A Proposal to Die For by Vivian Conroy

am sure I had not worn it. How could I have lost it there?’
    â€˜We did not say you lost it there,’ Dubois said. ‘There it was found.’
    The countess looked even more confused now. She fidgeted with her hands, turning one of her bejewelled rings around and around. ‘It must have fallen in the seat or on the floor.’
    â€˜How if you did not wear it?’
    â€˜Perhaps it was in my evening bag. My husband always says I carry too many things around in my bag and that I will pull out my handkerchief and lose something because it gets torn out and it falls and… Did you get your handkerchief back?’
    Dubois smiled. ‘Lady Alkmene was nice enough to offer to launder it for me. With her own two hands. I am really curious to see the result.’
    The countess perked up. ‘Me too. I wouldn’t know how to launder a thing, you know. I have never had to.’
    Alkmene smiled quickly. ‘I do not think your brooch was pulled out of your bag and fell to the floor. It was stuck in the curtain. On the far left of the box.’
    The countess frowned. ‘In the curtain? Stuck? How can that be? I do not sit on the left side. That is Oksana’s place.’
    Dubois said, ‘It was not just stuck actually. It was consciously fastened in the curtain. Like uh…the curtain had been turned inside out and fastened with the brooch. It was a change one could only spot if looking closely. Or knowing what to look for.’
    The countess pulled up her narrow shoulders. ‘I would not have noticed. I never pay much attention to the curtains and things. I am busy looking at the performance. And the people in the other boxes, I confess. There is a strong temptation to look at people while you do have your opera glasses with you. But I never sit on the left.’
    â€˜Could Oksana Matejevna have put the brooch in the curtain?’ Dubois’s voice was tense. ‘On purpose. Like to give it to someone else?’
    The countess stared. ‘Oksana Matejevna doesn’t know a soul here. She speaks nothing but Russian. She is always afraid to be left alone. She…’ She fell silent.
    â€˜Yes?’ Dubois prompted. ‘Do you remember something?’
    â€˜Well, that night at the theatre she did leave me. She went back to the box alone. She claimed tohave forgotten her shawl. She is always fussing with some shawl to keep draught off her shoulders. Her shoulders and her neck get stiff, she claims, and she can’t do a thing. She is very fussy in that respect. She had left the shawl, she said, and she went back to fetch it.’
    â€˜So she could have put the brooch in the curtain then?’ Dubois pressed.
    â€˜Yes, but why would she? It is my brooch. A family heirloom.’
    The countess’s face turned red with sudden anger. She rose and pulled the bell cord by the fireplace. She stood up straight, her eyes flashing. As soon as her maid entered, head down, shoulders slumped, she barked, ‘Oksana Matejevna, what have you done now?’
    A stream of Russian followed.
    Alkmene couldn’t understand a word, but the tone was crystal clear. The countess was not pleased with her servant’s behaviour and was explaining that to her, in no uncertain terms.

Chapter Eight
    Dubois leaned over to Alkmene and said softly, ‘She doesn’t look guilty.’
    Alkmene studied the mousy woman and had to admit he was right. Oksana stood up straight and let the stream of words flow over her, without wincing or fidgeting.
    â€˜Perhaps she is used to such tirades and doesn’t even hear the words any more,’ she suggested, thinking back on her own childhood where the nanny had tried to explain dangers to her and she had just stood and pretended to listen while her mind had been on her next adventure. Free spirits rarely took advice well. Let alone reproaches.
    â€˜She looks like she is in full battle mode,’ Dubois whispered again. ‘I