Deadly Trio by Emma Jameson

Author:Emma Jameson [Jameson, Emma]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Lyonnesse Books

Kate’s conversation with Jeremy Bentham cost her that first opportunity to speak with Sir Duncan. When she turned back to where Sir Duncan had been, there was only the horse-faced woman, whinnying in the ear of some new victim. The crowd’s detritus—to which Kate decidedly belonged—had been left behind. The young and fashionably disheveled, including Kyla Sloane, had followed in Sir Duncan’s wake.

Also gone, Kate discovered as she awkwardly hoofed it from one side of the ballroom to the other, was Hetheridge and Lady Margaret. Kate’s mobile, tucked in her tiny clutch, could not find a signal within the cavernous ballroom. Frustrated, Kate asked a bartender—the same impassive bartender who’d served her Prosecco—where she could find a landline. He pointed to the red-carpeted staircase. On the next floor—she was informed in a tone suggesting anyone who was anyone would already know—she would find a phone, a powder room and a valet capable of assisting with more complex needs.

“Cheers, mate,” Kate told the bartender, allowing her East End bray to come through. She did not follow Hetheridge’s example of an extravagant tip.

Climbing the stairs alone, Kate was more than a little suspicious she’d been the butt of a disgruntled server’s joke. But as she emerged on the next floor, she saw an antique telephone stand bearing an incongruously modern phone. Snatching it up, Kate dialed Hetheridge’s mobile from memory.

It rang four times. Then a recorded BT voice told Kate the number was not available, and to please try again later.

Kate muttered a few choice curses. Hetheridge, like the apatosaurus and the tyrannosaurus, switched off his mobile at public events, considering it rude to take a call when otherwise engaged. Contemporary human beings, including herself and DS Bhar, kept the damned things on, to get their damned calls, especially in damned difficult situations …

“May I help you, madam?” a rather strangled voice inquired.

Kate put down the handset. A slender, uniformed valet with the face of a trout stared at her, eyes bulging, lips pursed like he wanted an excuse to toss her out.

“Too right. I need to pee. Where’s the bog?”

“Madam.” Emotionless, the valet pointed to an alcove covered by a tapestry hung from large brass rings. “Just there.”

So much for trying to rattle him. Striving not to look disappointed, Kate thrust back the tapestry and sailed into the room. She hoped to find the facilities ridiculous, worthy of a blistering complaint. Instead, what she found was almost a religious experience.

A triple vanity in beige marble stood before an enormous gilt-edged mirror. Three woven baskets sat on the countertop, one filled with soaps, another with rolled hand towels, a third with tampons. Three subalcoves, divided by smaller yet still magnificent tapestries, awaited Kate. Peeking into the first, she found both a toilet and a bidet. It appeared the rich needed no locking stalls. A tapestry curtain on brass rings was sufficient; good breeding protected the sanctity of the loo.

When Kate exited, she expected another confrontation with the fish-lipped valet. Surely he expected her to emerge loaded down with soap, hand towels and a month’s supply of tampons?

No.

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