The Selby Bigge Mysteries series - A Queer Case E-Book

Robert Holtom

• Herausgeber: Titan Books
• Kategorie: Krimi
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 378

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2025

Beschreibung

A gripping 1920s-set whodunnit, this debut features a queer sleuth who must solve a murder in a mansion on London's Hampstead Heath without revealing his sexuality, lest he be arrested as a criminal. The first of the Selby Bigge mysteries, it will leave readers eager for the next installment. Perfect for fans of Nicola Upson's Josephine Tey books. London, 1929. Selby Bigge is a bank clerk by day and a denizen of the capital's queer underworld by night, but he yearns for a life that will take him away from his ledgers, loveless trysts and dreary bedsit in which his every move is scrutinised by a nosy landlady. So when he meets Patrick, son of knight of the realm and banking millionaire Sir Lionel Duker, he is delighted to find himself catapulted into a world of dinners at The Ritz and birthday parties at his new friend's family mansion on Hampstead Heath. But money, it seems, can't buy happiness. Sir Lionel is being slandered in the press, his new young wife Lucinda is being harassed by an embittered journalist and Patrick is worried he'll lose his inheritance to his gold-digging stepmother. And when someone is found strangled on the billiards room floor after a party it doesn't take long for Selby to realise everyone has a motive for murder. Can Selby uncover the truth while keeping his own secrets buried?

Leseprobe

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Leave us a Review

Copyright

Dedication

Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Acknowledgements

About the author

Praise for

A QUEER CASE

“With A Queer Case by Robert Holtom, crime fans can expect a refreshing treat with all the style and class of a Golden Age whodunit. Slick and clever, it’s set in 1920s London, where young gay bank clerk Selby Bigge must navigate a dangerous life of forbidden love while solving a puzzling high society murder. Lively, exciting and delightfully written. Five stars.”

Janice Hallett, bestselling author of The Appeal and The Twyford Code

“Robert Holtom has done something truly special with A Queer Case. This is a novel that doesn’t just entertain – it thrills. Imagine the sharp wit of classic whodunits infused with the pulse of LGBTQ perspectives, all wrapped in a world of wealth, scandal and secrets. Selby Bigge is an unforgettable protagonist – caught between two worlds, craving more than his stifling existence, yet tumbling headfirst into a mystery that threatens to expose everyone’s secrets, including his own. Holtom masterfully blends suspense, social commentary and a deliciously queer lens, creating a novel that is both a love letter to the Golden Age of crime fiction and a bold reimagining of its future possibilities… AQueer Case is an instant classic.”

Jeffrey Marsh, author of How to be You and Take Your Own Advice

“A perfectly structured old-school murder mystery with a delightfully decadent twist. It was such a thrill to see the ‘degenerates’ of Hampstead Heath slink out of the woods of the traditional cosy crime story and take centre stage for once. This is a remarkable debut, full of wit and charm, and with prose as vibrant and sparkling as the gorgeously gay characters who grace its pages.”

Russ Thomas, bestselling author of Firewatching and Nighthawking

“Brimming with sparkling dialogue worthy of Noël Coward, this deliciously witty, gloriously queer murder mystery is written with all the elegance of Golden Age crime at its best.”

Sean Lusk, author of The Second Sight of Zachary Cloudesley

“Clever, atmospheric and intriguing.”

Greg Mosse, bestselling author of the Maisie Cooper Mysteries

“Selby Bigge’s yearning for love tugs at the heartstrings, but his irrepressible willingness to settle for sex in the meantime is highly entertaining too. He owes nothing to the cruel world of the 1920s but curiosity, loyalty and goodness combine to turn him into a sleuth, in this clever Golden Age debut, bristling with both clues and charm.”

Catriona McPherson, award-winning author of The Edinburgh Murders

“Holtom has written an instant contemporary classic. A queer case, where the mystery goes far deeper than murder.”

A. J. West, Sunday Times bestselling author of The Betrayal of Thomas True and The Spirit Engineer

“A tremendous start to an intriguing new series, a Golden Age mystery with more than one trick hidden from sight.”

Stuart Douglas, author of Death at the Dress Rehearsal and Death at the Playhouses

“A fantastically fun ride through 1920s London, full of clever plotting and a brilliantly drawn cast of characters, most of all the delightful, acerbically funny Selby. Holtom writes with wit, verve and style.”

Eleanor Wasserberg, author of Foxlowe and Light at the End of the Day

“This vibrant, sexy debut thrums with all the edgy glamour of the Golden Age and the visceral danger of living within the queer underworld of the time. Welcome to 1920s London and the new Poirot!”

Stephanie Scott, author of What’s Left of Me is Yours

“A marvellously fruity romp through 1920s London. Holtom delivers this alternative take on the Golden Age whodunit with stylistic panache and assured attention to detail. I’m already looking forward to the next Selby Bigge mystery. Fantabulosa!”

