Tuesday, 31st October—Halloween evening.
The ride up the A140 filled Veronica with an equal mix of exhilaration and terror. They sped up the edge of Mousehold Hill through streets made slick with wintry sleet, skidding on some corners until they left the environs of Norwich behind. To give Claire her due, she didn’t talk much during the journey, concentrating instead on driving. A smile hovered about her lips as the big Bentley’s engine growled and ate up the miles.
They arrived at the gates to a large house somewhere in the vicinity of Horsham St. Faith. Veronica saw a number of local people had gathered near the gates in spite of the weather, watching the arrivals in their posh cars and fine clothing. She glanced at Claire as she waved to the gatekeeper, who let her pass without question.
Claire smiled. “I know what you’re thinking. It’s the same in town. People like to come and watch party-goers arriving and leaving at posh dos.”
More cars lined the perimeter of the drive. Claire pulled up with a crunch of gravel behind a sporty-looking, sky-blue Citroën. The windows of the imposing Georgian house blazed with light, casting a welcome glow into the gathering night, and reflecting off the polished glass and bodywork of the cars.
Veronica climbed out, feeling somewhat queasy, and stared through the windows at the throng inside. “Your aunt certainly doesn’t stint when it comes to partying.”
Claire grinned. “She certainly doesn’t. Actually, she’s almost as rich as Daddy. My poor uncle died of a heart attack two years ago, and he left her well-off.” Claire took her arm. “Come on, old thing. We’ll find a nice quiet place to get out of our coats then go and wow them with our costumes.”
A butler with a long-suffering air admitted them to a hall crowded with guests in a wide variety of costumes. Claire greeted all and sundry with a breezy hello! The boozy crowd responded with waves and raised glasses. The gentle pitter-patter of spilt drinks and dropped olives filled the air, along with a mélange of alcohol smells. A haze of cigarette smoke hung above the crowd.
The butler vouchsafed his employer was holding court in the ballroom before he showed them to a parlour where they could change. Veronica heard a jazz band playing from somewhere. It didn’t take long to divest themselves of coats and blouses in the welcome warmth of the parlour.
Claire moved through the house with confidence. “At least the County isn’t here. They can be dreadful snobs.”
Veronica trailed in her wake. “This should be an occasion for fun, not snobbery. With this hood and mask in place, I don’t feel anything near as self-conscious as I expected to be.”
Claire looked back and gave her an appreciative smile. “You shouldn’t feel self-conscious at all, Ronnie. You look fabulous, darling.”
“Thank you.”
Claire gestured around them. “See how people look at you?”
“I do. Frankly, I’m enjoying the attention.” She glanced down at herself. “I can hardly believe how different I feel.”
Claire squeezed her hand. “I must admit, you did look so dowdy in that fusty old rig when I first saw you. A good costume that confers a degree of anonymity has such a deliciously liberating effect, I find.”
Veronica eyed the dishier men and women among the guests with interest. “I do think you’re right.”
In the ballroom, the jazz band played Tiger Rag. Couples danced with wild abandon, the fringes, feathers, and loose clothing shaking in a frenzy. With dresses in the colours of apricot, peach, sunflowers, ivory, and rose-red, the room looked like a flower garden struck by a strong breeze. Perfumes of every kind warred with the tobacco smoke in the air.
At the other end of the ballroom, a woman in her thirties, who Veronica guessed was Auntie Bea, sat dressed as Cleopatra resplendent upon a throne decked out with what looked like real palm fronds and peacock feathers. A bright pink Sobranie cigarette burned in a slim onyx holder, the aromatic smoke trailing through the air as she talked to her entourage.
She looked up and beamed a welcome as Veronica and Claire approached. “Darling! You came.”
Claire grinned as her aunt stood up to hug her. “Hello, Bea!”
Veronica couldn’t help but stare. Good heavens! Auntie Bea’s décolletage displayed a great deal of fine pale skin. The diaphanous material that covered what little remained unexposed was thin enough to show her dark pink nipples quite clearly.
