“Excuse me?” said a voice from the doorway.
We both froze. A woman stood in the gap made by the half-open door, one gloved hand on the doorknob. She was perhaps twenty-one, with marcelled hair of honey brown under her cloche hat. She wore a pretty lilac coat and matching heels, and her narrow face was ethereal, with high cheekbones and gray eyes. She seemed familiar, but I couldn’t place her.
“I’m sorry,” she said, her voice cracking. “I saw the newspapers. I couldn’t believe it. I just—I had to—” A tear trickled down the side of her nose and she looked from one to the other of us, her expression crumpling in grief.
“Oh, dear God.” Davies sounded even more disgusted, if that was possible, than when I had arrived. “Hello, Octavia.”
It clicked then. Octavia Murtry. She had been the fiancée of Harry Sutter, one of Gloria’s brothers who died in the war. An heiress, she had, according to the gossip columns, taken up with Gloria after Harry’s death, dishonoring his memory at champagne parties and all-night suppers. I’d met her briefly only a few times during my heyday with Gloria; she had moved further into Gloria’s circle in the days after I’d retreated into anonymity in St. John’s Wood.
“Davies,” Octavia said now, pushing away from the door and taking a step into the room. “Is she really gone? I didn’t know where to go. I just can’t believe it.” Another tear slipped from one of her lovely eyes and down her face.
If Octavia thought one of us would jump to console her, she was mistaken. Davies only looked at her in hopeless distaste, and I dropped the scarf on a nearby sofa, where I caught sight of a small satin bag that had been tossed onto the cushions. The bag held the familiar hard square shape that unmistakably spoke of a flask inside it. I was instantly tempted.
“She really is gone,” Davies said, her clumsy attempt to at least get Octavia to stop crying. “Did the police talk to you?”
“No.” Octavia reached into her handbag and picked out a handkerchief, with which she dabbed her eyes. “They haven’t. I wasn’t with her that night. I haven’t seen Gloria since—” She sniffed, her eyes scrunching almost convulsively, as if she was trying to regain control. “Since last Saturday. We went shopping. It was— Oh, my goodness! I’ll never see her again.”
More tears threatened and Octavia fought them down. Davies watched with an expression of patient dread. When neither of them was watching, I reached down to the sofa and slid the satin bag containing the flask into my handbag.
“I knew something would happen,” Octavia said, dabbing her eyes again. “I just knew it. I don’t have the power, you know, the way she did. But something was wrong. Those last few days, she just seemed so unbalanced.”
Now Davies perked up. “What are you talking about?”
“Didn’t you notice?” Octavia said. “Something was eating at her. She wasn’t herself at all.” She touched her gloved fingers to her mouth in an Oh! gesture. “Do you think I should tell that to the police? Do you think it’s relevant to their case? Davies, what should I do?”
Davies was disgusted again, and her voice was flat. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Wait,” Octavia said, now looking at me. “I recognize you, don’t I? You’re Ellie Winter, the psychic.” Her eyes lit up, thoughts of the police forgotten. “Are you here to do a reading? Are you going to find her murderer? This place must be full of Gloria’s psychic energy.”
“Don’t waste your breath,” Davies told her. “I’ve already tried it. She’s of no use at all. And she was just leaving.”
“Ye of little faith,” I said to Davies. “I’ve barely gotten started. And yes, I’m leaving, but not before I get some information.”
Davies threw up her hands, as if at the end of her rope. “Do tell me how I can be of service, and then leave me alone.”
“Where is Fitzroy Todd living these days?” I asked.
“With his parents, of course. The Belgravia town house. Don’t tell me you’re going to see him?”
“I might,” I said. “What about Ramona, the skimmer? Where does she live?”
“How would I know?” Davies shouted. “I’ve never seen the woman.”
“Streatham,” Octavia said from her place at the door. She was watching me now, her tears forgotten. “Ramona lives in Streatham. I can show you where.”
I looked at Octavia for a moment. She had calmed; her interest was focused exclusively on me, and I saw in her eyes, deep beneath the drama and the selfishness, a thin strip of steely fascination.
“Do you have transportation?” I asked her.
“My driver is right outside,” she replied evenly. “Are you truly going to find Gloria’s murderer?”
“She’d better,” said Davies. “Now both of you get out of here.”
I touched the hard surface that indicated the flask in my handbag. If you want me to find you, Gloria, I thought, you owe me a drink.
“This is grand of you, Octavia,” I said to the girl in the doorway. “Let’s go.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
Octavia’s motorcar was a fast, stylish little roadster with a uniformed driver waiting stoically at the wheel. Octavia leaned forward from the backseat and gave him an address in Streatham as I folded my legs into the tiny space next to her and put my handbag on my lap.
I glanced at her profile as she leaned back again and patted her hat. Her face was a bit long, perhaps, not round and cherubic like the current fashion, but there was no doubt she was beautiful. Streatham, with its cheap cinemas and trashy ballrooms, was decidedly slumming for a girl like her—but for girls like her, slumming for an evening was sometimes an entertainment in itself.