Alkmene nodded to herself and tore up the note into such tiny snippets the writing was illegible and the bits could never be put together again. Then she went down to dinner.
George was notably absent, while Anne only took soup and then retired to bed with an alleged headache.
Helena left the table right after dessert saying she wanted to spend some time in the gardens, while Albert went up to his father’s room to study the accounts.
As Alkmene came into the hall, she spied the housekeeper on the stairs, her arms full of the black gauze that had been strung along the stairs’ railing and that she was taking down after the reception of that afternoon.
Alkmene immediately joined her, saying, ‘Can I lend you a hand?’
Without waiting for a response from the startled woman, Alkmene reached out and began to loosen the gauze around the next bit of railing. ‘I think I have heard about you,’ she said. ‘My aunt was in the habit of writing letters to my mother.’ That her mother had been long dead when the letters were written, she did not mention. It did not seem relevant.
The housekeeper’s features relaxed. ‘I do remember. She wrote a lot sitting at her desk. She liked to write down the events of the day. Tell about her animals and the new recipes she had heard of in the market. She liked to go there and buy the food for the household herself. I went with her to negotiate about the price. She could speak the local language, but she never trusted herself to do it. Always afraid she would get cheated, sold inferior produce. She was very uncertain of herself in that respect.’
‘But you did know the language well enough to speak it with confidence?’
The woman shrugged modestly. ‘Back then when I first came to serve her, I was much younger. It seemed so easy to learn the words. You heard the people call out in the street, or hush a baby or give instructions to a friend. It was easy to understand some of it, or so it seemed at the time. People did dislike me for speaking the local language as if they were afraid of getting too close to the locals. In some households they only had English staff and didn’t employ any locals at all, for fear that the household would turn too exotic.’
‘My aunt never had that fear, did she?’
The housekeeper shook her head. ‘She wasn’t afraid of anything.’
Alkmene took a deep breath. ‘She was afraid of losing her mind.’
The housekeeper froze and stared at her. ‘You must never mention that, my lady, not in this house. It is something we never speak of, any of us.’
‘Tell me the truth.’ Alkmene clutched the gauze she had already taken down. ‘Was there a real reason for her fears? Or were they just that: fears, irrational thoughts that had no grounds in reality?’
The housekeeper sighed. ‘How can I say they had no grounds in reality when she died?’
‘She died because of her fears?’
The housekeeper stepped back. ‘You must let me work, my lady. You must go up to your room and rest. It has been a long and difficult day. And soon we will bury the master.’
‘Yes,’ Alkmene said. ‘We will bury him like you once buried her. But the truth can never be buried. It will come out; it will come back. Unless we face it, it will never leave us alone.’
The woman stared at her. It was as if she was struggling with the need to speak out while something also prevented her from it. Perhaps her awareness that she was only a servant and it was not her place to say such things?
At last she said low, ‘It did strike me as very strange, my lady, that the master died in this way. Lord Albert heard me talking about it to the butler and he was very angry with me. He shouted that I was mad to say such things out loud. But it did seem like the master’s death was a kind of…retribution.’
She gasped as if she had said too much, and without any excuse she scurried away, leaving Alkmene standing with the black gauze and the stairs still half adorned.
Alkmene frowned hard. Retribution.
Anne had said her father had had his death coming. And George openly blamed his father for his mother’s death. He also blamed himself for not having been able to protect his mother, prevent her death.
He had hired the burglar to come take the stones. The burglar had stumbled on his father’s dead body. Did that mean that George had killed him? Had it all been staged well in advance, carefully prepared? George’s departure in front of witnesses, so everybody knew he had not been home that night and he could not have done it?
But Jake’s inquiries at the inn proved that George need not have been there all night.
Retribution. A link with India.
But if the housekeeper suspected as much, why had she not shared her idea with the police? Why had she let them arrest the cat burglar like he was the killer?
Merely because you did not talk about a member of the family you served?
Or because the housekeeper knew that the master had been the cause of her mistress’s death and she considered his murder not just retribution, but even justified retribution? Did she agree with what George had done when he had struck out at his tyrannical father and was she keeping silent for that reason?
Because she believed that Lord Winters had deserved to die and the one who had merely executed the sentence should not be punished for it at all?
Thoughtfully, Alkmene took down the remaining gauze and brought it to the kitchens.
A cook was standing over the table, covered in flour, pulling balls of bread dough from a big bowl and forming them into loaves of bread. She glanced up at Alkmene as she put the gauze on a chair. ‘That should go up, I think,’ she said, ‘into the laundry room. But you can leave it there for one of the maids to do. You should not be bothered with that.’
‘I like to stay busy.’ Alkmene looked around. ‘You have a very nice kitchen here. And that dough looks good. My cook also bakes our own bread. I do think one can never buy it in a store quite the same way as it tastes when it is homemade.’
The cook straightened up and washed her hands under the tap, then pulled out a bottle filled with a dark yellow liquid. ‘This is our own apple juice, my lady. You must have some to try.’ She poured some into a glass and handed it to Alkmene. ‘There is an orchard half a mile away from the house. We pick the apples and turn them into this.’
