Princess of the Savoy by Ron Base & Prudence Emery

Author:Ron Base & Prudence Emery
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Fiction, Mystery, Detective, Historical, Women Sleuths, Cozy
ISBN: 9781771624060
Publisher: Douglas and McIntyre (2013) Ltd.
Published: 2024-03-23T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter Twenty-Three

The Reporter from The Times

On the long march from Banville’s office to 205, a furious Priscilla wrote and then rewrote in her mind the letter of resignation she would submit immediately.

She was, after all, a strong, independent woman who would not allow herself to be pushed around and undermined by the thoughtless male guardians of the establishment. Banville had been out to get her almost as soon as she had walked through the Savoy’s door. He had not hired her, and that had upset him from the beginning. Now he had finally found the way to sideline her: to insert his own man into the press office.

Enough was finally enough.

Entering the outer office, she stopped dead at the sight of Major O’Hara grappling with a young woman. He was trying to hold the woman’s arms against her body but as Priscilla watched, stunned, the woman broke free and rather adroitly elbowed the major in the stomach. “Get away from me you bugger,” shouted the young woman fiercely.

Gasping for air, O’Hara sank back across his desk, sending papers scattering.

“Major O’Hara!” Priscilla shouted. “Enough! Stand down immediately.” As close as Priscilla could get to an imitation of the drill sergeant O’Hara might listen to.

“A damned fraud!” the major cried, pointing a shaky finger at the young woman.

“You can go straight to hell!” the young woman cried right back.

Priscilla stepped decisively between the two combatants. “What’s going on here?”

“This… this girl pushed her way in here claiming to be a reporter for The Sunday Times,” O’Hara managed between gasps of breath. “Naturally, I had no alternative but to throw her out.”

“I am a reporter for The Sunday Times, you nit!” shouted the young woman.

Priscilla turned to Major O’Hara. “What makes you certain she is not a reporter from The Times, Major?”

“Because she is a woman!” O’Hara called out with the absolute certainty of his status in life. “Everyone knows The Times would not have a woman on staff. And it certainly would not have a bl—”

“Major O’Hara!” cried Priscilla.

“This is an imposter, I tell you—”

Priscilla spoke calmly to the young woman. “I’m sorry, what is your name?”

“Felicity Khan,” she announced defiantly. “Parents emigrated from Mumbai, for your information. Born and raised right here in London. And I am a reporter for The Sunday Times.”

“I’m Priscilla Tempest, Miss Khan.” Priscilla held out her hand. “Parents living outside Toronto, Canada, where I was born and raised. I’m supposedly in charge around here, although I’m beginning to wonder. Would you mind stepping into my office?”

“Don’t mind at all,” said Felicity.

“This way, please.” Priscilla opened the door to her office and then stepped aside so that Felicity could pass by. Priscilla threw O’Hara an accusatory look. O’Hara, meantime, was busy straightening himself, ensuring that his regimental tie was properly adjusted—and trying, without great success, to maintain his usual expression of infinite superiority.

Priscilla followed Felicity and closed the door, thoughts of a resignation letter for now set aside. “Would you like something to drink?”

“Is that how you buy off the press?” Felicity asked sarcastically.

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