Deadly Treasures

by Vivian Conroy

  Murder on the coast

  Lady Alkmene Callender has little interest in marriage, especially when her father is up to his matchmaking tricks, but when the opportunity arises to visit an archaeological dig she cannot resist.

  However, when she arrives to find her potential groom under arrest for murder Lady Alkmene begins to wonder if she isn’t in the right place at the right time.

  Putting her extensive sleuthing skills to good use, Lady Alkmene – along with reporter Jake Dubois – starts to investigate, hoping to uncover the real killer before she too ends up six feet under…

  Available from Vivian Conroy

  A Lady Alkmene Callender Mystery series

  A Proposal to Die For

  Diamonds of Death

  Deadly Treasures

  Deadly Treasures

  Vivian Conroy

  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

  Acknowledgments

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

  Thanks to my fantastic editor Victoria Oundjian, for her continued enthusiasm for Lady Alkmene’s adventures, and to the design team for the fabulous cover with the coastal feel.

  A special thanks to all book bloggers and readers who have left reviews for the first two books in the Lady Alkmene series or have reached out to say how much they love the character dynamics. Nothing makes me happier than to know my books bring the same sleuthing fun to readers as I experience myself when I dive into a mystery.

  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, villages and even a castle with a fabled gold treasure of my invention.

  Contents

  Cover

  Blurb

  Book List

  Title Page

  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

  Excerpt

  Copyright

  Chapter One

  Lady Alkmene Callender had not heard the doorbell ring, as she was wondering how on earth a wife managed to knock off three husbands in a row, by poison, without anybody around her asking any questions.

  The story had been provided to her, written in longhand on shabby sheets ripped from various notebooks, including the title page torn from a novel, by her friend, reporter Jake Dubois, who had researched it for the upcoming trial and planned on publishing it in the paper he wrote for as soon as his editor agreed to his demands for a raise.

  Jake’s value had gone up – or at least he himself thought it had – since he had cleared a friend of his, a famous cat burglar, of an accusation of murder. Alkmene herself had had a substantial share in the resolution of that case, but she had a deal with Jake to keep her name out of the papers as her poor father, on a botanical quest in India, would surely burst a vessel if he ever found out how she passed the time in his absence.

  At the moment Jake was attending the opening of a new yachting club in Plymouth, having left his notes with her to read through and comment upon. He had mockingly asked her if she couldn’t type out a decent summary for him, implying she couldn’t type.

  Of course she couldn’t, but she would never tell him that. ‘Father doesn’t have a typewriter,’ she had adduced instead. ‘He insists on writing everything in longhand and so far he has never had a complaint from anyone.’

  The door opened, and Brookes, her father’s impeccable butler, appeared on the threshold. ‘Viscount Woolsbury to see you, Lady Alkmene.’

  Alkmene blinked. She had not seen the viscount in years. And why would a man who stuck to protocol under all circumstances call upon her without having announced his visit in advance?

  Had something happened?

  ‘Show him in, Brookes,’ she said, organizing the notes in her lap, her thoughts racing.

  The viscount’s son, Duncan, had been her childhood nemesis. They had been forced to play together, Duncan always throwing sand in her hair or hiding toads in her bed at his father’s mansion in a remote shire where Alkmene had been placed to spend the summer when her father was away.

  Having lost her mother at the age of four, Alkmene had been shipped around from one house of pitying friends to another by a father who had certainly loved her, but loved his botanical adventures even more.

  Not one to be resentful, Alkmene had enjoyed her times in other households where she was spoiled by the servants and readily forgiven for any pranks she pulled by the mistress of the house who did not dare punish such a ‘sweet little thing without a mother’.

  Duncan Woolsbury, however, had had no qualms about pestering her, and she in turn none about getting even with him for it.

  After they had grown up, she had seen him once or twice at a soirée of mutual friends, where she had concluded he had become a lot more serious and bookish-looking than the boy she remembered from climbing trees and splashing through brooks. Duncan had always wanted to become an explorer and find something spectacular like a new species of bird or a forgotten tribe. But Alkmene recalled having heard more recently that he had become assistant to an expert in archaeology, no longer looking for live cultures, but dead ones, long buried.

  And now his father was here to see her, out of the blue. It could hardly be a social call. Where Alkmene had enjoyed a rather close bond with Duncan’s mother and his two younger sisters, she had never had much contact with the viscount. He had been kind to her but in the way you treat a puppy you take care of for a few weeks. Good care, but in a sort of detached manner, because it is not your own dog and you know you will let the little thing go again, after a while.

