Intuition is the Warrior’s most critical tool. It starts in childhood when adults say something that sounds “not quite right” to the child. Something about their facial expression and the way they hold their body suggests they’re hoping you won’t inquire further, meaning they have no evidence or rationality for what they’re proposing. Sounds like they don’t quite believe it themselves and they’re just passing it to you, like an infection. It’s an infection you don’t want to get.
Sometimes you ask further, other times you snoop around for evidence on your own. You can usually catch the Grownups talking earnestly in what they think is privacy about what you will buy and what are the consequences if they fail to persuade you.
Reading is a helpful source of information. You can always find evidence that completely contradicts any BS du Jour.
And right then, you’ve become a Warrior, because you’ve realized you need to rely on yourself. Not them.
Breaking Free
In retrospect we Forgive ourselves Imperfect inspirations Unbecoming intuitions Seeing how high we flew; Unaltered Compared to many others Scraping by along the Substrate; Just a memory of cloud’s Enough To settle into sunset Pillowed into selfhood; “I heard I saw I Flew”
When I was 11 I saw a 3,000 year old Greek play in a Greek stone theatre and was very taken by all its mechanisms of chorus and emotion. When we went back to the boat I sat down and wrote my own play, Chrysothemis, about Electra’s other sister. I couldn’t help it, I had to reflect that emotion back. It was a hot day and everyone else went swimming, but a Warrior would have finished that play. I finished the play.
It’s in Conflict that warriors emerge. My uncle insisted people in authority be “respected” and said whether they were worthy of respect was not the point. My parents were never that crass. It was a subtle game with them. My mother referred conflict to my father; we were ”hurting” her by not being the people that she wanted. It was hard to take seriously. But “discipline” quickly transferred to my father and he was a much scarier proposition. He was physically violent – spanking me, breaking down my door, visibly losing his temper and then further enraged over losing his temper. This was a whirlwind I could not ride and it hardened me against him. Some facts he refused to accept, actual truths he rejected with “No.” I understood that my mother was too weak to face things but Dad claimed to be a fearless seeker in life. It made me disrespect him.
My family typically spent a month each summer cruising on a thirty-seven foot sloop called the Phoenix. Four children and two adults relating in such a confined space shaped the warrior skills of my adult personality, including a taste for exploration, for reveling in the physical pleasures of water, wind, storm & sun, for the absolute dissociation of reading and thinking, and for reading aloud, also group card games such a Michigan and Oh Hell played during wild evening parties called “Phoenix A-Gogo.”
One of my earliest jobs was an office work temp – ending up as receptionist at an architecture firm. In my hegira through multiple workplaces I did not find one where I liked the lowly way I was treated. But Warriors, by definition, don’t put up with the Status Quo. Seeking to ratchet up my power level I used my training and auditioned to be a dancer. Things improved mightily! Although I still encountered some mistrust and scorn, on the whole, I achieved my goal of feeling plugged into the Universal Power Source.
It’s a different challenge coming in to oneself in a large family. I’ve never been certain since which part of me is my real self and which part is my sisters. Certainly the push-pull with my 18 month older sister Genevieve had a significant effect on me. You could argue that she forced me to become a warrior, in order to resist her.
Genevieve was a natural leader – she rewarded complicity and punished rebellion. The escapades I adventured on with her – stringing the entire house with yarn like a maze, filling the kitchen with sand – were enormous fun, even though they got us into trouble. But I often wanted to be alone and discovered that if I climbed into the highest branches of the cooper beech I could read peacefully. No one could get at me there.
Reader of Trees
I was the only one who knew your bark
Was better than your bite
I could resist you there
Climbing higher just to
Become myself
Dragging books into branches
Like a jaguar storing prey – fairy tales – The Iliad – Egyptian magic – That was how it started
Dawn was just breaking as Scarlet came home. She took a long, hot bath and dressed, but the warmest sweaters and tights could not block the chill that had settled in her bones. The kitchen had become a crime scene. Enid switched her sphere of operations to the tiny kitchen off the ballroom. She could toast bread. Milk could be placed against the cold windowsill to keep it fresh.
