Fatal Masquerade

Alkmene frowned in puzzlement, then turned away from the window. She had promised herself she would just enjoy the night and not delve into hidden motives all the time. She had to change into her other dress and get her mask in place to ensure she was ready on time.

But as she went through the familiar movements of dressing and applying her make-up, her head was still full of tales of murderous sisters, anonymous letters and hostesses who broke off dinner before dessert had even been served.

Were the Steeplechases known to Mrs Hargrove? Why else would she have responded so strongly to a discussion of the murder case?

Staring into her own eyes, Alkmene muttered: was it really poison?

And why would Denise behave so strangely all of a sudden? Ache for a ball when there were so many on her social calendar? Threaten her stepmother with the revelation of some affair going on? Slight Alkmene to her face about some lawyer Alkmene didn’t even know?

Denise had always been volatile, laughing one moment, pouting the next, like a little girl who wasn’t getting her own way, but now her responses seemed exaggerated. As if she was nervous, and her anxiety translated itself into immediate attack as soon as someone but looked her way.

The exchange with her stepmother suggested it was about some guest at the ball tonight, someone Denise wanted to see, but her father would not approve of. Some man, probably. The one who had said that nonsense Denise had mentioned in the car: wild tresses and eyes like pools of fire.

Alkmene made a face at her mirror image. As soon as people fell in love, they started to behave like idiots. She’d hopefully be spared ever acting like that!

Downstairs a gong resounded, indicating that the first guests to the ball would be arriving in a few minutes. Alkmene checked her mask covered her face, except for her nostrils, mouth and chin, and smiled at the reflection. She looked quite the part and was ready for a night of dancing to take her mind off murder and friends who were suddenly snapping over nothing.

Coming down the stairs, Alkmene turned away from the open front door, wandered into a room that led into a conservatory full of blooming plants, then through French doors onto a terrace.

In a deckchair Jake sat, making notes in a notebook poised on his knee. He didn’t hear her coming until she was quite close. He started, shutting the notebook, which slipped off his knee and hit the ground. He retrieved it quickly.

Alkmene hitched a brow.

Jake hurried to say, ‘Hargrove shared some details of the new engine with me while we were smoking. I want to get it all down before I forget any of it.’

‘Of course,’ Alkmene said. It hurt her more than she cared to admit that he didn’t confide in her. But she could hardly pull the notebook from his hands and look inside.

Jake put the notebook in his pocket and extracted a black silk mask. He made a face at her before slipping it on. It transformed him from a handsome man in a tuxedo into an intriguing rogue. Alkmene bet women would be dying to dance with him tonight. She fingered her own mask. ‘How did you know it was me, anyway, when I came up to you?’

Jake shrugged. ‘I’m used to committing people’s posture, movements, total appearance to memory. When I’m stalking someone in the city, I have to recognize him or her in a crowd. Besides, your eyes are quite memorable. I’d recognize them anywhere.’

Alkmene pursed her lips. ‘Mrs Zeilovsky also has remarkable eyes. I’m sure that shade of light green is unusual and that I’ll recognize her by it, no matter what mask she turns up in.’

Jake didn’t comment. He lifted a hand. ‘I hear the first expensive cars coming down the driveway.’

Alkmene tilted her head. ‘If you’re going to comment on everybody’s spending tonight, whether it’s their car you find extravagant or their tiara, you’re not going to have a good time.’

Jake leaned over to her. ‘I’m not here to have a good time. I’m here to work.’ Then he turned away from her and went back into the house.

Alkmene stood silently for a moment, relishing the wind that played upon her bare arms. It was clear to her Mr Hargrove had invited Jake over for a very definite purpose. Not an engine, but something Jake had to ferret out for him.

Did it have to do with anonymous letters? Why else had his mention of them startled Aunt Felicia so much? Was she a victim of the London blackmailer? Did Hargrove believe Jake could unmask him?

And had Zeilovsky merely touched upon the Steeplechase case because it had been the best recent example of sisterly strife having devastating consequences?

