service, and then leave me alone.”
“Where is Fitzroy Todd living these days?” I asked.
“With his parents, of course. The Belgravia town house. Don’t tell me you’re going to see him?”
“I might,” I said. “What about Ramona, the skimmer? Where does she live?”
“How would I know?” Davies shouted. “I’ve never seen the woman.”
“Streatham,” Octavia said from her place at the door. She was watching me now, her tears forgotten. “Ramona lives in Streatham. I can show you where.”
I looked at Octavia for a moment. She had calmed; her interest was focused exclusively on me, and I saw in her eyes, deep beneath the drama and the selfishness, a thin strip of steely fascination.
“Do you have transportation?” I asked her.
“My driver is right outside,” she replied evenly. “Are you truly going to find Gloria’s murderer?”
“She’d better,” said Davies. “Now both of you get out of here.”
I touched the hard surface that indicated the flask in my handbag.
If you want me to find you, Gloria,
I thought,
you owe me a drink.
“This is grand of you, Octavia,” I said to the girl in the doorway. “Let’s go.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
O ctavia’s motorcar was a fast, stylish little roadster with a uniformed driver waiting stoically at the wheel. Octavia leaned forward from the backseat and gave him an address in Streatham as I folded my legs into the tiny space next to her and put my handbag on my lap.
I glanced at her profile as she leaned back again and patted her hat. Her face was a bit long, perhaps, not round and cherubic like the current fashion, but there was no doubt she was beautiful. Streatham, with its cheap cinemas and trashy ballrooms, was decidedly slumming for a girl like her—but for girls like her, slumming for an evening was sometimes an entertainment in itself.
Especially when the slumming involved spirit mediums and psychics.
She turned to me, her tears gone though her eyes were still red, a sweet smile on her lips. “Isn’t this cozy?” she said. “It’s so nice to see you again. It’s terrific that I showed up when I did, isn’t it? Just in time to take you where you wanted to go.”
“Terrific,” I agreed.
“Did we meet at the Jaclyn-Dunbar party? I can’t recall.”
“No,” I replied. “I don’t believe so.”
“Oh, well,” she said, smiling again. “There are so many parties, aren’t there? It’s impossible to keep track. And ever since I heard about Gloria, I’ve barely been able to put two thoughts together. It’s positively mad that I can remember anything.”
It struck me then—the thought I’d been pushing away since the moment she’d come to the door of Gloria’s apartment. This girl had been my replacement. After Gloria and I split up, Octavia Murtry had become inseparable from her would-be sister-in-law. I studied her face for a moment, trying to see what Gloria had seen there. Octavia was prettier than me, perhaps, in her patrician way, but I had a hard time picturing her taking her shoes off and dancing a French cancan at two o’clock in the morning, as I had once done on one of Gloria’s dares.
“You two were close,” I said.
“I was engaged to Harry, you know,” she said. She set her nervous hands on her lap for a moment and looked out the window. I waited. “He died in Flanders,” she said after a pause. “It was the most horrid day of my life.” She turned back to me. “I’ve heard that some people had dreams when their boys died—prophetic dreams or visions. They see the man beside their bed or something, and they get the telegram a few weeks later stating that he died at that very moment. Have you ever heard of that?”
“Yes,” I said.
“I thought for a time that I should have seen him,” Octavia said. Her voice was almost avid, but it had not quite lost its well-trained coolness. “That the bond between us should have
done
something. I should somehow have known. But I didn’t see
“Where is Fitzroy Todd living these days?” I asked.
“With his parents, of course. The Belgravia town house. Don’t tell me you’re going to see him?”
“I might,” I said. “What about Ramona, the skimmer? Where does she live?”
“How would I know?” Davies shouted. “I’ve never seen the woman.”
“Streatham,” Octavia said from her place at the door. She was watching me now, her tears forgotten. “Ramona lives in Streatham. I can show you where.”
I looked at Octavia for a moment. She had calmed; her interest was focused exclusively on me, and I saw in her eyes, deep beneath the drama and the selfishness, a thin strip of steely fascination.
“Do you have transportation?” I asked her.
“My driver is right outside,” she replied evenly. “Are you truly going to find Gloria’s murderer?”
“She’d better,” said Davies. “Now both of you get out of here.”
I touched the hard surface that indicated the flask in my handbag.
If you want me to find you, Gloria,
I thought,
you owe me a drink.
“This is grand of you, Octavia,” I said to the girl in the doorway. “Let’s go.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
O ctavia’s motorcar was a fast, stylish little roadster with a uniformed driver waiting stoically at the wheel. Octavia leaned forward from the backseat and gave him an address in Streatham as I folded my legs into the tiny space next to her and put my handbag on my lap.
I glanced at her profile as she leaned back again and patted her hat. Her face was a bit long, perhaps, not round and cherubic like the current fashion, but there was no doubt she was beautiful. Streatham, with its cheap cinemas and trashy ballrooms, was decidedly slumming for a girl like her—but for girls like her, slumming for an evening was sometimes an entertainment in itself.
Especially when the slumming involved spirit mediums and psychics.
She turned to me, her tears gone though her eyes were still red, a sweet smile on her lips. “Isn’t this cozy?” she said. “It’s so nice to see you again. It’s terrific that I showed up when I did, isn’t it? Just in time to take you where you wanted to go.”
“Terrific,” I agreed.
“Did we meet at the Jaclyn-Dunbar party? I can’t recall.”
“No,” I replied. “I don’t believe so.”
“Oh, well,” she said, smiling again. “There are so many parties, aren’t there? It’s impossible to keep track. And ever since I heard about Gloria, I’ve barely been able to put two thoughts together. It’s positively mad that I can remember anything.”
It struck me then—the thought I’d been pushing away since the moment she’d come to the door of Gloria’s apartment. This girl had been my replacement. After Gloria and I split up, Octavia Murtry had become inseparable from her would-be sister-in-law. I studied her face for a moment, trying to see what Gloria had seen there. Octavia was prettier than me, perhaps, in her patrician way, but I had a hard time picturing her taking her shoes off and dancing a French cancan at two o’clock in the morning, as I had once done on one of Gloria’s dares.
“You two were close,” I said.
“I was engaged to Harry, you know,” she said. She set her nervous hands on her lap for a moment and looked out the window. I waited. “He died in Flanders,” she said after a pause. “It was the most horrid day of my life.” She turned back to me. “I’ve heard that some people had dreams when their boys died—prophetic dreams or visions. They see the man beside their bed or something, and they get the telegram a few weeks later stating that he died at that very moment. Have you ever heard of that?”
“Yes,” I said.
“I thought for a time that I should have seen him,” Octavia said. Her voice was almost avid, but it had not quite lost its well-trained coolness. “That the bond between us should have
done
something. I should somehow have known. But I didn’t see
Similar Books