Scarlet crawled into bed with Nick. He still was healthy, wide-eyed, fresh, new and needy. He had no idea how horrible the world really was.
“She’s gone,” Scarlet told Enid. “The brain injury was just too awful.”
“What made you wake?”
“I’m not sure. I had a dreadful dream. Something about Miss Bottomley lost on a raft. I must have heard a sound from downstairs.”
“Miss Bottomley screamed. I heard it too. That dreadful woman must have attacked her to stop her noise.”
Candi had lots of reasons for attacking people. All given to her – thought Scarlet grimly, by my dear husband.
The policeman climbed up the stairs to see the women. He didn’t look like a detective but more like a department store floorwalker with his shiny bald head and a sharp-cut suit.
“Scotland Yard,” he introduced himself. “Inspector MacBlythe. May I get the details of your story?”
“We’ll meet you in the sitting room,” sighed Scarlet. She climbed reluctantly out of bed and walked to the chintz settee she had so admired just a few brief weeks ago. She had thought she knew trouble and sorrow then, but in reality she had been only too naïve in the ways of misery. Fatally so. How could she could have ever guessed what depths of viciousness simple selfishness and greed could release!
The Inspector was not as surprised by the existence of a night guard as the bobby had been. “This place is a treasure house,” he said. “It’s at least a two-man job.”
“I wish we’d thought of it,” Scarlet wept. “The security man seemed so confident.”
Enid freshened the tea.
“What connection are you to Mrs. Pourfoyle?” MacBlythe was coming to the meat of the matter. “When I found out she and my husband were having an affair I told him I wanted a divorce. She quit her job and moved into our country house – at least that’s what my solicitor tells me. But last week she came up to London and threatened me as if I was the one blocking the divorce. But Ian’s been the blocker. It seems he’s got other girlfriends, one actually living with him in his flat. Again, according to my solicitor.”
MacBlythe took down all Pelham D’Arcy’s and Ian’s information, and moved over to Enid. Nick began to cry and Scarlet gladly sprang to her feet to remove him from the room.
Pelham called when the police had finished with him and requested an interview – “you and Enid both.”
“Oh, good,” said Enid. “I don’t want to be alone. Let’s have dinner out, afterwards.”
“I’m too tired for anything but fish and chips,” said Scarlet, who really didn’t want to see people.
“That’s fine with me.” Dear Enid, obliging as always.
Bob Thomas and Pelham met them in the Partners’ Room, which had a long table, imposing portraits and deep comfortable wingback chairs. Nick slept angelically in his carrycot. Scarlet imagined someday trying to explain all this to him.
“Well, this is a terrible thing,” said Bob Thomas, pouring tea all around. From an antique silver set, Scarlet noticed. She and Enid refused sherry. “Is the woman mad?”
“Temporarily maddened,” contributed Pelham, who was more accustomed to the vagaries of divorce.
“Well, she’s committed murder, is what she’s done,” said Bob Thomas.
They all agreed it was an unconscionable thing as they sipped their tea. There was a knock on the door and Pom thrust his head inside.
“Pom, I’m in a meeting!” gasped Scarlet.
“I asked Mr. Bronfen to join us,” said Bob Thomas. “Tea? Sherry?”
Pom accepted a small sherry. He sat next to Scarlet and held her hand tightly, under the table. “All three of you – Mr. Bronfen, Mrs. Rumson and Mrs. Wye – are beneficiaries under Miss Bottomley’s will.”
Light burst onto Scarlet when she realized, he is talking about me! She had forgotten she was Mrs. Wye. Suddenly she was on a par with Lady Lechmere in her attorney’s eyes. She had been upgraded.
“Oh, my goodness,” she gasped. “But won’t they contest it?”
“Who?” inquired Bob Thomas calmly. “There are no interested parties. She was literally the last of her line. The property would have reverted to the Crown.”
“Mr. Inkum-“
“Mr. Inkum would not dare. The papers he attempted to get Miss Bottomley to sign were so outrageously self-interested he would be drummed out of the profession if anyone complained.”
Reality began to sink in. She sadly recalled Miss Bottomley’s delighted exclamation, “Do you know, I am a very rich woman?”
