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Diamonds of Death
Vivian Conroy
‘as delightful as the first book.’ - The Stories of Chantel DacostaThe second Lady Alkmene Callender MysteryA family of secrets…After hearing about the vicious murder of her relation, Lord Winters, Lady Alkmene is intrigued to find out that the cat burglar found standing over his body, the safebox emptied of jewels, might not be the murderer after all…Reporter Jake Dubois believes an innocent man has been imprisoned and turns to Lady Alkmene to assist him in uncovering the truth and finding the real killer – who might just be one of Winters’ own family.This mystery will test Lady Alkmene to the limit. As she and Jake delve into family secrets, Lady Alkmene isn’t sure who she can trust or who is telling the truth. And even the connection between them might not be enough to save Lady Alkmene from becoming the next victim in search of the diamonds of death…Don’t miss the next Lady Alkmene Mystery1. A Proposal to Die For2. Diamonds of Death3. Deadly Treasures4. A Fatal Masquerade
A family of secrets…
After hearing about the vicious murder of her relation, Lord Winters, Lady Alkmene is intrigued to find out that the cat burglar found standing over his body, the safe emptied of jewels, might not be the murderer after all…
Reporter Jake Dubois believes an innocent man has been imprisoned and turns to Lady Alkmene to assist him in uncovering the truth and finding the real killer – who might just be one of Winters’ own family.
This mystery will test Lady Alkmene to the limit. As she and Jake delve into family secrets, Lady Alkmene isn’t sure who she can trust or who is telling the truth. And even the connection between them might not be enough to save Lady Alkmene from becoming the next murdered victim in search of the diamonds of death…
Available from Vivian Conroy (#ulink_6bc57b07-2666-51de-9dc3-2b1aee46c145)
A Lady Alkmene Callender Mystery series
A Proposal to Die For
Diamonds of Death
Deadly Treasures
Diamonds of Death
Vivian Conroy
Copyright (#ulink_29254f5f-abc4-5324-8c21-4f5f10d741d3)
HQ
An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd.
1 London Bridge Street
London SE1 9GF
First published in Great Britain by HQ in 2016
Copyright © Vivian Conroy 2016
Vivian Conroy asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.
E-book Edition © October 2016 ISBN: 9780008205171
Version date: 2018-06-27
VIVIAN CONROY
discovered Agatha Christie at thirteen and quickly devoured all the Poirot and Miss Marple stories. Over time Lord Peter Wimsey and Brother Cadfael joined her favourite sleuths. Even more fun than reading was thinking up her own fog-filled alleys, missing heirs and priceless artefacts. So Vivian created feisty Lady Alkmene and enigmatic reporter Jake Dubois sleuthing in 1920s’ London and the countryside, first appearing in A Proposal to Die For. For the latest on #LadyAlkmene, with a dash of dogs and chocolate, follow Vivian on Twitter via @VivWrites (http://twitter.com/@VivWrites)
Thanks to all editors, agents and authors who share insights into the writing and publishing process.
A special thanks to my editor Victoria Oundjian for her enthusiasm for Lady Alkmene’s adventures
and to the design team for the lovely cover.
Note (#ulink_62f882c1-9c91-544c-bdd8-90bdd8c874b6)
Writing mysteries set in the 1920s, I’m grateful for all online information – think dress, transportation, etiquette and much more – to ensure an authentic period feel. Still, Lady Alkmene’s world remains fictional, including street addresses, establishments, country houses and even entire villages of my invention.
