Stephanie Abbott's Blog, page 8

Take Me Away | Skagen

emmajamesonbooks:

Sharing some gorgeous travel pictures of Denmark from the blog, Adventures of Lexie. Enjoy.

Originally posted on Adventures of Lexie:

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The next place on my list is Skagen, Denmark. This absolutely enchanting seaside town is nearly the northernmost point in Denmark, so it fits beautifully into the mold of the perfect chilly seaside retreat for me. Being of half Danish descent (the other half is Italian, but I’ll get into that another time), I’ve always been determined to learn as much as possible about Denmark, and the beautiful towns and sights inside it’s borders. Skagen is the first of many Danish cities that I dream of exploring, and I’m sure I will post about many more here on this blog, but Skagen is where this look into adventuring in Denmark is going to begin.

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The first thing I dream of seeing in Skagen (pronounced Skay-en, in case you were wondering) is Grenen. Grenen is a long sandbar, located north of the actual town of Skagen. At first…

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More London Pictures

Okay, here are a few more pictures from London. One of the more interesting areas we visited was Neal’s Yard, a small alley that is quirky, artsy, and very pretty. Definitely worth a look if you’re in the Seven Dials/Covent Garden area. I toyed briefly with the idea of killing off some future person there (that’s the mind of a mystery writer) but decided against it. However, as I spent a brief, miserable time in St. Katharine Docks, I expect someone may die there in my next Hetheridge book, Blue Blooded.

Some of the prettiness in Neal’s Yard.

Above is Green Park. It was chilly to me that day (we bought scarves early on) but as you can see, lots of people were out and about, soaking up the sunshine, despite the brisk wind. A few were even sitting rather stubbornly in striped deck chairs, completely bundled up in coat, scarf, and hat, but enjoying the fresh air and sun all the same.

Buckingham Palace gates.

Another one of my photo pics again, rather improperly framed, but I was too excited to take good perfectly proportioned snapshots. (Is that an excuse?) Next time I’ll do better.

There’s a super close up so you can enjoy all the heraldic detail. For more about the Royal Parks in London, go here. Hope you all have a wonderful weekend. I’ll be spending it writing (as I should) but I’ll be back on Monday.

Filed under: Britain, London, Photos Tagged: Buckingham Palace, Green Park, London, London tourism, Neal's Yard, St. Katharine's Docks

Red Nose Day!

I said I’d be back with more London pictures, but I forgot today is the first ever US version of Red Nose Day. It’s a very worthy charity dedicated to helping children in poverty, and dear to my heart. Learn about it here.

It’s me with the red nose to help children living in poverty.

Here’s a famous supporter of the campaign:

James McAvoy for red Nose Day.

And one more:

Filed under: Charitable Giving, Emma Jameson Tagged: james mcavoy, NBC Red Nose Day, red nose, Red Nose Day, William Shatner

Pictures from the V & A, London

Here are some more pictures from my London trip in March. These were taken at the Victoria & Albert Museum. If you’re not familiar with the V & A, it has dozens of exhibits on a wide variety of subjects. I was particularly captivated by fancy dress through the ages. (Must be the Victorian and Regency aficionado in me.)

Here’s a lovely old gown.

A splendid reproduction.

 

That very familiar image above, seemingly Michelangelo’s David , is from the V & A’s Cast Collection. Art students who couldn’t afford to travel all the way to Rome to seek out great works and study their lines would instead view reproductions made from plaster casts. Many such reproductions are on display at the V & A.

More from the Cast Court.

 

This cast of a figure by Giambologna looks a little familiar too, eh? It’s Samson Slaying a Philistine, though, not Hercules Beating the Centaur Nessus.

More pictures tomorrow!

Filed under: Black & Blue, London, Lord and Lady Hetheridge Series, Travel, UK Tagged: cast court, Giambologna, gown, London, London tourism, Michaelangelo, Victoria & Albert Museum

More Random London Pics

Once again, for anyone who doesn’t know, I visited London in March, but got too caught up in finishing my latest book to post all the pictures. Here are a few more of my favorites.

