A Splash of Red: A Jemima Shore Mystery by Fraser Antonia

Author:Fraser, Antonia [Fraser, Antonia]
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
ISBN: 9781409137849
Publisher: Orion
Published: 2011-07-13T23:00:00+00:00

11

Curiouser and curiouser

When Jemima finally awoke the next morning, it was with an instant sense of happiness, content. That sensation quickly vanished when she first felt, then saw, the figure of Adam Adamson, lying across the Empire bed. He was fast asleep. He looked everything he had not seemed the night before; innocent, uncorrupted.

‘Oh Christ,’ said Jemima Shore aloud. He did not move.

She longed absolutely and passionately for him to be gone, magicked away from the flat; as much as she had longed for him to make love to her for ever the night before. Why could not such a mythologically minded man bear in mind the story of Cupid and Psyche? Cupid had insisted on leaving the mortal maiden Psyche before the light came. Very sensible of him. After all, dreadful consequences had ensued when Psyche had attempted to defy the ban by lifting her lamp of oil to view her unknown lover.

In this case Cupid had overslept.

‘Oh Christ.’ Unbidden the visage of Detective Chief Inspector John Portsmouth came into her mind; unlike the Cheshire Cat he was not smiling, but deprecatingly shaking his head. It had to be admitted that there was something to shake his head about … shades of Chloe Fontaine (although that too was an unfortunate phrase).

She became more resolute. After all in its own way it was an investigation. Jemima was fond of using the phrase in its own way on television when attempting to justify the unjustifiable. The Press sometimes mocked her for it. The memory of such – affectionate – attacks compelled her to admit, fair-minded person that she was, that given the opportunity she would undoubtedly behave in exactly the same way all over again.

Given the opportunity: but not however on Sunday morning. This particular Sunday morning at any rate. No one was going to be given any opportunity this morning. Adam Adamson, great casual encounter as he might be, was going to the police. She, Jemima Shore, was going to – well, first of all – have a cup of coffee.

She stepped gingerly from the white bed on which there were now no bedclothes at all and pulled her navy-blue silk kimono from her suitcase. Adam did not stir as she left the room.

Some minutes were occupied in searching out first the coffee and then the method of making it in the immaculate but curiously ill-appointed kitchenette. In the end Jemima discovered a tin of Nescafé stuck behind the rows of clean cocktail glasses and made do with that, there being no apparent method of filling or making work the elaborate gleaming Italian coffee machine.

She sat meditatively on the single kitchen stool – uncomfortable and the wrong height. Was this kitchen intended for anything except getting ice cubes from the fridge? The coffee was too weak and tasted disgusting. As she sipped it, she heard the noise of the front door opening. Someone was coming in.

‘Oh Christ,’ she said for the third time.

The intruder had to be Sir Richard Lionnel.

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