FOUR
AT THE BOTTOM OF the stairs, I was taken with a sudden but brilliant idea.
Even in summer, taking a bath in the east wing was like a major military campaign. Dogger would have to lug buckets of water from either the kitchen or the west wing to fill the tin hipbath in my bedroom, which would afterwards have to be bailed out, and the bathwater disposed of by dumping it down a WC in the west wing or one of the sinks in my laboratory. Either way, the whole thing was a pain in the porpoise.
Besides, I had never really liked the idea of dirty bathwater being brought into my sanctum sanctorum. It seemed somehow blasphemous.
The solution was simple enough: I would bathe in Harriet’s boudoir.
Why hadn’t I thought of it before?
Harriet’s suite had an antique slipper bathtub, draped with a tall and gauzy white canopy. Like an elderly railway engine, the thing was equipped with any number of interesting taps, knobs, and valves with which one could adjust the velocity and the temperature of the water.
It would make bathing almost fun.
I smiled in anticipation as I walked along the corridor, happy in the thought that my chilled body would soon be immersed to the ears in hot suds.
I stopped and listened at the door—just in case.
Someone inside was singing!
“O for the wings, for the wings of a dove!
Far away, far away, would I rove!
In the wilderness build me a nest …”
I edged the door open and slipped inside.
“Is that you, Bun? Fetch me my robe, will you? It’s on the back of the door. Oh, and while you’re at it, a nice drinksie-winksie would be just what the doctor ordered.”
I stood perfectly still and waited.
“Bun?”
There was a faint, yet detectable note of fear in her voice.
“It’s me, Miss Wyvern … Flavia.”
“For God’s sake, girl, don’t lurk like that. Are you trying to frighten me to death? Come in here where I can see you.”
I showed myself around the half-open door.
Phyllis Wyvern was up to her shoulders in steaming water. Her hair was piled on top of her head like a haystack in the rain. I couldn’t help noticing that she didn’t look at all like the woman I’d seen on the cinema screen. For one thing, she was wearing no makeup. For another, she had wrinkles.
I felt, to be perfectly honest, as if I’d just walked in on a witch in mid-transformation.
“Put the lid down,” she said, pointing to the toilet. “Have a seat and keep me company.”
I obeyed at once.
I hadn’t the heart—the guts, actually—to tell her that Harriet’s boudoir was off-limits. But then, of course, she had no way of knowing that. Dogger had explained the ground rules to Patrick McNulty before she’d arrived. McNulty was now on his way to the hospital in Hinley, and probably hadn’t had time to pass along the message.
Part of me watched the rest of me being in awe of the most famous movie star in the world … the galaxy … the universe!
“What are you staring at?” Phyllis Wyvern asked suddenly. “My puckers?”
For once, I couldn’t think of a diplomatic answer.
I nodded.
“How old do you think I am?” she asked, picking up a long cigarette holder from the edge of the tub. The smoke had been invisible in the steam.
I thought carefully before answering. Too low a number would indicate flattery; too high could result in disaster. The odds were against me. Unless I hit it dead-on, I couldn’t win.