Out in the main corridor and sounds of pursuit fading, they encountered two newsmen carrying cameras armed with those new-fangled exploding light bulb devices. They were looking about them eagerly.
‘Show’s back there,’ said Harland, nodding over his shoulder. ‘Better hurry, you guys. You’ve missed the first act.’
Chapter One
Paris, 21st May 1927
‘I know monsieur will have a most enjoyable evening.’
The young woman who’d shown him to his seat offered him a smile at once shy and knowing. She held out her hand for his tip and slipped it swiftly away with a murmured word of thanks. The solitary Englishman hesitated, eyeing the pair of gilt chairs snuggling cosily together in the empty box with sudden misgiving.
‘Mademoiselle!’
He detained her with his call as she turned to dart away and offered his ticket stub again for her inspection. ‘Some mistake, I think?’
The girl took the ticket and looked with exaggerated care at the number. She was an ouvreuse – yes, that’s what they called them over here, he remembered. Though what they actually ‘opened’ was a mystery to the Englishman . . . unless you counted the opening of those little bags into which their conjurer’s fingers made the notes and coins disappear.
‘No, there is no mistake, monsieur. This is indeed your box number.’ She tilted her head and the smile appeared again, this time without the softening element of shyness. ‘You have the best seat in the house.’ Her eye ran over the handsome features, the imposing figure, taking in the evening dress, correct and well-cut. She remembered his generosity and paused in her scurrying to cast a glance, amused and complicitous at the second chair. ‘A little patience!’ she teased. ‘I’m sure it will not be long before monsieur has company.’ She took the time to add: ‘There are ten minutes to go before the curtain rises. And it is no longer fashionable to be late. Certainly not for this show.’
She whisked away in a flutter of black silk and a tantalizing trace of rather good perfume, leaving Sir George Jardine standing about in something of a quandary.
He had an increasing feeling of unease. He was displaced. He ought not to be here. But the momentary touch of vertigo was chased away by a stab of impatience with himself. With the man he had become over the years. Would he ever be free to lay aside the burden of his training? Years of forethought, political skirmishing, and – yes – out-and-out skulduggery had imbued him with a watchfulness that was not lightly laid aside, even when he was thousands of miles away from the arena of his intrigues. Here he was, in the pleasure capital of Europe; it was time to let go the reins and leave the bloody Empire to look after itself.
For at least the next six months in fact. George had gone on working after many would have retired, the guiding force, the continuity behind the last two Viceroys of India. He’d been looking forward to getting away from Delhi, leaving behind the heat, the scandals, the undercover chicanery. It had been a good idea to break his journey at Marseille and take the Pullman up to Paris. Yes, no doubt about that. A week or two of relaxation and stimulation before he did his duty by his ageing family back home had been hard earned.
A summer in Surrey. He needed to fortify himself. Experience the latest sensations . . . work up a few stories . . . bank a few topics of conversation. At home in England one couldn’t go on for long talking about India. It pained him to see eyes glaze over when anything other than a passing reference to the subcontinent was made. At the mention of Delhi, people started to twitch and to look anxiously over your shoulder for rescue, but just let drop that you’d been in Paris and they clustered round for news. George determined to have fascinating things to report.
Before taking his seat, he patted his pockets with a familiar sensation of expectation. His opera glasses, cigar-lighter, wallet, spare handkerchief and a roll of currency were present and correct. Along with a folded envelope.
Bit of a puzzle, this.
It had been handed to him the morning after his arrival in Paris – an envelope addressed to him in a careful English hand, care of the Ambassador Hotel. There was nothing in it but a scribbled note and a theatre ticket. For the Théâtre des Champs-Élysées. The clerk at reception had no knowledge of its delivery. No one, George could have sworn, knew that he was to be in Paris this evening. And who the hell was ‘John’? Which ‘John’ of his acquaintance – and there were many – had, in black ink, written:
George, old man – welcome to Paris! Thought you wouldn’t be able to resist this. Tickets are like gold dust so make sure you enjoy yourself. But – there you are – I owe you one! Yrs, John.
A mystery? George had no time for mysteries. His first reaction was of irritation rather than puzzlement. Why on earth couldn’t the wretched fellow have appended his surname? Unless he was so well known to him that it would be considered unnecessarily stiff? A moment’s further reflection and he had it. With a passing embarrassment (was he getting old? losing his grip?) he remembered he had a cousin called John – though he’d always called him Jack – and that cousin was, indeed, in Paris, engaged in some clandestine way in the diplomatic service. And, yes, George did recall that the younger man owed him a favour. Quite a favour, in fact. A ticket to the theatre – though the star was the most talked-of, most scandalous woman in the world – was a pretty frivolous offering as a counterbalance. Bad form. George didn’t at all object to being sent the ticket but he felt it was . . . ah . . . undignified to mention the moral debt at all. What are influential relatives for, if not to ease your path through the career jungle? You accept the leg-up, are duly grateful and the matter is never referred to again. Well – all would, doubtless, be revealed. Jack would pop up, late as usual, and they’d have a laugh together, slightly uneasy to catch each other enjoying such a spectacle as was promised. George was glad he’d had the sense to order a tray of whisky and soda for the interval. They’d enjoy a glass and his cousin would know that he was expected.
And here he was, the sole occupant of what in London would have been called the Royal Box, the target of lazily curious glances from the audience gathering below. A public figure and constantly on parade, George was unperturbed. He automatically made a gesture to adjust his already perfectly tied black tie, he smoothed his luxuriant grey moustache and eased his large frame into the spindle-legged gilt chair further from the entrance, thinking to allow easy access for his cousin when he appeared.
He settled to stare back boldly at the audience, conveying amused approval. This gathering risked outshining the performers, he thought, so brightly glittered the diamonds in the front stalls and the paste gems in the upper gallery. The gowns glowed – silks and satins, red and mulberry and peach apparently the favoured colours this season, standing out against the stark black and white of the gentlemen’s evening dress. His nose twitched, identifying elements of the intoxicating blend of tobaccos curling up from the auditorium: suave Havana cigars, silky Passing Clouds favoured by the ladies, and, distantly, an acrid note of rough French Caporals.
And every seat taken, it seemed. Definitely le tout Paris on parade this evening. George checked his programme again, wondering if he’d misunderstood the style of entertainment on offer. A turnout like this was exactly what you’d expect for the first night of a ballet – he’d been part of just such an audience, tense with anticipation, in this theatre before the war. He’d seen Nijinsky leap with superhuman agility in The Rite of Spring, delighting some, scandalizing others. George had counted himself delighted to be scandalized. On this stage, Anna Pavlova had thrilled the world with her performance of The Dying Swan. And tonight’s crowd was seething with expectation of an equally significant display. All was movement: faces turned this way and that, hands fluttered as friends were greeted across the breadth of the hall, places were hurriedly swapped and the unmistakable musical rise and fall of a chirruping French crowd on pleasure bent swirled up to him.