Pom and Enid and Scarlet gazed at each other, dazzled.
Bob Thomas cleared his throat. “There are six trusts concerning real estate, art, publishing and commercial properties. Mrs. Wye is the discretionary trustee and I am the advisor.”
And he proceeded to explain.
Scarlet was openly clutching Pom’s hand as they staggered out of the lawyers’ office. “I’m gobsmacked,” said Enid. “What a lovely human being she was.”
“And how we’re going to miss her,” gasped Scarlet.
Pom guided them into a nearby bistro – “do you like pizza? You must try it,” and ordered a bottle of chianti.
“To Miss Bottomley’s foresight and generosity,” toasted Pom.
Nick’s eyes were big as he looked from each to each in the candle flame.
“But we couldn’t protect her!’ sighed Scarlet. “It’s because of me she’s dead, don’t you see?”
“How could you ever have guessed that Candi would do such a thing?”
“I couldn’t!”
“Any thug could have broken in and attacked poor Miss Bottomley at any time. She could have been assaulted on the street! She was all alone before we came.”
“But the time was so short. Too short.”
“Time is always too short,” said Pom and he squeezed Scarlet’s hand meaningfully.
That very night Scarlet had the strangest dream. She was picnicking with Pom – a Watteau-like scene of countrified perfection. They lolled on a riverbank, dressed in party clothes with the best offerings of Fortnum & Mason spread out at their feet. But it seemed however much they laughed, lifting their glasses to each other, some desperate dread lurked right below the surface. Suddenly in the stream beside them Miss Bottomley appeared on a raft. Night-clothed, disoriented and woebegone she lifted up her hands in supplication before being swept away. Neither Scarlet nor Pom could react. Scarlet felt her clothes an enormous weight, her limbs immobile, she could not even force her lips into a scream. The terror was so immense Scarlet struggled to wake up.
“This must be a dream,” she told herself, and so it was. Scarlet fell back against the pillows as exhausted as if she’d been fighting, not sleeping. Yet she felt some relief. She had been given another chance. She must not waste it. What had she forgotten? It was something connected with Miss Bottomley. Her preoccupation with Pom was causing her to neglect Miss Bottomley. Something – something – she forgot to do. But as so often happens, the dream words melted away on the sand before she could read them.
Was Miss Bottomley calling out for her? There was only one way to find out. Scarlet struggled into a dressing gown and slippers and hurried down the stairs.
She heard it before she saw it, pushing against the baize kitchen door — some desperate struggle in the lighted kitchen. Scarlet braced her body against the door to see a slight figure kneeling over Miss Bottomley with a flail, beating and beating. Blood was everywhere, swirling patterns rising and falling to the very ceiling. The room stank like a charnelhouse.
Scarlet sprang forward, grabbed the black clothed creature whose eyes beneath a ski mask swiveled up to confront her. Those eyes – mad with rage – were Candi’s eyes. Scarlet tore off the mask to reveal Candi’s demonic face. Candi shrieked – “You!” and attacked her.
The club slipped from her hand and fell to the floor while the women struggled in a desperate embrace. Scarlet felt strong, but stupid and slow – the other woman was wiry and crazed.
“I’ve got to knock her out somehow,” Scarlet thought and with all her power forced Candi’s head against of the cast-iron Aga stove. Again and again she cracked it until Candi went down.
Then she heard a siren, ear-splitting – and saw Enid aghast in the doorway.
“What happened? I pressed the panic button!”
“Call for an ambulance – Miss Bottomley’s been hurt.”
Before she attended to Miss B she must hogtie Candi with kitchen clothesline – no risking another assault. Candi seemed completely out of it but she was breathing.
Miss Bottomley’s eyes were open. She was wearing the cursed red anorak over her nightclothes – bitterly Scarlet rued their casual swap. How much trouble this had caused! She had already received one warning about the dangerous potentialities of clothing confusion but she’d failed to grasp its meaning.
“What happened?” gasped Miss B. “Did I fall?”
Scarlet, hot with tears, pulled her wounded employer into her lap and began rocking her like a child. “You’re going to be all right,” she chanted. “We’re taking you to hospital.”