Phil Lecomber, author of Midnight Streets

A Queer Case

Print edition ISBN: 9781835413173

E-book edition ISBN: 9781835413180

Published by Titan Books

A division of Titan Publishing Group Ltd

144 Southwark Street, London SE1 0UP

www.titanbooks.com

First edition: June 2025

10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead (except for satirical purposes), is entirely coincidental.

Copyright © 2025 Robert Holtom.

Robert Holtom asserts the moral right to beidentified as the author of this work.

No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.

Typeset by Richard Mason in Minister Std 10/15.5pt.

EU R P (for authorities only)eucomply OÜ, Pärnu mnt. 139b-14, 11317 Tallinn, [email protected], [phone]

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A QUEER CASE

The first Selby Bigge mystery

BY ROBERT HOLTOM

For my parents

CHAPTER 1

Truly fortuni,” I whispered.

Grey-blue eyes, a fine Roman nose and a generous portion of blond hair oiled back under his trilby. Plump kissable lips I had kissed before and was soon to kiss again. It was the last Sunday of September 1929 as we walked the straight and narrow paths of Hampstead Heath, making our way for the woods. A time of decaying splendour as the oaks turned yellow, the ashes orange and the beeches, my favourite, that vivid, burning amber. For the everyday stroller, the Heath’s imminent loss of abundant leaf cover was simply a moment of aesthetically pleasing autumnal display. But for Arthur and I it was the last chance to bare behind the bushes before the bushes themselves were bare.

“Truly fortuni,” he echoed.

We’d first met at the Men’s Bathing Pond back in the summer. He’d been sunning himself in the changing area in nothing but a piece of string and barely half a handkerchief’s worth of cloth that permitted a generous glimpse of what lay underneath. He caught me looking and I’d blushed, but one thing led to another and now here we were, seeking alternative pleasures at a chillier temperature. Up ahead a man appeared, the severe-looking sort in a coal-black suit and bowler. He stomped his way down the path with an ugly little terrier pulling at a leash. Arthur and I wore dark Sunday suits, nothing conspicuous. I had opted for a homburg, grey wool felt and black satin-lined. It was superb quality and kept the chill off my crown, which was getting a fraction chillier these days. With straight backs and broadened shoulders we tried to pass ourselves off as normals. He stomped past us with a harrumph. His dog panted and strained, having caught a whiff of something exciting on the air.

A few minutes later and the woods were looming. Lured by their siren’s call we entered. The colours were changing but the leaves were still onside for now. Neither of us had appropriate footwear for the muddy paths but that didn’t deter us, led by our urges and keen to satisfy them. Suddenly there was a shout. We stopped dead in our tracks, Arthur almost skidding on the mud.

“That can’t be the bloody police, can it?” he muttered. “We’re just going for a stroll.”

“Old chums who bumped into each other,” I replied, trying to sound more confident than I felt. We held our breaths until quiet returned. A few pigeons flapped overhead, their wing beats surprisingly loud, and somewhere another call was issued. “Probably that fellow shouting at his dog.”

We resumed our mission. Up ahead lay a fallen oak, as if a Titan’s arm had been chopped off mid-battle and now all that remained was the bone. Next to the giant’s dismembered limb was a large holly bush with a good covering of berry. It also afforded better cover than any of the nearby trees. We hurried around the oak towards the prickles of the holly. But those sorts of pricks didn’t matter as my cold hands went quick to Arthur’s warm neck.

We kissed hurriedly and nervously. He tasted of cigarette and mustard and I assumed I tasted of cigarette and bread sauce. I enjoyed the feel of his plump lips as he enjoyed mine. We opened our mouths and our tongues were quick to find one another. My hands slipped from his neck to the back of his head where I could feel the end of his lustrous hair. How I wanted to run my fingers through it but, ever the Englishmen, we kept our hats on. Not one to waste a second, I put my hand to his crotch and gave a squeeze. His person was already starting to stiffen, as was mine. He pulled back from our kiss and we looked a moment at one another. His hands came around my back and patted my buttocks.

“Those will be for dessert,” he said with a fruity chuckle.

Something snapped. We froze. The sound had come from further within the woods. We waited, the silence of the air anticipating another sound as a vacuum awaits its filling. We held fast, groins pressed together, our members unsure as whether to continue hardening or to wither. Another snap, then leaves rustling and somewhere much too close a dog yapped. We pulled apart as the ghastly terrier belted into view.

“Bugger,” I cursed.