As Claire introduced her, Veronica recovered her wits, tore her gaze away, and greeted her hostess, who pressed cheeks in a swirl of flowery perfume. “An old school friend of Claire’s? You’re most welcome, my dear.”
“Thank you for having me.”
Bea waved. “A pleasure. Help yourself to whatever you fancy, my dear girls. There’s pots and pots of food and drink, and lots of nice men to chat to. I do like your costumes.”
She spotted someone across the room and stood to wave to them. Veronica turned to look and saw a tall man her own age dressed in a Satyr costume walking toward them with a broad grin. His bare and hairless chest glistened with a fine sheen of oil. Two curly horns poked out of a black Alice band set deep in his tousled black hair, and rough hairy britches covered his legs and hips. The whole was set off with artfully contrived cloven feet over his shoes.
As he came up to Bea, he slipped an arm around her waist and nuzzled her neck.
She flapped a hand at Veronica and Claire. “Run along, dears, and enjoy yourselves.”
Claire headed for a table set up in a quieter side room where a footman was serving drinks. “That’s Auntie Bea for you. She has the attention span of a butterfly—especially with a handsome man around. Did you see what she was almost wearing? Scandalous!” Her mischievous grin showed she wasn’t in the least scandalized. “Cocktail?”
“I’ll push the boat out. A gin Martini, please,” she told the footman. “Two-to-one.”
The footman mixed the drink with a deft hand and passed it over with a smile.
Veronica sipped. “Perfect.”
Claire ordered a Sidecar. “Cognac, orange liqueur, lemon juice.” She watched the footman worked his magic, then took her glass and sipped, sighing with contentment. “Mmm. I needed that.”
Veronica nodded to Claire’s left hand. Her ring finger was unadorned. “So, you’re single and footloose.”
“Very much so.” Her heavily mascaraed eyelashes descended in a wink. “I’m not exactly inexperienced around men, though. Does that shock you?”
Veronica shook her head. “Not as much as it once would have.”
Claire laughed. “Well, thanks for not judging me. You were married, darling. You got to do the dirty deed with a man quite legally. The rest of us are left with what we can do for ourselves.” She grimaced. “It’s not much fun being one of the surplus two million, I can tell you. Look around.” She waved her free hand. “Do you see how many women there are to men?”
Veronica looked. “Now that you mention it, yes.”
“It’s like this everywhere. London is simply heaving with unmarried girls our age.”
“Is it really?” Veronica sighed. “I feel so out of touch. My socialising went west after the end of the war. This is my first party for ages.”
“Oh, Lord. You are starved for fun, aren’t you?” Claire gave her a light biff on the arm. “Cheer up, old stick! You’re here now. Enjoy it.” She leaned close. “Is there no man or woman in your life? What about that fellow staying at your hotel? The gallant captain?”
When Veronica looked askance at Claire, she winked.
“I saw the way your eyes lit up when that young chap in the lift spoke of him,” she said.
“Sylvester Brooke? He’s nice. I didn’t think so at first. He was rather stand-offish the first time we met at the reception desk when he booked in. Since then...” She flushed with pleasure. “We had supper together yesterday evening.”
“Why, that’s lovely!” Claire laid a hand on her arm. “Are you hoping it’ll go further?”
“I do hope so, yes.” Veronica shrugged, sensing a brittle quality to Claire’s voice. “I’m certainly not averse to walking out with him. The trouble is, if we do become an item, I’d have to leave Chesterton’s straight away. The rules forbid fraternization between staff and guests. Fielding would find out soon enough. He has his favourites among the staff.”
“Fielding being that oily little twit we spoke to in the lobby?” Claire snorted. She bobbed on the spot to the music coming from the ballroom, her glass perfectly level as she spoke. “If you make a go of this relationship with the dashing captain you can tell Fielding to go hang.”
“It’d be nice to do so. The hotel has its moments, but a career in hospitality wasn’t what I had in mind when I left school. I have my widow’s pension, and some savings to live on until... well... if something happens with Sylvester Brooke.”
