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That was the day on which Eddie Jago and I became roommates. And best friends.
Chapter One
A dream, a wakeful memory, forces its way—unbidden and unwelcome—into his reluctant consciousness.
He wears a long, dark overcoat and a top hat of black silk. An onyx-handled cane swings at his side and his highly polished shoes gleam as he steps between the yellow circles of gaslight. He smells of expensive cologne and money. Despite his height and powerful frame, his stride is light and graceful.
It is a perfect night for it, cold, damp and misty. This is the murder hour, the time when midnight is a memory and dawn a hopeless promise. He is the only being who walks this night without fear. The streets are his. He seeks the shadows and finds the right kind of gloom. The light here is just right for pretending.
“Your time has come.” The words are like crystal hanging in the aching silence, so close that he turns his head to see who utters them. When he understands who speaks, tears of mingled joy and terror track his cheeks. His master draws him into the comforting embrace of possession and together they feast on the sounds of darkness. The yelp of a dog as a boot connects with its ribs. The shuffle of a patched shoe slipping on greasy cobbles. The fearful hiss of an indrawn breath.
The girl walks quickly, head down, footsteps fleet. She doesn’t fool him. Her presence in the filth-piled gutters of this stinking alley is the only signal he needs. Her cloak falls open. Before she can pull it tighter, he glimpses her low-cut dress. The soft, full curves of her breasts press against the bodice of her gown. Veins pulse blue tendrils of life beneath the porcelain whiteness of her skin.
“You know what you must do.” Phantom breath caresses his cheek. “Do it for me now.”
To her, he is a shadow. There but not there. Indistinguishable from the night he owns. Gradually, he materialises from the unblinking gloom. His face remains hidden. He speaks, and his voice is soft and cultured. She pauses and, in doing so, makes this minute her last.
* * *
When the letter, with its Austrian postmark and familiar copperplate script, came at last, it was almost a relief. The waiting was over. It was propped on the mantel in the tiny parlour of our attic apartment. Brooding. Menacing. Waiting to dispel my peace and destroy my dalliance in Paris. Thoughtfully, I turned the innocuous packet over in my hands. I looked forward to opening it with marginally less pleasure than I would approach a box of deadly scorpions. Magda’s words rang in my mind: “I will write only if I have news of Sandor.” That was what she had told me eighteen months ago, when, thieflike, I had stolen away from Vienna during a storm-laden night. Sure enough, when I opened the folded page, three stark words were sprawled across it.
Liebling, he knows. I don’t recall how long I stood there in front of the fire, staring at Magda’s writing, willing the words to be different.
“Dita?” Eddie’s voice roused me from my trance. We had shared an apartment for six months, but I was still sometimes surprised to see him there. I had become so used to being alone. I turned to face him, crumpling the letter in my hand. I thought he must sense, from my expression, the waves of panic and fear that were resonating through me. But his own face was equally pale, his striking eyes indigo-dark and stormy. I went to him and, wordlessly, drew him into a close embrace. As I reached up to stroke the dark silk of his hair, I wasn’t sure whether the gesture was intended to comfort him or myself.
“I have to go home. Back to England,” he said with an effort. “My father has been ill for some time. I’ve been avoiding it, but I have responsibilities I can no longer ignore.” He pulled away from me slightly so that he could study my face. “I can’t face it alone, Dita. You are the only person I can trust. Will you come with me?” Even through my concern for him, I felt a stinging surge of relief. Here was my answer. This way there was no reason for anyone to ever know that Eddie’s departure from Paris had coincided so neatly with my own need to take urgent flight.
“Would that work, Eddie?” I frowned, trying to apply logic to the illogical. “How will your parents react if you arrive at your family home with me on your arm? We have lived openly under the same roof these many months—all Montmartre believes I am your mistress.” In the bohemian world we inhabited, it was natural for our acquaintances to assume we were lovers. The truth, that our relationship was entirely platonic, would have provided considerably more fuel for speculation in this decadent society. “The rumours about us may well have reached your English acquaintances. Even if they haven’t, I earn my living by taking my clothes off for men. I cannot imagine my presence will be welcome to your parents. It might even make your father’s illness worse.”
