Fatal Masquerade

Alkmene glanced over the items on the table. Glasses on a tray, the white lace draped round it. There seemed to be something sticking out from underneath. Just a little corner of something.

Of course, you weren’t supposed to touch anything at a crime scene.

But then she would never forgive herself if she didn’t check what it was. It could be highly significant, while the police wouldn’t see or even care. Keegan had just said they’d jump to conclusions.

For the good of the case, she would take a look…

Alkmene took a deep breath, then reached out and pulled at the visible corner. She wore gloves, so she wouldn’t leave any fingerprints on the paper.

The corner turned out to be attached to an envelope. It was already slit open, so Alkmene could easily extract the sheet inside.

It was full of a dense handwriting.

Not knowing how much time she had, Alkmene skimmed over the contents. Her heart skipped a beat. It was a letter from the family’s solicitor in London, accusing Aunt Felicia’s husband, Joseph, of having incurred substantial debts. He was even supposed to have sold off a racehorse that belonged to Mr Hargrove’s Dorset stable without consent.

The solicitor ended the letter by requiring Hargrove to take action against his brother-in-law, or he would feel obliged to inform the police.

That was quite a shock. It proved Felicia had every reason to be worried about her reputation and her position in this household if it became known what her husband had been doing.

Alkmene put the sheet back in the envelope and returned it to its hiding place under the white lace, making sure the corner stuck out again and could be seen. The police should find this and read it, draw their own conclusions about it. The first question that came to mind was, of course: what was it doing here, of all places?

A letter like this, about a sensitive matter, so dangerous to the family name, would have been locked away in a drawer of Mr Hargrove’s desk in his study, or perhaps even kept in a safe. What was it doing in a boathouse? Concealed under a tray of glasses?

Alkmene’s mind raced back to the discussion over dinner, Felicia’s start when a letter was mentioned accusing someone of a crime. Did she know about this letter putting her husband in such a very peculiar position?

Was she being blackmailed with this letter?

By the dead servant?

Cobb had mentioned loud and clear that he would be working at the boathouse that night. Just a casual remark?

Or a message meant for someone at the dinner table?

Alkmene heard voices coming and withdrew to stand where no one would suspect her of having touched anything on the table. Her mind whirled with the possibility that the death of the servant was connected with the discussion over dinner. That Keegan had been right in his assumption that someone at the dinner table had decided to kill to protect himself or herself.

Hargrove burst into the room. He had taken off his mask and looked pale below his tan. ‘Alkmene! Are you all right? Terrible thing to be happening. All over again, it seems.’

At her startled look he said, ‘I heard about Cornwall.’

Alkmene was puzzled by the reference to the murder investigation she had been a part of just a few weeks ago, in Cornwall, where a childhood friend was excavating to discover the Black Castle gold. He had been accused of killing someone on his dig, and it hadn’t been easy to prove who had actually carried out the killing and why.