Mayfair: Madame Phenix Reveals All — Or does she?
At the Beaumont, Mayfair.
In the lounge.
Upscale, boutique luxury at its finest.
Madame Phenix sitting on the leather couch next to me.
“Another brandy, my dear?”
“A lady might think you are trying to get her tipsy,” she replies.
“You know fore well that alcohol has no effect on you, any more than it does on me,” I say nodding to the attentive waiter to replenish our glasses.
“What was it, good sir, that you wished to discuss with me?”
“You know the detestable trade rags are full of what happened last night to young Constance daughter of Lady Beaumont?”
“Yes, I had noticed,” she purrs, all innocence. “Terrible wasn’t it?”
“Terrible, indeed,” I reply, taking a sip of the excellent brandy. “Would it be inopportune for me to ask whether you might have seen anything given your regular nocturnal wanderings in the area?”
A small, but inscrutable smile crosses her face.
“All was quiet during the early hours, delightful, actually. The most I saw was a solitary stoat in the undergrowth of Berkeley Square, poking its head out and barring its fine teeth. Its eyes glinting under the street light.”
“A predator of the highest calibre,” I comment.
“Quite so.”
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