Me in an Anderson shelter in the Imperial War Museum.

Getting the chance to sit in an authentic Anderson shelter was quite an experience. It was so small! Dr. Bones will have one in his back garden in book #2, the upcoming Divorce Can Be Deadly. Poor man, I don’t think it will be too comfortable for him and Mrs. Cobblepot, trying to rest out there in the winter, an inch of water on the earth floor (that was a big problem with Anderson shelters) while wondering if a bomb will flatten Fenton House. Or if a direct hit will send them both to kingdom come. And to think entire families used to spend hours in these things–Dad, Mum, two or three fidgeting, miserable kids, and perhaps a crying baby in arms.

Another shot from the Imperial War Museum.

I love this interior of a “typical home” during the Blitz.

All right, those were of course just a few gems. More tomorrow! Now, I need to work on that next book.

Filed under: Emma Jameson

Random London Photos

As many of you know, I visited London in March. And I took a TON of pictures, but only had time to upload a few to Facebook. Then the demands of Black & Blue took over, and while I could have come here and spent 5 minutes uploading pics, it would have looked like I wasn’t even trying to get the book done. ;) But now that it’s out, let me pause in the midst of today’s writing and post a few.

My view from the hotel in Kensington when I arrived.

Walking around Kensington by night. You know, it’s probably just an office building or something, but I was so in love, I was snapping photos of everything I saw.

One of those West End doorways DS Bhar always seems to find himself knocking on.

I was such a tourist, in love with every old lamppost, black lacquered fence, and bit of brick.

Filed under: Britain, London, Photos Tagged: black & blue, emma jameson, Kensington, London, London tourism, lord and lady hetheridge series, tourist

Friday Photos

emmajamesonbooks:

Some great photos I had to share!

Originally posted on Theo Fenraven:

I have a variety for you today, taken over the last two or three weeks.

Let’s start with a dragonfly. No matter how often I see them, I always want to take photos. 

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It’s Here!

Black & Blue (Lord & Lady Hetheridge #4) went live on Amazon a few hours ago. I’ll update you again when it appears on BN.com, iTunes, etc. And I hope to have a paperback edition available in a couple of weeks.

Many thanks to all my readers for giving this book a warm welcome. I’m ever so grateful!

Filed under: Emma Jameson

Coming Soon…

… very soon. It’s with the proofreader now, and that means before long, it will be shipshape and Bristol fashion, meaning ready to go on sale.

MURDER IN MAYFAIR

Modern art dealer Granville Hardwick has a way with people — a way of making them wish he were dead. His London gallery is filled with works of questionable merit, his dating pool consists of other men’s wives, and his home is the eyesore of a fine old neighborhood. The neighborhood of Scotland Yard’s Chief Superintendent Tony Hetheridge, as a matter of fact. So when Hardwick turns up dead, bashed on the head by a rather tasteless reproduction, it’s Hetheridge and his new bride, Kate, who embark on solving the case.

LORD & LADY HETHERIDGE

When he married Kate, Tony expected things to be different. But with Kate’s ne’er-do-well relatives making trouble on the home front, and his own enemies attacking from inside Scotland Yard, the case of the dead art dealer and three unfaithful wives might do more than change Mayfair. It might change Lord and Lady Hetheridge forever.

Return to the world of Ice Blue in Black & Blue, the fourth in the New York Times bestselling Lord & Lady Hetheridge mystery series, which readers call “witty,” “packed with interesting characters,” and “consistently entertaining.”

Filed under: Black & Blue, Books, Emma Jameson, Ice Blue, Lord and Lady Hetheridge Series, Writing Tagged: anglophile, Books, cozy, cozy mysteries, cozy mystery, ebooks, emma jameson, fiction, New York Times bestseller

Black & Blue, Chapter One

Hello! I’d really love to have this book completed and in the hands of my awesome “Brit-picker” (expert Englishwoman), my incredible editor, and my beloved proofreader within the next 3-4 weeks. I think it’s going to happen. Of course, because I am so, so slow, many of you will find that assurance hard to believe! Therefore, I offer this: Chapter One. Please note, my team haven’t been at it yet, so heaven knows what typos I’ve overlooked. But it should give you a taste of what’s to come, and serve as “proof of life,” as the crimelords say.

