Raisins and almonds - Poisoned Pen Press (UK)

Raisins and Almonds
‘Hispano-Suiza. Observe the stork on the radiator cap. You’re
the Abrahams’ chauffeur?’
‘Yes, Miss,’ he said, self-consciously adjusting his jacket. He was
a young man with curly fair hair like fleece and a rural drawl.
‘Been here long?’
‘Three years.’
‘Good place?’
‘Yes, Miss, fair bloke, the Boss, always extra if he keeps me
out late, lashings of tucker but foreign, but I like foreign. The
Missus is hard to please, but she’s a good sort. I’m saving up for
a farm, so it suits me to live in. You come for dinner? I’ll ring
the bell for you, Miss,’ he said, escorting Phryne along a garden
path and up several steps to an imposing front door.
Whoever had built this house, thought Phryne, had a lot of
money and a burning desire to enrich the working stonemason.
It was made of solid dark stone, with bow windows and heavy
window ledges under a red tiled roof. Phryne had observed
the gargoyles as she came in. The architect had evidently been
inspired by a visit to Notre Dame de Paris. The front door was
set with gems of coloured glass, complex and beautiful, through
which light glowed.
A butler opened the door, and Phryne farewelled her escort
and stepped inside.
‘Miss Fisher? This way, Madam,’ murmured the functionary
from his starched height. He was perfect right down to the
gold studs in his shirt and the sable solemnity of his bow tie,
of such a perfect butterfly shape that it must have been either
(unthinkably) stitched into place or the product of a long and
devout apprenticeship.
The hall was high and painted in a pale cream to show off a
treasury of paintings. Phryne exclaimed in delight, and went over
to examine what she was sure was a little Renoir of a child with a
cat. The small face smiled out of the canvas, creamy skin against
tortoise-shell fur. She was aware of air moving and turned to find
herself being examined by a pair of dark unreadable eyes.
‘It is beautiful, yes?’ asked the woman.