Lady Alkmene Collection: Four fabulous 1920s murder mysteries you won’t want to miss!. Vivian Conroy

      Dubois’s eyes widened. ‘A what?’

      She put the fish parcel on the table and pulled the offensive envelope out of her purse. ‘Read it for yourself.’

      His expression darkened as he read.

      A woman with fiery red curls bustled in with a rusty metal bowl full of water. She clanked it on the table, appraised Alkmene, shook her head in bewilderment and scurried out again, apparently relieved her tenant wasn’t going to give her an earful for being late with his hot water.

      Dubois returned the letter to her and leaned over the bowl, splashing water into his face. The drops rained on his shirt, leaving spreading stains. His nails scratched over the stubble on his chin.

      ‘Late night?’ Alkmene asked, half interested, half repulsed at the idea he had been drinking or something. She knew it was pretty normal even in the higher circles, and although her father himself was a moderate man, he had prepared her to accept that men might drink themselves into a stupor every once in a while over something like winning a card game.

      Or losing it.

      Dubois reached for the thin towel that lay nearby. Rubbing his face vigorously, he grunted. ‘Talking to people can be hard. Just tracking them down can be hard. It takes time.’

      He lowered the towel and threw it onto a plain wooden chair.

      Alkmene didn’t want to look around like she was appraising his rooms. She kept her eyes on his face. ‘Did you get what you wanted?’

      He nodded. ‘You know that by questioning the neighbours I had already found out that a man came to the house on the night Silas Norwhich died. I didn’t think he would have been on foot, so I tried to find the cab that dropped him off. I had hoped I would get a good description of the man. An address where he had been picked up. But it turns out he was cloaked and had a hat pulled over his face. The driver couldn’t tell me a single useful thing. And he picked him up on the corner of Bond Street. No doubt that location has nothing to do with him. At least the driver confirmed for me that the man went to see Silas Norwhich. He rang the bell there and was admitted.’

      Alkmene tilted her head. ‘So we were right before. Norwhich admitted his own killer. Which means he knew him and was not afraid of him. Else he would have slammed the door in his face.’ She frowned. ‘So it can’t have been that man who appeared at the theatre. Norwhich was worried about that man. The countess used the words: a man returned from the dead. She must have told you all about that.’

      Dubois nodded.

      Alkmene continued, ‘So if Norwhich was afraid of this man, because of the past, because it was someone he had believed dead and gone, dealt with, now back in his life, he would not have let him into his house, especially not if he was home alone.’

      Dubois shook his head. ‘Not necessarily. Look at it this way: perhaps the appearance of the man at the theatre was a shock to him. But he did know him. Had known him in the past. Would he not want to talk to him if the other asked him? Perhaps he thought it was the only way to solve things. Or the other forced his way into the house with threats.’

      Alkmene pursed her lips. ‘Ms Steinbeck wasn’t there that night either, she says. Maybe her uncle sent her away to meet with the man from the theatre?’

      Dubois nodded. ‘Could be. I heard Norwhich was supposed to have gone with her to a concert, but he made her go alone at the last instant. He claimed to feel unwell. Now that might have been an outright lie. It seems he was a bit of a hermit, and Ms Steinbeck always wanted to run from one party to the next. Maybe he was just not in a mood to go.’

      ‘Hmmm.’ She looked down on the blackmail letter in her hand. ‘Help me deduce something from this charming little letter. The writer is obviously working with another or even a whole gang, for they are using a plural pronoun. They must have been watching me for some time now to find some sort of indiscretion that I’d be eager to cover up. They claim I am going about with some convict. I can’t vouch for every single person in my acquaintance that they are pitch perfect. Some like liquor or spend too much money at their clubs or the hat shop. But convicts? I don’t think I know any. Must have been my adventure in Tar Street the other day.’

      She glanced at Dubois. ‘I guess that drunkard could have been to prison. Or the old man who repairs the watches? He looks kind and approachable enough, but I have no idea what he did when he was younger. Maybe he was in prison in another country? Been a sailor, got accused of something? Perhaps really knifed a man in a fight? Never meaning to, but those things can happen.’

      She wanted Dubois to know she had not lived away from the world for all of her life, that she did understand people and situations and how violent death came about, even if you had not been looking for it.

      Dubois shook his head slowly. Holding her gaze, he said, ‘The convict referred to in that note is me.’

Chapter Seven

      ‘What?’ Alkmene couldn’t help the disbelief in her own voice. ‘You have been to prison?’

      Dubois shrugged. ‘You have come to the wrong person to help you out. At least, I suppose you are here because you want help from me?’

      ‘I just figured that…’ Alkmene straightened a crinkled edge of the envelope. The sudden revelation left her reeling. Had Dubois knifed a man in a fight abroad?

      Something inside of her refused to accept he could take a life. But perhaps the circumstances had been such that he had been forced to, in self-defence?

      But because the other one had been local, nobody had believed him and he had ended up behind bars anyway?

      She realized he was waiting for her to work herself out of this faux pas and said lamely, ‘I just wanted to know what I should do about the letter.’

      Dubois laughed hollowly. ‘You are asking me what to do?’

      ‘All right, so far I haven’t asked or listened when you’ve said something but that is just because I don’t understand you. Your life, your choices, your connections. How can you leave that little boy with that old man and the drunk father and never think…’

      ‘I do think.’ His tone was impatient, like he was about to pound the table with a fist. ‘But I can’t change anything about it. Can I take him away from there? Where to? Here?’

      He gestured around him. ‘He would have no better life here. I am away for my work all day long. He would be bored and go out into the street, run into trouble. My landlady is not going to look after him. And if he took an apple at the shop down the street or caused trouble breaking something at the tobacconist’s, people would soon force us to move away from here.’

      She held his gaze. ‘At least you would not beat him.’

      Dubois took a deep breath. ‘No. But that is poor consolation.’

      He tilted his chin up as if to defy her. ‘There are countless children like him in the back alleys, Lady Alkmene. What do you want to do about it, start a little Saturday afternoon tea party?’

      Alkmene pressed her lips together. ‘It might not be a bad idea for those children to just have fun for a while. Even if it seems superficial to you.’

      Dubois made a gesture in the air. ‘Oh, forget about it. I am just bushed from last night.’

      He began to pace the room. ‘You want to know what to do about the blackmail note. Do nothing. Don’t pay. Blackmail never ends. And in this case there is little to deny or set straight. No incriminating correspondence to get back. Your father might be angry when he learns you bought his buttons in the company of a convict, but there is not much he can do about it. I suppose he won’t disinherit you?’

      Alkmene laughed. ‘I am his only daughter. Where else would he leave his money?’ She frowned a moment. ‘My father isn’t very attached to his money, I guess, but