The Dark Palace

‘Me? Why, yes, of course.’

‘You sound as though you have a cold.’

‘I am perfectly well, I assure you.’

Miss Dillard gave a weak smile. It was almost as if his answer consoled her for whatever else was wrong in her life. She sank down on to the bed and then lifted her legs, turned over and in less than a minute was snoring loudly.

Qui

Mrs Ibbott greeted him with an inquisitive arching of her brows.

‘She’s sleeping now.’

‘That’s something, I suppose. At least I will be spared her abuse.’

‘Mrs Ibbott …’

‘Yes, Mr Qui

‘If it is a question of her rent …’

‘What are you saying, Mr Qui

‘If it is a question of her rent, and whatever other expenditure, you may come to me for it. Until Miss Dillard is feeling quite well again.’

‘But, Mr Qui

‘Miss Dillard will never know.’

‘But what if she asks?’

‘She will not ask. If you cease to trouble her for her rent, she will not – I think – trouble you.’

‘I ca

‘Then say it is her sisters’ doing.’

‘She will not believe that.’

‘Then say … then say it is a secret benefactor. But do not mention my name.’

‘But is this not simply indulging her in her weakness?’

‘We shall take steps to help her, shall we not? I feel that it is her sense of hardship and financial misery that prompt her to seek recourse in the bottle. If we alleviate that, then perhaps …’

‘I fear it is not that, Mr Qui

Qui

Mrs Ibbott shook her head impatiently. ‘Ah, for a police detective, you are awful dense. But then you’re a man, are you not?’

TWENTY-SIX

Harry Le

His conservatory was an elaborate wrought-iron-and-glass affair. Its design suggested a distant pavilion in some eastern outpost of the Empire. It was a fantasy that Le

Somehow breakfasting in the conservatory reinforced his myth of self-creation. The conservatory looked out not just on to the well-tended garden of a well-to-do house at the foot of Primrose Hill, but on to the future. And Harry Le

Le

Charm is a valuable asset for a newspaper reporter to have, especially when it is combined with ruthless ambition, and an entire lack of moral scruple, which is only another way of saying ‘clarity of purpose’.

His first job in London was with the Thunderer, which gave him the serious reporting chops he needed to get on in the business. From there he moved to the fledgling Daily Mail, and within a year had risen to be its Society Editor. His talent for making friends was put to professional use. It was at that time that he met Hartma

The first edition of the Clarion carried Bittlestone’s earliest filed story, the one he had called in from Cecil Court. There was a vivid account of the girl’s discovery, a lurid retelling of the incident with the dog, a rather dismissive reference to Qui

And no mention of Bittlestone tracking the girl down and getting her story, he saw. He would have to call into the office first thing and find out what was going on there. For Bittlestone’s sake, he hoped that he had come up with something in time for the later editions.

The door to the conservatory opened. A silver tray bearing the morning’s post appeared on the table in front of him. He did not look up. He did not smile. He did not thank the maid who placed it there. It was as if his famous charm was a scarce resource that he had to preserve for when he really needed it.

He folded away the newspaper and turned his attention to the correspondence. One envelope drew his attention. He frequently received begging letters from the Old Country, essentially feckless Irishmen touching him for money, and basing their appeals purely on their compatriotism. As if he ought to give a pe

Le

With its green-inked address, this had the look of being another of the same. Green for Ireland, presumably. He was in half a mind to throw it in the wastepaper bin without opening it. But he wasn’t a newsman for nothing. The old curiosity always got the better of him.

The envelope was small, the size of a personal letter. It did not feel as though there was any enclosure, so no plans for a harebrained invention in this one. In fact, he could not be sure that the envelope contained anything. He looked for the post mark, but couldn’t find one. It seemed that it had been delivered by hand, presumably just after or before the postman had called.

He tore the envelope open distractedly and took out a single playing card, the Jack of Hearts, a one-eyed Jack. But where the eye should have been, a small hole had been pierced.