The night guard appeared in the doorway, his mouth agape.
“What happened?”
“Somehow this woman got in and attacked Miss Bottomley. Enid called the police and ambulance.” “Oh, my lord,” said the poor man, “Must have been when I went to the phone for hourly report.”
Miss Bottomley gasped and gurgled. She clutched Scarlet’s hand so hard it was difficult to surrender her to the medics. As Scarlet climbed into the ambulance she could hear the night guard explaining to anyone who would listen, “I had to make my report.”
Why hadn’t she been informed that his post would be unwatched for minutes every hour? It was ludicrous! She grabbed his arm.
“Don’t you dare let the attacker go,” she commanded. She didn’t trust him anymore, but at least Candi seemed immobilized. Scarlet could hear the police siren, but the ambulance couldn’t wait. Rocking back and forth she asked herself, Why had it occurred to literally no one, that a single guard couldn’t possibly cover the entrance? What about bathroom breaks, not to mention the hourly reports from the corner phone the client had not even been informed about? She gritted her teeth, but the person she most blamed was herself. She could kick herself for not thinking it through.
How easily we accept reassuring appearances without enquiring deeper!
At the hospital, Miss Bottomley was rushed away and Scarlet was given a blanket to cover her bloodstained nightclothes. She longed for the comfort of Enid’s presence but knew Enid must remain at Norfolk Crescent for Nick. She’d have to get through this alone.
“May I speak to you, ma’am?”
It was a London bobby, helmet removed, holding his notebook.
“Sure,” said Scarlet in her exhausted American drawl.
“What occurred precisely? Best you can recall?”
“I must have heard something. I really don’t know why but I got up, thinking Miss Bottomley –“
“The injured party?”
“Yes. She’s my employer. I thought she needed me. When I ran downstairs I heard them struggling. This woman Candi Pourfoyle must have come through the back entrance – there’s a guard on but he says he was making a phone call.”
“There’s a guard?” interest in his gray eyes.
“Well stone masons are building a new entrance at the back and there isn’t a door so they set a guard there. But he’s no good!” She bit her thumb angrily. “I wish I’d known he was going to be no good.”
“Cup of tea?” A sympathetic sister approached.
“Yes, please.” Scarlet accepted the white china cup – you could see the sugar they’d sloshed in. It was lukewarm but enormously comforting.
“You recognized the attacker?”
“Candi Pourfoyle, I told you. “
“And she is?”
“My husband’s girlfriend. I don’t know if she thought Miss Bottomley was me or not – poor Miss B. was wearing my anorak – but Candi would have to come through the kitchen and Miss B often fell asleep sitting by the Aga –“
“Hold on now, please. What exactly did you see?”
“They were both on the floor. Candi was beating her with a club – blood everywhere. I pulled her off, knocked her out and tied her up with clothesline. Enid heard the ruckus and called police.”
“You knocked her out? Did you have a weapon?”
“No. I wish I had. But I bashed her head against the stove.”
The bobby patted her knee. “That’s a ghastly experience,” he said sympathetically. “Dreadful.”
And it’s only going to get worse, Scarlet could tell from the doctors’ faces as they pushed through the operating theatre doors. She stopped trying to be strong and burst into tears.
And they both managed a full night’s restful sleep.
Scarlet was breakfasting alone at the dining table, scanning the papers when the phone call came. “You’ll never believe what Ian told the magistrate,” said D’Arcy. “By the way, our detective lost him at the BBC – there are just too many entrances – so he very sensibly dispatched himself to your current place of residence. He obtained one long distance photo of Ian backing you up against a wall – no kissing, but the buttons of your coat undone.”
“What did Ian say?”
“He said you were disguised as the nanny! Is that possible, Scarlet?”
Scarlet flushed. She had not expected this. “I did borrow the nanny’s greatcoat. And hat.” “Why on earth?”
“I wanted to get a good look at any loiterers.”
“Please leave that to us and don’t do it again. We are presenting ourselves as the innocent parties here – if a judge gets a whiff that the two of you are playing some marital game he’ll toss the whole case out as collusive.”