“You’ll not return home to your parents? Do they still live in Suffolk? I recall you were a weekly border at school.”
Veronica grimaced. “Yes, and I’d prefer not to return home, even though Mother’s putting pressure on me to do so. She’s done so since poor Harold died, but she doesn’t understand why I wish to be independent. Just about every month, she’s tried to play matchmaker. We’ve had rows.”
“I remember your mother.” Claire scowled. “And I can’t say I’m surprised by her attitude.”
“Yes.” Veronica lowered her voice. “You’ve not forgiven her for the way she acted when she caught us kissing before leaving school.”
“No. I haven’t, now you mention it.” Claire gave a little shrug and looked away. “Sorry.”
“I don’t think you are sorry, but that’s all right. Nor have I forgiven her. She was quite brutal.”
Claire shot her a sympathetic look. “I understand. Mummy’s a doll, but sometimes she goes off on an absolute corker of a temper. She’s Scottish, you know. You’ve given up on girls?” she asked, her tone light but her words loaded with meaning.
“Now you’re asking a difficult question. After Mother broke us up, really, what with my being so young at the time, and the war and everything, I felt I had to be dutiful and marry a nice man. Mother more or less threw Harold at me, and I had no objections at the time. Harold was nice, in every way that mattered, and I thought I could be at least content with him. We’d known each other since childhood. After he died, I wondered if I had made the wrong choice. Er... have you given up on girls? Or was that only a schoolgirl’s passing passion?”
Claire looked her in the eye. “No, and no.”
Veronica’s heart skipped a beat.
Claire touched her arm and leaned close. “I wrote to you. I wrote three letters before I had to give up.”
Veronica stared in disbelief. “I never got them.”
Claire frowned, and her body tensed. “And yet I posted them to you.”
“Mother must’ve intercepted them. I’m so sorry!”
“Oh, don’t be.” Claire sighed. Her mulish look slipped away. “It’s all water under the bridge. We both moved on with our lives. I gave up writing to you when Mummy sent me up to our estate in Scotland to wait out the war. She thought it safer, what with all those Zeppelin raids going on. I found war charity work in Aberdeen to keep me occupied. It was all very worthwhile, but it was also frightfully boring.”
“After Harold died, I left home and worked as a bus conductor.”
Claire guffawed. “Well I never! I wish I’d been as bold as you.”
“It was an education. Did you not find somebody?”
“Not right away. I still carried a torch for you. I still do.” Claire glanced up briefly then looked away, not meeting her eyes. “When the war ended, and I went up to Cambridge, I did have a couple of affairs. One with a girl, and another with that dishy chap I spoke of earlier. I lost my virginity to him, but then he went off with someone else.”
“Oh dear. Not quite the gentleman he appeared.”
“Not quite. And now you’re spoony over the gallant captain.”
“Perhaps.”
“My timing is rotten. Now I’m free, you may not be.”
“I wouldn’t say that. I’m so ambivalent, sometimes. With Captain Brooke coming on the scene, I have hopes...” Veronica waved her hand. “Oh, but it could all be pie-in-the-sky anyway.”
“You haven’t had your fill of soldiers, it seems.” Claire’s tone sounded whimsical rather than sarcastic.
Veronica glared at her for a moment. “I’m not that concerned about a fellow’s occupation. It’s who he is as a person that counts. Besides, Sylvester told me he’s had his fill of war.”
“I’m glad to hear it. What was it that Spanish chap wrote? To delight in war is a merit in the soldier, a dangerous quality in the captain, and a positive crime in the statesman.”
“I don’t believe Sylvester has any dangerous qualities.”
“That’s nice.” Claire sipped her cocktail and waggled her eyebrows. “Really, if I’d known you were sweet on the chap, I’d have asked him along tonight.”
“That’s good of you. He had a meeting at the hotel this evening, so I don’t think we would’ve come.”
Claire shrugged. “No harm in asking. Auntie Bea’s parties go on to the early hours, if not dawn.”
