by Sarah Rayne
Several times he caught the low, soft voice as it spoke to the people trooping up to the table, but he was not sufficiently near to hear what was being said. And then, without warning, it appeared to end; the bizarre figure stood up and the rustlings and scraping of chairs – the little trickles of conversation that had broken out here and there – ceased instantly. The man said, ‘I will bid all of you goodbye now,’ and a stir of surprise went through the listeners. This is something new, thought Flynn, straining to hear. This is something different.
The soft voice said, ‘Our association must end now. I am leaving. You will work for yourselves in future. You will look after your own interests.’ He paused, and Flynn unknowingly shared a thought with Fael, who had noticed that her dark, satanic familiar often sounded stilted, and with Mia Makepiece who had thought her unknown lover wrote in an old-fashioned way. He’s awkward with words! thought Flynn. He’s no fool and he possesses that extraordinary magnetic power, but when it comes to addressing people in an ordinary way he’s very nearly inept. Because he’s unused to human contact, is that it?
The murmur of surprise had grown momentarily louder, and Flynn could hear people asking one another whether they had suspected this, and whether it was a good thing. One or two of the girls were being loudly nonchalant, tossing their hair and saying they would do better on their own anyway: you did not need a protector or a pimp these days, what century did the Shadow think he was living in, for God’s sake? Several of the men told one another they would be bloody glad not to have to hand over five per cent every sodding week, never mind it got you a bit of security and a reasonable deal from landlords and such. You could sort your own landlords out, thank you very much! Who needed a protector?
The dark figure was stepping back unnoticed, going as silently and as dramatically as he had come. Hell and the devil, I nearly lost him! thought Flynn, and moving as swiftly as a cat, slipped unseen from behind the curtain and went out through the door in pursuit.
Even on a Sunday night this part of London teemed with life, and Flynn wondered what he would do if his quarry hailed a taxi, and whether it would be as easy as it looked on films to summon a second vehicle and utter the classic line, ‘Follow that cab.’
But at length the cloaked figure turned into a quiet, tree-lined street near the river, and vanished into a tall, narrow house. Flynn stopped and looked about him, and for the first time since leaving the Greasepaint was able to focus on something other than staying out of sight.
Once or twice he had lost his bearings, but he had spotted several familiar streets or squares on the way, and now that he could look about him without fear of being seen, he knew exactly where he was. He knew this part of London, in fact he knew this very street, close to Christchurch Street. He thought cynically that if this villain could afford to live in this part of Chelsea, he must be a very well-heeled villain indeed.
But Flynn not only knew the street, he knew the house into which his quarry had vanished. He knew because when he first came to London, with scarcely a penny to his name, he had been made very welcome at this house at any time he cared to turn up.
‘No need for warning,’ the house’s owner had said. ‘Just arrive on the doorstep. There will always be a meal here for you; there will be a bed for you as well if you need it.’
There had always been a meal and there had often been people from the theatre and music world as well. It had been a tedious journey from the cramped basement flat which had been all he could afford in those days, but it was a journey he had always made with a sense of grateful anticipation. Sometimes there would be dizzyingly important theatre people there, which had been heady stuff for a twenty-one-year-old who had still to make his mark in this chancy world. On other nights impromptu musical evenings would start up out of nowhere, and a disparate collection of people would take over the entire ground floor of the house, and improvise or rehearse or simply flop on cushions on the floor and talk into the small hours. Flynn’s mother, who belonged to a generation who believed that piano-playing was a useful social skill, had insisted that Flynn learn the rudiments of music, and as well as that he had the Irish ability to blend with any company. He had enjoyed it all: the musicians and the embryo conductors and the would-be composers, and the directors and the actors.
Most of all, he had been unceasingly grateful for the curious sense of security that he was always given by the owner of the house.
The owner of the house.
Professor James Roscius.
Chapter Twenty-Two
‘. . . messengers were sent all over the land to inquire after the dwarf’s name.’
German Popular Stories, Translated from the Kinder und Haus-Marchen, collected by M. M.
Grimm from oral tradition, 1823
Christian had stayed behind the curtain in the Chelsea house, leaving the rooms in darkness, so that he could watch Flynn Deverill without Flynn knowing.
It was almost two a.m. when Flynn abandoned his watch, dug his hands deeply into his jacket pockets and went back down the road, and Christian smiled to himself. Exactly as he had predicted. Flynn was going back to wherever he lived, and he would spend what was left of the night mulling over what he had seen and what had happened, and he would almost certainly draw the exact conclusions Christian wanted him to draw. It had amused him to lead Flynn through London’s streets, reaching Chelsea only when it suited Christian to do so.
He pulled the curtains tightly across and switched on lights, going quietly about the familiar rooms, packing things into boxes and suitcases. If he was to leave London for any length of time, it was vital to ensure that he left no trace of his identity behind.
