Chapters (37)
- Cover
- Berkley Prime Crime Titles by Rhys Bowen
- Title Page
- Copyright
- Dedication
- Chapter 1
- Chapter 2
- Chapter 3
- Chapter 4
- Chapter 5
- Chapter 6
- Chapter 7
- Chapter 8
- Chapter 9
- Chapter 10
- Chapter 11
- Chapter 12
- Chapter 13
- Chapter 14
- Chapter 15
- Chapter 16
- Chapter 17
- Chapter 18
- Chapter 19
- Chapter 20
- Chapter 21
- Chapter 22
- Chapter 23
- Chapter 24
- Chapter 25
- Chapter 26
- Chapter 27
- Chapter 28
- Chapter 29
- Chapter 30
- Chapter 31
- Historical Note
“Well, she used to, didn’t she? Quite fond of her, she was. They’d been together for some time and then out of the blue she goes and sacks her. Just like that. I was quite surprised and she never told me why. I can’t say I was pleased either. More work for me because she’s not the neatest of young ladies. She’d have that place like a pigsty if I wasn’t there.” A sad look came over her face. “So I suppose I’m going to be looking for work now. That’s not a nice thing to face with winter coming on.”
I immediately thought of Belinda. Mrs. Preston had had great experience at being discreet.
“I might know somebody who would need your services, Mrs. Preston,” I said. “Not too far away, in Knightsbridge.”
“Well, thank you kindly, miss,” she said. “That’s good of you. And I’m forgetting my manners. Would you like a cup of tea? The kettle’s always on.”
“Kind of you, but I have to be on my way,” I said. “If I could just have those keys?”
“Oh yes. I’ll fetch them for you.” She bobbed out into the kitchen, reminding me of a Cockney sparrow. I had stood up when she returned.
“Thank you so much,” I said. “I’ll return them to Frederick and they’ll let you know if they want you to go back and clean up the place after she’s moved out.”
“Right you are, miss,” she said.
“And I’ll speak to my friend about you right away,” I said.
“Good of you, miss. You’re a real toff,” she said.
I felt awkward and with a bad taste in my mouth as I came out into the street. I had, after all, tricked her out of her keys. But then she would no longer have a job looking after Bobo Carrington, would she? And someone else would have asked for the return of the keys, less politely than I had done. And I might have a new job for her too. Thus reassured, I went around the back of the station to Buckingham Palace Road and hopped on a bus going up to Park Lane. It wasn’t that I was too tired to walk. Nobody who has grown up in the Scottish Highlands, walking miles through the heather, would find it daunting to walk in London, but time was now of the essence and I wanted to cram as much as possible into my free morning.