Alkmene smelled. ‘Very nice. Sweet.’ She took a sip. ‘Hmmm, this is delicious.’
The cook smiled at her, returning to her bread dough. ‘We have so many things here. Apples, cherries, even figs from a tree against the south wall. And the herb garden. I always go out before I start dinner to get fresh herbs. Not that the mistress would know. I doubt she has ever cooked a thing in her life.’
Alkmene sat down on a bench by the fire, cradling the glass with apple juice in her hand.
The cook continued, ‘It is a shame when you labour every day to put a rich meal on the table and nobody seems to notice. No appetite they have, any of them. The girl, Anne, she is always going up to bed with a headache. And master George, he is drinking more than is good for him. He should meet up with a nice young lady who can straighten him out.’
She glanced at Alkmene. ‘I never knew there was any family left of the mistress of old. I did not go to India with them, only came to work here when they returned. I did hear all the stories about the old times. Seems the mistress was very much loved.’
‘I suppose so,’ Alkmene said, running her finger over the rim of the glass. ‘You must be able to put all of your culinary abilities to work when there is a large dinner party here. Like the night when the master died?’
The cook sighed. ‘Oh, that was a good night. For once I believed things would change around in this place. All the guests who were there – and the laughing and talking. I made chocolate mousse and several ladies asked via the butler for the recipe. They want to make it for their own parties. I guess I should not be handing it out. I should tell them they have to hire me to make it for them. I would dearly like a change, get away from this place.’
‘So why don’
t you go?’ Alkmene asked curiously.
‘The pay.’ The cook looked at her. ‘Master Albert pays all of us twice the wages we’d get any place else. It might be sad here at times, but the pay is good and we are not leaving.’
That was a pretty smart insurance, Alkmene guessed. By paying so much money Albert ensured his servants stayed on and were loyal to him, would not run off into another position and talk about him behind his back.
Apparently discretion was worth a whole lot to him.
Just because he was vain and protective of his family name, or because he really had something to hide?
The door opened, and Jake walked in. He nodded at her. ‘My lady…’ He went to the sink and picked a dried apricot off a dish, slipped it into his mouth.
The cook tut-tut-ed but she didn’t look really angry.
Alkmene suppressed a smile. The cook was spoiling Jake; the maids had to think him attractive. Jake was working the staff to the best of his abilities.
Leaning against the sink, Jake said, ‘My lady, you have not forgotten about your appointment with the countess of Veveine, have you? Coffee at eleven tomorrow.’
‘Oh,’ Alkmene said, taking the cue they had agreed on, ‘very well, I will be ready by half past ten so you may drive me out to her.’
Jake nodded and left the kitchen at once.
Alkmene emptied her glass with a queasy feeling in her stomach. Jake had not looked happy, had not even tried to give her some secret signal. It meant he had received news from London, following his inquiries into her aunt’s death. But judging by his solemn looks and behaviour, it would probably be the kind of news they had not been waiting for.
What on earth could it be?
Chapter Fifteen
The next morning Jake drove her out to a little inn halfway to the next village where they served coffee on the terrace in the shade of a large elm. The sign by the side of the road said prune pie, and Alkmene decided to try it, even though her stomach seemed too small to hold much after Jake had said during the ride that he indeed had the information about her aunt’s death in India.
The information she had gleaned from Anne and the housekeeper had painted a picture of a vibrant woman, in tune with her environment, loving exotic dress and animals, the scents of the market and the connection with everything defenceless. A woman who had lived a full and rich life, not resisting the foreignness of the place she had lived in, but embracing it with all her heart. A woman who should have gone on living. Who should not have died a violent death.
What if it had been murder? What if somebody had hated that sweet, caring woman enough to kill her…
Alkmene leaned back in the chair and looked up at the foliage that was caressed by sunshine. Everything about this country inn was so comforting and right. So pure.
She hated to spoil it with the things Jake might reveal to her about her aunt. He had warned her that diving into family history could be dangerous. Because you might discover things you had rather not know.
Still, it could not be postponed for ever. Lowering her gaze, with a regretful sigh, she asked, ‘So what is it?’
Jake looked around him and having ascertained nobody was near enough to overhear their conversation, he took two sheets of paper from his inner pocket, unfolded them and studied them with a frown.
‘Come on,’ Alkmene said. ‘You already know what it says. I bet you studied it well before you even told me about this supposed coffee appointment with the countess. So don’t keep me in suspense. Tell me what is the matter.’
After a heartbeat or two she added, ‘It must be serious or else you would have written it down for me and left it behind the painting, like your note about George.’
Jake shrugged. ‘It was a lot to write down.’
‘I don’t believe you. It is bad news, and you wanted to give it to me personally.’
Jake looked up at her. ‘Your aunt did not die of an illness or in an accident. She died in her own home, while nobody else of the family was around.’
Alkmene held her breath. ‘Yes?’ Now she would at last understand why her father had mentioned her aunt had died in front of a safe.