It was not very likely that he would do so. Since his father’s death five years ago and his own arrival in London, he had striven for complete anonymity and he had succeeded. The practical side had been the most difficult, but he had overcome it by opening a bank account under the name of Mr Christopher James at a large branch of Barclays in West London. The money that the professor had left had been invested by a broker operating from Dublin, and all income was paid directly into the bank. Gas and electricity bills were dealt with by standing order, and if a repair was needed to the house, Christian wrote to a building contractor, posting the key by registered post, and leaving London while the work was done. As a security measure he always had all the locks changed by a different company after one of these jobs. Ready cash had come from the Soho organisation, so that he had seldom even needed to cash a cheque. He smiled briefly at the memory of the Greasepaint nights. He had enjoyed those; he had enjoyed the power he had wielded over the girls and the street musicians and the rent boys.
Everything had worked, as Christian had known it would, and all that anyone knew about the seldom-seen Mr James was that he led a quiet life, paid his bills scrupulously, and took no part at all in the pleasant little social events that local residents organised and attended. He had not even been labelled a recluse or an oddity; he was simply a lone gentleman who had a house here but who was away a good deal, probably on business, probably at some country cottage. Anonymous. London was full of such people. His neighbours would probably not even notice he had gone for longer than usual this time.
Leaving this house empty for such a long stretch worried him slightly, but he could not risk trying to sell it – a sale would mean solicitors and signing legal documents for which the useful Mr James’s name could not be invoked. He had spent some time considering whether it could be let. This was more feasible; he could write to the bank, instructing them to appoint an estate agent to find a suitable tenant, and it would give him an extra source of income; houses in this part of Chelsea were at a very high premium indeed. But after some thought he had rejected the idea; his father had died a relatively wealthy man, even by today’s standards, and the Soho ring had been profitable while it lasted. Christian did not actually need the money. And even if the bank were given a power of attorney there would still be legalities to deal with a
nd presumably a deed to be signed for a lease arrangement.
It could not be done. It would lay down too many trails and too many clues to his identity and perhaps even to his whereabouts. He would leave the house as it was for the time being, and later he might arrange for one of those house-cleaning firms to come in once a month or so to keep the place aired, and tidy the garden. Payment could be made through the bank, and a doorkey sent with reasonable anonymity. At the back of his mind was also the thought that he might need the house as a bolthole at some future date. He did not foresee having to leave Ireland and Maise again, and he thought his plans were foolproof, but no plan was entirely foolproof, only a fool believed that. Yes, a bolthole in this part of London, where he was not known, would be a very good thing indeed.
As he locked the door and stacked the last suitcase into the car, he was smiling as he remembered Flynn Deverill. Had Flynn really not guessed that there would be spies within the camp; that there would be moles among the motley collection of people that the organisation had drawn in? Christian had known about Flynn’s visit to the Greasepaint from three separate sources – none of them had been the doorman or Bill the barman – and he had known that Flynn was planning to watch the meeting from a hiding place and then slip out to follow him. He had known from these spies as well, that the police had not taken Flynn’s statement about a masked intruder very seriously. Were you extravagant and rude with them, Flynn? he had thought in delight.
Even if the police started to cast about for the intruder, they would find no clues as to his identity. Christian had covered all his tracks and he was perfectly safe.
And now Flynn would follow him to Ireland; Christian knew this as surely as he knew the sun would rise tomorrow. Flynn’s imagination had been caught and fired – possibly his chivalry had been fired as well and certainly his sexual ardour had been aroused by Fael. He would have added up all the clues he had – clues that in some cases had been deliberately left out for him to find – and he would guess at the link with Christian’s father. He would come to Ireland and he would eventually come to Maise.
And then Christian would kill him.
As he swung the car out towards the west-bound motorway, Rossani’s spirit was filling him up once more, and the evil, erratic mind was in the ascendant.
O never go walking at Beltane at dusk
In company of one whom you know not to trust;
Rossani’s a-prowl and he’s looking for fools;
He’ll cut out your heart and he’ll weave it to gold.
He’ll grind down your bones and he’ll shred up your soul.
O Flynn, thought Christian Roscius, the dark exultant power surging through him; O Flynn, you’re walking into the company of one you should never trust! You’re walking into Rossani’s lair, Flynn, and even though you think you’ve guessed Rossani’s identity, you don’t know the half!
The hatred he had so long felt against the dazzling, successful Flynn scalded through his entire body, leaving him gasping and half-blinded. He was the son of my father’s heart! thought Christian, bitterly. My father stamped Flynn with his own likeness; he made Flynn free in a world that should have been mine! I should have been the one who was welcomed and made much of in the house in Chelsea: guided and sponsored and protected by James Roscius! I should have been the one at Fael Miller’s side on Cauldron’s glittering opening night; the one she smiled at with that blend of interest and sexual awareness!
The agony of jealousy tore through him again, so that for a moment his hands clenched about the steering wheel, and the unwinding ribbon of road wavered before his vision.
And then it cleared, and in its place was the soaring triumph once more.
Because for all Flynn’s cleverness, it would be Christian himself who would have the final victory. Flynn was walking into Rossani’s lair, and once he was there, the balance would be redressed.
