When I looked back again, the door was closed, but their hate remained with me, cruelly, delicately feminine, like a breath of perfume on the air. I found a gin-shop and tried to force my nerves into submission, but Marta’s rage followed me even into drunkenness, souring my warmth. Damn them both! Anyone would think that I really had murdered Effie. What did they expect? I’d helped her to escape, hadn’t I, even though the plan might have miscarried just a little? I’d fooled Henry, and I would be the one to get them the money-I was sure that they would have too much delicacy to dare to confront Henry themselves. Yesterday it was ‘I need you, Mose, I’m counting on you, Moses’ but today…No use wrapping it in clean linen, I told myself; they’d used me. I certainly didn’t need to feel guilty about my own behaviour. I looked at my watch; half past two. I wondered what Henry was doing. The thought immediately cheered me somewhat. Soon it would be time to pay my little visit to Henry.

My euphoria lasted until I reached Cromwell Square. Then I saw the wreath of holly and berries on the door and a kind of lassitude crept over me, a numbing of the senses at the thought of the part I would have to enact with Tabby when, inevitably, Effie did not come home. My hand was on the door when it opened abruptly and Tabby’s face appeared, smiling and radiant with excitement and pleasure. A quick glance took in the parcels in my arms and she gave a little crow of delight.

‘Oh sir,’ she said, ‘Mrs Chester will be pleased! The house looks a treat, too, and I’ve got the cake just cooling in the oven. Oh my!’

I nodded, rather stiffly. ‘You have been busy. Could you take these parcels and put them in the parlour?’ I held out my purchases. ‘Then, maybe a glass of brandy?’

‘Of course, sir.’ She bustled off with the presents, eager as a child, and I allowed myself a sour smile.

I was drinking brandy in the library when the Christmas tree arrived. I watched the porter and Tabby put it up in the parlour, then I watched Tabby hang it with glass balls and tinsel, sticking little white candles on to the ends of the branches with wax. It was oddly compelling. Sitting by the fire with my eyes half-closed and the pungently nostalgic scent of pine needles in my nostrils I felt a quite pleasant sense of disorientation, as if I were some other, younger Henry Chester waiting on Christmas Eve for a magical surprise…

Night was falling; Tabby lit candles on the mantelpiece and put more logs on the fire; the room had acquired a homely warmth, a sparkle which, though ironic in the circumstances, was oddly potent: the reality of last night seemed as distant as the events of my childhood and, as I turned to speak to Tabby, I found myself almost believing my own fiction.

‘Tabby, what time is it?’

‘Just left four, sir,’ replied Tabby, applying the taper to the last of the tree’s candles. ‘Perhaps you’d like a cup of tea and a mince pie?’

‘Yes, that would be very nice,’ I said approvingly. ‘In fact, you had better bring up a pot: Mrs Chester said she would be back at four at the latest.’

‘I’ll bring her a slice of my special cake,’ said Tabby kindly. ‘She’ll likely be cold.’

Well, the pot of tea and the pies and cake stayed on the sideboard for nearly an hour before I allowed myself to feign unease. It was simpler than I thought. The fact was that with the approach of night my earlier indifference had begun to fade; I was restless without quite knowing why. I felt thirsty and drank brandy, but I found that the brandy made me hot and dizzy. My eyes kept turning towards the parcel containing the silk wrap, lying at the foot of the Christmas tree. I could not keep still.

Finally I rang for Tabby.

‘Has there been no word from Mrs Chester?’ I demanded. ‘She did say she would be back by four, and it is past five now.’

‘No word, sir,’ said Tabby comfortably. ‘But I wouldn’t worry. Likely she’s stopped for a chat somewhere. She won’t be long.’

‘I hope there hasn’t been an accident,’ I said.

‘Oh, no sir,’ she said, shaking her head. ‘I’m sure she’s on her way.’

I waited until the Christmas candles had burned to stumps on the mantelpiece. The ones on the tree were long gone and Tabby had already replaced them for when Effie returned. I drank coffee to steady myself and tried to read a book but could not concentrate on the dancing print. Finally I brought out my sketch-book and began to draw, focusing my thoughts on the lines and texture of the paper, of the pencils, my head a hive of silent bees. I looked up as seven struck on the mantelpiece clock and stretched out my hand for the bell-pull. The gesture stopped halfway; my hand left in mid-air like a puppet’s as a movement by the tree caught my eye. There. The curtain moved, very slightly, as if plucked by invisible fingers. Straining my ears I thought I could hear a kind of resonance, like the wind blowing across a wire. A draught ruffled the bright wrapping on the presents under the tree. A glass bauble spun on its own, throwing an arpeggio of light on to the nearby wall. Then silence.

Ridiculous, I told myself, in subdued rage. It was a draught, an ill-fitting window-frame, an open door somewhere else in the house. Ridiculous to imagine Effie outside that window, Effie with her long, pale hair loose around her white, hungry face…Effie come to take her present…and perhaps to give one too.

‘Ridiculous!’ I spoke aloud, my voice comfortingly solid against the background of night. Ridiculous.

Still, in spite of that ridicule I found that I had to go to the curtain, twitch aside the heavy brocade, look through the thick glass into the street. In the light of the gaslamps the street was deserted, white: no footprints marred the glowing snow.

I rang the bell.

‘Tabby, has there been any word from Mrs Chester?’

‘No sir.’ She was less ebullient now; Effie was three hours late and the snow had begun to fall again, stifling the night.

‘I want you to take a hack to Cranbourn Alley and find out if Mrs Chester has set off home. I will stay here in case anything has happened.’

‘Sir?’ she queried doubtfully. ‘You don’t think she might have…I’m not sure I-’

‘Do as I say,’ I snapped, thrusting two guineas into her hand. ‘Hurry, and don’t stop for anything.’ I tried a rueful smile. ‘Maybe I am being over-cautious, Tabby, but in a city like London…Go on. And hurry back!’

‘Yes, sir,’ she said, still frowning, and from the window I watched as, wrapped from head to foot in shawls and cloak, she hurried out into the unbroken snow.

When she returned she had two policemen with her.

I could hardly suppress a guilty start as I saw them come in through the gate, one tall and thin, the other as squat as Tabby herself, lumbering ponderously through the dense snow to my door. Even as panic hammered down my spine I found myself stifling laughter as bitter as it was compelling. With one hand I fumbled for the chloral bottle on its chain and shook out three grains, which I swallowed with a last mouthful of brandy. I felt the rictus of my sour mirth relax. I forced myself to sit and wait.

When I heard their knock I leaped from my chair, almost tripping on the stairs as I ran to open the door. I let my face slacken in appalled comprehension as I saw them, Tabby’s face puckered with half-shed tears, the officers of the law deliberately neutral; hatless.

‘Effie!’ My voice was ragged; I allowed all the desperate suspense of that evening to permeate the two syllables. ‘Have you found her? Is she all right?’

The tall officer spoke, keeping his voice carefully flat. ‘Sergeant Merle, sir. This’-indicating the other figure with a long, bony hand-‘is Constable Hawkins.’

‘My wife, officer.’ My voice was raw with disguised laughter-no doubt it sounded desperate to Sergeant Merle. ‘What about my wife?’