CHAPTER 17

I got back to London at eight that evening, and went straight to the Ravenscliff residence. I had nothing particular to do there, no reason not to go home via a chop house or pub for a good night's sleep. The only reason I went to St James's Square rather than Chelsea was because I wanted to see her. I was almost aware of it.

I did not, of course, have a key, but I had been given free run of the house and could go in and out as I pleased. I noticed a slight hesitation when the door was opened, as though the servant thought it unbecoming for a young man to turn up to a house of mourning so late in the evening. She was probably right. I asked about her mistress and was told she had already retired for the evening, which made my heart fall. I then realised there was nothing I wished to do there; but I could hardly turn on my heel and leave, so I walked up the stairs to Ravenscliff's office to make a pretence of studying his papers.

I did nothing; instead I sat in the armchair by the empty fireplace, and thought about its owner. An aesthete and an ascetic, from Seyd's description, building his complex, incomprehensible organisation in such a way that almost no one in the world could appreciate it. Perhaps that would have spoiled it. Maybe the secrecy of what he was doing was the source of the pleasure. Or not. I didn't know. I was a long way out of my depth. In a matter of days, my orderly life had been reduced to a complete mess. Not so long ago all I had to do was get up, write about crime – generally committed by simple, straightforward people – and go back to bed again.

And what was the dominant thought in my mind? The eyes of a widow nearly twice my age. Her faint smell of perfume. The way she moved. The glimpse of skin above her expensive, hand-made dress. The softness of her voice. What she had said to me, what it implied. What it might lead to. What I hoped.

Awful, awful, awful. I groaned to myself as I thought about it. Truly, my £350 a year would be hard-earned if it went on like this. Ordinarily, I would have done as I had done so often before: made a list. Decided what the most important things were to get done, and then proceed singlemindedly to do them. I tried to dismiss the thoughts of Elizabeth from my mind and think once more of Lady Ravenscliff. To work out some practical means of getting this job done quickly, so I could be free to go back to the Chronicle, or some other paper which might have me.

But, once I did that, then the result was even more depressing. For the fact was that I had made no real progress at all. I looked blankly at the shelves of notes and files; I was sure there was something in there somewhere, but the idea of actually looking for it filled me with revulsion. I think I must have stayed there for about an hour; it was quiet and peaceful, and after a while it almost became comforting. There was a photograph of Ravenscliff on the mantelpiece; I took it out of its frame and looked at it for a long while, trying to fathom the character behind the face, before folding it and putting it in my pocket.

And eventually I was able to lever myself out of the chair and prepare to rejoin the world; to go home to sleep, and then to start afresh the next morning. It wasn't so bad. The worst that could happen would be failure. I'd still have my £350.

I was almost content as I went back down the grand staircase, walking slowly, looking at the pictures on the walls as I passed. I knew nothing of such things; they seemed perfectly pleasant decorations to me. But as I was passing the door to the sitting room, I heard a noise. Nothing exceptional, just a bump and a scrape. I knew it must be her and I hesitated; all my anxiety and irresolution flooded back.

A sensible person would have carried on down the stairs. Discipline and self-denial should have been called upon. A commonsensical realisation that the only way of returning to my mood of calm was to avoid the woman disturbing it as much as possible, keep her at arm's length, be polite and professional.

I didn't want to be or to do any of those things. I knocked, quietly and tentatively on the door, and then pressed my ear against it. Nothing. So what do you do now? I asked myself. Tiptoe away like some nervous schoolboy? That would be humiliating even if no one else knew about it. Is that how bold would-be lovers behave? Or open the door and walk in. I had a right. She had looked at me.

My heart was pounding, and I was almost breathless as I gripped the doorknob, turned and pushed. The room was dark, the curtains drawn, only a fire almost extinguished in the grate, and a candle. The expensive modern electrical lighting was not switched on. I thought I must have been mistaken, until I heard a voice, so quiet I could hardly make out the words.

'Who is it?'

It was her, but the voice sounded entirely different. Dull and without the musicality that normally made it so appealing. Slightly slurred, as though I had woken her up from a deep sleep.

'Oh, it's you,' she said as I stepped into the room and the light from the landing fell on my face enough for her to recognise me. 'Come and sit down. Shut the door, the light hurts my eyes.'

This was not what I had expected. Going into the room, so dark I could see only shades and shadows in the candlelight was disconcerting, even slightly frightening.

'Are you all right? You do not sound well.'

She laughed softly and looked up at me. For the first time, her hair was unpinned, and fell down over her shoulders in a rich dark mass. She wore some sort of thin gown which shimmered slightly as she moved, embroidered in reds and blues. Japanese motifs, very fashionable. She was extravagantly, impossibly beautiful. I caught my breath as I looked at her for her eyes were darker than usual, the pupils wide, almost as though she was terrified of something.

'What is the matter?'

She laid her head on the back of the settee, and pushed her hair back over her ear, but said nothing; just smiled.

'Please. Tell me.'

'It's nothing. A little medicine to calm my nerves. It is strong, and I haven't used it for many, many years.'

'Perhaps you need a doctor for a different prescription? I could summon one very quickly if you wish.'

She smiled again and looked at me with what might have been affection, or indulgence, or even sympathy.

'It is not the sort of medicine which needs a doctor, Matthew.'

She pulled back the sleeve of her robe, and I could see a broad red mark around her upper arm; below it there was wound, with a trickle of dried blood coming from it. She laughed again at my incomprehension.

'Oh, my God, I have employed the most innocent man in London,' she said. 'You poor dear boy. You really know nothing at all.'

I must have been looking horrified by this stage, so she became more serious herself. 'Morphine, Matthew,' she said soberly. 'The great releaser, the comforter of tormented souls.'

I would have been shocked, had I had the time to arrange my thoughts, but in fact I wasn't thinking anything at all at that moment. I just sat there, closer to her than I had ever been, my heart pounding.

'Do I frighten you? Or do you frighten yourself?' she asked, but not in a way which suggested she wanted a reply. 'Shall I tell you what you are thinking?'

No reply from me. I was so far out of my depth I knew that the faintest wriggle might cause me to sink and drown.

'You have been thinking of me, night and day. You dream of me, of wanting to take me into your arms and kiss me. That is what you would say, were you able to say anything at all. You are silent now, but in your mind some part of you is trying to turn it to your advantage. Perhaps this is your opportunity, perhaps I would not resist if you leaned forward and took me now. But you don't want merely to kiss me, of course. You want to make love to me; you dream of me becoming your mistress. You long to see me naked in front of you, wanting only to be possessed by you. Is that not true, dearest Matthew?'