Fatal Masquerade. Vivian Conroy

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СКАЧАТЬ stain of perfume that can betray you. No, that looks fine...’

      She did see an odd reddish patch on the girl’s neck, under her left ear. It looked like a rash or something. Maybe she was allergic to perfume and had touched herself with her wet hands?

      ‘You go and take care of my clothes. I’ll ring now.’ Alkmene did, inwardly praising herself for her foresight in bringing a present for her hostess. It was an illustrated book on rose gardens. She pulled the parcel from her case just as there was a knock on the door.

      ‘Come in,’ Alkmene called, holding the parcel in front of her where it could be clearly seen.

      A woman of around fifty in a simple dark-blue gown looked at her with a tight expression on her face. There were lines beside her mouth suggesting she usually disapproved of life.

      Or was in some kind of pain perhaps? Alkmene remembered those facial lines from a friend of her father who suffered from gout.

      The housekeeper looked even darker as she spotted the mess on the floor.

      Alkmene waved a hand. ‘So clumsy of me. I was in a hurry to present Mrs Hargrove with this gift I bought for her in London. I knocked the bottle over and, of course, it just had to shatter into a thousand pieces. I have no idea what to do about such a stain, but I trust you know. Thank you, Mrs…?’

      ‘Carruthers, my lady.’ The woman bobbed and dutifully bent down over the stain. Her slow movements suggested a stiff back. So perhaps she did indeed live with constant pain.

      As Alkmene had pretended she wanted to rush out to her hostess with the present, she should really have left right away. But it didn’t seem wise to leave Megan, in her upset state of mind, with Mrs Carruthers, who might ask more questions and see through the ruse.

      Therefore Alkmene gestured at Megan to go on unpacking her luggage. She positioned herself at the open window, partially because the perfume scent was unbearable, partially because she had heard a car arriving and wanted to see who got out.

      But the car didn’t halt in front of the house. It breezed past and disappeared around the corner of the stable building. Almost as if the new arrivals didn’t want to be seen by anybody in the house.

      Alkmene tapped a finger to her lips. Interesting. There seemed to be quite a few mysterious things going on.

      After a rather tense wait for Mrs Carruthers to finish with the stain without discovering the nervous Megan had anything to do with it, Alkmene was left alone to change for dinner with the house guests. The perfume scent had thinned on the fresh air let in by the open window, and the stain on the carpet was much less visible. Of course, it was still wet, and Alkmene realized she wouldn’t be able to ascertain how lasting the damage would be until it was all dry. Well, she had taken the blame, so there was nothing more to be done about it.

      Humming to herself, she changed into her attire for the pre-ball dinner: a deep-green evening dress she had rarely worn before. It was important to remember who had seen you in what, so you could avoid walking around in the same thing too often. One might think the Callenders had fallen on hard times financially and that would never do.

      Alkmene leaned over, close to the glass of her dressing table, to insert the thin silver hooks of her long diamond ear hangers. The light reflected in the facets, shimmering in prisms. She had brought other jewellery to wear with her red ball gown. A bit extravagant, but opulence was expected this evening.

      In the corridor outside her room, Alkmene heard voices. She couldn’t make out the words but it seemed a woman was speaking reproachfully and a man grunted in reply.

      Always curious, Alkmene made for the door quickly and opened it a crack to see, indeed, the backs of a woman and a man, making for the staircase. He had grey in his dark hair, and her blonde locks seemed dyed. It was typical. Turning grey was fashionable for men, making them look mature and worthwhile, while women had to hide every sign of ageing, lest their beauty be ruined.

      Shaking her head, Alkmene straightened her dress and stepped into the corridor herself.

      Just as she was at the head of the stairs, she heard the front door slam. A voice said, ‘You’re going to explain this to Lady Alkmene.’

      She hurried down, calling, ‘Explain what to Lady Alkmene?’

      At the front door two men stood. One of them, tall, broad, his hair still reddish-blond despite his age, was Mr Hargrove. And beside him, just as tall and broad in the shoulders, but dark and brooding as always, was the reporter and her partner in crime for several adventures, Jake Dubois.

      ‘What on earth are you doing here?’ Alkmene exclaimed.

      Jake hitched a brow at Mr Hargrove. ‘I told you she wouldn’t like it.’

      Alkmene wanted to say she did like it, but thought better of it. Jake had enough self-confidence already. He used to joke he always had to save her life. Of course, he had been rather useful on more than one occasion, but there was no need to confirm that to him.

      Frowning at the pair of them, Alkmene said, ‘I had no idea you two knew each other.’

      Mr Hargrove shrugged. ‘We bumped into each other at some social event and got to talking about aviation. Mr Dubois is going to write up a piece about my involvement in creating a new type of engine. I thought it only appropriate to invite him to our little party tonight.’

      Alkmene hitched a brow. As Denise had aptly put it to her stepmother: ‘Papa loathes these parties.’ Why would Hargrove then invite someone to it, someone who didn’t move in the same social circles either? Hargrove might work on a new type of engine and enjoy a reporter’s interest in it, but he wouldn’t invite him into his family home, among his distinguished guests.

      Hargrove walked away into the drawing room where he greeted his wife with a peck on the cheek. She gave him a critical once-over and straightened his tie, speaking to him in what appeared to be an urgent or reproachful manner.

      Alkmene spied through the open door that the couple she had observed upstairs were also in there with her hostess. The man had a Mephistopheles beard that gave him a decidedly diabolical appearance. His wife had a cold, expressionless face, with remarkable light-green eyes.

      Alkmene turned back to Jake Dubois before he could brush past her to greet Mrs Hargrove. ‘So, why are you really here?’

      Jake feigned innocence. ‘Didn’t Hargrove just explain that?’

      ‘He might be grateful you’re going to extol his virtues as an aviation pioneer in the London papers, but not grateful enough to invite you to his manor, into his inner circle, for his wife’s celebrated masked ball.’

      ‘Hargrove isn’t old money. A man like him can see beyond old-fashioned class distinctions,’ Jake said softly.

      Alkmene held his gaze. ‘I don’t pretend to know Hargrove at all. Like you say, he isn’t old money and I doubt he’s been raised in the way an aristocrat would have been. He’s also anything but old-fashioned, so he might even consider befriending journalists the new chic. He would show you off at his club maybe, or introduce you to friends at the races or the theatre. But why bring you home to his wife, who is far more class-conscious because she wants to move up in the world? In case you don’t know yet, Mrs Hargrove decides things around here. Why run the risk of antagonizing her on this happy night? So… what’s really the matter?’

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