“I do need to get back to Chesterton’s before dawn. I begin work at six.”
“What a frightful bore. Don’t worry, I’ll see you get back in time. But isn’t it marvellous that we should meet there? As I said, I’d have bagged a room here if Auntie had remembered she’d invited me earlier. As it happens, I booked a room at Chesterton’s, where I’ve never stayed in my life, and we met once more. Isn’t that wonderful? Ooh!”
Claire rubbed her stomach, the chiffon rasping under her touch.
“What’s wrong?”
“I fear I’ve poured alcohol into an empty stomach. Come along, let’s get something to eat at the buffet.”
A wonderful spread had been set out in another side room. Veronica and Claire grazed and sipped glasses of champagne. Veronica resisted the urge to stuff herself with the dainties. Too much rich food after the plainer fare at the hotel will not be good for my digestion.
“How’s your father?” Claire asked. “I forgot to ask.”
“He’s well, thank you. Although he had another of his heart scares recently. His doctor diagnosed angina and made him retire from the magistrate’s bench. Father’s frustrated, poor dear, but knows he must behave.” She rolled her eyes. “Mother sees that he does. My brothers are fine, as far as I know. I don’t see much of them nowadays.”
Claire smiled. “I remember your brothers from Founder’s Day at school. Tommy was such a frightful, stuffy fellow, so full of himself.”
“That’s Tommy all over. He’s something in the Home Office these days, and it suits him.”
Claire snorted. “I can imagine he’s something. I like your brothers. They’re so much better than mine, especially Gabriel.” Claire’s jaw tightened momentarily when she spoke the name, making Veronica wonder. “Young James was a little angel, though. I remember he used to blush whenever he spoke to me.” She chuckled. “I think he fancied me like mad, and I did tease him rotten.”
“Little angel?” Veronica shook her head. “You’ve never heard him burp the names of Russian generals from Napoleon’s eighteen-twelve campaign. It was quite revolting.”
“Hmm. My younger brother, Benjamin, did something similar. How’s James doing these days?”
“He’s in the RAF, busily bombing rebel tribesmen in Iraq.”
Claire gasped. “Oh, how beastly for him—and them, too, I suppose. What a frightful business. Men!” She tutted. “You’d think after this last lot they’d get over this silly predilection for fighting wars, but no...”
“Oh, I agree. I’ve had quite enough of war. Harold’s death took all lingering traces of enthusiasm I ever had for it. The jingoism became quite sickening to me by the end.”
Claire patted her arm. “Quite understandable, my dear. It took all of us with any sense the same way.”
Thinking of Harold reminded Veronica of something. “Do you remember Mr. Cartwright? The Deputy Head? He taught history and Latin at Fenton.”
Claire snorted into her glass. “Oh yes! He was—and presumably still is—such a frightful queer. He drank, too. Remember how we used to call him Osfos. It was short for the Old Soak of Fenton Old Soke.”
Veronica frowned. “I received a nice letter of condolence from him when he read of poor Harold’s death in the newspaper.”
“Ah.” Claire blushed, looking sheepish. “Forgive me, darling. Sometimes I think I only open my mouth to change feet.”
Veronica snorted but grinned. At school, she’d always found she couldn’t stay mad at Claire for long. Nothing has changed.
“It’s quite all right. You didn’t know. Mr. Cartwright did drink a lot when we were at school. He taught at a prestigious boys’ school before coming to Fenton Priory, you know. I think reading the deaths in action of so many of the boys he once taught drove him to drink.”
“I can’t wonder at it. Oh, but let’s not be gloomy! I want to have fun, and so should you. Come on, let’s dance!”
Claire put her glass down on the buffet table, grabbed Veronica’s hand, and towed her to the dance floor, where she began dancing the Shimmy. Veronica had seen it on the movie screen but had no direct experience of dancing it. With Claire’s help, she soon picked up the moves.
“Golly, this is fun!”
“Isn’t it, darling?”
