“No, I don’t suppose it has.” They were back at the front of the church and Brady pulled up his collar against a sudden flurry of rain. “Well, I’ve imposed on your time for too long. I really must be going.”
The old man smiled. “Not at all, it’s been a pleasure talking to you. I’m only sorry you haven’t got time to come back tomorrow.”
Brady went down the path quickly and behind him, the door opened and closed again. The rain was falling softly through the sickly yellow glow of the street lamp as he turned into Edgbaston Square and mounted the steps to number two. He pressed the bell-push and waited.
Steps shuffled along the corridor inside and he could see a shadowy figure through the frosted glass. The door clicked and opened a few inches and an old woman looked out at him.
Her hair was drawn back in a tight, old-fashioned bun, the face old and wrinkled, long jet ear-rings hanging down on either side. It was a face he had seen before, peering from behind the door of the downstairs apartment on the night Marie Duclos was murdered.
He kept well back in the shadows. “Madame Rose?” he said.
She nodded. “That’s right.” Her voice was old and strangely lifeless, like dry, dead leaves whispering through a forest in the evening.
“I wonder if you could spare me a few moments of your time?”
“You wish to consult the stars?”
He nodded. “That’s right. I was told you could help me.”
“I only take clients by appointment, young man,” she said. “I have to be very careful. The police are most strict in these matters.”
“I’m only in London for a brief visit,” he told her, keeping to the same formula. “I’m flying out in the morning.”
She sighed. “Oh, very well, but I can only spare you half an hour. I’m expecting a visitor.”
The hall was gloomy and oak-panelled. He waited for her to close the door and when she turned and looked up at him she frowned slightly. “Your face seems strangely familiar. Are you sure we’ve never met?”
“I’m an American,” he said. “This is my first visit to England.”
“I must be mistaken.”
She led the way along the corridor, pulled back a dark velvet drape and opened a heavy door.
The room into which they entered was strangely subdued, cut-off from the street by heavy curtains, the only light a single lamp on a small table. There was a fake electric log fire in the hearth and the room was unpleasantly warm. Brady unbuttoned his raincoat and sat down at the table.
The old woman sat opposite him, several books at her elbow, a pad of blank paper before her. She picked up a pencil. “Give me your date of birth, the place and the exact time. The time is most important, so please be accurate.”
He told her and looked over her shoulder into the shadows crowding out of the corners, beating against the pool of light thrown out by the lamp. He wondered what he was going to say next, but decided to wait until she gave him an opening.
She consulted several books, making quick notes on the pad and finally grunted. “Do you believe in astrology, young man?”
“I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t,” he said.
She nodded. “You are ambidextrous?”
It was more a statement of fact than a question and he said in some surprise, “Yes, that’s right. How did you know?”
“Many of those born under the sign of Scorpio are,” she said and consulted her notes. “Life for you is often a battleground.”
“You can say that again,” Brady told her.
She nodded calmly. “Mars, Sun and Neptune in conjunction on the mid-heaven will result in a certain sharpness of tongue and temper. Your map shows signs of a dangerous, almost explosive, tendency to violence in your character. You tend to regard everyone you meet with suspicion. You are your own worst enemy.”
Brady sat back in his chair and harsh laughter erupted from his mouth. “I think that’s bloody marvellous.”
The old woman looked across at him, eyes glinting in the lamplight. “You appear to find something humorous in what I have just said, young man.”
“And that’s the understatement of the age,” Brady replied.
She carefully piled her books one on top of the other and gathered her papers. “Who did you say recommended me to you?”
“I didn’t,” Brady said, “But as a matter of fact, it was your daughter, Jane Gordon.”
“Indeed?” the old woman frowned. “We shall see. I’m expecting her to arrive at any moment.”
“You’ll have to wait a long time, Mrs. Gordon,” he said calmly. “She’s dead.”
Her face seemed to wither before his very eyes, to wrinkle into a yellowing sheet of parchment. Her hand went up to her mouth and she coughed convulsively and then she started to choke horribly.
Brady moved round to her side and noticed that she was tugging at the handle of a drawer with one hand. He jerked it open and found a small glass phial of white tablets. There was water on the sideboard. He filled a glass quickly and brought it back to her and she forced two of the tablets into her mouth and washed them down.
After a moment, she sighed and a dry sob bubbled up from her throat. “My heart,” she said. “Must be careful about sudden shocks.”
“I’m sorry,” he said. “It isn’t the sort of news one can wrap up in pretty paper with a pink ribbon, not the way it happened.”
The strange thing was that she appeared to accept the fact that he was telling the truth without question. “Who killed her?”
“A man called Haras,” Brady said. “Anton Haras. Do you know him?”
“I know him,” she said, nodding her head, the black eyes staring into the darkness. “I know him.” She turned and looked straight at him. “Who are you, young man?”
“Matthew Brady,” he said simply.
“Ah, yes,” she said softly. “I think I knew that you would come, a long time ago.”
“You were there in the house that night, weren’t you?” he said. “Who was the man with your daughter?”
“Miklos Davos,” she said in a whisper.
Brady frowned. “You mean the oil-king?”
She nodded. “Some people say he is the richest man in the world, Mr. Brady. I only know that he is the most evil.”
“Tell me what happened that night,” Brady said.
Remembering, her voice seemed to be on another plane. “My daughter was engaged in a shameful trade, Mr. Brady. She was a Madame, a brothelkeeper, call it what you will. She had much property in her name, most of which really belonged to Davos.”
“Was she in love with him?”
“Love?” The old woman laughed harshly. “She was completely under his influence. For her, he could do no wrong. For his sake, she produced a succession of young women to satisfy his morbid desires to inflict pain. He was a brutal and perverted sadist, ceaselessly searching for new sensation.”
“And where did Marie Duclos fit in?”
The old woman shrugged. “She was a French girl he took a particular fancy to, I don’t know why. She was installed in the upstairs apartment and the other tenant removed. For two months he visited her ceaselessly.”
“By way of the churchyard?” Brady said.
She shook her head. “No, he only used that method during the week that the road was being repaired. He didn’t want the nightwatchman to see him entering the house.”
“But why did he kill the girl?”
“She tried to blackmail him. A foolish thing to do — he was liable to the most insane rages. When he came for my daughter that night, I followed them back through the churchyard and listened while he told her what he had done. Her only worry was that he might come to harm.”