A Proposal to Die For

by Vivian Conroy

  Jake said softly, ‘It is for the jury to decide whether you are guilty of murder or not.’

  The constable led him away, Walker’s head down as he went. Mary Sullivan’s sister was still on her knees sobbing her heart out in her hands. Her husband stood bent over her, patting her back with clumsy large hands.

  Jake watched them with a deep frown, then turned to focus on Alkmene. ‘This whole scene does not mean that I don’t intend to find out exactly what you were doing there in that church, on your own. You could have been killed by this callous sod and I could have done nothing about it.’

  ‘It would have been my own fault,’ Alkmene said contritely.

  But Jake grabbed her shoulders and squeezed. ‘Promise me you will never do that again. Or else we can’t work together.’

  ‘Work together?’ Alkmene echoed.

  ‘Yes. There is still the little matter of the London blackmailer to consider, remember? He didn’t just target you but others as well. Is it just for money? Or is there more at stake? After this initial success we should continue our partnership and ferret out who he is.’

  ‘Or she,’ Alkmene said. ‘Why couldn’t it be a brilliant female mastermind?’

  Jake suppressed a smile, then he said tightly, ‘But I don’t work well with someone who does not listen to me and goes against everything I say.’

  ‘You want someone you can order about like a dog.’ Alkmene wriggled herself free and walked after him as he made for the door of The Hunted Boar. ‘I for my part do not work well with someone who treats me like I am weak and in need of protection all the time.’

  ‘Hah. Who was found locked up in a burial cellar, huh?’

  ‘That was a…mistake.’

  Jake roared with laughter as he held open the inn’s door for her. ‘You could say that again, my lady.’

  But his eyes were serious as he added, ‘It could have been your last.’

  Chapter Twenty-One

  They sat at the roaring fire in the hearth, Alkmene in a leather chair that the innkeeper had brought from his own living quarters, Jake on the stone rim of the fireplace, taking care of the burning logs inside it.

  Alkmene had been offered brandy, but had refused to drink it before having had any solid breakfast. The innkeeper had rushed to make some, but the toast had been burned and the coffee half cold, probably because he was thinking of his wife who had been taken away by neighbours to be calmed down.

  Alkmene sighed. ‘It seems we have profoundly ruined the peace in this idyllic little place.’

  Jake shook his head. ‘There was never any peace here to begin with. Now people know that Mary Sullivan did not die; they know she is alive somewhere and well. They know that the person responsible for her disappearance at the time repented in his old age and that a man who killed him, for gain or for whatever twisted reason he argues that he had, will have to answer in court for that.’

  Alkmene frowned. ‘That is a lot really to work through all at once.’

  ‘Yes, but at least they can begin to work through it and try to find their own peace with the facts. I do not say it will be easy, but… Perhaps the pain beneath the surface was worse than these discoveries are now.’

  She studied his furrowed brow. It was the wrong time and place to ask about his mother, the way in which his father had betrayed her. It would have to wait until some other time. She trusted that time would indeed come as Jake had suggested they’d be working together more.

  ‘Are you going to publish this story?’ she asked.

  Jake looked up at her. ‘Not at this time. I will wait to see if the court case will be public and if so, how much will be revealed about all the details. If they are going to divulge it all, I would like to write about it, as I have been an eyewitness to some of it. But I am not going to run to my editor now and have it printed tomorrow. I think I promised Pemboldt as much. In your presence.’

  There was a hint of reproach in that last sentence, and Alkmene hurried to say, ‘I was just wondering how it will go from here.’

  ‘Fitzroy Walker will be questioned, and others will be, here in town and beyond. Once there is a full picture, they will take the case to court. Walker will no doubt hire an excellent lawyer who will try to get him off on a technicality or some claim it was an accident, self-defence, whatever. He already laid the groundwork for that with his story to you just now. Claiming he grabbed the victim by the shoulders to calm him down, that the fall on the hearth rim wasn’t intended.’

  Jake sounded almost bitter. ‘His mention of Norwhich being so red in the face might even suggest he was close to a seizure and fell because of that. I can only hope the jury will not be deceived and return a verdict of guilty of murder anyway.’

