I felt, to be perfectly honest, as if I’d just walked in on a witch in mid-transformation.

“Put the lid down,” she said, pointing to the toilet. “Have a seat and keep me company.”

I obeyed at once.

I hadn’t the heart—the guts, actually—to tell her that Harriet’s boudoir was off-limits. But then, of course, she had no way of knowing that. Dogger had explained the ground rules to Patrick McNulty before she’d arrived. McNulty was now on his way to the hospital in Hinley, and probably hadn’t had time to pass along the message.

Part of me watched the rest of me being in awe of the most famous movie star in the world … the galaxy … the universe!

“What are you staring at?” Phyllis Wyvern asked suddenly. “My puckers?”

For once, I couldn’t think of a diplomatic answer.

I nodded.

“How old do you think I am?” she asked, picking up a long cigarette holder from the edge of the tub. The smoke had been invisible in the steam.

I thought carefully before answering. Too low a number would indicate flattery; too high could result in disaster. The odds were against me. Unless I hit it dead-on, I couldn’t win.

“Thirty-seven,” I said.

She blew out a jet of smoke like a dragon.

“Bless you, Flavia de Luce,” she said. “You’re bang on! Thirty-seven-year-old stuffing in a fifty-nine-year-old sausage casing. But I’ve still got some spice in me.”

She laughed a throaty laugh, and I could see why the world was in love with her.

She plunged a pudding-sized bath sponge into the water, then squeezed it over her head. The water streamed down her face and dribbled off her chin.

“Look! I’m Niagara Falls!” she said, making a silly face.