‘What the hell happened to you?’
Miss Grant stared at me as though I were an apparition.
‘You look like you’ve been run over by a bus.’
Such a fate might have been preferable to what I had actually been through.
I stood at her doorway, waiting to be invited in.
‘You do know Sam’s looking for you?’
‘May I enter?’ I asked.
Miss Grant emerged from her initial shock.
‘Of course. What am I thinking? Come in, you poor chap.’
She led me to the sitting room and to a sofa and then turned to the maid.
‘Anju. Bring brandy.’
I made the pretence of declining but she waved away my objections.
‘It’s medicinal. Trust me, you’ll appreciate a stiff drink. Heaven knows I will too.’
Anju returned with the bottle and glasses on a tray.
I thanked them both and took a sip, then emptied the glass. The liquid burned my throat. It felt satisfying.
Miss Grant took a sip of her own. ‘I assume this is somehow all Sam’s doing?’
I shook my head. ‘Sam is innocent in all this.’
She appeared sceptical.
‘But I do need to speak to him,’ I continued.
‘All in good time. First, tell me what happened to you.’
‘It’s a complicated story.’
Miss Grant thought for a moment. ‘In that case, get yourself cleaned up. Anju will show you to the bathroom. I’ll telephone Sam and tell him you’re here.’
‘No!’ I said. ‘Please do not mention my name over the telephone. The line may be monitored.’
Miss Grant arched an eyebrow. ‘My word, Suren. What have you got mixed up in? Very well, I’ll get Sam here on some other pretext, and while we’re waiting for him, you can tell me your complicated story.’
Twenty minutes later, with a towel wrapped around my flanks, my feet raw but washed, and wearing one of Miss Grant’s dressing gowns, I stepped sheepishly back into the sitting room. I caught sight of my reflection in a mirror on the mantel: my disfigured face, bruised and mottled; the cuts upon my chest and shoulders from the fall from the train; and now this. How had things reached such an impasse? My face burned with embarrassment. Despite everything that had happened to me in the previous forty-eight hours, entering a lady’s sitting room dressed in nothing but a towel and one of her robes felt like the most shameful of acts. Miss Grant, to her credit, made no mention of my enforced attire, though I sensed her amusement.
‘Sam wasn’t at home,’ she said. ‘Probably out looking for you. I left a message with your manservant telling Sam to call me as soon as he gets back. Now take a seat and tell me your troubles.’