Claire had let go of all restraint and Veronica couldn’t help but giggle at the sight of her in her spider costume dancing up a storm.
The air in the ballroom became hot and steamy with the press of so many bodies. After three dances, Veronica reeled off the dance floor, perspiring and fanning herself with her hand. “My word, but it’s warm.”
Claire leaned on her. “Let’s go get another drink, darling.”
“I’d settle for a tall glass of water right now.”
As they made their way to the bar, a tall man dressed as Julius Caesar with slicked-back black hair eyed Veronica and Claire with open admiration. They smiled at him in passing.
Claire leaned close to whisper, “I think that Vaselino has his eye on you.”
Veronica shook her head, although she felt flattered. “Oh, it’s you he’s watching.”
A number of others had reached the bar ahead of them. As Veronica and Claire stood, waiting for the footman to make up their order, the Vaselino gent approached them.
“I say! You two are the beans!”
Veronica laughed. “What an odd expression. You’re quite beany yourself, and see how you like it!”
“Thank you! Allow me to introduce myself.” He gave a Roman salute. “Roderick Bascombe, at your service.” He spoke with a distinctive public-school accent.
Claire looked up at him. “Roddy Bascombe? Didn’t I see you playing Hamlet in the West End earlier this year?”
He flushed, looking pleased then rueful. “Why, yes. I understudied the role. You must’ve seen me on one of the few occasions I took the stage. The principal was disgustingly healthy all summer. I was tempted to put something in his gin, the little sod.” He turned a dazzling smile on Veronica. “I’m quite sure you would make an excellent Ophelia.”
She put her hands on her hips and squinted up at him. “Do you think I’m suicidal?”
“Eh? Er, no, of course not.” His face turned a fine shade of pink as he flustered.
Veronica enjoyed his discomfort for a moment longer, then relented. “Well thank you, but I’m not much of an actor...”
Claire hooted with laughter. “Oh, come off it, darling! You acted the part of Monitress and fooled Mrs. Fairbright every time. You always looked as if butter wouldn’t melt in your mouth, yet you were the one who’d organize the midnight feasts. Then you played the role of—”
Veronica joined in the laughter. “I think my reputation as a goody-two-shoes was undeserved.” She gave Claire a light poke in the ribs. “Anyway, how did you come to attend a performance of Hamlet? You were hardly the Shakespeare scholar at Fenton.”
Claire held up her right hand as if taking the oath. “Guilty as charged, m’lud. I was with a rather dishy fellow I’d met at Cambridge. A frightfully studious chap up from King’s. He invited me, so I went.”
“And?”
“And nothing. He was quite the gentleman.” She leaned close to whisper in Veronica’s ear. “On that occasion, anyway.” Claire winked at Roddy. “When it comes to men, I prefer someone who is, shall we say... a diamond in the rough.” She held out her hand. “Forgive my manners, I should introduce myself. I’m Claire Sibfield-Murray, and this is my old school chum Veronica Nash.”
“Oh, ah.” He shook hands with them. “You’re saying I’m unpolished?” He gave a mock pout. “My theatrical soul is struck to the quick!”
Claire waggled her eyebrows. “Oh, I’m sure I could polish you up!”
Alcohol had loosened Veronica’s inhibitions enough that she could look at a handsome man with open interest. Roddy Bascombe appears to be the kind of fellow Mother would describe as a nice young man for a small tea party. The sparkle in his dark eyes when he looked at her showed him to be no Edwardian knut of her mother’s generation, though.
Claire was obviously aware of the possibility of fun with him. The way she swayed to the music while eyeing him openly showed that. However, he appeared more interested in her. It felt gratifying to be subject to the attentions of two handsome men in quick succession. She felt a stab of guilt at betraying Sylvester Brooke, then wondered why, since no commitment had been made by either party.
Veronica came back to herself to find Roddy looking at her with expectation. Claire raised her eyebrows and took a deep swig of her cocktail. “Roddy asked you a question, darling.”
He smiled. “I asked if you would you like to dance?”
