by shuffling some stuff around, she detected two glasses in the back, not matching, but as they were the only ones around, she took them. ‘Have you got a cloth or something to dust them off?’
‘Just blow off the dust,’ Dubois said carelessly.
She put the glasses on the table, using her sleeve to polish her own. He could blow off his if he wanted to.
She folded her hands behind her back and shifted her weight from the balls of her feet to the heels and back. ‘So what did the constable have to say?’
‘The police surgeon said that Silas Norwhich died of a blow to the head, but he wasn’t sure whether it had been the fall on the hearth rim or a blow on the head by a person, who then put him near the hearth. Both possible. Odd thing was there was ink on his fingers as if he had been writing when he had been disturbed. By a visitor or an intruder. A servant had said that the pantry door was never locked so as the butler was out, somebody might have come in that way. Which means our mysterious visitor might not have been the only one to come round that night.’
Alkmene grimaced. ‘That is bad luck. I mean, now the police will have an even stronger case to argue that, even if it was someone from the outside, it was a random intruder. They won’t be looking for motive.’
‘Maybe they will.’ Dubois worked the fish with his spatula. ‘The dead man had something clenched in one hand. Bit of paper. Most of it had been torn off, but this bit was stuck in his grasp. Surgeon had to break his fingers to get to it. Rigor mortis, you know.’
Alkmene pulled a face. ‘I think there are some dull treatises on that at home. But if he clutched a bit and the rest was torn off, it could mean the killer tore it off, to remove incriminating evidence.’
‘The constable’s thoughts exactly. He is ambitious, so determined to prove foul play.’
Alkmene leaned forward. ‘So what did the bit of paper say?’
‘Difficult to determine but they think it came off an official paper. Good quality paper, touch of something red that might have been a stamp or seal. So it could have been some document Norwhich obtained in an official office. Marriage licence, birth certificate.’
Alkmene blinked. ‘What could he have wanted with those?’
Dubois shrugged. ‘No idea. Did it come from among his own papers? Or did the killer bring it? Did he show it to him to prove a point?’
‘Oh.’ Alkmene brightened. ‘Could it have been a will?’
Dubois nodded. ‘Could be. How come?’
‘Didn’t this niece of his, the American actress, turn up here fairly recently? She told me she had been here for a few weeks only. Maybe Norwhich changed the will in her favour. And maybe the original beneficiary wasn’t too happy with that. Because Norwhich never had any children, his original heir must have been some other relative.’
Dubois nodded. ‘We should look closely at Norwhich’s family relations and dispositions. The constable told me who Norwhich’s lawyer was. One Pemboldt. I wrote down the address. It’s just off Brook Street. Haven’t had time to look him up yet of course.’
Dubois lifted the frying pan off the stove and carried it to the table. He wanted to put it down, but Alkmene snapped, ‘Wait! That will ruin the wood of the surface. You need to put something underneath.’
She looked around her and fetched a metal tray that stood against the wall.
‘My landlady would be grateful for your efforts,’ Dubois said cynically, ‘but as you can see, not much can ruin this table any more.’
‘Still there is no point in making more marks on it,’ Alkmene insisted. ‘I suppose the wine has breathed enough now. Care to pour?’ She held out her cleaned glass to him.
Dubois picked up the bottle and poured just an inch. He also put the same amount in his own dusty glass, then put the bottle down.
Alkmene lifted the glass to her nose. She carefully sniffed, then let the wine waltz through the glass.
Dubois smiled at her. ‘You know how to drink wine.’
‘My father has such precious bottles that it would be a crime to just gulp them down.’
At the word precious his face set again, like he was reminded of something hard. He clenched the stem of the glass.
Alkmene took another sip. ‘Very nice. Fruity.’
‘I know it should probably have been white wine with this fish. Red is for pork, beef and venison. But I don’t own a cellar full of it like your father probably does.’
‘My father is a few thousand miles away.’ Alkmene lifted her glass and smiled at Dubois. ‘Prosit!’
He held her gaze a few moments, then his features relaxed. Leaning over, he touched his glass to hers and said, ‘Prosit!’
The wine gave everything this nice rosy glow, or was it the delicious fish that graced her plate with some potatoes and green beans with sauce?
Alkmene ate her fill, listening closely to the further details Dubois gave of his talk with the constable. The police were still treating it as an accident, but one of the neighbours had also testified to them that someone had come to see the master that night. He had not seen more than a shadow slipping to the door.
‘He obviously told them even less than he told me,’ Dubois said. ‘Doesn’t want to get called at the inquest, I bet. Doesn’t want to take the day off from work. Or just hates his name being mentioned in anything messy.’
Alkmene nodded thoughtfully. ‘But if the bundled up man who came to the house that night is the killer, why is he visiting Evelyn Steinbeck at her hotel? Did he act under her orders? Did she have her uncle killed in her absence, so she’d have an ironclad alibi? For the inheritance, the art collection?’
‘They were taking an awful risk if they played it that way,’ Dubois said. ‘If the police had cried foul play, she would have been the first and most likely suspect. After all, she benefits directly from the death.’
‘Right. But she wasn’t there that night. Lots of witnesses saw her elsewhere. As long as her accomplice is not caught and confesses, nobody can blame her really.’
Dubois nodded again. ‘There is another possibility. What if the bundled up man was the old beneficiary of the will? Ms Steinbeck’s brother for instance. Maybe he was sole heir before Norwhich became enamoured with her charm and made it all over to her. If her brother killed him, maybe in an argument, giving him some kind of push so he fell, that would explain why he visited her at the hotel and why she is not keen on a police investigation. She is shielding him.’
‘Bravo,’ Alkmene said, ‘but all of this holds little water as long as we have no idea if Ms Steinbeck has a brother who might have benefited from the will before she turned up. Perhaps she was Norwhich’s beneficiary all along, but she simply never came here because she was building her career on Broadway. We could be looking in the wrong direction altogether. Just consider this. What if Norwhich was blackmailed as well? What if he was writing a cheque before he died and that’s how the ink got on his fingers? Did you ask the constable if any blackmail letters were found among his paperwork? Or
