‘I’m afraid, sir, that Mrs Chester did not arrive at Cranbourn Alley. Mrs Shelbeck was out, but Miss Shelbeck, her sister-in-law, was most distraught. It was all we could do to prevent her from coming herself.’

I frowned, shaking my head in bewilderment. ‘But…’

‘Could we come in a moment, sir?’

‘Of course.’ I hardly needed to play the part; I was light-headed, almost reeling from drink, chloral and nerves. I grasped the lintel of the door for balance. For a moment I almost fell.

Merle’s thin arm was surprisingly strong. He grasped me as I toppled, leading me to the warmth of the parlour. Constable Hawkins followed us, with Tabby bringing up the rear.

‘Mrs Gaunt, perhaps you might bring a cup of tea for Mr Chester?’ said Merle softly. ‘He looks unwell.’

Tabby left the room, looking back over her shoulder at the two policemen, her face pinched with apprehension. I sat heavily upon the sofa.

‘I’m sorry, sergeant,’ I said. ‘I have been ill recently, and my wife’s condition has put me under some strain. Please do not be afraid to tell me the truth. Did Miss Shelbeck seem surprised that she had planned to go to Cranbourn Alley?’

‘Very surprised, sir,’ said Merle neutrally. ‘She said she hadn’t had any word of it from the lady.’

‘Oh, God.’ I put my head in my hands to hide the capering grin I could feel aching to show itself behind my slack features. ‘I should never have left her! I should have gone with her, whatever the doctor said. I should have known.’

‘Sir?’

I looked up at him wild-eyed. ‘This is not the first time my wife has suffered…lapses,’ I told him dully. ‘My friend the nerve doctor, Dr Russell, examined her not ten days ago. She is a victim of…hysteria, believes herself persecuted.’ I allowed my face to warp and twitch as if I were close to tears. ‘My God,’ I cried in an impassioned tone, ‘why did I let her go?’ I stood up abruptly and seized Merle’s arm. ‘You must find her, sergeant,’ I pleaded. ‘There’s no knowing where she thinks she is going. Anything…’ My voice cracked obligingly. ‘Anything might happen to her.’

And then I was crying, really crying, tears streaking down my face, choking me. I shook with great, hysterical sobs, releasing grief and poisoned laughter in alternate gusts. But as I wept, my face in my hands, I could not help being conscious of a kind of glee, a cold, mechanical capering in the chambers of my heart, and a knowledge that my grief-if grief there was-was not for Effie, or for anyone else I could think of.

It wasn’t till after seven that I decided to pay my delayed visit to Henry; I caught a cab to the High Street and walked up from the cemetery to Cromwell Square. I passed a group of children singing carols-among them a girl of about twelve who radiated an unearthly, crystalline beauty: I slipped a wink to the pretty child and a sixpence each to her friends-after all, now I could afford it-and, whistling, I made my way towards the Chester household.

He answered my knock almost at once, as if he had been expecting callers. From his expression I guessed that I was far from welcome but, after a furtive glance across the street, he ushered me in. I saw no sign of the housekeeper and presumed she was out. All the better: it would make my dealings with Henry the easier.

‘Merry Christmas, Henry,’ I said cheerfully. ‘The house is looking very festive tonight. Then again,’ I added winningly, ‘we do have quite a lot to celebrate, don’t we?’

He looked sharply at me. ‘Do we?’

I raised my eyebrows quizzically. ‘Come, come, Henry, don’t be coy,’ I said. ‘We both know what I mean. Let’s say that this Christmas we have both managed to contrive a solution to certain…embarrassments, shall we say? Yours, I believe, were marital, whereas mine are merely financial. We shall deal very well together.’

Henry was no fool: he was beginning to understand. Last night had seen him fuddled with guilt and chloral, but tonight he had a cooler head than I would have given him credit for, and he merely stared at me in that haughty way of his.

‘I don’t think we shall, Harper,’ he said coolly. ‘In fact, I doubt whether we shall even meet very often at all. Now, I was rather busy…’

‘Not too busy, surely, for an old friend to share a Christmas drink?’ I said with a smile. ‘Mine’s a brandy, if you please. I never discuss business with a dry throat.’

Henry didn’t move, so I helped myself from a nearby decanter. ‘Won’t you join me?’ I offered sweetly.

‘What do you want?’ he asked, through gritted teeth.

‘Want?’ I said aggrievedly. ‘Why assume that I want anything? I fear you have misunderstood me, Henry: I would never be vulgar enough to ask for anything…If, of course, you were to offer-in the name of our friendship-let us say a mere three hundred pounds to pay off my creditors-a Christmas bonus, so to speak-I wouldn’t think of refusing.’

His eyes were narrow with hatred and understanding. ‘You can’t blackmail me! You were a part of it too. I’d rub your face right in it.’

‘Queen’s evidence, dear chap,’ I said lightly. ‘Besides, I have friends who’d lie for me if needs be. Have you?’

I let that sink in for a while. Then, downing the brandy in one gulp, I said: ‘Why not simply join in the Christmas spirit a little? One good turn deserves another. Think about it. What’s three hundred to a man like you? Isn’t it worth it, if only to see the back of me?’

Henry was silent for a minute. Then he turned on me, his expression ugly. ‘Stay here,’ he ordered, spun on his heels and left.

He came back a few minutes later with a small metal box which he thrust into my hands as if he wanted to hurt them.

‘Take it, you wretch. The money’s there.’ He paused, his lips thin to the point of invisibility. ‘I should never have trusted you,’ he said softly. ‘You planned this from the start, didn’t you? You never had any intention of helping anyone but yourself. Get out of my sight! I don’t want to see you ever again.’

‘Of course you don’t, dear chap,’ I said gaily, pocketing the box. ‘But who’s to say you won’t? Life, after all, is variety. I daresay we may meet again…at an exhibition, or a club…or in a cemetery, who knows? It would be a pity to lose touch, wouldn’t it? I know my way out. Merry Christmas!’

Half an hour later I was at one of my favourite haunts in the Haymarket, the precious box carefully hidden in my inner pocket, drinking fine brandy in front of a warm fire and eating chestnuts boiled in cider from the hand of a fifteen-year-old charmer with hair like sable and a mouth like a slashed peach.

I never did have much time for guilt. Henry’s discomfiture had put me in a good mood, and between that and the girl and the box of banknotes I admit that any lingering thoughts of Effie had long ceased to disturb me. There were other, more pressing things on my mind.

I drank to the future.