“Sorry, I was wool-gathering. Yes, I’d love to.”
He took her hand and led her onto the dance floor. Claire saluted her with a knowing smile and lift of her glass. The band struck up a fast one-step, and Roddy held her close as they swept into the dance. Veronica remembered dancing the one-step with Harold on their wedding night. Reluctantly she squashed the thought, determined not to let bygones spoil her evening. Harold wouldn’t mind.
Roddy smiled down at her. “You dance divinely.”
“Thank you. So do you.”
“An actor has to take lessons in modern dance. It helps us on stage.”
They danced another couple of sets. Veronica felt the effects of too much drink on a mixture of buffet food and gripped Roddy’s arm. “I feel rather queasy...”
“We’d better get you off to the sidelines, old girl.”
He guided her over to a relatively empty part of the room. The crush had grown larger, with more people arriving, and the noise and temperature in the ballroom rose still higher.
Veronica glanced at the press of people. “I can’t believe how such a staid place as Horsham St. Faith could be the venue for an event like Auntie Bea’s Halloween party.”
Roddy peered at her, concern and a degree of speculation in his gaze. “And yet, here we are. I rather think you’re about done-in for the nonce.”
“Yes. I’m afraid it’s been simply ages since I attended a party.”
“Would you like to step outside, take a breather?”
She nodded and took his arm, permitting him to lead her out of the room. The hallway felt cooler, with people entering and leaving through the main door. She couldn’t see Claire anywhere.
Roddy glanced around and led her through to the rear of the big house. A corridor opened onto a Victorian glass and cast-iron conservatory that reminded her of a pre-war trip with her parents to see the Crystal Palace in London. The air smelled earthy and ripe with a mixture of green growing things and paraffin from the little heaters dotted throughout the conservatory to keep the plants warm.
Roddy looked satisfied. “This is better.”
He tugged up the hem of his tunic and Veronica gasped, thinking he was about to expose himself to her. Instead, she saw to her relief—and chagrin—he wore a pair of khaki shorts under the Roman guise. He patted his pocket. “I’ve got a little something here that’ll perk you right up.”
Veronica pushed aside the idea of what else he could’ve shown her that would’ve perked her up. “What is it?”
“This.” He produced a fat, chased-silver cigarette case and opened it to reveal a slender glass vial full of white powder, a safety razor blade, and a silver tube the thickness of a propelling pencil. It had a machined design that matched the case. “I bought this little kit in Paris last year. The Charlie came from a friend in Berlin.”
“Charlie?”
He plucked the vial from the case and held it up. “Charlie. Bolivian marching powder? Cocaine.”
“Oh, ah. I’ve heard of it.”
His smile was devastating. “Then you haven’t tried it? It’s fun! I have to be careful where I use it, though. It’s been a while since I had a snort. I’m staying with my uncle on my father’s side, and he’s such a stuffy so-and-so.”
He looked around and pointed at a small decorative wrought-iron table with a smooth round white marble top. He pulled up and sat in a matching chair, uncorked the vial, and dribbled a thin trickle of powder onto the tabletop. The razor was used to form the trickle into a pair of neat parallel lines. He brought the silver tube to his right nostril, stooped over the table, and proceeded to snort one line of powder up his nose.
Veronica stood and watched the process with fascination. Roddy blinked, snuffled, and grinned his handsome grin, proffering the tube to her.
He gestured to the powder. “Take a snort, old thing. It’ll do you a power of good.”
Veronica handled the tube, feeling indecisive. But when Roddy raised his eyebrows in an unspoken question, she smiled, stooped, and snorted, just as he had done. A mild tingle started in her sinuses, and she felt the urge to sneeze. For a few seconds, nothing seemed to happen then...”Good heavens!”
A rush of euphoria such as she’d seldom felt, hit her with the force of a tidal wave.
Roddy laughed at her expression. “There. Doesn’t that feel good?”
“It... it feels wonderful!”