  Putting Jake Dubois’s stack of notes on the table beside her, she rose to meet the large man with gingerbread hair who barged into the room, to shake her hand. He examined her from head to toe and boomed with his baritone, ‘Alkmene, you look well, girl, very well. I do apologize for dropping in like this, unannounced, but it is rather an informal affair.’

  ‘Of course,’ Alkmene said as if she had expected no less, gesturing for him to take a seat. To Brookes, who hovered at the door, she said, ‘You may bring us some coffee.’

  Brookes nodded and shut the door with an impeccably soft click.

  Alkmene knew he would stand there for a few seconds listening, anxious to hear what this unexpected visit was all about. So she waited until she was absolutely sure Brookes had walked off to see to the coffe
e. Cook would have to heat water, so it would take some time for the butler to return.

  To her visitor she said engagingly, ‘I have not seen you in ages. Then again I have not seen a lot of my old acquaintances in ages. I’m afraid I get out too little.’

  Her conscience pricked a moment as she had been out and about, to Dartmoor and then again to the Winters estate, with Jake Dubois, for murder investigations. But it would be unwise to mention anything like that to an old friend of her father’s. They were surely corresponding, and if the viscount would mention something like Alkmene being involved in anything potentially damaging to reputations, Father would write at once to other friends to have her shipped off to the countryside where she could do no harm.

  Knowing the viscount he would readily believe her lie of getting around so little. He was the sort of man who thought women should sit indoors and paint, or if they ventured out of doors, should tend to roses and shop for hats. Innocent little pursuits that didn’t get them tired. According to the viscount anything could get a girl tired.

  Probably because he had a wife plagued by suddenly arising headaches and two daughters who got the vapours as soon as they didn’t like something or someone.

  Alkmene smiled at the viscount. ‘Have you already been to Alberley?’

  The house was one of the family’s favourite summer haunts, a place she remembered fondly for the many old trees growing in the garden and the mysterious stone steps leading down into what was basically an ordinary wine cellar but which had been a smugglers’ hiding place to her and her playmates.

  She remembered Duncan had this wooden sword he always brought on their adventures and swung in the air, one time knocking into a bit of lead piping that gave a bang audible through the entire house. The servants in the kitchen had been certain the entire house was collapsing upon them and had fled outside, where they had stood gossiping until it was too late for dinner.

  ‘No, we have not found the time to go to Alberley this year,’ the viscount said. ‘My wife is very busy with Anastasia’s twins and preparing for Delphine’s wedding.’

  It was logical that his wife would be loath to leave London when such joyous familial developments put her in the centre of attention with all of her friends.

  Alkmene remembered vaguely that her father had written a letter of well wishes when the twins had been born to the viscount’s eldest daughter. Two boys right away. That was so like Anastasia, who had always liked to do everything perfectly in a single try.

  And since there was mention of an upcoming wedding, the youngest, Delphine, had apparently gotten engaged.

  Alkmene could not remember having read an announcement of the engagement in the papers, but then these things could happen overnight. Especially if the parents were eager to have the wedding performed before the groom and bride got to know each other better and might decide they were not the perfect match after all. She suspected Delphine would have had only a small say in the choice of groom. He would no doubt be the parents’ carefully selected candidate, someone of the same background, who brought in property and smarts. But what made a man eligible in the eyes of demanding parents didn’t guarantee he was a likeable person to deal with on a daily basis.

  Knowing such considerations would never enter the viscount’s mind, Alkmene smiled politely. ‘I'm so happy for you all.’

  The viscount sat on the edge of his seat, resting his hands on his knees. ‘My wife is preoccupied with all of these things, but one thing is never far from her mind.’

  He fell silent as the door opened and Brookes carried in the silver tray with coffee cups. Apparently there had been hot water ready and waiting in the kitchen for him to have prepared this so speedily.

  Alkmene gestured to the butler that he could put the tray on the central table. ‘I will pour myself. You may leave us.’

  Brookes was clearly disappointed that he didn’t get a chance to overhear some snippet of conversation that would give him a clue as to why the viscount was here, at night, for this informal visit. He lingered at the table, rearranging one of the pink lilies in the tall crystal vase.

  But Alkmene kept her eyes on the reluctant butler with a stern gaze, so that he retreated to the door and closed it behind him, still soft and polite, not betraying any frustration on his part over this missed chance to find out more.

  Alkmene checked that the door was indeed closed and then went to pour coffee.

  The viscount said, ‘My wife is concerned about Duncan.’

  Alkmene glanced at him. ‘Is he unwell?’

  ‘Oh, no, no, he is doing fine, has been travelling everywhere since he became involved with all these excavations. His tutor is well known in the field. You might have heard of him. Trevor Price.’