Contents
Cover (#ufce49682-184e-5b44-8a69-9440c9e1e616)
Blurb (#ue4ea71c8-6199-56c5-b80f-77cadc03aadf)
Book List (#ulink_8b93b3d9-7ad9-56f3-8425-2b67b617977d)
Title Page (#uf9dbe9e1-65cf-5a47-b297-cc5fb91104cd)
Copyright (#u25d1214c-787b-58f1-aa49-4220513c8ef9)
Author Bio (#u60be238e-1b5e-59e0-aa54-4efb8299d9ee)
Acknowledgements (#ubc500540-026d-5210-877b-4372817c1c88)
Note (#ulink_b2d5ecc1-bac0-5a3f-b95f-2212f83a9ea3)
Chapter One (#ulink_7f53e378-9864-5d17-a3da-7ad4f2296742)
Chapter Two (#ulink_830b83c9-ffb3-54cb-b769-738cfcaab8d3)
Chapter Three (#ulink_fea9ac77-9fb2-588e-bfa1-ced00ba5ef2f)
Chapter Four (#ulink_787ad571-865e-50c0-96bc-0d0fdc605b44)
Chapter Five (#ulink_b069c2d3-b90f-5895-8876-c4ff0eb03577)
Chapter Six (#ulink_2ea848f4-448f-53a0-b10d-36f794150515)
Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fourteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fifteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Sixteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Seventeen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eighteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Nineteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-One (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-Two (#litres_trial_promo)
Excerpt (#litres_trial_promo)
Endpages (#litres_trial_promo)
About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter One (#ulink_30529d95-a7d0-5686-b2c3-e10903474504)
It was madness to do this on a night with a full moon.
But then you had to be a little mad to do this work to begin with.
The man, all dressed in black, looked up the manor’s forbidding facade, his eyes slowly travelling over every ledge, protrusion and other irregularity that could offer a hold to his nimble hands and feet. He had studied the facade before, was familiar with its possibilities, but he always liked to take a moment and plan the route ahead, see it in his mind as clearly as he could.
Although there was always the issue of time and the danger of discovery, he liked to be thorough. He had learned early on in his career that rushing in only led to trouble.
And trouble was the last thing he needed on this all-important night.
From the trees in the distance an eerie call resounded, sending a shiver up his spine. It was only an owl, but as a city person he thoroughly disliked animals and the risk they posed in his profession. Once, climbing a front in the city, a pigeon had popped out of a hole, almost making him lose his footing and fall, backwards, ten feet down on the unforgiving pavement. That could have been the end of his career. Of his freedom even – as he would have been discovered for what he was and taken into custody.
But he had survived the pigeon’s surprise attack, and tonight he’d survive whatever was waiting for him on his ascent. It could be bats, or it might even be a guard dog as soon as he stepped through the window. But he was prepared for anything. The loot lured him like it had a scent that he could detect on the air. Already he saw the precious stones, reflecting the light with their carefully honed facets, glittering as if there was fire inside of them. For all of his life he had followed the call of the stones, and the most desirable ones were calling for him tonight. Up there.
His eyes had reached the window that was his destination, and he nodded to himself. The route was the same as he had planned it in his head on his way out here. He had come by train, had walked the stretch out to the manor. It paid to stay out of sight, not be remembered by the make of a car, by a stay in an inn where a nosy innkeeper had taken too close a look at your face. Strangers were always noticed in the countryside.
But in his old dishevelled clothes, with the bottle in his hand, staggering through the fields along dirt tracks suited better to deer than to men, he was just a vagabond that nobody would remember. As soon as the job was done and he’d left the area, he’d turn into his own self again, a far cry from such a pitiful wanderer.
He laughed softly to himself, then sobered to rub his hands. They had to be completely dry to have the best grip.
He cast a look around him, listening for any sound that indicated disturbance.
But there was nothing but the rush of water from the fountain on the lawn.
He put his hands on the stone and began the climb. It was his luck that the house had a pillar on each side beside the steps leading to the front door. These huge pillars were worked into the house’s construction by decorated stony elements that led upwards like rungs of a ladder. If this was your specialty, it was as easy as walking up the stairs in your own home.
Nevertheless he took his time, knowing this was the ideal hour for the thief. People had fallen soundly asleep and were far away, especially if they had enjoyed a drink or two after dinner. He knew the master of this house liked his liquor. He was a widower, so no wife there who might be a light sleeper and who might hear something and prod her husband into action.
