Free Antidote To Murder by Felicity Young Page B

Miss Hamilton, er, misses, ma’ams,” the liveried footman said nervously.
    Florence made a point of turning and looking into the street, where she counted one motorcar and two carriages, the chauffeur and coachmen of said vehicles lounging around under the shade of a horse-chestnut tree, smoking and talking as if they had been waiting awhile.
    A door opened and closed somewhere within the red-bricked mansion and Lady Harriet appeared wearing rose pink. She glided up behind the footman. “Who is it, Frank?” she asked. The footman stepped aside. “Florence? Daphne? What a wonderful surprise! That will be all, thank you, Frank.”
    The women embraced. Not wishing to inhale any germs, Florence held her breath, letting it go only when she saw Daphne breathing easily. Daphne was a nurse. She should know.
    “Darlings, you must come in for tea. Miss Margaret Bentham is here, as are Lady Gloria Holt and Mrs. Chapman.”
    “Really? How marvellous. I haven’t seen any of them for ages,” Daphne said.
    “We weren’t expecting tea, Harriet. Please don’t put yourself out. We just wanted to see how you and the household were—if you have all recovered,” Florence said.
    “Never felt better.” Harriet’s eyes shone. “Do come in, Flo, don’t be such a spoilsport.”
    Never let it be said that Florence was a spoilsport. Surely the germs would have gone by now. She smiled. “Oh, very well then.”
    They followed Lady Harriet into her parlour to find their three friends seated around the tea table in a room of soft pastels and French-styled furniture. The scent of their mingled perfumes filled the air; shadows from the chestnut tree outside danced across the clean, bright walls. Frank was sent to fetch more cups despite Florence’s continued refusal of tea. She was in a hurry to get going, to visit the apothecary who sold the Widow Welch’s and give him a piece of her mind. If they stayed here much longer, she knew she would have trouble convincing Daphne, whose heart had not really been in the excursion anyway, to accompany her. Florence was not so foolish as to visit the East End on her own.
    Florence continued to refuse the offer of sustenance. The others tucked in to cucumber sandwiches and light as light jam sponge with strawberries, and gossiped about a recent debutantes’ ball. Did you see Mrs. Compton’s gangly daughter stepping all over the toes of young Lord Such ’n’ Such? You’d think she’d never had a dancing lesson in her life, et cetera.
    So trivial,
Florence thought. They were all good eggs, but surely they could find something better to do with their time. What surprised her the most was how much Daphne seemed to be enjoying their company. Florence was even more surprised by what happened next.
    Harriet left the tea table and turned the key in the lock of the door. “Wait, Harriet, we really need to get going,” Florence said.
    “Nonsense, Flo, the apothecary isn’t going anywhere,” Daphne answered. “We simply have to stay for this.”
    Harriet produced a dainty key from her pocket and unlocked the drawer of an elegant inlaid desk. From it she produced what looked to be an overly large silver cigarette box. Everyone, including Florence, leaned towards the table as Harriet sprung the lid to reveal a gold-plated syringe resting on a bed of silk alongside an ampoule of liquid and a rubber tourniquet.
    One by one the ladies bared their arms and Harriet injected them with the substance from the ampoule. When she settled at Florence’s side, Florence shook her head. The dreamy expressions of the women injected were discomforting, and she had no wish to join them. They were women without purpose, playing silly, childish games. Florence liked adventure, but this was beyond the pale. As for Daphne, she was a nurse and should know better. Dody was forever going on about how bad for one’s health this kind of activity was. How could Daphne even think to do this?
    Florence stood up. “I’d like