A murderous beginning
With her father away in India, Lady Alkmene Callender finds being left to her own devices in London intolerably dull, until the glamorous Broadway star Evelyn Steinbeck arrives in town! Gossip abounds about the New York socialite, but when Ms Steinbeckâs wealthy uncle, Silas Norwhich, is found dead Lady Alkmene finds her interest is piqued. Because this death sounds a lot to her like murderâ¦
Desperate to uncover the truth, Lady Alkmene begins to look into Ms Steinbeckâs past â only to be hampered by the arrival of journalist Jake Dubois â who believes she is merely an amateur lady-detective meddling in matters she knows nothing about!
But Lady Alkmene refuses to be deterred from the case and together they dig deeper, only to discover that some secrets should never come to lightâ¦
The twenties have never been so dangerousâ¦
Note
Writing mysteries set in the 1920s, Iâm grateful for all online information â think dress, transportation, etiquette and much more â to ensure an authentic period feel. Still, Lady Alkmeneâs world remains fictional, including street addresses, establishments and even entire villages of my invention.
Chapter One
âMarry me.â
The whispered words reached Lady Alkmene Callenderâs ears just as she was reaching for the gold lighter on the mantelpiece to relight the cigarette in her ivory holder.
Freddie used to be a dear and bring her Turkish ones, but since he had been disinherited by his father for his gambling debts, his opportunities to travel had been significantly reduced, as had Alkmeneâs stash of cigarettes. These ones, obtained from a tobacconist on Callenburg Square, had the taste of propriety about them that made them decidedly less appetizing than the exotic ones she had to hide from her housekeeper â who always complained the lace curtains got yellowish from the smoke.
âMarry me,â the insistent voice repeated, and Alkmeneâs gaze wandered from the mirror over the mantelpiece to the table with drinks beside it.
Behind that table was a screen of Chinese silk, decorated with tiny figures tiptoeing over bridges between temples and blossoming cherry trees.
The voice seemed to emerge from behind the screen.
Another voice replied, in an almost callous tone, âYou know I cannot. The old man would die of apoplexy.â
âNot that he doesnât deserve it. If he died, youâd inherit his entire fortune and we could elope.â
âWhere to?â
âGretna Green, I suppose. Where else does one elope to?â
Alkmene decided on the spot that the male speaker had a lack of fantasy, which would make him unsuitable for her adventurous mind. If you did elope, youâd better do it the right way, boarding the Orient Express.
âI mean,â the female said, in an impatient tone, âwhere would we live, how would we live? Off my fortune I suppose? I donât think the major would give me a dime.â
âWhat has the major got to do with it? Once the old man is dead and we are married, the money is yours.â
There was a particular interest in money in this young manâs approach that was disconcerting, Alkmene decided, but if the female on the other side of the Chinese silk didnât notice or care, it was none of her business.
âAlkmene, dushkaâ¦â
Alkmene turned on her heel to find the countess of Veveine smiling up at her from under too much make-up. The tiny Russian princess, who had married down to be with the love of her life, wore a striking dark green gown with a waterfall of diamonds around her neck. Matching earrings almost hung to her shoulders, and a tiara graced her silver hair. âI had expected to see you at the theatre last week. Everybody who is somebody was there.â