Read Online A Proposal to Die For by Vivian Conroy - Free Book Online
Authors: Vivian Conroy
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lived. He was the kind of man who simply rang her doorbell, whenever he wanted to, not caring whether he shocked the staff.
In fact, he would probably enjoy shocking the staff.
No, this could not be from him. Who then?
Alkmene opened the envelope and pulled out a sheet of poor quality paper. On it were a few lines in the same strong hand as the writing on the envelope.
Your father would not be pleased if he learned his daughter is consorting with a convict. He will hear of it unless you pay.
Put a hundred pounds into a hat box and take it out with you.
Leave it on the bench underneath the elm next to St Mary of the Humble Heart.
Do not stick around to see who will come and take it along.
Donât talk about this with anybody or you will pay in a different way. With your reputation. Perhaps even your life.
We are watching you.
Alkmene had to read it a couple of times before the truth sank in. She was actually being blackmailed.
She glanced over her shoulder at the front door as if she could see right through it into the street and establish if anybody was there right now, watching her.
âWho is it from?â Cook asked, carrying the breakfast dishes from the dining room. âWhat does it say?â
Alkmene looked up at her, her mind a whirl. âUh⦠Oh. Itâs nothing special.â She folded the letter and put it back in the envelope. âI will be out this morning. I will probably not be back for lunch. Save me some cold cuts to take around four.â
Cook gave a grunt that could be acceptance or disapproval of this unconventional request. She shuffled off with the dishes.
Alkmene ran up the stairs to get dressed. She intended to be in Meade Street as soon as possible and ask Dubois for his take on this blackmail scheme.
As she was walking along past the many houses on the street, some harbouring little shops and businesses, others being boarding houses where women polished the bell, she realized Dubois had never told her at what number he rented rooms. It was like him to be evasive, but she supposed he would be known around here and she could ask for him.
Loath to get herself into the same kind of trouble as the day before, she went into a reasonably clean-looking fish store to ask the wiry man cleaning the fish behind the counter where to find the reporter Dubois.
âOh, that troublemaker, huh?â the old man replied. Ashes from his cheap cigar rained on the counter and whatever he was cleaning. âNumber 33, upstairs.â
Alkmene bought some fish by way of thanks, deciding to leave it somewhere for the strays as she could not bear to think of having to eat it after having seen the cigar ashes falling.
Carrying the parcel, wrapped in old newspaper pages, she walked up to number 33. The door was open, and she went in, going up the stairs and knocking at a closed door.
âYeah,â a voice called, and she pushed the door handle down and walked in.
âPut the hot water there,â Duboisâs voice came from another room. âI donât have time for breakfast. I will eat on the way.â
Footfalls resounded, and he appeared, in a dirty shirt with suspenders holding up dark trousers, which had mud stains on the knees, like he was some dock worker. His hair was dishevelled and his eyes bleary as if he hadnât slept all night.
The change couldnât have been greater from the distinguished gentleman, entrepreneur, self-made businessman with money to spend Alkmene had met at the Waldeck tea room in the company of the countess.
Hiding her shock, Alkmene held out the parcel in her hands. âNo hot water, just fish.â
âNo thanks,â Dubois said. He recovered remarkably quickly from the surprise of finding her in his rooms at this hour. He turned away, back into the other room, slamming the door shut.
After a while, he reappeared in a clean crisp white shirt over the pants of his dark blue suit. There was even a tie in sight.
Raking
In fact, he would probably enjoy shocking the staff.
No, this could not be from him. Who then?
Alkmene opened the envelope and pulled out a sheet of poor quality paper. On it were a few lines in the same strong hand as the writing on the envelope.
Your father would not be pleased if he learned his daughter is consorting with a convict. He will hear of it unless you pay.
Put a hundred pounds into a hat box and take it out with you.
Leave it on the bench underneath the elm next to St Mary of the Humble Heart.
Do not stick around to see who will come and take it along.
Donât talk about this with anybody or you will pay in a different way. With your reputation. Perhaps even your life.
We are watching you.
Alkmene had to read it a couple of times before the truth sank in. She was actually being blackmailed.
She glanced over her shoulder at the front door as if she could see right through it into the street and establish if anybody was there right now, watching her.
âWho is it from?â Cook asked, carrying the breakfast dishes from the dining room. âWhat does it say?â
Alkmene looked up at her, her mind a whirl. âUh⦠Oh. Itâs nothing special.â She folded the letter and put it back in the envelope. âI will be out this morning. I will probably not be back for lunch. Save me some cold cuts to take around four.â
Cook gave a grunt that could be acceptance or disapproval of this unconventional request. She shuffled off with the dishes.
Alkmene ran up the stairs to get dressed. She intended to be in Meade Street as soon as possible and ask Dubois for his take on this blackmail scheme.
As she was walking along past the many houses on the street, some harbouring little shops and businesses, others being boarding houses where women polished the bell, she realized Dubois had never told her at what number he rented rooms. It was like him to be evasive, but she supposed he would be known around here and she could ask for him.
Loath to get herself into the same kind of trouble as the day before, she went into a reasonably clean-looking fish store to ask the wiry man cleaning the fish behind the counter where to find the reporter Dubois.
âOh, that troublemaker, huh?â the old man replied. Ashes from his cheap cigar rained on the counter and whatever he was cleaning. âNumber 33, upstairs.â
Alkmene bought some fish by way of thanks, deciding to leave it somewhere for the strays as she could not bear to think of having to eat it after having seen the cigar ashes falling.
Carrying the parcel, wrapped in old newspaper pages, she walked up to number 33. The door was open, and she went in, going up the stairs and knocking at a closed door.
âYeah,â a voice called, and she pushed the door handle down and walked in.
âPut the hot water there,â Duboisâs voice came from another room. âI donât have time for breakfast. I will eat on the way.â
Footfalls resounded, and he appeared, in a dirty shirt with suspenders holding up dark trousers, which had mud stains on the knees, like he was some dock worker. His hair was dishevelled and his eyes bleary as if he hadnât slept all night.
The change couldnât have been greater from the distinguished gentleman, entrepreneur, self-made businessman with money to spend Alkmene had met at the Waldeck tea room in the company of the countess.
Hiding her shock, Alkmene held out the parcel in her hands. âNo hot water, just fish.â
âNo thanks,â Dubois said. He recovered remarkably quickly from the surprise of finding her in his rooms at this hour. He turned away, back into the other room, slamming the door shut.
After a while, he reappeared in a clean crisp white shirt over the pants of his dark blue suit. There was even a tie in sight.
Raking
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