The Language of Bees - Laurie R. King [85]
“Did she come in herself, to buy them?”
“I'm afraid not,” the woman answered, clearly much taken with the scenario of a foolish girl whose love led to near-imprisonment.
“Was it him, then? Tall, thin?”
But she was shaking her head before I started the second sentence—and with a jolt I realised that I felt relief at her denial, because my vague description could also be a specific description of Damian. “Those shoes were purchased by a woman.”
“Yes? Not an Oriental woman, though?” I asked, holding my breath.
“No, an older woman. And, frankly,” she added, lowering her voice lest a Harrods' authority might hear, “not the sort of person I'd have expected to be interested in those shoes.”
Person, not lady. Interesting. “What did she look like? It might have been his secretary. Or his sister,” I hastened to add, to cover both classes.
“Secretary, perhaps, although if so I trust the gentleman does not have much dealing with the public. She wore an unfortunate dress and would have benefited from face-powder,” the saleswoman declared in sorrow. “As for the dye in her hair, it was as subtle as boot-black.”
Millicent Dunworthy.
The second-storey flat of the stand-in leader of the Children of Lights services appeared to be empty—at least, there was no response to ringing the bell beside the name Dunworthy at the entrance. I put my laden shopping basket on the landing and squinted down at a piece of paper. A few minutes later, one of the residents came down the stairs and attempted to get out of the door.
“Oh! Sorry,” I exclaimed, “I seem to be in the way. Here, let me just move that—no, it's fine, I was just rereading this in the light, silly of me not to think—” The door shut on my self-effacing apology, with me on the inside and the man going down the steps, shaking his head.
There is nothing so disarming as a basket of vegetables and an attitude of feminine disorganisation.
I put the sheet of paper—an advertisement from a hair-cutting salon—into my pocket and carried the basket (which held mostly lettuces, for their lightness) up the stairs. The hallway was empty; the stairway door squeaked as it drew itself shut. I listened, but heard nothing, so I walked down to the end where the light had gone on the other night, and knocked softly.
When there was no answer, I put the basket on a table in the corridor and got to work with my pick-locks.
Millicent Dunworthy's flat consisted of three rooms: The largest combined sitting room—worn upholstered chairs, a chipped deal desk, and a wireless set—with kitchen—little more than gas ring, cupboard, and a table scarcely large enough for two. A pair of doors broke the side wall: The one on the right led to a bedroom with a narrow single bed, a cheap white-painted dressing-table, and a wardrobe that was too large for the room, so that the door hit against it rather than opening all the way to the wall. The other door was to a small lavatory with a wash-basin. The bath-room must be a shared one down the hall.
I moved through the rooms, confirming that the occupant was not there, and confirming also that the only escape, should I be discovered, would be a sheer drop to the pavement, twenty-five feet below. Then I got to work, starting in the bedroom.
The wardrobe contained clothing as dull and worn as the chairs in the sitting area, showing a preference for flowered blouses and sack-like skirts, the one striking exception being the white robe she had worn in the meeting hall. The dressing-table held little of interest but a jewellery box that might have been a present for a child's thirteenth birthday. The scraps of adornment it held were commonplace and without monetary value, with one exception: the coarse gold band I had seen her wearing. My finger felt scratches on its inner surface; when I carried it near the window, I saw the same overlapping triangle and circle that had been embroidered on the robe and tattooed on Yolanda Adler's abdomen.
Other than that, the ring contained