Besides, I had never really liked the idea of dirty bathwater being brought into my sanctum sanctorum. It seemed somehow blasphemous.
The solution was simple enough: I would bathe in Harriet’s boudoir.
Why hadn’t I thought of it before?
Harriet’s suite had an antique slipper bathtub, draped with a tall and gauzy white canopy. Like an elderly railway engine, the thing was equipped with any number of interesting taps, knobs, and valves with which one could adjust the velocity and the temperature of the water.
It would make bathing almost fun.
I smiled in anticipation as I walked along the corridor, happy in the thought that my chilled body would soon be immersed to the ears in hot suds.
I stopped and listened at the door—just in case.
Someone inside was singing!
“O for the wings, for the wings of a dove!
Far away, far away, would I rove!
In the wilderness build me a nest …”
I edged the door open and slipped inside.
“Is that you, Bun? Fetch me my robe, will you? It’s on the back of the door. Oh, and while you’re at it, a nice drinksie-winksie would be just what the doctor ordered.”
I stood perfectly still and waited.
“Bun?”
There was a faint, yet detectable note of fear in her voice.
“It’s me, Miss Wyvern … Flavia.”
“For God’s sake, girl, don’t lurk like that. Are you trying to frighten me to death? Come in here where I can see you.”
I showed myself around the half-open door.
Phyllis Wyvern was up to her shoulders in steaming water. Her hair was piled on top of her head like a haystack in the rain. I couldn’t help noticing that she didn’t look at all like the woman I’d seen on the cinema screen. For one thing, she was wearing no makeup. For another, she had wrinkles.