“I’m sorry,” said Scarlet. “I guess I didn’t think. So, what did the magistrate do?”
“Well, he absolved Ian of contravening a court order but of course one isn’t supposed to slam nannies against walls, either. Since the detective testified to some kissing, Ian said he was having a “try-on.” It certainly doesn’t help his case and he was unarguably too close to your residence. The judge has added the nanny to the order and repeated “Stay away.” On the whole, I think we can call this a win.”
A hammering at the front door vaulted Scarlet to her feet. Must be the security crew. “I must go. Is that all?”
“That covers it. You be a good girl, now.”
Scarlet promised, too distracted to argue that girlhood felt very long past now and never to come again.
A woman wearing an old-fashioned duster stood on the doorstep, arm akimbo. “I’m here to see why I was fired. Mollie Jarviss of Jarviss Cleaning.”
“I’m sure we didn’t fire you,” said Scarlet, who had been expecting the security men. “Why don’t you come in and we’ll sort this out?”
She seated Mollie in the dining room and found Miss Bottomley toasting her toes in the kitchen, “keeping Enid company” which seemed to be her favorite new pursuit. She was wearing Scarlet’s bulky red anorak.
“I hope you don’t mind,” she apologized, “it just fits me so well, it’s so hard to stay warm and it’s so comfortable.”
“Not in the least,” said Scarlet. “You can have it. It doesn’t really fit me anymore. Clearly, I need new outerwear. By the way, was there any problem with the cleaning company that you can remember?”
“Our cleaning company? I can’t think of any,” said Miss Bottomley. “I never saw them. But they certainly seemed honest, quiet and best of all from my point of view – they were fast.”
“Mrs. Jarviss is claiming she was fired.”
“I didn’t fire her,” snorted Miss Bottomley, “I fired Mr. Inkum. Bob Thomas and I did.”
“So you won’t object if I re-hire her?”
“Not in the least. I wouldn’t care to audition anyone new at this late stage.”
Scarlet carried the good news to Mrs. Jarvis.
“It’s Inkum who’s been let go,” she averred. “We’ll be paying you from now on.”
Relief melted Mrs. Jarviss’ face, followed by embarrassment.
“That’s all right, then,” she said. “I apologize if I was forceful. I thought we’d been found wanting but nobody told me. Fix anything the customer doesn’t care for is my motto. My girls are honest and hard-working.”
“That’s great, then. Miss Bottomley is well satisfied.”
“Four o’clock today, then? Two pounds ten.”
“Certainly,” said Scarlet, trying not to show how surprised she was at such a low figure for this vast place. She escorted a much-subdued Mrs. Jarviss to the door. “We’ll see you this afternoon, then.” If it was once a week, she thought, there wouldn’t be a need to give Mrs. Jarviss the code. But she must remember to get a cheque from Miss Bottomley.
The security men were pulling up at that very moment.
“Good morning,” said Mr. Dyson. “This is Bert, who will work on keying your front door. John Truax here will oversee the job at the back.”
Bert was all business in a gray oil-stained boiler suit He immediately knelt to study the door locks with scarcely a glance at Scarlet. Truax was more personable. He looked ex-military with his shoulders bulging out of his turtleneck and tweed jacket.
“Miss Bottomley’s favorite number is 881,” whispered Scarlet. “Some childhood address.”
“That’s where we’ll start, then. If you could walk us to the back?”
Miss Bottomley was delighted by the company and offered tea all round, which the men did not take up. Elevenses, they averred, at eleven, would be welcome.
“I will need a chair, if that’s all right,” said Truax. “For my post.”
It was certainly all right.
Three trucks had already pulled up in the forecourt.
“I wish I could watch,” said Miss Bottomley regretfully, “But I must get ready for Mr. Thomas. We’re going to the bank.”
“Nick and I can keep watch,” said Enid.
Scarlet thought it was really the handsome Truax who had drawn Enid’s attention.
“I have some things to do upstairs,” said Scarlet.
But it was not to be. The front door bell summoned her yet again. Who’s the housemaid now? Wondered Scarlet but her disgruntled expression changed when she saw Pom and a sweet-looking young man standing before her on the doorstep.