The eldest son’s pretty little high-strung wife took laudanum and would not wake either.
The younger son had left the house during the evening, shouting and cursing his father’s name, riding his horse to the local inn. He would not be back before eleven in the morning, and then only if they rode him out on a cart, with the horse being led behind it.
Like any rich man, this house owner had plenty of servants, but those sampled the remains of the meal and the draughts left in the pitchers after wealthy guests had been around.
And this had been an evening full of wealthy guests. He had seen all of them leave, group by group talking, laughing, getting into cars and carriages, reflecting their luxury taste, or by contrast a strict, almost fanatic adherence to the old country ways.
He had watched and grinned as he recognized those who had earlier been the victim of one of his jobs. How they had enjoyed the evening air, waving goodbye to each other, unaware of the man who had robbed them standing so close, waiting to strike again.
Perhaps they had even discussed it over dinner, how sad it was that such crimes had become more common and the police did nothing to prevent them or solve the crime once it had been committed.
The police…
He snarled at the thought of those self-satisfied inspectors, the sergeants desperate for a jump up the ladder, the constables who only cared for keeping their jobs and feeding the kids at home. He liked the latter best, could understand their position. It was work to them, an honest job to keep the family alive and well. He would never do anything to hurt a constable.
But the higher ones with the over-confidence in their abilities, their talents, their intuition, he liked to taunt them, tease them, make them look the fool, as he broke into place after place and left them scratching their heads wondering how on earth he had done it.
He even knew of two instances where the police had arrested someone from the staff, claiming it had to have been an inside job, as there had been no signs of any break-in.
Like he needed to break in!
For a moment he frowned, thinking of those people who had been arrested innocently and dragged through the police courts to the shock and horror of their fellow staff members and their families. Neither had been convicted, fortunately. If it had come to that, he would have fessed up, made sure no innocent man suffered from his doings. The police had chosen the easy way out going for the inside job. Because they could not believe that a man could scale a wall like a fly and enter a house without leaving traces.
Oh, there were always traces, he bet, for the eye that looked in the right places. But those police people were so full of themselves that they forgot to look. Even if they looked, they did not see. They did not understand what it meant.
He put his hands on the stony balcony edge and pulled himself over it in one smooth movement. His physical strength was one of his biggest assets, jealously guarded by exercise and the right food: lots of meat and eggs and milk. He could not afford to lose one bit of muscle power and take a tumble.
He picked thin black leather gloves from his pocket and put them on. In the past he had not bothered much with those, but Scotland Yard was investing serious time and effort in their fingerprint division and what had started off as something quite laughable, had actually led to the solution of major cases. Any criminal with a bit of a brain wore gloves these days and although he was certain his prints were not on record, yet, he had no wish for them to ever be so.
He smiled to himself as he studied the window that was ajar. The new ideas about health made everything so easy for the crook. Sleep with the window open, leave the window open a crack for the condition of your books. Dampness creates illness, begets mould. Oh, he only applauded doctors who wrote pieces in the medical journals saying that. They said a lot of things he did not care for, but opening windows was a good idea.
He put a gloved hand on the window frame and felt downward, searching for the latch. Sure enough it was an easy construction. People rarely secured windows in a higher floor with the same precision they used downstairs. There they had blinds or locks, or even – if they were really careful – bars. But higher up they believed nothing could reach the windows but winged creatures that did no harm.
The window opened, and he stepped in, taking care to stand for a few moments and let his eyes adjust to the pitch-black darkness inside. Some moonlight came in through the window and lifted the worst of the gloom, and he could make out the silhouettes of furniture: the bookcases along the wall, the standing clock between them, then the leather chairs at the fireplace. The huge desk to his right, with the lamp on top. He could not see the lamp, but he knew it was there from his visit.