The siren’s call proved true. I saw panic on Arthur’s face, which he saw mirrored on mine, we had no choice but to run. A subtle departure proved difficult as the leaves beneath our quick retreating feet mocked us with the volume of their crunching and even the branches pointed at us accusingly. The dog’s infernal barking was answered with another shout, louder now and much too close for comfort. Our quick step became a run as we escaped that blasted creature and its approaching owner. God only knew what he would do if he caught us. He’d looked the National Vigilance Association sort. We ran and ran, our faces reddening, skirting the oaks and ashes, not stopping to admire the beeches, and then suddenly the trees vanished as we stumbled onto a sturdier path.

We tried to return to a regular pace but were fearful the dog would reappear. My armpits were perspiring and I cursed the stink it would make under my jacket. Arthur was a few paces ahead, his face pink, and I saw his shoes were covered in mud, flecks of which had splashed up onto the hem of his trousers. I looked down at mine and saw the same. Double bugger. We reached a fork in the path and he turned to me, worry in his nice grey-blue eyes.

“Bloody creature,” he said.

“Less Hound of the Baskervilles,” I replied. “More Terrier of the Heath.”

We tried to laugh but our attempts at bravado quite failed.

“Perhaps we could try the South End Green toilets,” I suggested.

“I… I’m not sure. I hear the police have been sniffing around there of late.”

That familiar look of desire passed between us but the thrill of the moment had died.

“Another Sunday,” he said, “we should try the Heath extension.”

“We should.”

A serious young man appeared from the left fork, strolling purposefully ahead of his companion, a short young woman with a grumpy look about her. He too looked rather bad-tempered and I assumed a lovers’ tiff. He was marching in our direction and the last thing I wanted was for his ire to turn on these two uncanny men still trying to regain their breath. I turned on my heel and took the right fork, leaving Arthur to face the couple. We did not say goodbye.

So it was I retreated back across the Heath, heading for Parliament Hill. The sun was lower and the chill intensifying. I pulled my coat tighter around me, regretting my lack of a scarf. My feet were sweating and I could feel them rubbing up against the tight leather of the shoes with only a thin layer of sock in between. The heel of my right foot was beginning to chafe, I’d have a blister sooner or later. Battle scars without victory, just my luck.

Despite these protestations I worked my way to the top of the hill and found my usual bench empty. Its wooden slats provided respite for my unsatisfied buttocks and my fast-beating heart. I admired the view through the trees to that higgledy-piggledy horizon of spires, chimneys and smoke. With a single finger held aloft I vanished whole swathes of the city. St Paul’s and Waterloo Station obliterated by the tip of my index finger, St Pancras squashed under a thumb. From here I liked to put London into perspective.

Occasionally I turned my head to observe the Sunday strollers. A handsome young couple with clean skin and rosy cheeks walked arm in arm. They had the look of new love to them, all excitement and adventures to be had. Then came a family of stern father, prim mother and a pair of smaller facsimiles in tow. All wore sensible coats and walked with the lethargy of those mid-digestion, I assumed of a hearty roast lunch. A governess was on hand, the dour and dependable sort, disinclined to marriage. Soon an elderly couple tottered their way across the brow of the hill, unperturbed by their sagging necks and greying hair, the kind to immortalise their long marriage (and approaching mortality) with a plaque on a bench. Like the riddle of the Sphinx, so I witnessed the three stages of normality: from first love to senility by way of family. For those everyday folk, love was something attainable, for the likes of me it was criminal.

“Excuse me, have you got the time?”

I turned to the stranger and almost gasped. Straight nose, slim lips and quiet chin, suddenly I was back amongst those sandstone spires, dressed in black tie and gown, talking animatedly with other men about the pastimes of the Greeks and the latest college scandal. I had only met him a handful of times but even then he’d made an impression. Like a lesser-known Greek god, he had been beautiful, and I saw now that his looks hadn’t changed a jot.

“I say, it’s Patrick, isn’t it? Patrick Duker?”

Shock crossed his handsome face but he was quick to smother it.

“Yes, it is,” he replied reluctantly as his eyes narrowed and forehead furrowed. I could almost see the levers and pulleys of his brain clunking away as some distant memory was searched for.

“Oxford,” I said. “We were mutually acquainted with Cyril Hughes.”

“I’m terribly sorry, I… I don’t recall…” But as the words left his lips so his eyes opened wide. “Stuart? It’s Stuart.”

“Selby. Selby Bigge. Do take a seat.”

“I wouldn’t want to intrude.”

“It would be no intrusion at all.”

He sat himself down as I raised my left arm and pulled back the sleeve of my coat to reveal a slender, pale wrist dotted with short, light hairs. The gold face of my watch stared back.

“It’s a quarter past three, by the way.”

“Thank you.” He shuffled around in one of his coat pockets and produced a silver cigarette case. “Fancy one?”

I turned to him, his eyes steadily on mine. What a face to behold and such penetrating hazel eyes. I took one of the proffered cylinders and placed it between my lips. He was quick to produce a box of matches but his fingers were trembling, from cold or excitement I could not tell. The first extinguished the moment it blazed. He tutted quietly as he tossed the used stick into the grass before lighting another. I leant towards his cupped palms and sucked deeply at the quavering flame. I always loved that first rush of smoke as the lungs woke up to the fine taste of tobacco.

