study. Father would have a fit if one of his servants wanted to sample his strong liquor. But when said servant had valuable information in a murder case, you had better indulge her.
Carrying the glass downstairs, Alkmene noticed the strong perfume on the air that the Russian guest had brought in with her. Probably eau de cologne.
Back in the warm room, she handed Oksana Matejevna the glass and smiled. ‘I hope your neck will be better soon. Draughts can be terrible. Please go on.’
Satisfied that her trials were taken seriously, the Russian maid went on, ‘The bellboy said that he had gone through the American’s things while she was down at breakfast. She didn’t eat much, but she liked to show herself in the room to be seen by people. They even came especially to breakfast there, only to see her, because she is tragic now. Her uncle dead, no other family.’
Oksana Matejevna rolled her eyes. ‘The boy said he looked in all the drawers of her dressing table, but there was nothing but make-up and scent bottles and even…how do you call it? Treatment to make your skin look darker.’
‘Sun-tanning cream?’ Jake whistled. ‘I thought her complexion was real.’
Alkmene made a ‘got you there’ face at him.
Oksana Matejevna said, ‘There were also lots of thin paper squares scattered about, stained with make-up. She brought those with her from America. A new invention to clean the face, the bellboy had heard. Very wasteful, if you ask me. But she seems to be very vain, always working her face and spending no end of money on materials for it.’
‘Did the boy find anything worthwhile?’ Jake asked, apparently bored with the details of Evelyn Steinbeck’s beauty ritual.
Oksana Matejevna looked sternly at him. ‘I will get there. In my own time.’
She took another slow sip of her gin. ‘He had also looked under the pillows of her bed. Now there was something there. It was a golden locket, inscribed with the initials FW.’
‘FW?’ Jake echoed. ‘Who can that be?’
‘He did not know. He only looked quickly and then put the pillows back in place. He tried the pockets of her dressing gown and found a bill from a tailor for some very expensive dresses. It was dated just the other day. If her uncle is no longer alive to pay for her expenses, where does she get her money?’
‘Good question,’ Jake said, glancing at Alkmene.
‘He also tried her suitcases, even feeling if there was anything in the lining, but found nothing. I think he did well. There was nothing more to find.’
Oksana Matejevna finished the gin and made a satisfied sound. ‘I doubt she was the one who wrote that vile letter to her highness.’
‘But she can still be involved.’ Jake sat up straight. ‘That locket under her pillow may be loot she picked up some place to pass on to the person behind the scheme. FW are not her initials, nor those of her uncle or another relative we know of.’
‘It could be a gift from a special friend,’ Alkmene said.
Jake shot her a glance. ‘We don’t know if she was engaged in America, do we?’
Alkmene wanted to say there had been a man proposing to Evelyn Steinbeck, at the party, the conversation she had overheard, coming from behind the Chinese screen. But Jake already said, answering his own question. ‘No, we know nothing about her life in America, so we should look into that, see if we can find FW there.’
He focused on Oksana Matejevna again. ‘Did you get the impression the bellboy was sincere? Or was he lying about all the work he did to get your money?’
The woman shook her head. ‘He was not smart enough to have made it all up. He really did check her things.’
‘I hope he doesn’t get into trouble for it,’ Alkmene said. ‘He might even lose his job. If it had delivered more, I would feel better about taking the risk.’
Oksana Matejevna pulled her shawl closer around her shoulders. ‘Her highness is at a soirée. She will not miss me during dinner, but she will expect to see me as soon as the music starts. I hope it is not singing. Shrill voices give me a headache.’ She stood stiffly. ‘Good evening.’
Alkmene saw her to the door in person, then returned to Jake, who was sitting on the floor now with his legs crossed, his eyes closed like he was deep in thought.
Alkmene took her own seat and studied the sketch of the dead man’s library again. When Jake didn’t speak, she said, ‘You look like one of those Indian fakirs my father is always telling me about. They conjure up snakes from baskets and trick people into buying carpets that don’t fly.’
Jake laughed softly. It relaxed his expression, making him look younger. ‘I have never been to India. You of course have been everywhere.’
‘Sadly no.’ Alkmene leaned against the headrest. ‘My father believes women should sit at home instead of travelling around the globe. I try to tell myself he is just worried because he has lost my mother and doesn’t want to lose me as well. But I was seriously piqued when he left, again, without me.’
‘If you had someone to look after you, would he let you travel?’
She didn’t look at him, but kept her eyes on the heavy oak beams overhead. ‘Maybe. He is old-fashioned, so he’d have to know that person well and trust him.’
Jake made a snorting sound. He was probably thinking of his conviction and how trustworthy that made him in her father’s eyes.
A sweet soft scent of something filled the room. She turned her head to look at Jake. He had pulled out the handkerchief she had returned to him and held it to his nose with an elated expression. Then he looked full at her, eyes ablaze with laughter. ‘My handkerchief never had this nice little stitched edge, my lady. Whatever you did with the stained one, this one is brand new.’
Alkmene jumped to her feet to strike at him, but he was already on his feet, thrusting the offensive article back into his pocket. ‘I knew you could not launder.’
‘So what?’ she called after him as he made for the door. ‘I do know how to trick policemen into looking for missing dogs so you could have information out of Constable Gordon.’
Jake’s laughter floated back at her. She heard the front door open. She ran to the door and halted in the frame, looking at his tall figure outlined against the streetlights outside. She wished he had stayed a little longer. The evening was still young, and On Rigor Mortis was a poor companion.
Jake turned his head to her. For a moment his eyes were serious, almost carrying a hint of regret. Then he said, ‘Metropolitan hotel at ten. Where we can see a tragic heiress have breakfast and perhaps ruffle a feather or two.’
A group of guests was set to leave when they came in, porters carrying out the heavy leather suitcases to put into the waiting cars. A tall woman with white fur casually draped round her shoulders descended the steps with the grace of a duchess, casting an interested look at Jake from under her blackened lashes.
Alkmene
