He emptied the bag on to the floor quickly and scattered its contents with one hand. There were a couple of banknotes, some coins, lipstick, jewelled powder compact and car keys.
There was also a letter, newly opened, the stamp bearing the postmark of the day. It was addressed in neat angular handwriting to Miss Jane Gordon, Carley Mansions, Baker Street, and he took out the single sheet of paper quickly and examined it.
It was the briefest of notes. Dear Jane, looking forward to seeing you tonight. I’ll be free from nine o'clock onwards. Your loving mother.
But it was the printed address at the head of the notepaper which he found most interesting. 2 Edgbaston Square, Chelsea. Marie Duclos had lived in Edgbaston Gardens. Now what was that supposed to mean?
For a moment he remembered the street lined with narrow Victorian houses with the graveyard and the church at the end and something elemental stirred inside him, lifting the hair on the nape of his neck. It was as if he was afraid — afraid to return to that place.
He shrugged it off with a grim laugh and opened the door. Whatever happened, he was going back there. He had no choice.
When he reached the hall, the porter was still drowsing over his magazine. Brady crossed to the door quickly and was already disappearing into the night as the man glanced up.
As he hurried along the pavement, a bell sounded shrilly on the night, and a police car swung round the corner from the Marylebone Road and braked to a halt in front of Carley Mansions.
Brady kept on walking, quickening his pace slightly. He turned into the bustle of Oxford Street a couple of minutes later, got into the car and drove away.
There was a taste of fog in the air, that typical London fog that drifts up from the Thames, yellow and menacing, wrapping the city in its shroud.
At least it made things easier for him. He passed a policeman standing on a corner by a crossing, moisture streaming from his cape. Brady braked to a halt to let someone cross over and the policeman waved him on. Brady grinned. What was it Joe Evans used to say? The best place to hide from a copper is right under his bleeding nose.
They were probably watching the boats more than anything else, thinking he might try to get back to the States. He passed into Sloane Square and a few moments later, braked to a halt on the Embankment on the opposite side of the road to the spot where it had all begun.
He stood under the same lamp, lit a cigarette and stared down at the river and for a single moment, time had no meaning — no meaning at all.
He turned away and crossed the road and walked along the opposite pavement through the thickening fog. Rain dripped depressingly from the trees and most of the leaves had gone. He paused on the corner and looked up at the old blue-and-white enamel plate that said Edgbaston Gardens, and then moved on.
The road repairs had long since been finished and the house was shuttered and dark. He gazed up at it, thinking about what had happened there, seeing the crowd tight against the railings, the man who had panicked like some hunted animal, with his back to the wall as they moved in on him. The beginning of a long nightmare.
He passed the railings of the graveyard, beaded with moisture, silent and waiting. The church stood on a corner plot and out of some strange sixth sense he knew what he was going to find when he turned into the next street and examined the name plate. Edgbaston Square and number two was next to the church.
He mounted the steps to the door. There was a light on in the porch and a neat card in a black metal frame said Madame Rose Gordon — visits by appointment only.
A car was parked a few yards away and as he turned to look at it, he was aware of movement inside the house. He descended the steps quickly and melted into the shadows
The door opened and a woman in a fur coat moved out into the porch. She turned and spoke to someone inside. “You’ve helped me more than I can say, my dear Madame Rose. I can’t wait to see you again next week.”
Brady couldn’t catch the reply, but the door closed and the woman in the fur coat descended the steps and walked to the car. A moment later she drove away.
He stood there, for a minute, looking up at the house, a frown on his face and then he turned and walked back along the front of the church and went in through the main gate.
The windows were like strips of rainbow in the night, misty and ill-defined like an impressionist painting and an organ sounded faintly. The tower was cocooned in a network of steel scaffolding and he skirted a heap of rubble and moved round to the back.
He found the garden of Madame Rose’s house with no difficulty. It was separated from the graveyard by a six-foot stone wall, at one end of which there was a narrow wooden door.
It was locked. He tried it tentatively and then turned and picked his way through the gravestones to the other side. As he approached the garden at the rear of Marie Duclos’s house, a quiet voice said, “Excuse me; but can I do anything for you?”
He turned quickly. Standing in the patch of light thrown out by the side windows of the church was an old white-haired man in a shabby tweed jacket, his neck encircled by the stiff white collar of a priest.
Brady moved towards him with a ready smile. “I know it must sound pretty crazy, but to tell you the truth I was looking for a headstone. I always understood my great-grandfather was buried somewhere in this churchyard.”
“Ah, an American,” the old priest said. “Well, I don’t think you’ll have much luck tonight. Much better to come back tomorrow. As a matter of fact I’ll be here myself in the morning. I could check in the parish register for you.”
Brady tried to put real regret into his voice. “It’s kind of you to offer, but I’m afraid I’m flying out again tomorrow.” He laughed lightly. “At least I’ve managed to see the church which is something.”
“It is rather lovely, isn’t it?” the old man said and there was real enthusiasm in his voice. “Of course it was hit by a bomb during the war. That’s one reason for the scaffolding round the tower. We can’t put off the repairs any longer, but there are many features of interest.”
“It’s a pity I’m not staying longer,” Brady said. “I could have attended one of your services.”
“But I’m afraid that would have been quite out of the question,” the old man said. “Ever since that bomb, the old place has been in such a shaky condition, we’ve never felt able to take the risk of allowing a congregation inside. I’m at another church now, not far away, but I like to visit here from time to time to keep the organ in trim and so on.” He sighed. “I suppose they’ll sell the site one of these days.”
“I noticed a gate in the wall leading into the garden of a house at the rear,” Brady said. “Was that the vicarage?”
The old man shook his head. “No, that used to be the sexton’s house.” He pointed across to the house in Edgbaston Gardens. “That used to be the vicarage.”
Brady tried to keep his voice steady. “I was having a drink in the pub round the corner and asking my way here. The landlord told me there was a shocking murder committed near the church some months ago.”
“Yes, I’m afraid so,” the priest said. “A dreadful affair. The victim was a young woman who had the upstairs apartment in the old vicarage. It was all most distressing.”
“I’m sure it must have been,” Brady said. He turned and looked across at the house. “There’s one thing puzzles me. The sexton had a short-cut to the church through the gate in his garden wall, but you didn’t. That must have been very inconvenient.”
“Oh, but I did,” the priest assured him. “You wouldn’t notice it in the dark; in fact you’d have to look twice in daylight to see it. There’s a gate set in the railings at the end of the garden. I was only noticing the other day, it’s almost completely blocked with rhododendron bushes. I don’t suppose it’s been used for years.”