Black & Blue

Lord & Lady Hetheridge #4

Chapter One

Once upon a time, Anthony Hetheridge, ninth baron of Wellegrave and chief superintendent for New Scotland Yard, enjoyed a neat, orderly life. Awakening before dawn most days, he ate breakfast with his subordinates, spent lunch poring over his open cases, and remained on the job until six or seven that night. Yet he never felt overworked, because his London home, situated in the very heart of Mayfair, was an oasis of tranquility. Gracious rooms, a walled garden, a place for everything and everything in its place. His old-fashioned manservant, Harvey, always kept a hot meal waiting. After supper, Hetheridge read in his study for an hour or so, then retired to bed, content to repeat the cycle the next morning. But somewhere in the vicinity of his sixtieth birthday, Hetheridge’s private life began to feel a little, well, too private. Tempting fate, he wished for a change. And something wonderful and terrible happened: his wish came true.

“It’s not fair!” A small boy shrieked, colliding with Hetheridge as he entered the kitchen, knackered from another long day at the Yard.

“I say.” Hetheridge caught the boy before he could dart outside. It was only a quarter past six, but pitch dark and bitterly cold as only mid-January could be. “What’s all this?”

“I’m leaving!” Henry Wakefield, pudgy and short for almost nine years old, glared up at Hetheridge, his round face scarlet with rage. “I’m going to Robbie’s. His mum said I could sleep over anytime. They like me at Robbie’s. They listen to me at Robbie’s. Here, the only way I could get Kate’s attention is by killing someone.”

“Is  that so?” Hetheridge, who’d spent the day tackling phone calls, meetings, and policy revisions—the unglamorous bulk of police work at a chief superintendent’s level—could had done with a real murder just then. But it was bad form to say so, at least outside the Yard. “Why don’t you sit down? Put me in the picture.”

“It won’t do any good,” Henry cried, twisting so wildly in Hetheridge’s grip, he broke free. Either the boy’s weekly fencing sessions were beginning to pay dividends of strength and agility, or anger lent him strength—some fury deeper than the endless power struggles Henry and Ritchie sprang on one another from dawn to dusk.

“Henry.” In Hetheridge’s resonant tones, that single word filled the kitchen, echoing off the black and white tiled floor and the multitude of copper pots and pans, relics from his grandmother’s day. How long had it been since an adult raised his voice to a child in Wellegrave House’s formerly serene kitchen? So long, Hetheridge could practically hear bustles creak and walking sticks thud as ghosts, undisturbed since Queen Victoria’s day, surged forth to investigate.

Already to the kitchen door, Henry stopped. Slowly, he turned, mouth quavering and fists clenched at his sides. One kind word and he’d burst into tears.

“It’s hardly fair to say I can do no good, when you haven’t given me a chance,” Hetheridge continued, tone deliberately stern. “Why don’t we—”

“Terribly sorry, Lord Hetheridge.” Harvey, who never ran if he could walk and never walked if he could glide, was panting as if he’d sprinted to the kitchen, possibly from Battersea. His normally immaculate uniform was splashed with something reddish-brown; his comb-over, usually shellacked in place, had reversed direction, giving him the unfortunate appearance of a man who’d flipped his lid.

“There’ll be no supper tonight. The soufflé has fallen and the sauce is burned. As for the state of the chicken—” Taking a deep breath, Harvey closed his eyes. “It’s shameful. Forgive me, my lord.” He sounded utterly defeated. “We’ve had more rows than one servant can manage.”

Keeping a firm hand on Henry, Hetheridge eyed Harvey’s shirtfront. “Is that blood?”

“Yes.”

“Whose?”

“Lady Hetheridge’s.”

“Good God. Is she quite all right?”

“Yes, my lord. But we may yet need to ring 999 for, er—” Harvey’s eyes slid to Henry. “Our, er, guests.”