Gilly was a bit startled to find Flynn Deverill on her doorstep and receive the abrupt, off-hand invitation to supper. She was even more startled when he said, ‘This isn’t a ploy to get you into bed, Gilly – not that you aren’t enormously beddable, you understand. All that red hair – the pre-Raphaelite look, very sexy. But I have a thing on my mind just now, and I can’t spare the energy for seducing anyone.’
‘Ah. Then the supper—’
‘I need an ally,’ said Flynn. ‘There’s a plot going on – at least, I think there is – and I have to uncover it. I don’t want to do it, but I think I have to.’
‘Is it to do with Tod Miller’s murder? And his daughter’s disappearance?’
‘It is.’
‘Oh. And there’s a plot.’ Gilly tried the word out, which seemed a bit melodramatic on the face of it, but not when you heard it coming from this extremely melodramatic young man. ‘Why d’you want me as an ally?’ she demanded.
‘Because I need someone inside the company and I don’t want the likes of Julius or the little fowl,’ said Flynn impatiently, as if this ought to be obvious. ‘I want someone who knows what’s been going on inside the Harlequin – someone who really understands about the oddness of everything. Mia’s disappearance just before the first night, and then her death and Tod’s death.’
‘And Fael Miller’s disappearance.’
‘Yes.’
He paused and a slight frown creased his brow. Gilly looked at him and thought: That’s the motive. He doesn’t want to admit it – he might not even know it – but that’s what’s really driving him. Fael.
Flynn said, ‘I’ve reviewed all the others, and I think you’re the person I want. I think you’re a lady who can be trusted. I’d like Danilo in on it as well because he’s another one you could trust, isn’t he? Would he come out to supper, do you think?’
‘I don’t see why not.’
‘Good. Have you his phone number because I’ll ring him this afternoon.’
‘He’s got a new flat in Parkhill Road. Hang on, I’ve got the number somewhere – yes, here it is.’
Flynn wrote down the number, and then said, ‘I’m not wanting to seduce Danilo either, I’d better say that as well, hadn’t I? I haven’t the taste for that. Should I say it to him direct, do you think, or would he be offended?’
Gilly said, a bit faintly, ‘I’m not actually sure about Danilo—’
‘No, I’m not sure myself,’ said Flynn, and gave Gilly the sudden, blinding smile that threw a good deal of light on the indiscretions of some very surprising ladies indeed. I bet you’ve created some havoc in your time, thought Gilly, appraising Flynn with a shrewd professional eye.
‘Can you eat Italian food?’ asked Flynn.
‘What? Oh – yes.’
‘Good, so can I. Will we say Luigi’s just off St Martin’s Lane – you know where I mean?’
‘I do. And we will say Luigi’s indeed,’ said Gilly, swept along by the moment and the company.
‘So you see,’ said Flynn, seated opposite Gilly and Danilo in Luigi’s, and eating fresh pasta with industrious pleasure, ‘I’m pretty sure the man I followed from the Greasepaint is the same one I caught in the Harlequin’s cellars.’
‘And he went into Professor Roscius’s old house last night?’ said Danilo, carefully. He and Gilly exchanged looks, the same thing in both their minds. Do we admit to knowing about the Shadow and the Greasepaint meetings?
‘He did,’ said Flynn, reaching for the pepper mill. ‘As well as that, he apparently knew the secret way into and out of the Harlequin. I shouldn’t think more than half a dozen people today know about that.’
‘It couldn’t conceivably have been Professor Roscius himself?’
‘No, it couldn’t,’ said Flynn. ‘I’ve already thought of that. I went to James Roscius’s funeral five years ago and if you think it was faked—’
‘Could it have been faked?’
‘God, it’s an alluring idea to think of half the music establishment of Western Europe walking mournfully behind an empty box,’ said Flynn. ‘But I should
n’t think it’s very likely. I should think it’s quite difficult to fake a full-blown funeral. And there was a memorial service at St Martin’s as well.’
‘You’d have to have an awful lot of people in on the fake,’ agreed Gilly. ‘Undertakers and medical people and whatnot.’
‘Exactly. But I did think about it for all that,’ said Flynn. ‘I had all the wild ideas of Roscius being still alive – of having been mutilated in a road accident or a fire—’
‘Phantom of the Opera stuff—’
‘I thought somebody would say that. Yes, or even that he might have been the victim of some disfiguring disease – leprosy or one of those appalling face cancers. But I don’t really think that’s likely. And you don’t come across many cases of leprosy in Chelsea these days, do you?’
He paused to take another mouthful of pasta, and Danilo said, ‘How old was Roscius when he died?’
‘At least fifty and probably a good bit older.’
‘And the creature you saw?’
‘Oh, barely thirty,’ said Flynn. ‘About my age, in fact. He moved like a young man, although I did wonder—’
‘What?’
‘If there was the faintest crookedness about his spine.’ He refilled their wine glasses, and Gilly and Danilo glanced at one another, both remembering the Shadow. A faint crookedness described him exactly.