  Without waiting for Alkmene to confirm or deny she had ever heard of Mr Price, the viscount continued, ‘Price’s health has never been particularly strong, but since a cold last Christmas, he has developed a lung problem and after a very difficult winter, his doctors have advised him to seek out a warm dry climate to recuperate for a few months. He is not allowed to travel to any place that might worsen his condition, so Duncan is now in charge of it all. I…’

  The viscount hesitated a moment, then said, ‘I would very much like you to go see him.’

  Alkmene almost dropped the viscount’s coffee cup. She envisioned herself sailing down the Nile, standing at the foot of the pyramids, walking through a narrow trapdoor into the secret burial chamber of some pharaoh of old. Jake would be so jealous!

  Perhaps she could write up a travelogue, complete with pictures, and sell it to a paper, via Jake, under a fake name of course. Preferably a male pseudonym so she’d be taken seriously. If it was well received, others might invite her to write an engaging piece about their dig. Excavations cost a lot of money, and good publicity was the best way to attract funding. If they did not understand that themselves, she might open their eyes to it.

  ‘As you have just explained you get out so little,’ the viscount said, ‘you may have no wish to leave London…’

  Appalled by this wrong conclusion, Alkmene hurried to say, ‘Oh, but I do. It’ll be no inconvenience at all. I do want to see Duncan again. I mean, see what he has been up to and all. In the past he already had this tendency to make exciting discoveries.’

  The viscount grimaced. ‘We had hoped that he would pursue a career a little more…suited to his distinguished past. He could easily have become a diplomat in Vienna or Istanbul. This whole…pursuit of adventure is extremely aggravating to my wife.’

  Alkmene handed him his coffee cup and smiled. ‘I’m sure that Delphine’s wedding will be a pleasant distraction for Lady Eleanor.’

  The viscount sighed. ‘Not really. Alkmene, you have to understand how painful this all is. Delphine is ten years younger than Duncan. She is marrying while he shows no inclination at all to find a wife. But he’s my heir, and he will have to think about the future for our family name, the seat, the lands.’

  Alkmene sat down with her own cup. She swirled the spoon round and round in the coffee even though she had not inserted any sugar. Duncan was older than she was, but she knew that people were also critically following her own life to see when she would finally find a husband and settle down, bear heirs that would ensure her family property would not one day fall to the crown.

  Not just strangers were expecting her marriage, but her own father never stopped bothering her about it. She could imagine how Duncan felt, now in charge of his tutor’s archaeological empire and not willing to let a wife keep him from it.

  The viscount said, ‘Delphine’s wedding has made it a matter of the utmost importance to us that Duncan also takes his matrimonial prospects seriously.’

  ‘He might meet someone on his travels,’ Alkmene suggested.

  The viscount sat up. ‘That is exactly our worst fear. That he will meet someone unsuitable and marry on a whim. It must be prevented at all costs.’

 
‘I do not see how.’ Alkmene took a sip of the coffee.

  ‘We want you to go see him and rekindle your former friendship. We want you to uhm…present yourself to him as a suitable bride.’

  Alkmene clenched the cup. Duncan had always teased her and emphasized how he disliked everything about her. How she could not compare to his elegant sisters who were real girls, while she was just a tomboy who tried to be brave and fell short. She had no intention of marrying, soon or maybe not ever, but even if she did, Duncan would be the last man alive she’d ever consider.

  But voicing these thoughts out loud would be a grave insult to the viscount and indirectly to Duncan. She had spent many happy childhood summers with them and had no wish to offend anybody.

  Besides, the prospect of seeing the pyramids beckoned. She would have to be mad to dismiss an opportunity to travel at another’s expense and see a fabulous place.

  Still, it was impossible to act like she was going along with this scheme. She couldn’t let the poor viscount believe she would really throw herself at Duncan as his bride to be.

  However, she might find a way to reconcile the two interests here: her own desire to travel and the viscount’s offer to fund it, if she helped persuade Duncan to think about his future.

  Instead of offering herself as eligible bride, she could seek a moment of confidentiality, to speak with Duncan about his parents’ wishes and try to persuade him to look in earnest among the suitable young ladies of his mother’s acquaintance. There had to be somebody there whom he could like.

  Someone not too young and too silly, with an interest in what he did and the desire to support him in his efforts. Someone who wouldn’t pine away while Duncan was travelling, but who would visit her own friends and show her face at the familial gatherings where Duncan’s mother could show her off.

  Most men Alkmene knew had never been madly in love with their wives but had married them because they had a lot in common. Those marriages seemed to work.