Rivers of London - Ben Aaronovitch [80]
The bungalow backed straight onto the river, and Oxley had built himself a wooden wharf that projected over a wide spot in the water. A pair of magnificent weeping willows, one at each end, screened the pool from the outside. It felt as cool and timeless as the inside of a country church. Oxley was standing naked in the pool with the brown water lapping at his thighs. He was grinning up at Isis who was making frantic behave yourself gestures from the edge of the wharf. He looked past at Beverley and me as we walked out.
‘What’s this?’ he asked. I saw his shoulders tense, and I swear the sun went behind a cloud – although that could have been a coincidence.
‘This,’ I said, ‘is Beverley Brook. Say hello, Beverley.’
‘Hello,’ said Beverley.
‘I thought it was about time you met the other half,’ I said.
Oxley shifted his weight, behind me I felt Beverley take a step backwards.
‘Well, isn’t this nice,’ said Isis brightly. ‘Why don’t we all have a nice cup of tea.’
Oxley opened his mouth as if to speak, appeared to think better of it and, turning to his wife, said, ‘Tea would be nice.’
I breathed out, Beverley giggled nervously and the sun came out again. I took Beverley’s hand and led her forward. Oxley had a labourer’s physique, lean and covered in hard, ropy muscle – Isis obviously liked her bit of rough. Beverley, interestingly, seemed more interested in the water.
‘This is a nice place,’ she said.
‘Would you like to come in?’ asked Oxley.
‘Yes please,’ said Beverley, and to my utter amazement she whipped off her jumper and bolero in one sinuous movement, stepped out of her leggings, and with a memorable flash of naked brown limbs, threw herself into the water. Isis and I had to step back smartly to avoid being drenched.
Oxley winked at me and looked at his wife. ‘Are you coming in too, my love?’
‘We have another guest,’ said Isis primly. ‘Some of us still have manners.’
Beverley surfaced and stood in the river up to her waist with a cheeky grin and bare breasts. Her nipples, I couldn’t stop myself noticing, were large and stiff. She turned her gaze on me, heavy-lidded and suggestive. If her mother had been like the undertow of the sea, then Beverley was as irresistible as a swift clear river rushing through a hot summer’s afternoon.
I’d already started unbuttoning my shirt when I felt Isis’s hand on my arm.
‘You really are the most extraordinarily gullible young man,’ she said. ‘What on earth are we going to do with you?’
Oxley ducked under the surface. Beverley looked at me with her head cocked to one side, a sly smile on her lips, and then she slipped down into the water.
Isis offered me a seat at the plastic garden table and then, muttering under a breath, collected up Beverley’s discarded clothes, folded them neatly and draped them over a drying rail by the back door. Oxley and Beverley had been out of sight for more than a minute. I looked at Isis, who seemed unperturbed.
‘They’re going to be at least another half-hour,’ she said, and made us tea. I kept an eye on the water as she bustled but there weren’t even bubbles. I told myself they must have swum out of the pool and surfaced beyond the trees somewhere but I wasn’t very convincing, even to myself. She gave me the now standard assurances as she poured and offered me a slice of Madeira – I said no thank you. I asked her if she remembered a Henry Pyke. She thought the name was familiar.
‘I’m certain there was an actor of that name,’ she said. ‘But there were always so many actors, so many beautiful men. My good friend Anne Seymour had a mulatto footman who could have been your brother. He was a terror for the kitchen maids.’ She leaned forward and looked me in the eyes. ‘Are you a terror for the kitchen maids, Peter?’
I thought of Molly. ‘I’d have to say no,’ I said.
‘No, I can see that,’ she said, and sat back in her chair. ‘He was murdered,’ she said abruptly.
‘The footman?’ I asked.