Or did he also know more? He and his wife had expounded the case as if they had agreed about it in advance.

And Keegan. He had also said something about the case. Just a legal opinion, or...?

Were all these people here tonight merely as guests at a masked ball, friends of the hostess, or people she longed to become friendly with, for status and influence?

Or were they all here for their own reasons, with ulterior motives?

And would those motives become clear in the course of the night?

Chapter Four (#u058b4ca1-4194-5970-9fc9-10dbc4f2d17a)

There was nothing like a real orchestra to bring a waltz to life. Alkmene swayed among the many other guests, dressed up and laughing, breathing the building excitement on the air.

Outside, daylight was fading and the Chinese lanterns became ever more sparkly in the increasing darkness. Couples walked on the lawn, in deep conversation, some of them slipping away to the intimacy of the rose garden or to the boathouse to find a gondola.

Denise’s high-pitched laughter sounded close by. Alkmene twisted her neck to make out her friend among all the other dancers.

Denise was in the arms of a man dressed as a doge, with an elaborately embroidered mask. Most men had opted for plain black silk, but this man’s mask even had sequins that reflected the light from the chandelier above. It was not soft and pliable, but hard, as if it had been cast in plaster and then decorated. The nose stood out as a sharp beak, giving the man’s face a malicious appearance. A bird of prey circling the dance floor looking for victims.

Alkmene shook her head, reproaching herself for the sinister turn her thoughts often took, and returned her attention to her own dance partner. His warm baritone as he invited her to the dance had suggested he was Aunt Felicia’s husband, but now she was in his arms, he moved so nimbly that she began to doubt her earlier assumption. This man had to be younger.

He leaned over to her and said, ‘Have you known the Hargroves long?’

‘I’m really more closely acquainted with Denise.’

His eyes seemed to glint with irony for a moment, and Alkmene felt uncomfortable that the tension between her and Denise might have been noticed.

‘Has she been looking forward to this night?’ he asked in a wistful tone.

Alkmene nodded. ‘She talked to me about it on several occasions and on the way over she was thrilled.’

She had the distinct impression her dancing partner was looking past her at Denise and the doge with the predatory appearance. Did her partner guess, as she had guessed herself, that this man was Denise’s reason for having craved this night?

Was Beak-mask also the reason Denise had quarrelled with her stepmother? Was he the man her father wouldn’t have wanted to come here?

It didn’t seem logical. Beak-mask wasn’t acting at all inconspicuously, keeping a low profile to escape attention from the other guests and his host.

On the contrary, he didn’t seem to care if his presence was noted by his host or not. Did he feel so secure behind his mask? After all, the masks would not be removed before two in the morning. And a socially sensitive man like Mr Hargrove would never create a scene by going over and asking this man to remove his mask on the spot, so Hargrove could see his face.

The dance ended, and the guests applauded. The sound rippled through the open doors and windows, rolling like waves into the gardens that were lit like a fairy tale.

Now she had stopped moving, Alkmene noticed that her legs were heavy and there was sweat under her mask and in her neck. She needed a break from dancing and from the imposing heat in the ballroom.

With a smile, she excused herself and walked to the open doors. As she drew near to them, she could already sense the cool upon her hot cheeks.

Outside, the night air crept along her neck and arms. She breathed in deeply, listening to a call in the distance. Probably an owl, calling for his mate. The male and female had different calls, but Alkmene couldn’t tell them apart. If her father had been with her now, he would have scolded her that she had no head for the simplest of things, while she was always curious about things it wasn’t proper for a lady to know.

The terrace was built higher, broad steps ahead of her leading into the gardens below. To Alkmene’s left and right there were stone railings resting on decorated pillars.

From underneath one of these railings she heard a rustling sound. She walked over quickly, ensuring her shoes made no sound on the stone slabs.

Looking down, she spied a tall figure in a lilac dress hurrying away from the house. It had to be Mrs Zeilovsky. She had been the only woman present wearing that shade of dress. The feathers on the headband she wore moved in the breeze as she rushed along. It was a miracle she could walk so fast in her high heels.