The Scent of Scandal Chapter One ANISE A pale yellow oil with a sweet spicy fragrance reminiscent of liquorice. In large doses it has a narcotic effect. It should be used with extreme caution and in moderation only. Anise is good for aches and pains, particularly in the neck. The Complete Encyclopaedia of Aromatherapy Oils by Jessamine Lovage "She's had men popping in and out of there all day," Anise said over her shoulder. "They're more regular than our cuckoo clock." There was a sharp edge to the winter morning, complementing perfectly the tone in Anise's voice. Outside, cobwebs, rigid with frost, hung along the hedge like starched doilies bereft of fairy cakes, flung there with careless abandon after some wild tea party. The chill sun bounced off the ice crystals and glinted in her face, making it difficult to see. In her sitting room, Anise squinted and lifted the binoculars up to her eyes, her reading glasses clinking as they knocked against them. The binoculars were heavy and her arms were aching already. She watched the postman puffing up the hill, his breath making more steam than an old railway engine. Shifting her position, she took her weight on her good leg and looked through the binoculars toward the house across the road, whizzing them fuzzily across the barrier of hedges and spindly skeletal trees before focusing on the front door of number five Lavender Hill. "Nine-fifteen." She glared at her younger sister who was reclining in an armchair, apparently staring into space. "Write it down!" Angelica sighed and picked up her notepad. "First one of the day. Tall. Caucasian. Male," Anise barked. Angelica paused with her pencil. She looked up at her sister. "What does Caucasian mean?" Anise turned and glared at her. "White, Angelica. White. Tall, white male. Don't you ever watch NYPD Blue or Hill Street Blues?" "No." Angelica shrugged and her face took on a ponderous look. She put the pencil back to her notebook. "How do you spell Caucasian?" "Just put white," Anise snapped, returning to her binoculars. "Just put white." She balanced the binoculars on her hip and wished fervently that the pins and needles would go out of her hands. It would hardly be appropriate to rub them in front of Angelica and lose face. "What about Mr. Patel, who runs the post office and general store, is he Caucasian?" "No. He's Asian." "What does the Cauc bit mean?" Her sister put her pencil in her mouth and chewed the end of it thoughtfully. Anise glared at her again. "Are you deliberately being obtuse, Angelica?" "No. And Mr. Patel's a very nice man. You should get to know him better. He always helps to tear the page out of my pension book. They don't make perforations like they used to." Anise tutted. "Let's get on with it, shall we? I only have so long left to live." She raised the binoculars again. "Tall, white male. Light-gray pinstripe suit. White shirt. Not tailored. Loud, flashy tie. Too vulgar by half." "Is it absolutely necessary to write down what he's wearing?" Anise turned to glare at her sister for a third time. "How will we know if he comes out wearing the same clothes?" Angelica sat back in the armchair and languorously crossed her legs. "How will we know if he comes out at all unless you're planning to keep watch all day?" "I thought I'd draw up a rota." "Oh no, Anise." Angelica waved her hand emphatically. "You can count me out of that one. If you want to do this, you can do it by yourself. I don't mind taking a few notes, but you're not getting me up there doing your dirty work. You know I don't like heights." "It's four steps, Angelica. Four steps. I'm not asking you to scale the Eiffel Tower. Besides the reputation of Great Brayford is at stake." She craned forward with her binoculars. "He looks suspiciously like Regis Philbin." She turned and snapped at her sister's inertia. "Quick, quick-write it down. Write it down!" Angelica brushed her hair from her forehead with a languid movement. She had seen the young Grace Kelly do it years ago in Dial M for Murder and it was an affectation she had practiced ever since. After all these years she had it down to a fine art. Not that anyone ever appreciated it. It drove Anise insane. Partly because it drew attention to the fact that her hair was still generously flecked with soft honey tones rather than the harsh ice-gray that Anise's had gone just after she turned sixty. Her sister had looked remarkably like Catherine Deneuve until then- everyone used to say so. Fifteen years later, Anise's skin was also gray but she hid it skillfully with a liberal application of Max Fac-tor makeup, but people no longer made the Deneuve comparison. Her seventies had turned Anise old, cold and as hard as a boiled sweet. "You could be a bit more specific, Anise. You haven't said how old he is." "It's hard to tell. He's looking shifty, moving his head from side to side. Bugger. This hedge is in the way; we'll have to get Basil to lop the top off again." "I think he's getting too old for it." A look of concern crossed Angelica's face. "Perhaps we need to get someone else in." "We're getting too old for it, that's why we pay the lazy blighter to do it for us. Although the only thing I ever see him doing is leaning on his blasted spade, watching the grass grow. I've seen garden gnomes more animated than Basil." The Scent of Scandal . Copyright © by Carole Matthews. Reprinted by permission of HarperCollins Publishers, Inc. All rights reserved. Available now wherever books are sold. Excerpted from The Scent of Scandal by Carole Matthews All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.