  Alkmene frowned. ‘Are you so sure? You were not there. Walker did have time to get to know Evelyn before he introduced her to Norwhich. Perhaps he did fall in love with her and was eager to protect her. He sounded sincere when he talked about her bit parts in New York and his empathy for her position. She is a very attractive young woman. Why could he not have fallen in love with her and acted on that feeling?’

  Jake grimaced. ‘Oh, it all sounded nice enough. And maybe he even believes it, who knows. But when you consider it closely, Fitzroy Walker is a man cold into his bone marrow. He locked you in that church cellar to die. Just so he could get away, erase the last traces of Mary Sullivan’s existence and vanish to France or beyond. Evelyn Steinbeck was no longer important to him. Now that he could not marry her and get his hands on her fortune, accumulated via poor Silas Norwhich’s obsession with the past, he just wanted to save his own skin. Escape punishment for his actions. He didn’t care whom he had to hurt to do so.’

  Alkmene nodded. ‘You are probably right. He didn’t care much what happened to me. What he said to me when he locked me in was pretty crude. Almost like he was enjoying himself.’

  ‘Wallace Thomson also said Walker was happy when he had seen the place where Mary Sullivan allegedly died. That he rubbed his hands with glee. Thomson’s protectiveness of Mary Sullivan’s memory might have made him feel like it was glee, but I can also imagine he read the lawyer right. That he really felt this deep satisfaction that there was no threat to be expected from a real heir and his scheme of introducing the fake one could work. Whether he later fell for Evelyn Steinbeck or not doesn’t really matter. The seed for Silas Norwhich’s death was planted when Walker decided to trick him out of his fortune.’

  Alkmene nodded. ‘I suppose you are right. If only you could plead the case against him.’

  Jake waved a hand. ‘There are other people to do that, who have more expertise in the field than me. They will realize the same things and go down the same route, I suppose.’ He continued, ‘How did you end up in the church anyway at that hour?’

  Alkmene glanced at him. ‘I am more interested in how you found me.’

  Jake shrugged. ‘I slept badly and I decided to knock on your door before breakfast to ask how your feet were. Your room was empty and showed that you had left in a rush. I was worried where you had gone to all of a sudden. I conjectured you had probably seen something from the window, because the curtain had been opened.’

  ‘Very smart deduction.’

  Jake grimaced. ‘That curtain told me you had seen something in the square, but it did not tell me what it had been or why you had felt it necessary to go after it. Without even telling me.’

  Alkmene pursed her lips. ‘There was no time.’

  Jake glanced at her. ‘You were there at the ruins of the old keep when I warned Mary Sullivan’s son to be careful as long as the killer was still at large. You thought that warning did not apply to you?’

  She shrugged. ‘I only wanted to see what this person was doing in the churchyard. I never believed he could just grab me and lock me up. I had no idea this church had such an impressive old vault.’

  She rubbed her wrist again where the ugly rope burn seemed to get worse. ‘Tell me how you found me.’

&n
bsp; ‘Once outside I looked around me and saw the gate into the churchyard was open. I went there and down the path. There were fresh footprints. That was the clue really. Mud.’

  ‘Mud?’ Alkmene echoed.

  ‘Yes. Inside there was some fresh mud at the door leading into the vault. It showed that somebody had recently gone down there. I thought it was worth a look and I called at the vicarage to ask for the key. The poor vicar had to get the church proprietor out of bed. Or was it the organist? I am not even sure. One of those is a fountain of local knowledge and keeps close guard of this vault. It seems some illustrious inhabitants of old are buried there.’

  ‘I don’t want to know,’ Alkmene said and shivered. The cold of that place was still flowing through her veins.

  She supposed she’d revisit it in nightmares whenever she had a busy day or had eaten a bit too much chocolate pudding too soon before going to bed.

  ‘I guess you would have lasted there for a day or two,’ Jake mused. ‘I would certainly not have left without you, so I might have found you in the end. Unless there were rats there, nibbling at…’

  ‘Stop it, you cruel cad.’ Alkmene pretended to slap at him.