“Finally, someone I want to see!” she gasped. Pom and the stranger broke into smiles immediately. “Kirby Crousam,” Pom introduced, “From the Victoria and Albert. We went to art school together.” They had to step over locksmith Bert to enter.
Scarlet bit her tongue to avoid telling poor Mr. Crousam that he didn’t look old enough to be running his own affairs, much less anyone else’s. The boyish-looking man produced a very professional portfolio with pages of checklists. He insisted on a complete tour.
“Oh, my goodness,” gasped Crousam, “I can’t believe my eyes. Wells Antiquarian chairs, St. George cabinets –and this washstand – simply priceless!’
“I thought it was a prie-dieu or something,” muttered Scarlet.
“No, this rather strange piece of marble was simply laid on top. I suppose they thought they were repurposing it. But the upholstery looks original.”
“Well, no one has ever sat there,” said Scarlet, while Pom echoed, “Who would WANT to?” “It’s true these pieces are thoroughly out of fashion now,” Crousam agreed. “But they are living history. All the more reason they should be protected.”
“They belong in a museum,” said Scarlet, and Kirby Crousam flushed with pleasure at a comment which in her country would be more of an insult. Scarlet’s conscience smote her and she offered Kirby Crousam a cup of tea.
“After I’ve finished that would be most welcome,” said Crousam.
“After you’ve finished you may be ready for dinner,” said Pom. “There are three floors of this stuff.”
“I feel like I’m dreaming,” said Crousam. “It’s a treasure trove!” Closer up, Scarlet saw the network of wrinkles. He looked more like a jockey, really – boyish at a distance but seen close-to he was prematurely aged, more like a chimneysweep .
“How can everything possibly be in such perfect condition?” Crousam continued. “It’s a curator’s dream come true.”
“Well, the old lady who lived here before Miss Bottomley seemed to prefer luxury cruise ships.”
Kirby turned up the carpet to study the weave.
“It usually comes down to some old party too frightened to make a will.”
Pom flashed his charming smile. “And whose relatives were all too shy –“
“Or too snooty –“ teased Scarlet –
“To get married or have children and so when the old lady died the whole property went to another old lady the first old lady had never even met.”
“How Dickensian,” murmured Crousam.
“And our heiress old lady was a novelist who believed in finding the proper place for everything,” Scarlet finished. “These pieces should be where people can enjoy them.”
“And learn from them. The museum would be so honored to receive any of these pieces. We have such a small endowment – people don’t realize – but sometimes we can raise funds for certain items -“
“I think you’ll find Miss Bottomley wants to be as generous as possible. Why don’t you get in touch with Bob Thomas of Thomas & D’Arcy – he’s her man of business.”
“Of course,” said Crousam, making a note. “Are there any rooms I shouldn’t enter?”
“I’d say the kitchen and the rooms behind it. Those are Miss Bottomley’s private quarters,” said Scarlet. “Why don’t I let you know when she’s available?”
They couldn’t finish the wine. To drink such wine just for the sake of drinking would seem sacrilegious. After a single glass each, Pom corked it,
“For Miss Bottomley’s breakfast.”
She giggled. “For our next celebration,” she suggested instead and Enid said, “Tomorrow night?” Pom rapidly found a working bulb and carried it down to the wine cellar. Scarlet remained at the top of the stairs, but once flooded with light, the cavern was not so intimidating.
“Look at this,” said Pom, struggling with an ancient door, “I wonder where this goes.”
“Let’s check by daylight,” Scarlet suggested. “I’m ready for coffee to clear my head.”
Miss Bottomley had gone to bed. Enid was tidying the kitchen while the dishwasher hummed.
Scarlet locked the wine cellar door carefully. “We’d better make certain this wine appears on the insurance inventory,” she said. “Must be worth a bundle.”
Enid poured out coffee. “I appreciated your toast,” she said. “I realized I should have toasted you for rescuing ME.”
“Miss Bottomley put her finger on it,” Pom agreed. “It was Rescue All Around.”
“To the Mutual Rescue Society and Norfolk Crescent Irregulars.” Scarlet lifted her mug. And they toasted their new affiliation with excellent espresso.
