Keegan laughed softly. ‘Clever reasoning, Lady Alkmene. But why would I believe anything you say? You hid when I entered the room.’
‘Yes, because I believed you were the killer coming back to get some clue you’d left behind.’ Alkmene huffed. ‘I was merely afraid, not guilty of anything.’
Keegan studied the dead body again. ‘This is unfortunate. I had hoped to get a few days away from work.’
‘You didn’t look like you were enjoying yourself at all. I bet you’re happy there’s something to do now.’
‘To do?’ Keegan looked up at her. ‘What would there be to do about this? The man is dead. The police will have to be notified. They will come in and make a fuss, asking all the obvious questions, then jump to inane conclusions like they always do. I think...’
There was a hint of a smile round his mouth. ‘I think that, under the circumstances, you would be their prime suspect.’
Alkmene ignored this unfortunate conclusion and said hurriedly, ‘You don’t sound like you have a very high opinion of the police.’
Keegan shrugged. ‘We discussed the Steeplechase case at dinner. They arrested Vera Steeplechase on the sole evidence of an anonymous letter and the fact that her sister was indeed poisoned. The writer might have merely been guessing or intending to harm Vera. He or she need not have known of any actual murder having taken place.’
‘But an actual murder had taken place. Mary did die of poison,’ Alkmene pointed out.
‘I never denied that. But was Vera the one who administered it? It will be hard to tell months after the fact, don’t you think?’ Keegan’s inquisitive brown eyes searched her expression.
Alkmene sighed. ‘Do you mind moving away a few steps? This wall is leaving an imprint in my back.’
‘Oh, excuse me.’ Keegan stepped back with a mock gesture of making way for her.
As Alkmene had some more room, she tilted her head back and eyed him speculatively. ‘Why would I be the police’s prime suspect? Why not you? You did come back here.’
‘Correction.’ Keegan flicked up a hand in a stop signal. ‘I came in here. I did not come back here, because I had never been here before.’
He held her gaze. ‘I have enough experience with murder cases. Don’t you think, if I killed someone, I’d take care to do it right the first time? I wouldn’t have to come back to change anything at the murder scene.’
Alkmene pursed her lips. ‘I’ll have to take your word for it.’
Keegan sighed. ‘Look, we’re standing around here debating. Shouldn’t we raise the alarm or something? If the killer came from the outside, he might be escaping from the grounds as we speak.’
Surprised at the suggestion, Alkmene held his gaze. ‘Do you think he came from the outside?’
The lawyer thought a moment, then shook his head. ‘To be honest, no. I think one of the guests killed him.’ He nodded at the dead body. ‘That steak knife was taken from the dinner table. The killer decided right then and there he was going to kill this man.’
Alkmene considered this. It didn’t seem likely there had been a steak knife lying about in the boathouse. There was nothing served here that had to be cut. ‘But why?’
Keegan held her gaze. ‘Didn’t you notice the odd atmosphere while we were discussing the Steeplechase case? Everybody had such a strong opinion about it. Like they were somehow personally involved. This man was serving us during dinner. He overheard everything that was being said.’
‘True, but there were other servants about besides him. And I don’t see how it all fits together. Even if some people present knew more about the Steeplechase case than they admitted, why would that have forced any of them to kill this servant?’
‘Your friend Mr Dubois even said something about digging a steak knife into somebody’s back. That must have given the killer the idea.’
Alkmene remembered Felicia’s expression as Jake had spoken. How her complexion had turned from the fiery red of embarrassment to the deadly pale realization of something terrible. Something inevitable? The need to kill someone?
Alkmene shook herself. She was making assumptions about people without knowing a thing about them. She said to Keegan, ‘You’d better leave and tell Mr Hargrove what’s happened here so he can notify the police. I will stay here.’
Alkmene didn’t want to leave the lawyer here with the dead body where he might change things or destroy evidence. She knew she wasn’t the killer and had no interest in taking anything away, but of Keegan she wasn’t so sure. He was quick to draw conclusions about the knife and the motive for the murder when, actually, they didn’t know anything yet about the victim. About Cobb’s position in the household and reasons people might have had for wanting him dead.
‘Are you sure?’ Keegan asked.
‘Yes. Just hurry. The killer might be getting away as we speak.’
Keegan left reluctantly, the grudge clear in his posture.
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