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

way under the house to the other side, where there might be a backyard. If there was an open door there as well, Moustache might conclude the dog had run out and continue searching on the other side.

      Not bad maybe. After all, Dubois needed his time with the constable, to get the information he needed about the murder case. She was curious what the latest might be.

      For a moment Alkmene’s thoughts swerved to India where her father would be yelling at his native servants to hold the parasol over his head while he scoured some jungle patch for poisonous plants, having absolutely no idea of the antics of his only daughter whom he believed to be writing some letters or visiting with an innocent female friend.

      A sound of heavy metal clattering came from the basement. A voice, suspiciously like that of gruff Moustache, called out in surprise and pain.

      Alkmene froze and stared. Had the unsuspecting Moustache run into someone with evil intentions who was now trying to knock him down to flee?

      If this attacker appeared from the basement door, could she stop him?

      Should she call for more police?

      A huffing sound, coughing…

      Then Moustache appeared covered in coal dust. He rubbed at his face, leaving stains everywhere.

      Alkmene suppressed a burst of laughter to ask demurely, ‘Did you see my dog?’

      ‘If he is in there, my lady, he will need a bath.’ Moustache coughed again, panting for breath. ‘The place is full of coal like somebody dumped a ton into it.’ His eyes went wide. ‘I do hope they did not do that after your little dog went in. He might have been uh…’

      Alkmene forced another smile. ‘My dog is very smart. I am sure he would have run out before he got…into a tight spot. I assume he is on his way home now. I am so sorry for your trouble.’

      Moustache tried to dust off his uniform, creating large clouds of black dust in the air. Passers-by shrank into the street or even crossed to the other side to get away from him.

      Alkmene said quickly, ‘Thank you. Good day,’ and marched off in the direction of Meade Street. She had her fingers crossed Dubois would not still be sitting there with the constable when Moustache came back into the coffee house.

      Although she didn’t doubt he would have laughed his head off if he could have seen his old enemy this way.

Chapter Ten

      When Alkmene trotted up the stairs of Meade Street 33, a delicious scent of something baking wafted towards her. Her stomach growled and she realized she had had nothing since breakfast and running out of the door with the incriminating blackmail letter in her purse.

      Instead of Dubois revealing to her which bugger in the Tar Street slums was the alleged convict and helping her set up a trap for the greedy blackmailer, he had told her he was himself the crook in question and denied they could do anything to catch the blackmailer, at least the person behind it all.

      Normally that would have been a severe setback, but with Oksana Matejevna’s story about the brooch they had a new lead to the blackmailer’s identity, which was far more exciting than her little trap could ever have been. If Evelyn Steinbeck was involved in the blackmail, it might even provide information as to how Mr Norwhich had died.

      Alkmene did wonder though why the blackmailer in the case of the countess had asked for something so specific as this precious gold heirloom while in her case he had simply wanted a hundred pounds.

      With that question on her lips, and several more about Dubois’s meet with the constable, she knocked, awaiting his gruff ‘enter’ before opening the door.

      Dubois had slipped out of his jacket and had rolled up his shirtsleeves, baring his tanned muscled arms. He stood at the small stove in the corner, the fish hissing as it was swept through the buttered pan by his spatula. The scent was more spicy than fishy, and Alkmene approached with her head tilted. ‘What have you done with it?’

      ‘Secret recipe,’ Dubois said. ‘Why don’t you uncork the wine?’

      He jabbed a thumb over his shoulder at the bottle standing on the plain high table. ‘The corkscrew is beside it.’

      Father had one at home where you twisted the corkscrew into the cork, then lowered a steel contraption to keep it in place while by an ingenious little mechanism you lifted the cork out of the bottle’s neck. Alkmene had seen the butler do it countless times and was sure she could have repeated it with ease. But this corkscrew was of a simpler variety. Just insert and pull.

      ‘Brute strength,’ Dubois said as she was at it in vain.

      He left the fish a moment to take the bottle from her hands, clench it between his knees and pull.

      Alkmene squinted, waiting for the moment the cork would come loose and Dubois would fall backwards with bottle and all, spilling all their wine.

      But no, with a pop the cork came loose, and he managed to balance himself, pull the bottle up and put it on the table. Dropping the corkscrew beside it, he returned to the pan just as the fish was making a sound like it was going to stick to the bottom.

      ‘Find the glasses, will you?’ he said over his shoulder. ‘In the sideboard.’

      Alkmene nodded and went over, sat on her haunches and opened one of the low doors. Inside was a jumble of paper, candlesticks with candles, two bottles of ink, a cardboard box marked Christmas cards, a pitcher with a piece missing from the rim.

      Finally, 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