  Jake laughed.

  The door to the inn opened, and a man came in. He looked a bit like Pemboldt, wrinkled and breakable, leaning on a stick. Under his arm he carried a big square object wrapped in brown paper, tied with a bit of string.

  He stood a moment looking at them, then limped over.

  Jake rose at once to help him with his big package, putting it carefully against the wall and helping him to sit down in the chair opposite to Alkmene. The man’s bright eyes observed her for a few quiet moments before he began to speak.

  ‘So you are the young people,’ the old man said, ‘who came to look into Mary’s disappearance.’

  He coughed a moment, a deep cough coming from his very centre, his body shaking with the force of it.

  Then he lifted his eyes at them again. ‘I am her father.’

  ‘You made that painting,’ Alkmene said, glancing up to the moor view hanging over their heads.

  He nodded. ‘For my other daughter’s wedding day. She wanted a nice piece for this inn.’

  A hint of reproach in his voice suggested he had not much liked his daughter marrying an innkeeper.

  But would he have liked his other son-in-law any better?

  The old man said, ‘I heard from her the other day that some lady from London had asked about my paintings, wanting a piece for her own home. She laughed about it, saying, “Maybe, Father, one of your pieces will end up in some fine drawing room.” She never believes much good can happen to us poor people from Cunningham, you know. I guess looking at what happened to poor Mary she had her reasons to think so.’

  Alkmene wet her lips. Did he know his daughter had never drowned? Did he know she was still alive, as was her son, his grandchild?

  She glanced at Jake, who shook his head almost imperceptibly. She agreed with him. If the family were to be reunited, it would have to happen in their own time and at their own will. They could not force people to get together again, when they were not ready for it. So much had happened, so much time had passed.

  The old man gestured at the wrapped parcel against the wall. ‘That is my painting for your fine drawing room, my lady. I do hope you will like it.’ He pushed himself up and smiled at her.

  Alkmene tried to get up as well. ‘I have to pay you.’

  He shook his head. ‘You have already paid me enough. Thank you.’ And he turned and shuffled off.

  ‘He knows, doesn’t he?’ Alkmene asked Jake.

  Jake nodded thoughtfully. He reached for the string round the brown paper. ‘Let’s see what is in here, hey.’

  He carefully took the paper off, and Alkmene stared at a large view of the moor in full bloom, all lilac and purple with busy bees and butterflies fluttering above and a lark soaring like a speck against the azure skies.

  It was no morose forbidding place as she had seen it the other day, something sinister, but a place full of life and expectancy.

  The moors as Mary Sullivan had loved them dearly, the place where she had walked and daydreamed about her new and better life. The life that she might at last have, with her son, once Silas Norwhich’s inheritance had fallen to them.

  Jake smiled down on her. ‘I hope you have a good place for this masterpiece in your home. It deserves better than to end up in the attic.’

  ‘It will not. I know several places where it would look wonderful. Father will like it too. He adores the moor because it is a rich habitat for all kinds of plants.’

  Jake nodded and began to put the protective paper back around the painting.

  Alkmene sank back in the chair, staring up at the oak beams overhead. ‘I suppose we should pack soon and return to London.’ It was not an attractive prospect as her back hurt and she was too tired to enjoy the ride.

  Jake tied the bit of string around the parcel again. ‘We could stay here for another night. Just so you can regain your strength.’

  She glanced at his profile, wondering what he was thinking.

  Jake tested his knot and then looked up at her. ‘But I have to warn you. The moon is almost full and it seems that when it is, strange things can happen.’

  Alkmene held his gaze a moment. His eyes seemed to defy her.

  Jake said, ‘There is this old rumour that at full moon there are these creatures on the moor…’

  Alkmene raised her hand. ‘Spare me. I think I just want a better breakfast first and then we can decide what to do about getting back to civilization.’

  Jake straightened up and passed her chair, laughing. ‘At your service, my lady.’

  If you loved A Proposal To Die For, then turn the page for an exclusive chapter from the next instalment in A Lady Alkmene Callender Mystery series, DIAMONDS OF DEATH.

  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.