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Five . . .
Four . . .
Three . . .
Two . . .
One.
And at the stroke of midnight, Pembroke turned into a butler.
Chapter Thirteen
Rise and Shine
During his time with the Manchester police, John had encountered some of the most ill-natured and depraved lawbreakers on earth. Every single one of them would have fled from the cauldron of molten rage that was Belinda Claw at early rising.
“Out of my way,” she snapped as Norman carried a coal scuttle up the servants’ stairs at the same time she was trying to descend. She squeezed by him. “If you say good morning, I’ll kill you. I swear it. I’ll kill you with a five-foot mop handle straight up the arse.” Brushing by John as she went into the kitchen, she growled, “Bugger off. Don’t talk to me. Nobody say a bleedin’ word to me.”
The kitchen was filled with the good smells of yeast rolls baking, the salty tang of fried ham, and potatoes sizzling in fat. June stood at the counter beside the stove, pouring hot water into a coffee-filled muslin bag that had been fitted into the top of an enameled pot.
In the corner, Alan reclined in a battered market basket lined with canvas sacks and toweling. Apparently June’s stance on dogs in kitchens had eased. The dog watched the activity in the room with bright brown eyes, his chin resting on the basket rim.
John had forgotten what it was like to live in a house with a proper cook. For years breakfast had been a boiled egg or a piece of buttered bread from a food stall. And sleep, when he’d been able to get it, had been in a rented room with raucous street sounds outside. But last night he’d enjoyed five hours of unbroken slumber for the first time in as long as he could remember. Now he felt full of strength and vitality.
He chose not to examine just how much of this fine mood had come from those hours he’d spent with Reina. The memory of last night lingered in his mind, tantalizing him. Later he would let himself think about the pleasure of a conversation that had been like a good romp in bed, with spells of languor and softness, stretches of playfulness and urgency, layers of curiosity and feeling.
“Good morning,” he said to June as he went to pet Alan’s narrow little head.
Before June could reply, Belinda muttered, “It ain’t morning. It’s the bleedin’ middle of the night, innit.”
“Mr. Pembroke,” June said, “I’m almost done perculatin’ the coffee. Have a seat if you like.”
“Is there a chore I could do?” John asked. “Does the slop pail need emptying?”
June looked surprised and pleased by the request. “Obliging of you, sir, but Mad Dog already seen to it.” Her gaze landed on Belinda, and she made a few chiding clicks of her tongue against her teeth. “What’s made you so cross and begrumpled, Bee?”
“I’m tired, is why. And I’m bloody cold!”
The cook turned to face Belinda, who looked like an unmade bed. The girl’s hair was wild and uncombed, her face was spotty, and her dress could have done with a thorough laundering.
“Of course you’re cold,” June said, not without sympathy. “You’ve no more meat on you than a tattyboggle. Have some coffee to warm your inwards.”
“I hate coffee,” Belinda said sullenly. “It tastes like boot blacking. It’s the worst thing ever.”
“You’d like it better if you add cream and sugar like I told you.” June picked up the kettle and poured more hot water over the ground beans. “Have you been washing with the soap I gave you?”
“Yeah.”
“When?”
“Two, three days ago.” The girl paused, thinking back. “Could be four.”
The cook sighed shortly. “That ain’t often enough, Bee.”
“Bathing makes you sickly,” Belinda said.
John, who had just sat in a nearby chair, couldn’t resist asking, “Who told you that?”