“I’m going to Robbie’s,” Henry declared again, voice breaking. He swiped his face with his sleeve.

“No, you’re not.” Hetheridge tightened his grip on the boy’s shoulder. “You’re coming with me. Harvey, where is my wife and our guests?”

“The parlor, sir.”

“Where’s Ritchie?”

“In his room, watching telly. I don’t believe he’s aware of what’s happening.”

“Thank heavens for small favors. Now why don’t you sit down? Have a brandy. Order us all some takeaway—curry will do. Now then, Henry,” Hetheridge said, steering the boy toward the kitchen’s swinging doors. “Let’s get this sorted, shall we?”

***

For years, Hetheridge had relied on Wellegrave House’s stairs almost exclusively. A day or two off from such activity and his arthritic left knee might conclude it was being favored, and that would never do. Hetheridge’s view on stiff, aching joints was simple: he who admits to the actuality of pain stops, and he who stops,  dies. Given his status as a newlywed (a term he pretended to flinch at, but secretly enjoyed), Hetheridge had no intention of stopping any time soon. But Henry, drawn to all forms of technology, especially those that saved a step or three, usually wanted to ride the antique, brass-gated lift. Tonight he trudged to the stairs alongside Hetheridge, head down and mouth set.

“Who’s up there?” Hetheridge asked. Though from Harvey’s tone as he uttered “Our guests,” there could be little doubt. Harvey, formerly an aspiring stage actor before he swapped the footlights for domestic service, could pour a wealth of fear and loathing into two normally innocuous words.

“Mum. And Gran.” Henry sighed. “I wanted Mum to get out of the—the hospital. For so long, I wanted to meet Gran. And now I have.”

Hetheridge said nothing. Before meeting Henry, his experience interacting with small children had been virtually nil. Was he meant to offer some platitude here? He wasn’t in the habit of coddling his subordinates. And heaven knew, his own father had never coddled him. In the late Lord Hetheridge’s estimation, praise, encouragement, and treats were for his prized Springer Spaniels, not his children.

Perhaps that’s why I’ve never owned a dog, Hetheridge thought. For the first time in ages, one of the framed portraits on the landing caught his eye—a faded oil of his grandfather enthroned en familie: leather chair, whiskey in hand, favorite bitch and three pups arranged around his feet. Clustered around it were black-and-white photographs of Hetheridges long dead, aunts and nephews, cousins and uncles, all with the same grim mouth and icy stare. Though he passed this landing two or more times each day, Hetheridge found himself truly seeing the frozen faces that had watched him since boyhood. Prompting an inner wellspring of deep emotion:

Who the bloody hell are these people and why in God’s name are they looking down on me?

Henry gained the landing with obvious reluctance. He stopped a few meters from the parlor door, which was closed, like a condemned man in sight of the gallows.

“About my mum.” He spoke with head still down, stuffing his hands in his pockets as if they might fly up and cram themselves into his mouth. “I think she’s still sick. I think….”

“Just you wait, you stupid cow! You’ll be sorry!” a female shrieked from the other side of that gilt-trimmed, crystal-knobbed door. Hetheridge didn’t recognize the voice, but Henry clearly did.

“Mum! Stop!” he cried, flinging the door open with such force, it collided with the wall.

Following the boy inside, Hetheridge unconsciously slipped into detective mode, taking in the complex scene with the sort of diffuse focus good policemen cultivated, registering every detail, big or small, as fully as possible. Features of the parlor he tended to screen out, like those dour Hetheridges hung on the landing, leapt out at him: light green wallpaper, shelves full of cloth and leather-bound books, two shaded lamps, a velvet settee from  the 1920s, a cold fireplace with polished brass fender, and a glass-fronted liquor cabinet. Usually it was locked; tonight, it was open, and two bottles of scotch had migrated, though not far.

Kate, in the foreground, looked more tigress than baroness. Her upper lip was cut and crusted with dried blood; blonde hair, wilder than ever, floated around her face like a mane. Her elder sister, Maura Wakefield, stood by the drinks trolley with a glass in one hand and an icepack in the other. Her hair, brassier than Kate’s, was threaded with white; deep lines cut beneath her eyes and along the sides of her mouth. Her nose was twice as red and swollen as Kate’s upper lip.

