okay?”
“Oh yes, yes, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you, but it’s just that my sister, bless her heart, insisted I get out of the house. My dear husband of twenty-one years, bless his soul, passed away ten months ago and well … I’ve kind of become a recluse. She has been dying to go to that fancy spa, so I’m her reason to go. Are we going to be okay, because now that you mention it I remember reading something about that poor lady and how the police are investigating it, but they aren’t certain if the spa has anything to do with her death. Silly me, I just didn’t put two and two together.”
“I don’t know that the spa actually has a connection to her death.” I lean over and pat her hand. “You and your sister will be fine.”
“Well, according to my sister it is the most desirable spa in Europe. Very wealthy and notable people from all over the world come to it, so that has to count for something, wouldn’t you think?”
“Of course.”
She laughs and shakes her head. “My dear sister says this place will do miracles for me, I just hope it doesn’t do me under.”
So do I.
“So tell me more about this mysterious venture you’re on,” she says with such delight.
PART II
Bath, England
But whoever drinks the water I give him will never thirst. Indeed, the water I give him will become in him a spring of water welling up to eternal life.
—J OHN 4:14
20
Bath, England
The Aqua Vitae spa sits on a slope at a higher level than the Roman ruins.
The ruins are what is left of a spa built nearly two thousand years ago when the town was called Aquae Sulis and the region was the Roman province of Britannia. Mrs. Lambert told me on the train that the baths are still in use, but the moneyed crowd naturally frequented luxurious private spas like that of Dr. Lacroix’s.
I have the cabbie drop me off at the ancient ruins and I walk slowly up to the spa, gathering my thoughts. I can’t barge in and ask the first person I meet if the doctor in charge is involved in the death of Hailey McGuire.
Not able to think of a clever approach to getting information, I do what I always do when I am in doubt: force myself to put one foot in front of the other and go forward and play it by ear.
The spa has the appearance of a Greek or Roman temple with Doric columns. The entire structure, or at least the façade, for sure, is marble, a building material that always translates as very expensive.
As I am nearing the building, an enclosed black town coach, fit for a queen, with a driver and footman, drawn by two black stallions, pulls up and stops. Deep, velvet burgundy window curtains hide whoever is inside, which obviously piques my always nosey interest.
The footman leaps down from his perch at the rear of the coach and opens the carriage door as the spa doorman comes forward with a parasol to shade the woman from the not very bright sun. The carriage door bears a coat of arms but even at a distance I can see that it has been discreetly covered over.
The woman who emerges from the carriage is dressed all in black—elegant black silk dress, black hat and veil, black gloves, and a small, black beaded chatelaine purse.
I wonder what she has in the purse attached to a waist belt. Chatelaines were originally a chain with necessary household items attached. Women hooked them on their belts and put keys, scissors, or other handy items on them.
According to The Queen’s magazine, chatelaine purses have become a ladies’ fashion item in which women carry not just a handkerchief, lipstick, or a card case, but secret things—like love letters they don’t want out of their possession.
The doorman, whom I’m glad to see is dressed in a uniform rather than a Roman toga, escorts her inside.
From what Oscar told me about the spa, the woman could be visiting for medicinal reasons or rejuvenation. Whatever they are, she definitely doesn’t want anyone to know who she
“Oh yes, yes, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you, but it’s just that my sister, bless her heart, insisted I get out of the house. My dear husband of twenty-one years, bless his soul, passed away ten months ago and well … I’ve kind of become a recluse. She has been dying to go to that fancy spa, so I’m her reason to go. Are we going to be okay, because now that you mention it I remember reading something about that poor lady and how the police are investigating it, but they aren’t certain if the spa has anything to do with her death. Silly me, I just didn’t put two and two together.”
“I don’t know that the spa actually has a connection to her death.” I lean over and pat her hand. “You and your sister will be fine.”
“Well, according to my sister it is the most desirable spa in Europe. Very wealthy and notable people from all over the world come to it, so that has to count for something, wouldn’t you think?”
“Of course.”
She laughs and shakes her head. “My dear sister says this place will do miracles for me, I just hope it doesn’t do me under.”
So do I.
“So tell me more about this mysterious venture you’re on,” she says with such delight.
PART II
Bath, England
But whoever drinks the water I give him will never thirst. Indeed, the water I give him will become in him a spring of water welling up to eternal life.
—J OHN 4:14
20
Bath, England
The Aqua Vitae spa sits on a slope at a higher level than the Roman ruins.
The ruins are what is left of a spa built nearly two thousand years ago when the town was called Aquae Sulis and the region was the Roman province of Britannia. Mrs. Lambert told me on the train that the baths are still in use, but the moneyed crowd naturally frequented luxurious private spas like that of Dr. Lacroix’s.
I have the cabbie drop me off at the ancient ruins and I walk slowly up to the spa, gathering my thoughts. I can’t barge in and ask the first person I meet if the doctor in charge is involved in the death of Hailey McGuire.
Not able to think of a clever approach to getting information, I do what I always do when I am in doubt: force myself to put one foot in front of the other and go forward and play it by ear.
The spa has the appearance of a Greek or Roman temple with Doric columns. The entire structure, or at least the façade, for sure, is marble, a building material that always translates as very expensive.
As I am nearing the building, an enclosed black town coach, fit for a queen, with a driver and footman, drawn by two black stallions, pulls up and stops. Deep, velvet burgundy window curtains hide whoever is inside, which obviously piques my always nosey interest.
The footman leaps down from his perch at the rear of the coach and opens the carriage door as the spa doorman comes forward with a parasol to shade the woman from the not very bright sun. The carriage door bears a coat of arms but even at a distance I can see that it has been discreetly covered over.
The woman who emerges from the carriage is dressed all in black—elegant black silk dress, black hat and veil, black gloves, and a small, black beaded chatelaine purse.
I wonder what she has in the purse attached to a waist belt. Chatelaines were originally a chain with necessary household items attached. Women hooked them on their belts and put keys, scissors, or other handy items on them.
According to The Queen’s magazine, chatelaine purses have become a ladies’ fashion item in which women carry not just a handkerchief, lipstick, or a card case, but secret things—like love letters they don’t want out of their possession.
The doorman, whom I’m glad to see is dressed in a uniform rather than a Roman toga, escorts her inside.
From what Oscar told me about the spa, the woman could be visiting for medicinal reasons or rejuvenation. Whatever they are, she definitely doesn’t want anyone to know who she
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