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

her uncle’s entire fortune. Including his coveted art collection.

      Alkmene crossed the street, avoiding a heavy laden brewery wagon, and smiled at the hotel porters as if she came here every day. She wished she had put on her better clothes anyway, because first-rate hotels could be picky about admitting just anybody and she had no wish to be asked, however discreetly, to leave.

      Inside she breathed in the scent of the thick carpets, well-waxed oak furniture and fresh flowers that had just been put on the tables in the lobby. A chambermaid in a crisp black and white ensemble was rearranging a stem here and there, lingering as if she didn’t want to return to the heavier duties upstairs: cleaning rooms and making beds.

      The hushed silence as of a giant old library forced Alkmene to progress with slow steps, avoiding any harsh ticking of her hard-soled shoes. Dubois had probably taken the elevator upstairs to search for the heiress’s suite.

      Then a hand arrested her arm, and she was whooshed behind a palm. Gasping in indignation, she stared up into the hard features and dark eyes of Dubois. ‘What are you doing here?’ he hissed.

      Wordlessly Alkmene held up his stained handkerchief. He wanted to take it from her, but she pulled back. ‘Tea stains can be tricky. I suppose you have no one to launder for you?’

      He huffed. ‘My landlady, but she has already ruined one of my best shirts with her starch.’

      ‘Then let me launder it for you and return it to you later this week.’ She wanted to know where he lived so she could get in touch with him later. He was the closest thing to a detective she had right now and she was not about to let him walk away.

      He gave her a patronizing little smile. ‘I bet you do not launder. I bet you do not even know how to launder. Or how to cook.’

      ‘You’d be surprised,’ Alkmene retorted, although painfully aware she had no idea how her stained skirts from gardening or her blouse with inkblots got clean again. Cook’s niece did the laundering, a nice woman with freckles and too many children crammed into a little house on a back alley. If the stains were particularly difficult, Alkmene made sure to give some extra money to Cook to pass on and she had always felt that was about as much as she needed to know about the process.

      Now this man made it sound like a crime that she didn’t know how to get this handkerchief cleaned up herself.

      Probably a communist dead set against English aristocracy.

      Believed everybody should live on the kolkhoz and share all the work and income equally.

      But cleaning his handkerchief had to be simple enough, and she would prove it to him.

      ‘You will get it back, cleaned by my own hands,’ she promised.

      The corners of his mouth jerked up as if he was about to smile for real, but then he increased the pressure on her arm and pulled her further back.

      ‘What the…’ Alkmene spluttered and then fell silent with pure surprise.

      There in the lobby of the grand Metropolitan hotel was Oksana Matejevna, speaking to a bellboy who looked about him furtively as he breathed answers.

      ‘Either that bellboy happens to be fluent in Russian,’ Dubois said in a low voice beside her, ‘or our dear superstitious country lady speaks better English than she pretends to do.’

      ‘I could have sworn she was soaking up every word we said,’ Alkmene responded in a half grim tone. ‘What on earth is she doing here, asking questions?’

      ‘I suppose she is after the same person we all are,’ Dubois said pensively.

      Alkmene stared in fascination as the mousy Russian woman fished a coin from her purse – probably her employer’s money too! – and handed it to the bellboy who accepted it with another guilty glance around him. Then, satisfied it had been unobserved, he stepped away from her and resumed his duties.

      Oksana Matejevna walked to the exit, her head held high, and disappeared into the brisk morning.

      Alkmene snapped to it and focused on Dubois. ‘The same… You mean, Evelyn Steinbeck? The dead man’s heiress?’

      Dubois nodded. ‘Oksana had a chance like all of us to see her go in here. She must have made up that excuse of being so scared about talk of death and murder to be able to leave ahead of the countess and come in here to bribe that bellboy into giving her information.’

      Alkmene chewed her lower lip. ‘Or the countess instructed her to do it. I do not understand Russian so I am not sure what she said to her exactly before she left. You?’

      Dubois stood staring at the floorboards, deep in thought. She touched his arm. ‘Are you sure the countess sent her to the dressmaker’s?’

      Dubois shook his head. ‘But if she had instructed her to go here, she would have said something like American actress, or Steinbeck, or hotel, other side of the street. I know enough Russian to have caught her out, I’m sure.’

      Alkmene sucked in a breath. ‘So Oksana Matejevna came here of her own accord. Apparently wanting to know more about Evelyn Steinbeck. That makes no sense. If Ms Steinbeck is indeed an American actress, what on earth can a Russian maid want to do with her?’

      Dubois shrugged. ‘Communists are everywhere. Maybe Ms Steinbeck came here to get in touch with fellow comrades.’

      ‘And when her uncle found out about her uh…political disposition and disapproved of it, she pushed him, so he fell on the hearth rim and died?’ Alkmene shook her head. ‘That sounds a bit far-fetched to me. I’d like to know who the man is who returned from the dead.’

      ‘Who?’ Dubois’s eyes sparked with interest.

      Alkmene knew she could only bait him if she dangled the information just out of his reach. ‘I overheard some interesting tidbits at a party I attended earlier this week. That is why I just knew when I read about Mr Norwhich’s death in the paper that it was not an accident. He must have been pushed. Maybe the intention wasn’t to kill him, but just to make a point? Or it happened in an argument, a flare of temper.’

      Dubois held her gaze, waiting for her to go on and explain herself.

      Alkmene said cautiously, ‘I suppose you also have your reasons for looking closer?’

      Dubois shrugged. ‘I wanted to interview him about his art. He was suspicious of anyone approaching him. At the time I merely thought he was eccentric. But now that he is dead, I wonder if he was afraid.’

      Alkmene nodded. ‘He must have been.’

      Dubois said softly, ‘But if he was afraid, why did he open the door to his killer?’

      Alkmene stared at him. ‘You are certain he let the killer in? So he wasn’t all alone in the house that night.’

      Dubois shrugged again. ‘The police can question the same people I talked to. I suppose they will then hear the same things.’

      ‘You questioned people? Who? People in the street perhaps, neighbours or some peddler who was around?’

      Dubois grinned. ‘Getting warmer.’

      Alkmene tilted her head. ‘Someone saw a man coming to that house on the night of the death. Tall, broad in the shoulders.’

      Dubois stood very still. ‘How do you know his physique?’

      She shrugged. ‘Because it fits with what I heard at the party. An incident that happened just a few days before Silas Norwhich died. It must be related.’ She waited a few moments to sustain the suspense. ‘I can tell you of course, but then I want in on everything you already know.’

      She was certain Dubois would jump at this chance, but he laughed softly. ‘That hardly seems like a fair exchange. What can a bit of high society gossip give me?’

      ‘Not gossip. Facts. But if you feel that way, fine.’ She stepped away from him. Why try to work with somebody