Jake continued, ‘She was found dead in front of the safe. It was wide open. There was nothing in it. The exact same scenario as with Lord Winters. Except for the fact that she was strangled, with her own scarf.’
Alkmene grimaced. ‘A gruesome death.’
An image intruded in her mind of a beautiful woman walking about her house, unconcerned, not feeling afraid of her native servants or the animals that cried out in the warm evening air outside. A woman who had felt at ease in her colourful garb, with a beautiful sequinned scarf around her neck. Then strong hands grabbing her from behind, pulling at the scarf to choke the life out of her.
Whose hands?
Jake continued, ‘They believe that your aunt saw the safe open and walked over to see what was wrong with it. Like you naturally do when you notice something out of the ordinary. While she was fully intent on the safe, the killer came up from behind and strangled her. She was a fragile woman, slim in build and not very strong, so it must have been relatively easy to do.’
‘And the killer?’ Alkmene asked.
‘Never found. After all, she was home alone that night. Her body wasn’t discovered until hours after the crime. There was a search made of course, in and around the house. But nothing was found. No trace of a perpetrator.’
Alkmene’s thoughts raced. ‘How can that be? She had a husband and three children. Was none of them there that night?’
‘It seems Anne was in the house because she was ill. She had contracted a fever and was quite delirious. She did not hear or see anything that could help. Lord Winters and the eldest son Albert were at a banquet with a local dignitary. George had left for another town to play polo with friends. He was quite good at it. In fact the polo trophy used to bash his father’s brains in was an old one he won in India.’
‘The one he won on the night when his mother was killed?’ Alkmene suggested at once. Her heart beat fast at the idea it could be so.
Jake looked at her. ‘I am not sure it was that exact same one but if it was, it could be highly significant. After all, George blamed himself for not protecting his mother at the time. The killer struck while he was away playing polo. He blames his father for the death. Then his father is found with his head bashed in with a polo trophy. The police assumed it was an impromptu weapon, picked up on the spot. But of course that need not be true. I will ask about it.’
Alkmene nodded. ‘You do that.’ She felt relieved that her aunt had not died locked up because she was imagining things. That she had not died on the run from some supposed danger. She had been killed by a very real killer who had grabbed her from behind and strangled her with her own scarf. That was something tangible and real they could deal with.
The waiter brought the prune pie, and Alkmene picked up the plate at once to dig in. With this news the worst anxiety about her aunt’s mental state had passed, and suddenly her stomach growled. She needed energy to tackle the investigation ahead. Not into one, but into two murders.
She looked at Jake. ‘Anne had already mentioned to me that she was ill at the time when her mother died. She also said that her father had told her things about it that were not true.’ Alkmene waved her fork in the air. ‘I wonder why he did that.’
‘She was an eleven-year-old girl at the time. He probably wanted to spare her the details. Perhaps he said to Anne that her mother had collapsed instead of mentioning the strangulation. Like you just said yourself, it was a gruesome death.’
Alkmene nodded. ‘Still, Anne was the only one present in the house that night. She might have heard or seen something significant. If they kept the fact it was murder from her, she might not have realized the importance of whatever she saw or heard until much later. In fact, she said to me that she tries to remember things about that particular night. Why would she be trying to remember, if there is nothing worthwhil
e to remember?’
Jake studied the papers in front of him. ‘I did ask about witness statements from that night, and Anne’s statement was taken. A few days after her mother’s funeral, when she was fully recovered from her fever. She did say something interesting when the local police chief interrogated her. She said she had come out of bed for water and had walked down the corridor. She said she had seen a flash of golden fabric. It was dismissed as unimportant because intruders who intend to steal and then have to kill to get away usually do not wear golden robes. They go for black or grey, unobtrusive so they can get away unnoticed.’
Alkmene lifted a full fork. ‘So it may seem, but the golden fabric could be important, even crucial to our case. Apropos, that scarf she was strangled with, what colour was that?’
Jake frowned. ‘No idea. Does it matter?’
‘Maybe. Find out if you can. Go on, what else was said at the time?’
Jake consulted his notes again. ‘So your aunt was found in front of an open safe, strangled. It was treated as a break-in gone wrong. The killer had only intended to take the contents of the safe and when he was caught red-handed, he acted in a panic and strangled the witness. Like I already said, the body was discovered hours after the murder had been committed. There were no traces in the house. Nobody was arrested for it.’
‘Couldn’t they track the loot taken? Anne told me her father had heaps of precious stones. Usually they are distinctive and can be traced.’
‘That was the odd thing.’ Jake tapped the papers. ‘Lord Winters claimed nothing was missing, because the safe had been empty to begin with. He was not keeping anything in it at the time.’
Alkmene’s jaw sagged. ‘What? He had a safe in his house, and there was nothing in it? No money, no documents, no stones, nothing?’
‘That is what he said.’
‘He must have been lying. But why?’ Alkmene thoughtfully chewed on a prune. ‘This pie is very good.’
Jake grinned at her. ‘Glad to see you a little more lively. I was worried this whole case’s morose atmosphere was getting to you.’
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