Addie had sworn off murders, had given away all her mysteries, but she couldn’t throw the newspapers away.
So she’d cut neat lines and glued, moved to record the most unusual period in her life so far, when she thought she was losing her mind. Maybe she had. Some people kept invitations and theater tickets—she seemed to be memorializing death itself.
But now there was something much happier to include on the blank pages of the scrapbook: today’s announcement in The Times of the engagement of Prince Andrei Alexei Andropov and Miss Nadia Kristina Elena Sanborn. Addie wondered if she’d be invited to the wedding.
The postcard she’d received from Kit Wheeler on the Cote d’Azur had been dutifully pasted in too. On it, Kit had simply written, “See? I was right.”
The little snot.
She wondered if he and his lover were happy and safe in France. Wondered too about Trix and Ollie Johnson. The Thieves’ Den had booked another band, and it was still the place to throw off one’s inhibitions and dance until dawn. But a newer club had opened a few weeks ago, the Southern Belle, which was stiff competition. Addie hadn’t been, but Cee said it was all the rage, with paper magnolias in vases and plenty of bourbon flowing. Waitresses in hoop skirts somehow managed to deliver drinks without knocking the tables over, and young idiots took bets as to how many of them could hide inside the hoop without being seen.
Cee and her mother were back in London and staying at Addie’s Mount Street flat while the builders put their finishing touches on the Dower House at Broughton Park. So Addie had Compton Chase all to herself, if one didn’t factor in the servants and Fitz, who was anxious for his walk.
She checked her watch. “All right, you furry reprobate. Come on.” The dog danced around her legs, nearly tripping her. She headed out into the garden, admiring Jack Robertson’s handiwork. He was young and ambitious, a very hard worker who had achieved miraculous results with only a couple of village boys to help. She knew he sketched garden designs in his off hours, and one day hoped to market his skills in the wider world.
Addie couldn’t hold him back, even if it meant he might take Beckett away with him. However, the course of true love was not running especially smoothly at the moment, as Beckett had somewhat cinematic expectations of her leading man, and Jack was definitely a no-nonsense hero. Addie smiled. She looked forward to planning their wedding, right here in her beautiful garden.
Spring was full of promise, and Fitz was on the trail of new scents, heading off into the woods. She whistled to him, and he came with reluctance. “Time to walk up the drive and greet our guest. He should be here any minute.”
She’d been a little too nervous to wait inside, and certainly did not want to be caught with the scrapbook. Was it too forward of her to hang about the gatehouse? At least it was in much better shape than Lucy’s love nest. She shivered a little, remembering.
Addie prevented Fitz from jumping in the ornamental lake to go after the ducklings, and she walked up the tree-lined avenue at a stately pace after the dog, her sensible country brogues cushioning her footfalls. She didn’t wish to “glow,” as her mother called it, when she saw her visitor again. No lady of consequence allowed herself to sweat, or even speak the word out loud.
She also didn’t wish to look as if she was trying too hard, hence the ugly brown shoes, a tan pleated skirt, and an argyle sweater set in pink, white, and mint green. Beckett had been disappointed at her choices but had at least approved of her hair.
Addie heard the Morris before she saw it, and called to Fitz. The visit would not start propitiously if the dog got run over first thing. He raced back, tongue lolling, and she picked him up in her arms, where he proceeded to writhe and lick the powder off her chin.
The car stopped and idled. “May I give you a lift, madam?”
Addie grinned. “I don’t ride with strange gentlemen.”
“I’m really not so strange. Just slightly eccentric.”
“It’s lovely to see you. How was the drive?”
“I made excellent time. My mother has sent me with some laddoo for you, but I admit I ate a few on the way.”
“What are they?”
“Here. Have one.” He opened the box that was on the passenger seat, and handed her a perfectly round small sphere.
“Mmm,” she said, after taking a bite. “None for you, Fitz. Raisins. And pistachios?” She popped the rest into her mouth.
“Yes. The ingredients vary, but they are often served at important occasions.”
Was this an important occasion? Addie hoped so.
You’ve cut your hair,” he said.
“It was time for a change.” She tucked some curls behind her ears, still a little uncertain about the hairdo.
“It suits you.”
“I thought most gentlemen liked long hair.”
“I’m not like most gentlemen, as you know. Remember, I’m eccentric.”
Addie walked around the car and slid in, putting the box of sweets by her feet. “Don’t even think about it, Fitz,” she said, clutching the wiggling dog. Then to the inspector, “Thank you so much for coming. I wanted to make it up to you somehow, after almost being the cause of your premature demise.”
Mr. Hunter’s dark eyes moved over her clothing. “I hope you aren’t armed today.”
“No, I’ve locked the gun up in the safe, at least while you’re here.”
“That’s good news.” He put the car in gear and headed toward the house.
“You’ve been well?” she asked.
“Busy. Still alive. I count myself fortunate.” He’d told her on the telephone that he’d only been badly bruised by the bullet that could have killed him.
Addie would never forget thinking he was dead, and that it was her fault.
“Well, I hope you can relax,” she said, feeling quite on edge herself. What if it had been a mistake to invite him? What if he expected—
No. Detective Inspector Devenand Hunter was too much of a gentleman to expect anything. Much too honorable.
Addie would try to change that. She had two days.
Author’s Note
The Forty Dollies are based on a real girl gang that confounded and fascinated Britain for several decades. Known as the Forty Elephants, presumably since many of them hailed from the Elephant and Castle district in London, they wound up resembling elephants after they packed stolen goods into their specially made petticoats. They were glamorous, ruthless, and reckless. When the police got too hot to handle in London, they’d travel further afield and rob fresh marks. Working in groups, one would distract the shopkeeper while the others brazenly carried out trays of diamonds and other valuables. I’m not sure how Maggie Hughes managed to conceal three fur coats stolen from Harrods under her dress, but she wound up with a sentence of twelve-months with hard labor. For more information on “Britain’s First Female Crime Syndicate,” read Alice Diamond and the Forty Elephants by Brian McDonald.
And for those of you (like me) who thought Connie Francis was the first to sing “Who’s Sorry Now,” the song was first published in 1923!
Who's Sorry Now? Page 25