A Proposal to Die For by Vivian Conroy

his elbow, like poking her into attention. ‘I didn’t tell you this to make you feel sorry for me. I just don’t have any liking for my English father and his English privilege. I came here to London to investigate crime stories and see that there is just as much squalor here as in the back alleys of Calais or Marseilles.’
    To prove his heritage was no less. ‘There were good people there too, I presume?’
    Dubois smiled. ‘Lots.’
    â€˜It’s the same thing here.’ She glanced at him. ‘One bad apple doesn’t mean the entire basket full of them is wasted.’
    He didn’t respond.
    Outside the coffee house he looked in through one of the narrow windows, divided into threes by small lead bars. ‘Oh, shoot.’
    â€˜What is it?’
    â€˜He is not alone but with this large fellow with the red moustache. I don’t know his name, but he saw me once during a bar fight and he got the idea I was the cause of the fight and the damage. Say, how about you go in and engage him in some story of your umbrella having been stolen just now? Once he is out with you to retrieve the missing object, I will talk to the constable and we can meet up again in say half an hour on the corner of Meade Street. I still owe you that fish meal.’
    Alkmene was happy he remembered and wanted to treat her, but she wasn’t so happy with having to deceive a member of the official police force with lies about a stolen umbrella. She cast Dubois a doubtful look.
    â€˜If you can’t do it…’ he said slowly.
    She exhaled and made for the coffee house entrance, calling at him, ‘Your fish had better be excellent.’
    Inside it smelled of a strong mocha, mixed with sweet baked wares. The constable was sitting with a mug in his hands, the red moustache with him biting into some large cinnamon-strewn bread-like slice. He looked up at her as she approached, appraising her with his sharp blue eyes. She forced a wide smile. ‘Excuse me…’
    She made sure only to look at him, not the other man. ‘My dog ran down some steps and disappeared into somebody’s basement. I called out for it, but it won’t come back to me. I also tried attracting the attention of the inhabitants of the house, but I got no response either. I don’t dare go in myself, as I would be trespassing. Would you mind getting the dog for me?’
    The moustache looked at the other man. Before he could delegate this small job to his subordinate, Alkmene added with a smile, ‘I am sure that my father, Lord Horatius Callender, would be most happy to recompense you for any inconvenience this might cause.’
    The moustache was on his feet already. ‘I am at your service, Lady Callender.’ He looked down on the other man, snapping, ‘Don’t stare like an idiot, Gordon. Wait here for me. I will be right back.’
    He followed her outside, pulling his uniform jacket straight. ‘Now where would this have happened, Lady Callender?’
    Ignoring the wrong address – after all, the poor man probably didn’t deal with members of the peerage every day – Alkmene took him down the street, in the same direction Dubois and she had come from.
    She knew for certain that there was an open basement door there. She had seen nobody at it and suspected that the servants were in the back of the house having lunch and had left the door open by accident.
    Moustache could have a look inside without disturbing anybody and when the dog wasn’t found – obviously as there had never been one – she would excuse herself and say it had probably found its own way out and would be home by now. Moustache might be chagrined, but he’d never show it to her, for her father’s sake. Under the cover of her title she was cut out for jobs like this, and if Dubois realized that well, he’d need her to complete the case.
    Moustache, however, did not look into