'You keep a diary?' The face of Arnsley Drennan swam back into my mind at that moment, his sneering, mocking face as he congratulated me at least on not being stupid enough to keep a diary.

'It's your fault,' she continued reproachfully. 'I began with those letters I wrote to you from Nancy. I enjoyed writing them, and even after our association came to an end, I kept on writing them, but this time to myself only. I dare have no intimates, no real friends, no family. Only myself. And so it is to myself that I write.'

'You must be very lonely.'

'No,' she said, 'of course not. Why should I be?'

'Do you never wish for more?'

'I have never had a friend who has not betrayed me. Or whom I have not betrayed. So I do not permit it.'

'I am your friend, I think.'

'That merely poses the question – will you betray me? Or shall I betray you first? It will happen, you know, sooner or later. It always does.'

'It is a cold world you live in.'

'Which is why I must look after myself above all. I honour my promises, but must care for no one.'

'I don't believe you.'

She shrugged. 'It is not important at the moment.'

I thought it was the most important thing of all, but let it pass. 'These letters to yourself, then. They contain details of all you have done? Everyone you have associated with? What are we dealing with here? How big are they?'

'Large. Two volumes, with about three hundred pages each in them.'

'And they are honest?'

'A true account of my life.' She smiled. 'They deal with everything and everyone. In very considerable detail. It would cause severe embarrassment to many people. Frankly I do not care about that; it is no more than they deserve. But my life would be ruined as well.'

'And I presume it also says a great deal about my activities in France?'

'Not that much; I didn't begin them until after our arrangement came to an end. But I think there is enough to get you into trouble. If it's any consolation, I was very warm about you.'

'It isn't.'

'What should I do?' she asked.

'You said Simon has disappeared. Who is he?'

'My servant. You remember? He had many troubles with the law. I employed him because – well, I thought that one day I might need such a person. He was always loyal to me.'

'You found him in Nancy?'

'No. I have no contact with anyone from there. He is a Parisian.'

'His loyalty to you seems to have run out. He knew about these diaries?'

'I thought not. But I suppose he did.'

I tried to digest all this unwelcome news. 'Well,' I said eventually. 'The obvious thing to do, and the easiest, is nothing. If these diaries are ever published you would be very much more famous – notorious, I should say – than you are now. I imagine they would become a great literary success.'

She smiled, but only weakly. 'It is not a reputation I want. Besides, far too much would not pass the censors. If that is all there was, I might see your point. It is an age where any sort of debauchery is tolerated, as long as it brings fame with it. But I find I like being what I am now, even if it is only an illusion. I do not want to go back.'

I have rarely felt as comfortable and contented as I did sitting in that room. That may seem strange, perhaps heartless, but I must be honest on this point. It was warm, the lighting was soft, the chair I was sitting on comfortable. Elizabeth, dressed that evening in a simple costume of blue silk, was as beautiful as ever I had seen her, and her worry created a degree of intimacy between us that made even me regret my refusal of the offer she had once made and which, I knew, would never be repeated. I could easily have spent the rest of the evening, the whole night, just talking of nothing and watching the fire flicker in the grate. In my life, I think only Freddie Campbell could induce such a feeling of comfort and safety in me: of family, almost, or so I imagined, although as I never had much of a family I cannot speak with authority on the subject.

'Assuming you are correct and that this Simon stole your diaries, it will be almost impossible to find him. We will have to wait until he surfaces. Until then it would be like looking for a needle in a haystack. It is easy to disappear in Paris. There are few things more simple, in fact.'

'He has already surfaced.' She handed over an envelope. 'This arrived today. It is the only reason I went to my bureau and checked. Otherwise I might not have noticed anything amiss until Sunday, which is when I usually write up my week.'

I studied the contents carefully. It was an extract from a newspaper, a funeral notice of a Dr Stauffer from the Journal de Lausanne. No date, nothing else at all. No message, no demand for money.

'What does this mean?'

She shook her head, treating the question like a fly buzzing around her, something she wanted to go away.

'It clearly means something to you.'

'He was someone I knew, who was kind to me once. It is of no significance except to prove that Simon has the diaries. This was stuck into them. He is trying to frighten me. Starting with harmless information, making me nervous about what will come next. Will you help me?'

I nodded. 'If I can. But you may have to pay heavily. I will not recommend you pay blackmail; that will merely encourage more demands. A one-off purchase is another thing, though. Are you ready to pay high?'

She nodded.

'Then I will try. The first thing will be to make contact. I will post someone outside your door just in case. And you must let me know immediately you hear anything else.'

'Thank you, my friend.' It was a word which did not often pass her lips. It sounded strange coming from her, as though she did not really know what it meant.

CHAPTER 12

The next day, I put Jules onto the task. 'Time to earn your pay, my boy. You know the Countess von Futak's house?'

Jules nodded. He should; he had already spent more time than he wanted camped outside it.

'Back there again, I'm afraid. I want you to watch the gate. Someone may deliver a letter by hand; I want to know who it is. Everyone who puts anything in the letterbox – I want a full description, times, everything. And no,' I said as I could see he was about to speak. 'I will not tell you why. If you are lucky it will only be for a day or so.'

Jules was lucky: it took a few hours. At lunchtime another letter was delivered, and Jules followed the man who dropped it quickly in the letterbox and hurried on. The description was that of Simon, and Jules tracked him all the way up to Belleville where he was renting a room in a hotel for itinerants. The letter, I later learned, was a demand for 10,000 francs, which was encouraging: he was getting down to business, and it seemed he was only after small change. Perhaps he did not appreciate exactly how valuable the diaries were. Or perhaps this was just the start.

Jules and I had lunch in my room, which he brought up from the kitchen. The hotel did have running water in the rooms, but not hot. The manager had kindly fitted a gas pipe and a little heater for me because I had taken the rooms for a year. On this I could brew my tea and heat up sufficient water for washing and shaving, as the sanitary arrangements were somewhat limited. That did not matter so much; lavish use of eau-de-cologne covered a multitude of sins.

'Listen,' I said, as Jules set out the little table by the window. 'I have another job for you. How do you feel like travelling?'

Jules brightened.

'How often have you been outside Paris?'

He thought. 'Never,' he said eventually.

'Never?'

'Well, I went to Versailles once, to find my father.'

'And did that experience of foreign climes create a desire for more?'

'Not really.'