Free Dolly and the Bird of Paradise - Dorothy Dunnett - Johnson Johnson 01 by Unknown

about the unopened envelope back in my bedroom. Then I asked if the driver had got a look at the guy who had bopped him, and nobody knew.
    I got them to pour themselves another stiff double and steered them on to Mrs Sheridan’s habits, if any.
    Mrs Sheridan didn’t have any habits. I’d put down Aurelio as true-blue loyal but I had hopes of Dolores the cook, born in Brazil and trained by all the consuls in Rio, to listen to her.
    Dolores was hopper-active. That is, she moved like T.V. ping-pong at the fast rate, and had a squeak to go with it. I got all the scandal of Funchal and beyond, but nothing on Mrs Sheridan’s love-life, even when the bottle was empty.
    Dodo didn’t open her mouth: just sat with her arms folded, watching us. I left after an hour, weaving my way stone-cold sober back to my bedroom.
    Between my aching skull and my swollen jaw-bone, praise of Natalie Sheridan rang in my ears.
A fine lady, a kind and generous employer, Senhora
.
    Please the Senhora
, they said,
and always, she will show she is grateful
.
    It was true. Back in my bedroom, I opened her envelope, and found she had been grateful to the tune of one thousand pounds. Which was about the right rate for the market, considering.
    Dodo hadn’t found the brandy I keep in my cat.
    I got into bed, and drank it, and went out like a light.

----
5
    « ^ »
    The first thing that happened next morning was a phone call from Natalie, ringing I suppose through three walls, to ask how I felt. The thousand pounds, for which I thanked her, prevented me from being too truthful.
    She said I was to have a pampered breakfast in bed, and she wouldn’t need me till evening. I thanked her again, with the mirror this time in my hand. I had a black eye.
    She rang off, and I wished I had asked her the time, and where my executive watch could have got.
    Then I remembered.
    Dolores hopped in with a breakfast-tray, and paused on the second bounce out to listen to what I was saying. She said that Aurelio’s next trip to Funchal would be later that morning, and she was sure he wouldn’t mind company. The time, it appeared, was nine o’clock. The weather, from the window, was warm but cloudy. Across the tops of a lot of palm trees and flowering bushes, as in the Glasgow Patanics, I could see the roofs of one or two other large villas.
    Beyond was the sea. Grey-blue, as off Rothesay on a Glasgow Fair day.
    I felt not too bad. I got into bed and dragged the breakfast-tray over my knees. My door suddenly behaved like a drum stand in the first set at Tiffany’s, and I said, ‘Come in,’ cautiously, without moving my jaws.
    The door opened, and in came King Ferdy, the photographer with the most subjects everywhere, including Madeira.
    I don’t know why I was so amazed to see him, except that when I spoke to him last, he was in London. I wondered if he had an interest in Mrs Sheridan’s film. And of course, Madeira was the place for Sexual Strategy in Flowers, so long as creepers came into it.
    This time, he was togged up in Brideshead Revved-Up; all cream flannel and open-necked silk; and his arms were full of orange flowers, which he dropped into my water jug.
    I didn’t see he had a camera under his beard until it was already in action, photographing me in bed with the flowers beside me. They were funny flowers as well. Each had a great poking beak and a crown of bright orange spikes with a wee blue one sprouting in front of it.
    By the time I saw what he was after, it was too late. I flung the teapot at him, but he was already shutting the lens cap and grinning.
    ‘
Strelitzia parvifolia
. Birds of paradise, darling,’ he said. ‘Vulgar, vigorous, and their spelling is utterly ghastly. You’ve got tea all over Natalie’s lovely carpet.’
    ‘What a pity,’ I said. ‘I hope she doesn’t send you a bill that’s too big for you.’
    My Scotch Bird of Paradise
. I always thought he meant fancy birds with big tail-feathers.
    ‘She won’t mind. She thinks