“Let me call you tomorrow after I’ve spoken to Kirby Crousam,” Pom told Scarlet as she walked him to the door. “He’s my man at the Albert and Victoria. I know enough to see I’m way out of my league here– we’ll have to call in the big guns.”
“Big guns indeed,” said Scarlet. “Tomorrow we’ve got the security people coming to look at Miss Bottomley’s setup.”
And, it would seem, not a moment too soon. They both saw the man who rushed into the phone booth as Pom climbed into his car. Darned detectives!
Scarlet was changing into pajamas when Nick woke, and she had the pleasure of giving him a bottle. Enid was dead to the world.
Palace Security – “by appointment to her Majesty the Queen” – showed up at precisely eight a.m. in the person of a Mr. Dyson who looked for all the world like a brigadier general. Turned out, he was retired British Army. Miss Bottomley was not awake but Scarlet walked them through the requirements.
“We need something easy that Miss Bottomley can master.”
Mr. Dyson’s eyes glittered. “How about a code? Such as banks use?”
“Perfect. I’ll ask Miss Bottomley for her favorite number.”
She was delighted to stun him with the sight of their new Cavern of Treasures.
“Good Lord,” said Dyson, “We’ll need a new door here. Something metal. Where does this go?” “Are you ready to find out?” asked Scarlet. “It will be news to me.”
Steps led up to the carpark. It was flimsily secured with a padlocked cellar entry.
“Well, I’m glad to see there’s some security,” said Mr. Dyson. “I suppose this is where the vintners brought in the casks. All this will have to be replaced.”
Enid rewarded him with a cup of Earl Grey in the kitchen. “I’d like to introduce a touchy subject,” said Scarlet. “We’ve already had a man try to gain admittance to the house through a ruse.”
“Shocking, but it makes no difference,” said Dyson, stalwart. “You’ve got an elderly lady sitting on a treasure house – just a matter of time before the cons look to test it. I’ll put a bodyguard on. You’ll like him – easy fellow. The front’s a fast job – can be over in a morning – but the back will take a week. And we’ll have to secure all these windows. The bodyguard can vet the workers for you, make certain everyone’s who they say they are.”
“Perfect,” said Scarlet.
After he’d gone, Enid commented, “Is it the divorce causing these ructions?”
“I’ll say,” said Scarlet. “We’ve both hired detectives.”
Enid sighed. “Must be nice to be wanted.”
“It isn’t me he wants, it’s Nick.” Scarlet was aware as she said it that this wasn’t strictly true. Ian wanted something from Scarlet – but what was it exactly? Subjugation? Her admission that he was right and she was wrong? Her conversion to his double standard philosophy of male-female relations?
Bob Thomas showed up while Miss Bottomley was finishing her late breakfast.
“Only one glass of wine for me in future,” she said. “I’m not accustomed to getting so much sleep and feeling wuzzy next day. Show Mr. Thomas into the dining room.”
Since the dining room had no door to the hallway and their conversation could be heard all over the house Scarlet resolved to take Nick for a walk. It would be interesting to see who was spying on the property.
It was a chilly day with a promise of snow – mother and baby needed bundling up. At the door, Scarlet touched Enid’s heavy greatcoat and grey wool hat thoughtfully.
“Enid? May I borrow your outdoor things? I want to see if anyone follows me.” It seemed a less embarrassing excuse than, “My anorak no longer fits me” but it was none the less true. Enid emerged from the kitchen, her face pink from a morning of baking.
“Of course you may, if you promise to wear the police whistle you’ll find in my pocket! Clever girl! Can you pick up a jar of lemon curd for me at Sawditch’s?”
“Will do.”
It was a wonderful big greatcoat – impossible to tell what kind of body was underneath. In her nondescript wellies and hair tucked up into the wool hat, Scarlet could have been anyone – male or female. To make the impersonation perfect she even slipped on Enid’s big gray mittens, much coarser – and less warm – than her own lambs’ wool lined leather gloves. Last of all she put the police whistle around her neck. Amusingly it made her feel less ridiculous when someone like Enid was taking extra steps to be so careful.
Alysse Aallyn 