Fatal Masquerade

Something moved in the shadow of a group of yews, and a figure stepped out, following Mrs Zeilovsky at a distance. He wore trousers, so it was a man, but he seemed too tall and trim to be the sinister psychiatrist. Who else could have an interest in Mrs Zeilovsky’s secretive behaviour?

Alkmene frowned. Was Mrs Zeilovsky hurrying to some secret rendezvous? Was her lover following her at a discreet distance?

Or was the man in pursuit spying on her?

Under orders from her husband?

Puzzled, Alkmene followed the two shadowy figures with her eyes for as long as she could make them out. Then, as the tall birch hedge concealed them from view, she stood back, raising her arms to wrap them around her shoulders. Now the exertion of the dance was passing, she was chilly in her thin dress and knew she should really step inside again before catching a cold and regretting her own stupidity.

But something about the surreptitious movements of people in the dark fascinated her. The idea that the real events of this evening were taking place, not in the lit ballroom behind her, but right in front of her in the darkened gardens.

Alkmene decided it couldn’t hurt to take a look at the boathouse. It had been described as one of the highlights of the ball, so it was only logical she would want to see it. Perhaps one of the boats would be free and she could enjoy a trip across the smooth waterways and quiet ponds of the estate. Her thoughtful hostess would have provided blankets to snuggle under against the nightly chill on the water.

As Alkmene approached the boathouse, she saw the shape of a boat moving away from her in the distance. The man standing in the back was handling the oar with jerky movements, rocking the boat. The Hargroves had apparently selected a few servants for the task, based on physical strength or perhaps pleasant appearance, but not on agility with the oar. The way the man was stabbing with it and thrashing about in the water, he could overturn the whole boat.

Alkmene shook her head in distaste. No boat ride for her tonight. Her dress was too valuable to risk. Not to mention the embarrassment if she had to return to the house soaked to the skin. But as she had walked this far, she might as well go in for a drink. Having seen Mrs Hargrove’s opulent house decorations, she was curious what her hostess had been able to do with the plain boathouse.

The boathouse’s front was lit by two braziers, one on either side of the door. The light played on the golden draperies attached to the wood. It had transformed the normally simple building into an enchanting little dwelling, a doorway into a fairy-tale kingdom.

The entry door was half open. Inside the boathouse it seemed to be dark. That was odd as Denise had told Alkmene on their way over to the estate that you could get drinks inside the boathouse while you waited for your turn in the gondola. Had she misunderstood?

Alkmene approached cautiously, her neck tingling with a strange sensation. It was as if her senses grew more acute, her eyes straining to detect movement inside the dark boathouse, her ears alert for the slightest sound that would betray the presence of someone close to her. Even the wind rustling the leaves overhead startled her.

Suddenly the fire in the braziers wasn’t pleasant and enchanting any more, but throwing strangely distorted shadows that seemed to grasp at her.

Gooseflesh stood on Alkmene’s arms, not because of the chill, but the unpleasant sensation that somebody was moving around close by, keeping an eye on her.

She glanced over her shoulder, first in one direction, then the other. Nothing. But she couldn’t be sure who was hiding in the shadows. Had the man who had been following Mrs Zeilovsky now transferred his attentions to her? Who was he and what did he want?

Nonsense, old girl, she chided herself. Your mind is just a little shaken up by all that talk of poison murders at dinner. Push that door open now and get yourself a stiff drink to steady the nerves.

Alkmene placed her right hand flat against the wood and pushed. Her heart beat fast and her whole body was tense, ready to jump back if something got at her from the dark interior of the boathouse.

The door creaked open.

Inside, in the far corner, a lantern burned so low it had almost gone out. The little light reflected in some glasses filled with a light fluid, champagne or white wine perhaps. Around the silver tray on which they stood, a stretch of white lace had been draped like a bridal veil.

Further back, where the boathouse opened onto the water, the sound of the wind could be heard and a gentle lapping of water, breaking against the wooden poles that supported the building.

Boats could moor there so guests could alight for the gondola trip, but no boats seemed to be there now. The entire boathouse seemed to be empty.

Seemed, as Alkmene had the distinct impression somebody was there.

She froze on the threshold, wondering for a brief moment whom it would be more painful to encounter: the diabolical psychiatrist’s wandering wife or the man who had been shadowing her. She was curious who it could be.

But there was nobody to be seen.

Alkmene’s gaze lingered for a few moments on more golden draperies against the far wall. Could somebody be hiding behind those?

But why would a guest hide? It was perfectly acceptable to be here on a night like this, enjoying a drink and some conversation before the boat ride.

Wasn’t there supposed to be a servant here, too? To look after guests and refill the glasses? Where was he?

Alkmene moved into the room with determination. She had to find another lantern to light. Once the gloom was lifted from the place, she’d feel better. Then a glass of champagne or two…

Confident now, she rounded the table with the dying lantern. Her foot hit something solid, and she squeaked.

Glancing down, she stared full into an upturned face. There was still a lingering haughtiness in the features that were now perfectly still in death. Cobb’s wig had slipped off as he’d fallen. It lay askew, half beside his body, half underneath.

It wasn’t necessary to ask what had caused Cobb’s death. The handle of a steak knife stuck out of his chest. Around it a dark stain was spreading.

Alkmene stood and stared. She had often heard that people screamed when they found a dead body, but she was too surprised to scream. How had the arrogant servant who had walked about upstairs where he had no business died? Who had killed him?

Her eyes stayed fixed with a sort of macabre fascination on Cobb’s hands, which were clutched into fists as if he had tried to fight off death when it had pounced on him.

Then a sound pulled Alkmene’s attention to the door.

Footfalls resounded outside.

Somebody was coming.

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

In a dreadful heartbeat, Alkmene became certain it was the killer returning to remove some bit of incriminating evidence from the scene of the crime. Without thinking further, she slipped behind the nearest golden drapery. Even with her back pressed as tightly against the wooden wall as she could manage, there was so little room that the toes of her shoes peeked out from under the drapery. She held her breath, hoping the killer would be too preoccupied with his chore to notice anything amiss.

Nevertheless, she clutched her fan, determined to hit out with it the moment the curtain was torn away and she found herself staring into the evil, twisted features of a killer who wouldn’t hesitate to silence this unfortunate witness. Jake would say it was just like her to land face first in trouble.

She could only hope she’d survive this and have time to laugh about it with him.

Footfalls neared her hiding place. Her heartbeat was so loud, she was certain the killer could hear it.

She wanted to peek to see how near he was to her, but did not dare. She had a chance, however small, of going unnoticed, and she couldn’t risk that with a stupid action made out of curiosity or fear.

The footfalls ceased. She could swear she heard breathing. Male, she figured.

Muttered words.

Then silence. As if the figure had looked up and seen something. Her?

No – what he had come back for, of course. Something he had lost at the scene that might give away his identity. Now he had spotted it, on the floor most likely, he’d fetch it and retreat. He wouldn’t see her, let alone pull aside the drapery and kill her, too.

Too bad she hadn’t had a chance to look better at possible clues, on the floor or table; too bad she hadn’t seen anything telltale.

Once the killer had removed it, it would be hard to figure out what it had been and whose identity it might have given away.

A rustling sound. Too close to give her any reassurance.

Alkmene resisted the urge to close her eyes as she had done as a little girl when hiding under the blankets of her bed from the violence of a thunderstorm outside. She had to keep her eyes wide open and her fan ready to attack.