Black & Blue (Lord & Lady Hetheridge Book 4) Read Online Free
Author: Emma Jameson
can solve…."
"I know, guv. Murder in Mayfair. Is it difficult, sliding from chief superintendent to husband and back again?"
"You have no idea," he said, and she couldn't tell if he was joking or not.
* * *
The night proved bracing enough to clear Kate's mind. Euston Place was, as always, quiet. The street was scrupulously clean, all wheelie-bins tucked away, trees and shrubberies manicured. Terraced houses, many erected in the mid-1800s according to their lintel stones, were mostly pale with an occasional splash of new paint; under the glare of so many security lights, those bits of green, blue, and red stood out like rouge on a corpse. Among the eaves of the detached houses, CCTV cameras stood sentry, revealing an upper crust obsession with robbery Kate found amusing. Criminals who frequented Euston Place weren't of the purse-snatching or house-breaking variety. They were international robber barons, purveyors of televised filth, and politicians, to name only a few.
"Who lives at number twenty-four?" Kate asked Tony.
"I'm ashamed to say I don't know. When I was a boy, my father knew all his neighbors. Hated most of them, but that's another story. These days, they keep their eyes on the street as I pass and I return the favor."
"At my old building, I was on nodding acquaintance with everyone. Mind you, we weren't all mates. One slag banged her doors at all hours. And this tosser played gangster rap every—oh. Look, guv!" The honorific slipped out automatically as they turned the corner. "Blue lights."
Twenty-four Euston Place was an aggressively modern, blindingly white three-story house. Fully detached and made of poured concrete, it stood alone in a treeless gravel courtyard. Such isolation put forth the unmistakable impression that no naturally-occurring thing on earth cared to rub elbows with the house, and the feeling was mutual, thank you very much. Everything about it was asymmetrical. Oddly spaced windows, unbalanced roof, and no columns or pediment, just a vast porch burdened with what appeared to be a heap of red wheels and gyros.
"Crikey. What's that meant to be?" Kate asked.
"Art, I fear," Tony said. "I suppose a shrub in a planter was all too obvious."
Like most residences, number twenty-four stood awash in halogen security lights, giving it a sort of radioactive glow. It wasn't just violently modern, but futuristic: a life support cube from some bleak tomorrow, teleported smack into the heart of Mayfair.
Affixed to number twenty-four, Kate saw a large nameplate, white with red letters, that read:
EAST ASIA HOUSE
It was decorated with the block-cut silhouette of an elephant, also in red.
"Good God," Tony murmured, startled. "That red heap is meant to be art. And I am acquainted with who lives here, slightly. Granville Hardwick. Only I've never heard his home called Twenty-Four Euston Place."
"What's it usually called?"
"The White Elephant. The neighbors were so upset when he built it, a protest group was actually formed. The REB: the Society to Reverse Euston Brutality. 'White Elephant' is the nicest thing they call this house. As for Hardwick, they say he's obsessed with self-promotion. Provocative, vainglorious."
"Whew. Around here, getting a reputation like that must take some work," Kate teased. But gently; after all, it was now her neighborhood, too. "Whatever happened inside, things seem under control." She indicated three panda cars, a yellow plastic barrier, half a dozen uniformed officers, an ambulance, and a forensics van. It was all very much business as usual, including a few gawkers who'd edged as close to the perimeter as possible: a bald man with a dog and a grandmotherly sort with two small girls. The dog's tail wagged; the small girls fidgeted. "Can't be a hot scene."
"Is that so? Check the rooftop to your left."
It took a moment for Kate's eyes to adjust from the garish white house to comparative blackness. When the roof finally swam into focus, she saw a man in a bulky
"I know, guv. Murder in Mayfair. Is it difficult, sliding from chief superintendent to husband and back again?"
"You have no idea," he said, and she couldn't tell if he was joking or not.
* * *
The night proved bracing enough to clear Kate's mind. Euston Place was, as always, quiet. The street was scrupulously clean, all wheelie-bins tucked away, trees and shrubberies manicured. Terraced houses, many erected in the mid-1800s according to their lintel stones, were mostly pale with an occasional splash of new paint; under the glare of so many security lights, those bits of green, blue, and red stood out like rouge on a corpse. Among the eaves of the detached houses, CCTV cameras stood sentry, revealing an upper crust obsession with robbery Kate found amusing. Criminals who frequented Euston Place weren't of the purse-snatching or house-breaking variety. They were international robber barons, purveyors of televised filth, and politicians, to name only a few.
"Who lives at number twenty-four?" Kate asked Tony.
"I'm ashamed to say I don't know. When I was a boy, my father knew all his neighbors. Hated most of them, but that's another story. These days, they keep their eyes on the street as I pass and I return the favor."
"At my old building, I was on nodding acquaintance with everyone. Mind you, we weren't all mates. One slag banged her doors at all hours. And this tosser played gangster rap every—oh. Look, guv!" The honorific slipped out automatically as they turned the corner. "Blue lights."
Twenty-four Euston Place was an aggressively modern, blindingly white three-story house. Fully detached and made of poured concrete, it stood alone in a treeless gravel courtyard. Such isolation put forth the unmistakable impression that no naturally-occurring thing on earth cared to rub elbows with the house, and the feeling was mutual, thank you very much. Everything about it was asymmetrical. Oddly spaced windows, unbalanced roof, and no columns or pediment, just a vast porch burdened with what appeared to be a heap of red wheels and gyros.
"Crikey. What's that meant to be?" Kate asked.
"Art, I fear," Tony said. "I suppose a shrub in a planter was all too obvious."
Like most residences, number twenty-four stood awash in halogen security lights, giving it a sort of radioactive glow. It wasn't just violently modern, but futuristic: a life support cube from some bleak tomorrow, teleported smack into the heart of Mayfair.
Affixed to number twenty-four, Kate saw a large nameplate, white with red letters, that read:
EAST ASIA HOUSE
It was decorated with the block-cut silhouette of an elephant, also in red.
"Good God," Tony murmured, startled. "That red heap is meant to be art. And I am acquainted with who lives here, slightly. Granville Hardwick. Only I've never heard his home called Twenty-Four Euston Place."
"What's it usually called?"
"The White Elephant. The neighbors were so upset when he built it, a protest group was actually formed. The REB: the Society to Reverse Euston Brutality. 'White Elephant' is the nicest thing they call this house. As for Hardwick, they say he's obsessed with self-promotion. Provocative, vainglorious."
"Whew. Around here, getting a reputation like that must take some work," Kate teased. But gently; after all, it was now her neighborhood, too. "Whatever happened inside, things seem under control." She indicated three panda cars, a yellow plastic barrier, half a dozen uniformed officers, an ambulance, and a forensics van. It was all very much business as usual, including a few gawkers who'd edged as close to the perimeter as possible: a bald man with a dog and a grandmotherly sort with two small girls. The dog's tail wagged; the small girls fidgeted. "Can't be a hot scene."
"Is that so? Check the rooftop to your left."
It took a moment for Kate's eyes to adjust from the garish white house to comparative blackness. When the roof finally swam into focus, she saw a man in a bulky
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