On the velvet settee sat a woman the tabloids respectfully styled Mrs. Louise Wakefield, although her rap sheet also listed her as Lolo Carter, Lolo Shumway, and Lolo Dupree. In old mug shots, Louise was a bottle-blonde sporting hairstyles of the rich and famous: once Twiggy, then Kylie, then Diana, and even Posh Spice, back when the Spice Girls were a recording group, not a quiz show answer. Today she’d bobbed her now-white hair, perhaps in imitation of Adele; the lines that bisected Maura’s face were stacked four deep on Louise’s brow. For all that, she looked happy, with an open bottle of Johnnie Walker on the coffee table and a large scotch in her hand. From Kate to Maura to Louise, the three women formed a triangle as highly charged as its counterpart off the coast of Bermuda.

And about as inviting, Hetheridge thought. He’d known this day would come, when he’d be obligated to meet the in-laws. He just hadn’t reckoned on split knuckles and spilt blood.

“Mum, stop?” Maura repeated, giving Henry a hurt look. “Your poor old mum’s just defending herself, love. Look at my face! Your precious Kate attacked me. Broke my nose. All because—”

“Kate,” Hetheridge thundered. The parlor’s acoustics weren’t as impressive as the kitchen’s, but a single word had a similar result. Halted in mid-rant, Maura’s mouth hung open for a split second, then snapped shut. High color rose in Kate’s cheeks; she curled her left hand around her right, concealing the fresh plaster Harvey must have applied. Caught with her large scotch halfway to her lips, Louise stared at Hetheridge with undisguised fascination.

“Thought you’d be taller,” she said.

“Kate,” Hetheridge repeated in his normal tone. “Forgive me for intruding this way. Won’t you please introduce—”

“Oi! If you haven’t heard, Jane Austen’s dead, Lord Hetheridge, and Charles Dickens ain’t looking so hot himself. Guy Fawkes is the horse I bet on,” Maura announced, East London bray slightly slurred. “I know two hundred years ago, commoners were introduced to aristocrats and never the other way round, but this is the twenty-first century and I can introduce myself. I’m Maura Wakefield.”

Putting down icepack and drink, she advanced with right hand stuck out, apparently so intent on making her point, she didn’t notice her son was trembling violently. Moving just behind Henry, Hetheridge ignored the demand to shake, instead resting both hands on the boy’s shoulders. Beneath the layers—hooded jacket, cable knit sweater, button-down shirt—he felt Henry’s tremors slowly lessen. Only when they completely abated did Hetheridge speak, directing his words to Henry alone.

“Would you like to go down and help Harvey?”

“I can’t. Kate and Mum. They’re arguing over me.” Henry gazed up at Hetheridge, round face scarlet, glasses slipping down the bridge of his nose. “I wanted to go to Robbie’s, but I guess running away won’t solve anything. I need to stay.” As if sensing Hetheridge’s misgivings as to the wisdom of such a proposition, Henry added, “I have a right to stay!”

“Very well. In that case, I have no doubt,” Hetheridge said with finality, “we adults will keep matters civil. Perhaps even cordial. Ms. Wakefield.” Approaching Maura slowly, Hetheridge allowed himself to smile as he held her gaze, as if he’d sighted her across a ballroom, cutting through a dozen waltzing couples to seize her gloved hand and lift it to his lips. Her shoulders drooped; the deep fissure between her eyes relaxed. In surprise, she looked vulnerable, and when vulnerable, her chin trembled just the way Kate’s did. “I’m Anthony Hetheridge. My friends call me Tony; I hope you’ll do the same. Let me start by begging your forgiveness for eloping with your sister. It was terribly selfish, and I promise to make it up to you.” Maura’s arms hung at her sides—she seemed too starstruck to shake—so Hetheridge dared a bow from the waist, the sort of puffery now considered overdone outside of Buckingham Palace.