The tiredness of her workday, and queasiness from the drink, all melted into a torrent of good feelings washing through her. Colours seemed so much brighter. The light drift of snowflakes past the conservatory windows sparkled with an inner light. She laughed at the sheer joy of it.
Claire’s voice impinged on her ecstasy. “Why, there you are—Oh my, you naughty things!”
Veronica put her hand over her mouth and snorted with laughter as her friend trotted up to them, each footfall a clear click-clack surrounded by glitter.
Roddy chuckled and laid out another line on the tabletop. “Would you care for a snort, my dear?”
Claire wrinkled her nose. “Oh, good heavens, no! Veronica, really.” She sighed. “That stuff never does anyone any good.”
Veronica’s memories grew hazy after the initial rush. She remembered bits and pieces of that night, snatches of recollection here and there. Claire and Roddy dancing a slow waltz in the conservatory to the distant sound of the band. A Mack Sennet moment back at the bar, dropping ice cubes down the necks of costumes belonging to total strangers. Hoots of laughter over the silliest things. Kissing Roddy in a quiet corner, his hands wandering over her body to the accompaniment of delicious little nervous thrills. Kissing Claire in another quiet corner, feeling once again the warm, familiar lips on hers. Trying to play an alto saxophone borrowed from a tolerant band member to hoots of laughter from the crowd. Auntie Bea reclining on a chaise longue in a side room, smoking another Sobranie in languid fashion as she expounded on her recent trip to Paris, the social whirl there, and her admiration for Picasso and Man Ray. All the while, the Satyr suckled her exposed breasts and pawed beneath her skirts. Yet neither Bea nor her audience seemed to think anything of it.
Three o’clock rolled around, and the party had begun to flag. Veronica regained her wits to find herself lying face down on the table in the kitchen as the clock struck the hour. Her skin prickled with cold. She sat up and clutched her head as the room swayed. “Oh, dear Christ!”
Nausea rose in her throat, and she managed to roll off the table and vomit in the sink. She grabbed a teacup from a stack on the countertop and filled it with water, rinsing the bile from her mouth. Swallowing a cupful of water dealt with the burning sensation in her throat and settled her stomach. Bleary-eyed, she looked around.
The staff had long since gone to bed, leaving a pile of crockery and glassware to deal with in the morning. Her right foot was bare. After a head-spinning search, her shoe turned up, hanging by a strap from the scullery door.
Shod once more, Veronica made her way out of the kitchen in search of Claire. She hoped her friend hadn’t gone off with Roddy to some other party, leaving her to find her way back to Chesterton Hotel on her own.
To her relief, she found Claire sitting at the foot of the grand staircase. A comatose Sheikh lay at her feet, his face covered by a straw boater, his raccoon coat opened to display a frightful waistcoat in scarlet paisley silk. A faint snore sounded from beneath his hat.
Claire had a ukulele in hand and was strumming it with surprising skill. Her expression looked reflective, but she perked up when she saw Veronica stumbling toward her. “Why, here she is! Good heavens, but you do look queer.”
Veronica belched. “I feel queer.”
Claire winced. “I did warn you about that stuff, darling.”
“So you did.” Veronica clutched her head, something she felt she’d done too much of since she’d come to. “Can I prevail upon you to give me a ride home?”
“You could stay here. I think all the bedrooms are occupied”—Claire waggled her eyebrows—”but we can probably squeeze in somewhere if you don’t mind company.”
“I’d love to, but I can’t.” Veronica sighed. “I’ve got to work this morning.”
“Well, dash it all, darling. That’s too bad.” Claire laid the ukulele tenderly on the breast of the sleeping Sheikh, who clutched it like a teddy bear, and mumbled in his sleep. She patted his cheek, then stood and stretched. “That place doesn’t deserve you, you know.”
“I know.” Veronica looked around. “Weren’t you with Roddy?”
“For a while. He and Bea and her Satyr fellow went off together while I was powdering my nose.” She rolled her eyes. “God knows what they’re up to. Come on. Let’s find our coats...”