A Very Messy Business In Belgravia

Chapter Three

Amalthea Huntley rose early.  Today was the day she was going to pay a visit to the Greys' private detective.  She had not bothered to make a prior appointment.  He would either be in his office or not, and if the latter, she would just come back at a different time.  Besides, announcing one's attendance in advance gave the other party the opportunity to either refuse the meeting or deliberately avoid it.

As she had lain awake in the early dawn light thinking about the matter, she had resolved to act with confidence, although she was feeling anything but.  After all, at best she was just an amateur, and with this case she was most likely biting off far more than she could chew.  Still, she had made a promise to Charlotte, and she intended to fulfil it.

Her ladies' maid, Alice, was currently rifling through her not insignificant collection of dresses, searching for something that, to quote the countess's instructions, 'oozed professionalism and intelligence'.  The young woman eventually appeared brandishing a high-necked offering all in black with a large bow on the front.  Amalthea suppressed a shudder.  Without needing to be told, Alice went once more into the breach.

"Let's gift that monstrosity to the Widows and Orphans Benevolent Society," the countess called out, wondering what on earth had possessed her to buy such a hideous item of clothing in the first place.

It took a good thirty minutes longer, but Amalthea eventually emerged dressed in a dark grey gown with clean, simple lines and some subtle lace detail around the collar, and a new resolve to completely overhaul her wardrobe.  It would be a costly exercise, but it had become clear that it was a very necessary one.  In any event, the expense would in reality be a mere drop in the ocean, as she was disgustingly wealthy, having been gifted a large amount of money, the townhouse in which she was currently residing, and a number of other income-producing interests by her late husband, both during his lifetime and in his will.  Thank goodness for the Married Women's Property Act, enacted twenty-five years previously, in 1882, which had enabled her to inherit and own property in her own name.

Of course, the country estate passed to her brother-in-law, along with the title, but she cared little for that loss.  The place was cold and musty, and a perpetual money-pit.  Edward was more than welcome to it as far as she was concerned.

After she had breakfasted, read the newspaper, supervised the cleaning of the property's silver collection, and called in briefly to see Aunt Jane, she finally acknowledged to herself that she was just putting off the inevitable.  Donning a hat and grasping her parasol firmly in one hand, she ventured out into the late morning sunlight.

The air was cool, but the day was sunny, with a light, refreshing breeze.  She looked again at the business card.  The address of Mr Carrington's private investigation agency was in next-door Knightsbridge.  Doing a quick calculation in her head, she realised that she could take some time to appreciate the weather and walk there in around forty minutes.  Adopting a moderate pace, she set off in a westerly direction.

Amalthea loved London.  It could sometimes be crowded and noisy, but there was always something interesting to see or do when one ventured outside.  Now, as she made her way through the streets of Belgravia, she realised how much she had missed the simple pleasure of taking a lengthy stroll during her period in mourning.

It felt like no time at all before she was standing in front of a non-descript, black door, leading into a building located down a quiet side street.  She looked for a bell.  Strangely, there wasn't one.  She tried the doorknob.  It was unlocked.  Pushing the door open, she was greeted immediately by a flight of stairs.  Hitching her skirts above her ankles, she started to climb.

At the top of the steps, she had a choice of a further three doors.  Employing common sense, she chose the one with the bronze plaque attached to it, although the writing was too rubbed off to be decipherable.  She pushed.  Once again, the door was unlocked.