“Lookit that,” Louise marveled. Belting back the last of her Johnnie Walker, she slammed her glass on the table and sprang up, seemingly cured of the various afflictions—backache, knee pain, flat feet—that had prevented her from seeking paid (legal) employment her entire life. “Kate! Introduce me! Never mind all that about Guy Fawkes and anarchy in the UK, I want it done proper.”

Kate took a deep breath. “Tony, this is my mum, Louise Wakefield. Mum, this is my husband, Tony.”

“Title,” Louise said out of the side of her mouth, staring at Hetheridge.

“Lord Hetheridge. Baron Wellegrave,” Kate said dully.

Sensing his cue, Hetheridge gave old woman a longer, deeper bow, imagining the Queen in her pink chiffon suit and beribboned hat instead of Louise in her tracksuit and trainers.

“Enchanté.” Louise dropped a passable curtsey.

“Mum,” Kate and Maura said in the same moment, and the same tone.

“Bloody hell, I’m only human. First time I ever met a person of quality,” Louise said.

“I’m a baroness, if you didn’t notice,” Kate ground out.

“Nobody likes a braggart, Katie.” Plopping back onto the settee, Louise splashed more scotch into her glass. “Now that we’re all acquainted, Tony, let me clue you in. Our Maura’s been through the wringer—all the way through, mind you, and no thanks to your lot at the Met, but no hard feelings, either. She done her time in hospital and now she’s out—”

“In a halfway house. Pending conditions,” Kate cut across her mother.

“—and it’s high time poor little Henry was back in her life. Mine, too. I need to see my grandson,” Louise said, taking a sip. You’ve done right by him, Katie, but being rich isn’t the same as being God. You can’t bully your sister the way you bully everyone else and expect her to slink off, tail between her legs. Not when her only child’s happiness is at stake.” Taking another sip, she shot Hetheridge a beatific smile. “Good stuff, Tony. Smooth as a baby’s arse.”

“What do you mean, bully Maura and everyone else?” Kate demanded of Louise. “Bullies get things. I’ve never had a thing from either of you, not in my whole life! I practically raised myself. I paid the bills when you scarpered. Nicked food when you didn’t stock the fridge. Chatted up the landlord to keep a roof over all our heads. And as for you,” she continued, swinging toward Maura with such narrowly contained fury, Hetheridge thought he might have to physically restrain her. “You flushed your life down the karzi, not me. All I did was keep Henry from going into care. I’ve seen the system from both sides, and it’s rotten. I wanted to save him! And this is the thanks I get?”

“Kate.” Henry’s voice cracked. He was trembling again.

“Look at my poor boy’s face.” Maura sounded genuinely distraught; her eyes shone with tears. Either she was a natural actress, Hetheridge thought, or the whiskey was having an effect. “Is this what you do, Kate? Poison him against me? Tell him how terrible Mum and me are, and what a saint you are?”

“Of course it is. That’s our Katie, always keeping score,” Louise said, as serenely as a pensioner discussing Coronation Street. “Probably expects me to apologize for every Christmas she didn’t find her heart’s desire under the tree. Held me to impossible standards. I remember it all, Katie, every time you judged me. It’s all etched in my memory, written in blood.”

“This is stupid,” Henry exploded. “You’re all so—so—stupid!”

Before Hetheridge could concur, albeit in slightly more diplomatic language, Kate said in a voice of deadly calm, “Mum. I don’t expect you to apologize because I never found my heart’s desire under the tree. That’s because we never had a Christmas tree. Not once. And if your memory’s so sharp, answer me this: when is Ritchie’s birthday?”

Louise blinked. “What?”

“Ritchie. My brother. Your son.” Kate folded her arms across her chest. “He’s in his room, playing with his Legos. You’ve been here all this time and you haven’t even asked about him. When’s his birthday, Mum?”

“For heaven’s sake, Ritchie’s fine! This isn’t about Ritchie, it’s about Henry.” Maura sniffed, wiping her eyes. “Henry, baby, you still love me, don’t you? You understand I had to go to hospital, I had to get well….”

“Tell us his birthday, Mum. Amaze us,” Kate said. “I won’t even hold you to the year. Just the month and day.”

