Assassins at Ospreys

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The two women sat at the very end of the first row, quite close to the platform, and Antonia couldn’t say precisely which one she had noticed first. She convinced herself that it had been the one with hair like burnished gold because she was the only member of the audience who was in a wheelchair. The woman wore an extremely smart-looking cream and blue silk dress, a diamond necklace and clips, too elegant for such a minor literary event, really, and she clutched Antonia’s latest book in her hands. A bunch of red roses lay across her lap. But it might have been the other, the dark one – on account of the fact that, as far as Antonia could see, she was the only person in the auditorium wearing black gloves. It was a very warm day in early June, the air conditioning in the hall wasn’t working properly, and to wear any kind of gloves, no matter how fine the material, was to draw attention and invite speculation as to the reason. (Didn’t sartorial quirks sometimes hint at deeper eccentricities of character?)

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