A Proposal to Die For by Vivian Conroy Page B

convict and helping her set up a trap for the greedy blackmailer, he had told her he was himself the crook in question and denied they could do anything to catch the blackmailer, at least the person behind it all.
    Normally that would have been a severe setback, but with Oksana Matejevna’s story about the brooch they had a new lead to the blackmailer’s identity, which was far more exciting than her little trap could ever have been. If Evelyn Steinbeck was involved in the blackmail, it might even provide information as to how Mr Norwhich had died.
    Alkmene did wonder though why the blackmailer in the case of the countess had asked for something so specific as this precious gold heirloom while in her case he had simply wanted a hundred pounds.
    With that question on her lips, and several more about Dubois’s meet with the constable, she knocked, awaiting his gruff ‘enter’ before opening the door.
    Dubois had slipped out of his jacket and had rolled up his shirtsleeves, baring his tanned muscled arms. He stood at the small stove in the corner, the fish hissing as it was swept through the buttered pan by his spatula. The scent was more spicy than fishy, and Alkmene approached with her head tilted. ‘What have you done with it?’
    â€˜Secret recipe,’ Dubois said. ‘Why don’t you uncork the wine?’
    He jabbed a thumb over his shoulder at the bottle standing on the plain high table. ‘The corkscrew is beside it.’
    Father had one at home where you twisted the corkscrew into the cork, then lowered a steel contraption to keep it in place while by an ingenious little mechanism you lifted the cork out of the bottle’s neck. Alkmene had seen the butler do it countless times and was sure she could have repeated it with ease. But this corkscrew was of a simpler variety. Just insert and pull.
    â€˜Brute strength,’ Dubois said as she was at it in vain.
    He left the fish a moment to take the bottle from her hands, clench it between his knees and pull.
    Alkmene squinted, waiting for the moment the cork would come loose and Dubois would fall backwards with bottle and all, spilling all their wine.
    But no, with a pop the cork came loose, and he managed to balance himself, pull the bottle up and put it on the table. Dropping the corkscrew beside it, he returned to the pan just as the fish was making a sound like it was going to stick to the bottom.
    â€˜Find the glasses, will you?’ he said over his shoulder. ‘In the sideboard.’
    Alkmene nodded and went over, sat on her haunches and opened one of the low doors. Inside was ajumble of paper, candlesticks with candles, two bottles of ink, a cardboard box marked Christmas cards, a pitcher with a piece missing from the rim.
    Finally, by shuffling some stuff around, she detected two glasses in the back, not matching, but as they were the only ones around, she took them. ‘Have you got a cloth or something to dust them off?’
    â€˜Just blow off the dust,’ Dubois said carelessly.
    She put the glasses on the table, using her sleeve to polish her own. He could blow off his if he wanted to.
    She folded her hands behind her back and shifted her weight from the balls of her feet to the heels and back. ‘So what did the constable have to say?’
    â€˜The police surgeon said that Silas Norwhich died of a blow to the head, but he wasn’t sure whether it had been the fall on the hearth rim or a blow on the head by a person, who then put him near the hearth. Both possible. Odd thing was there was ink on his fingers as if he had been writing when he had been disturbed. By a visitor or an intruder. A servant had said that the pantry door was never locked so as the butler was out, somebody might have come in that way. Which means our mysterious visitor might not have been the only one to come round that night.’
    Alkmene grimaced. ‘That is bad luck. I mean, now the police will have an even