“Ritchie’s a lost cause.” Louise rose with all the dignity available to an inebriated senior citizen in a FUBU track suit. “Because you stole him from me. Bribed him and lied to him until he forgot me. But you won’t do that with Henry. We won’t let you.”

“Kate,” Henry said, louder. “Mum….”

“You are the last person on earth I take orders from,” Kate told Louise. “And when it comes to Henry—”

“He’s my son,” Maura cut in.

“I’m right here!” Henry cried. “Doesn’t anyone care what I want?” Breaking into tears, he whirled, trying to dart out of the parlor, but Hetheridge blocked his escape.

“Stand your ground,” he whispered close to the boy’s ear. Forcibly turning Henry to face Kate, Maura, and Louise, Hetheridge said, “It’s a fair question. Do any of you care what he wants?”

“Tony!” Kate’s green eyes flashed. “How can you ask me that?”

“I would die for Henry!” Maura surged forth as if to embrace the boy.

“No!” Henry threw himself against Hetheridge, sobbing noisily into the wool coat Hetheridge had forgotten to remove. Unsure how to respond to either the gale of emotion or the death grip around his middle—never before had a weeping child attached itself to Hetheridge—he decided to carry on as if it weren’t happening.

“Would you care to answer?” he asked Louise.

“Kiddies don’t know what they want. Or need,” she sniffed. “That’s why God made adults, innit?”

“Terribly sorry, milord,” Harvey announced from the doorway. “Scotland Yard on the line for you, sir. They’ve rang your mobile several times without luck. Must be a satellite issue.”

Hetheridge, infamous among his younger colleagues for switching off his mobile when it suited him, not to mention behaving as if texting were a mass delusion to which he alone was immune, nodded as if carrier failure was obviously at fault. “Who called?”

“Assistant Commissioner Deaver, milord. There’s been a homicide. Special Response has been summoned—the scene may still be hot.” Harvey, every millimeter the professional from his restored comb-over to his gleaming wingtips, kept his face blank, as if taking no pleasure in such casual use of Met lingo. Nevertheless, satisfaction radiated off him in waves. Harvey was always most alive when delivering official Scotland Yard communications.

“Wh-what’s a hot scene?” Henry asked, releasing Hetheridge at last.

“That’s when the murderer might still be loitering about,” Louise said wisely. “Bloody hell, Kate, don’t you let the little bugger watch Crimestoppers?”

“What address?” Hetheridge asked Harvey.

An infinitesimal pause for effect. “24 Bruton Place.”

Kate gaped at Harvey as if he’d slipped into Swahili. “But that’s …”

“In this very neighborhood. Three houses up the street, to be precise. Therefore, though it pains me to do so,” Hetheridge lied smoothly, “I fear I must ask our guests to leave.”

“Of course we’ll go. But we’re taking Henry home with us. You can’t abandon him in this drafty old house while you and Kate poke about a murder scene,” Maura said.

“Madam, I shall be with him.” Harvey lifted his chin.

“Oh, sure, a butler. Might as well put Ritchie in charge.” Maura sounded scandalized.

“Ritchie looks after me just fine,” Henry announced, defending his chief nemesis with a fervor usually reserved for superheroes and Jedi knights. “He’s older than Kate.”

“He’s been daft every day of his life and you know it,” Maura snapped. “And a butler isn’t your blood. I’m your mum, and I’m taking you home.”

“Maura, I swear to God—” Kate balled up her fist, crinkling the fresh plaster across her knuckles.

“Kate, please.” Hetheridge didn’t meet his wife’s eyes. He didn’t need to; the force of her glare could have been felt from orbit. Instead, he told Maura and Louise, “I understand your position, ladies; believe me, I do. But there’s a certain expression I’ve been told countless times, yet never had occasion to employ.” He rested both hands on Henry’s shoulders and smiled. “Not without a warrant.”

© Emma Jameson, Lyonnesse Books 2015

Filed under: Black & Blue, Books, Emma Jameson, Lord and Lady Hetheridge Series, Writing