A Splash of Red by Antonia Fraser Read Free Book Online Page B

telephone call to Isabelle's flat, if anyone had succeeded in disappearing in London without trace, it was Chloe Fontaine rather than Jemima Shore. But that was no longer her concern. It was time to gather a notebook and depart for the British Library.
    When she telephoned Mr Stover and told him that Taffeta had no trace of Chloe's whereabouts, and he must use his own judgement whether to summon the police, Jemima made it clear from her tone that she thought the step unnecessary. Mr Stover too sounded heavier and almost resigned.
    'The wife always said I was too fierce to her on the phone', was his first comment. 'Thank you, Miss Shore, we'll look out for you on television in the autumn. If she does phone you—' He stopped. 'Mrs Stover, she does worry, in spite of everything, she can't help it. But she's led her own life for too long, Dollie, we don't really know her any more. That's what I tell her mother. Now if we'd had one of our own—'
    It seemed an appropriate moment for Jemima to bid them a polite goodbye. She did not expect to hear of or from the Stovers again; she retained a tiny flicker of interest in what would happen to that old, unvisited couple, that worrying old woman, that old man who felt now that he had been too fierce and driven off the golden bird who was their only link with youth. Concentrated study would soon extinguish even that flicker.
    But Chloe - that was different. Jemima was full of natural and cross curiosity about her wayward friend's inexplicable behaviour. If she gave full rein to it, she might ruin this whole promised day of earnest research, by mulling, pondering, even making a checking telephone call, when she, Jemima, was supposed to be incommunicado. Time to be gone. Wearing one of her favourite dresses, silk jersey in the beige she loved with its own little splashes of red and navy blue, practical enough for the British Library, elegant enough to give her spirits a lift, she picked up her notebook. It was a pretty Italianate thing which appeared to be covered in wallpaper whose unsuitability for serious research, like the delight of the flowing dress, she found both soothing and cheering.
    This time she remembered to use the second key to unlock the flat door. Tiger sidled towards her and rubbed himself against the high-heeled golden sandal which, on the principle of the notebook, Jemima had decided to wear to the British Library. Jemima shooed him away. 'Back for dinner. Enjoy your balcony, there's a good cat.' And she was still in fact addressing the cat when the door swung open, and she felt both her arms roughly seized. The keys were twisted from her grasp.
    'Didn't she get my visiting card?' said Kevin John Athlone. He was so close to her that Jemima could see the slight sweat on his cheeks. She noticed involuntarily that he had not shaved. 'Care for a visit?' He was flushed as well as sweating. 'Well, now she's getting a visit, whether she likes it or not. And you too, Miss Jemima Shore.'
    Pushing her back into the flat, he deftly relocked the door. From the wrong side of it, Tiger gave a long unhappy mew.

4
    Irish accent
    'Where is she?'
    Jemima thought Kevin John Athlone had been drinking: drinking all night. His breath smelt sour with a nasty tang of acid in it, mingling with the smell of the sweat which beaded his cheeks and damped his bright blue towelling T -shirt. He wore light blue jeans which did not fit particularly well. They sagged on his hips; the broad leather belt which supported them had given up beneath the curve of his belly; the jeans look more rumpled than creased.
    He was still startlingly handsome. He ran rather than lumbered to search the remaining rooms of the flat; his movements were surprisingly light.
    'Where's she hiding?' he demanded, grasping both her arms firmly.
    The huge circular eyes which gazed into hers like those of a drugged but hostile animal being taken away to market, were of an astonishing blue. The bulging red veins visible in the white