the masterpiece carefully down the two steps leading into the tea room’s main room, Alkmene pretended to be engrossed and unaware of the countess’s presence. In reality she was sure the woman had already seen her come in and would call out to her the moment she put her foot on the black-and-white inlaid floor.
But nothing happened.
Surprised, Alkmene glanced at the window table, seeing the countess, in a deep purple gown with matching stones in her necklace and bracelet, sitting and leaning over to a handsome man with a shock of black hair, rather too long to be decent.
The countess’s companion, an elderly woman who never stopped knitting, sat over her work, head down, needles clicking furiously, her demure fervour a silent reproach against her mistress’s behaviour.
Alkmene had to agree the countess’s cheeks were suspiciously red and her laughter was high-pitched with excitement.
The man looked up from the countess, straight at Alkmene. He had dark, probing eyes in a face exposed to rather too much sunshine. His suit was an unobtrusive dark blue, but the sunshine sparkled on the gold cuff links. Alkmene bet his shoes would turn out to be handmade, of the finest leather.
A man who liked to treat himself.
A self-made millionaire like Buck Seaton perhaps, looking for titled friends to add the lustre of old names to the shine of his fortune. People like him would buy their way into the peerage if they could.
Always reluctant to be used to any purpose, Alkmene put her plate down on an empty table and took the time to strip off her immaculate gloves. Keeping her back straight the way her nanny had told her a thousand times, she scanned the other side of the room for an acquaintance who might enlighten her about Mr Silas Norwhich’s unfortunate ‘accident’.
After all, that was what she was here for.
But already there were light footfalls behind her, and the countess’s companion put a hand on her arm. ‘Come,’ she said in such a heavy accent that the word was almost unrecognizable. ‘Come!’
Alkmene picked up the plate again and followed the scurrying figure to the countess’s table.
The waiter who had just appeared to take her order came dutifully along, staying one pace behind her.
The countess waved at him. ‘More tea for all of us. Sit down, Alkmene. We were just having the most interesting conversation. This young man is telling me everything about the terrible disaster with the SS Athena.’
Alkmene shot him a quick glance as she seated herself. She had only read about the disaster, but the account had raised a number of pertinent questions in her mind.
Especially about the part played by those members of the crew who had survived while so many of the passengers had not.
She asked, ‘You were on the ship when it sank?’
He shook his head. ‘I have been talking to survivors.’
The countess leaned over. ‘Did you know that there have been rumours the captain survived because he fled, while he should have stayed in his place? It is terrible that people have no sense of integrity any more. In the old days people would rather have died in the armour, as you English say, than live on having run away.’
‘I suppose one does odd things when one looks death in the eye,’ the man said.
He studied Alkmene with a critical intensity that made her wince. She hadn’t put on her best clothes because she had not been sure where her quest would take her. If it should be to the lunchroom where secretaries and the like had their lunches, she wanted to blend in, not stand out like a spoiled rich lady who had mistaken the establishment. It was exciting to go undercover, play somebody else, somebody astute and able, who was not forever invited for her family name.
But for this man her clothes didn’t appear to be rich enough for Waldeck’s.
He probably didn’t consider her worth his time, if he was here to hunt for loaded ladies who felt flattered by the attentions of a much younger man.
Admittedly, the countess was married and would never be unfaithful to the love of her life, but she might give this young man some money if he told her in deep earnest about something he wanted, a dream he had already worked hard for.
Last summer one of Father’s countryside acquaintances had found out that his sister had lent a substantial sum of money to a smooth-talking young man who had found a gold mine in Africa and only needed the money to mine it. Needless to say, he had vanished with the money – never to be heard of again.
The gullible woman had been so mortified she had left her gossiping friends behind for a stay with a friend in Rome. Alkmene agreed with her that if you had to rethink your own stupidity, it could best be done in the Mediterranean sun.
The waiter brought a cup for her and filled it with a deliciously aromatic tea. Alkmene detected a hint of lavender and some other sweet fragrance she couldn’t quite identify. She wanted to ask about it, determined to buy it for her own collection at home, but the countess forestalled her by placing a delicate hand on Alkmene’s arm, while saying to the well-dressed man, in a conspiratorial tone, ‘Mr Dubois, you must tell Alkmene what you have discovered so far.’
Alkmene hitched a brow at Mr Dubois.
He shrugged, looking at the countess. ‘I told you, madame, that I am still gathering evidence and that I am not yet in a position to lay blame at anybody’s door.’
Alkmene narrowed her eyes at the choice of words. ‘Are you with the police?’
Dubois tilted his head back and laughed. ‘Fortunately not. In some cases they are my worst enemies.’
‘Cases?’ Alkmene picked up her teacup. ‘So you do investigate matters. More like a consulting detective?’
Perhaps she could engage him to gather some information for her on the man returned from the dead? She had no idea how else one engaged a detective, except by advertising for one, but if her father ever found out about that, he’d burst a vessel.
The countess’s Russian companion seemed to have perked up at the word police. Although she was still knitting like her life depended on it, her face was scrunched up in a typical listening expression.
But the countess had emphasized time and time again to Alkmene and anybody else who wanted to hear that the woman only spoke Russian and didn’t understand anything of whatever was said around her. Where the countess took the greatest care never to gossip when a servant was around, she considered the presence of this supposedly ignorant woman perfectly safe.
‘Mr Dubois,’ the countess said in the excited tone of a debutante on the eve of her first ball, ‘is a journalist. He has written for papers in Paris.’
Paris was by far the countess’s favourite city, where she had also spent her honeymoon. Whenever she mentioned it, her eyes lit up, and her whole face flushed with happy memories. Alkmene had to admit Paris was probably one of her own dream destinations for a little trip, but saying that right now might look like she was inviting herself.
She gave the man another glance. ‘You are French?’
‘Half.’
‘Father
