark brown hat with the sequinned band over her hair and looked in the tall standing mirror. She tilted her head to the right and then to the left, admiring the reflection of the light on the sequins. Still, dark brown had never been her favourite colour. ‘Is the same hat available in blue?’ she asked, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear so she could see her new earring.

‘I think you should just be wild and splash out on the one with the ostrich feathers,’ her friend Denise Hargrove said, pointing at the black hat with the fan of feathers attached to the back. ‘Your father will only find out about it when he is back from his trip, if he even finds out about it. I doubt he will go through all the bills accumulated over months.’

‘You don’t know my father,’ Alkmene said, pulling the dark brown hat off her hair and resting it on her hand. ‘One of his great joys in life is sitting down to check the bills and trying to find one little detail that is not in order. Like too much money paid for fish for a dinner or a mention of pineapple while he is sure that we never ate any since New Year’s Eve.’

‘If he has been away for months, how can he know what you ate?’ Denise asked with a hitched brow.

‘Oh, before he leaves, he hands out strict instructions to all the staff to run the household as frugally as possible in his absence. I am to be fed on nothing more extravagant than soup, meat with vegetables and a fruit dessert of the indigenous variety. Pineapple is out of the question, and so are hats with ostrich feathers.’

‘I am glad to hear it,’ an ironic voice said behind her back.

Alkmene spun on her heel to meet the speaker’s inquisitive gaze. Since her adventure with Jake Dubois in Dartmoor looking for a missing heir and a cold-blooded killer, she had only seen him once, during a charity luncheon where she was representing her father, who was one of the charity’s patrons. Dubois had covered the event for his paper. He had barely acknowledged her, as he had been busy following an actress around who had become interested in the charity recently and was contemplating staging a play to benefit it.

Feeling thoroughly ignored, Alkmene had decided she did not want to see Dubois any time soon, and now seeing him perusing her hatless persona in what was supposed to be man-free territory, goaded her to no end.

‘Here to buy a hat for your sister?’ she asked sweetly.

Jake opened his mouth as if to ask since when she believed he had a sister, but then he noticed Denise’s wide-eyed interest in him and said meekly, ‘Just handed in the order at the desk. I would like to speak to you if it is at all possible. It is about…’

‘Phalaktae pelopenosensis,’ Alkmene said with a charming little smile. ‘Father will be so delighted that you managed to solve the mystery of its origin. I will write your results to him this afternoon. Denise, I am so sorry, but I have to run.’

She leaned over and gave her friend two air kisses, hovering before each cheek, so as not to disturb her make-up. Then she waved a hand and ran out of the store, Dubois in tow.

‘Phalaktae what?’ he asked outside.

‘Oh, I have no idea. I only made it sound like some Latin plant name. Denise knows next to nothing about green stuff, whether it is in the wild, in her garden or happens to lie on her plate. She will surely find some other friend she can force into buying the hat with the ostrich feathers so she can borrow it from said friend whenever she feels like it.’

‘Not as wealthy as you are?’ Jake asked cynically.

Alkmene smiled. ‘On the contrary. In theory Denise has more money than I will ever have. She is the daughter of Hargrove, the oil magnate, who is also dabbling in aviation.’

‘Ah. But what do you mean “in theory she has more money”?’ Jake asked, falling into step with her, his hands folded on his back.

‘Well, at the moment she is his only daughter, so she stands to inherit it all. But he is about to change that fact, having married a much younger woman who can no doubt bear him a male heir for all of his fortune. In that case Denise will probably be forced to marry a rich man to have any money to spend.’

She batted her lashes at him. ‘I thought you knew how that worked.’

Jake shook his head but said nothing.

Alkmene swung her arms energetically. Suddenly she halted, grabbing for her head. ‘Oh, dear, now I have left my own hat in the store and…’

‘You can go back for it later. I want to talk to you about a friend of mine.’

He sounded rather insistent, so she could hardly say no. Alkmene sighed. ‘If I don’t go back now, Denise will take my hat home with her and I will be obliged to go visit her to get it back. She is not so bad, but her stepmother is. She is always asking these rather awkward questions about my ancestors. About duels and stuff, you know.’

Jake grinned. ‘Madness in the family, by any chance?’

Alkmene cringed. Jake had no idea what a sore spot he touched with that casual remark. She said quickly, ‘Talk about your friend now, will you?’

He sobered at once and stared ahead. ‘Perhaps you have read about it in the newspapers?’

Alkmene tilted her head. ‘Let’s see. If it was an engagement, I might have read it, but I don’t recall it, because engagements never stick with me unless they are unconventional, but when they are, they are usually not announced in the papers but handled rather secretly because the family feels mortified. Now if it was business-related, a new venture in something adventurous…’

Jake halted her with a hand gesture. ‘Robbery gone wrong.’

Alkmene frowned. ‘I did read something about a theft outside a theatre, a gnarled figure taking off with a lady’s purse. Isn’t he the same one who robbed ladies earlier this year but then outside the church of St Mary of the Humble Heart? Did they not call him the hunchback of the Notre Dame then to make it more sensationalistic?’

‘Could be, but that’s not the one. I mean the robbery gone wrong at Lord Winters’ estate.’

Alkmene froze. Right on top of the remark about madness in the family this was very awkward indeed. She said slowly. ‘Lord Winters, who has returned from India after his father died? The one who is said to have…killed his wife while he was there.’

She knew full well there was only one Lord Winters and this was the one. But his untimely demise at the hands of a burglar was one violent death she had no intention of getting involved with. It hit too close to home.

Jake sighed impatiently. ‘If they claim he killed his wife in India, it is probably high society gossip. I am talking about the very real robbery in his country estate that turned sour.’