“What a funny coincidence,” he said after lighting his own. “You were a Balliol chap, weren’t you?”

I shook my head, “Fitzalan.”

“Never very high up the Norrington Table, if I recall.”

“Not very good at rowing either.”

“At least you weren’t at Pembroke! I was PPE at Corpus. What did you take?”

“Classics,” I said. “Always loved the Ancients, especially Ovid and Sappho. Such wonderful poetry.”

“Can’t stand the stuff myself,” he said. “Too flowery by half.”

“Not even something contemporary, Walt Whitman perhaps?”

“Not my cup of tea,” he replied, quite missing the point of my reference to the famous nature lover and lover of men.

“I contain multitudes,” I said, quoting one of my favourite lines.

“You contain what?”

“Ignore me, just thinking on Oxford days. I wonder what happened to our chum Cyril.”

“He went to prison,” replied Patrick quickly.

“Really, whatever for?”

“He… well… he made good on his innuendos and was punished for it.”

I knew at once what he meant and, whilst I wanted to ask about the particulars, I could sense his body stiffen. I kept my eyes dead ahead, as did he.

“How unfortunate,” I replied feebly. “What brings you to Hampstead on a Sunday afternoon? A stroll on the Heath?”

“I live here,” he said rather coldly.

“Oh, I hadn’t realised. Bought a house, have you?”

“I live with my father.”

His father was one Sir Lionel Duker, a big name in the world of banking. He’d made a killing out of African mines and got a knighthood for funding Great Britain’s war efforts.

“That must be nice for you,” I ventured, not entirely sure it would be.

“It’s big enough for the both of us. He’s getting on a bit but he keeps himself occupied.”

I felt there was more to be said but he was holding back.

“Jolly good. I couldn’t begin to imagine living with my father.”

“You don’t see eye to eye?”

“If an Englishman’s home is his castle then let’s say my father has a lot in common with a number of this country’s monarchs.”

“A tyrant?”

“Aspiring. He only ever achieved a lesser managerial position at a bank in Horsham.”

“How rotten. Is Horsham ever so dull?”

“Thoroughly and certainly not a place I can indulge all my vices.”

“Bit of a gambler, eh?”

The earnest look he gave me proved a shade confusing. Usually the offer of a cigarette was signal enough up here on the Heath, but he must be playing it safe.

“Something of that sort,” I lied. “Still, it’s nice you get along with your father.”

“Most of the time.”

“But not all of it?”

To that he said nothing.

“Families can be murder,” I added.

“As a matter of fact, I’m planning one of those.”

“What? A family or a murder?”

“The latter.”

I blinked, trying hard not to choke on my cigarette.

“The murder of my mother that is.”

“Oh dear,” I said, waiting for the punchline, “is she ghastly?”

“Much worse, she’s my age.”

I coughed up a small plume of smoke.

“Stepmother, I should say.”

“How dreadful,” I managed. “Although I do hear the Oedipal complex is quite the rage these days.”

A big grin spread across his face and he started to laugh. His mouth was wide and full of teeth, one or two slightly wonky – the wonkiness a human touch, he couldn’t be all demi-god. The laughter persisted for quite some time.

“Dear me,” he said. “I haven’t had a good laugh in months. You must think me mad?”

“No, no,” I lied. “I’m sure many men are plotting the deaths of their stepmothers right this very moment.”

“How tactless of me, to tell you all this. We’re perfect strangers really, I can’t even remember the last time we spoke.”

I remembered. It was a Trinity term of my degree and Cyril had invited me to one of his drinks parties at Worcester College. It wasn’t often he allowed me to brush shoulders with the upper sets, but he’d needed to make up the numbers. I had always been so nervous at events like that, surrounded by men so much richer and more interesting than I. They never asked after my family or the land we owned. They can smell the middle class on you, Cyril had once said. No one important ever came from Horsham.

Looking back, I don’t know why I’d let him be so mean to me but our acquaintanceship had proved mutually satisfying. With a glass of chilled champagne in hand, I had eyed Patrick across the room, thinking how splendid he looked in his dinner jacket and wishing for him to return my gaze. By my design we left at the same time and I took to talking with him as we neared the duck pond. We were a bit squiffy and I worried we would go over the edge. So we found a bench to sit on to stop our heads from spinning. He’d exuded that youthful beauty so typical of our kind and for a while we talked about nothing or other. It transpired he was in the middle of his finals and I worried I’d never see him again. At one point he placed his palm flat on the bench between us and I had dared to place mine on top of his. We stayed like that for a while until, finally, he kissed me.

“Although when I saw you on the bench I thought you looked the sympathetic sort.”

Sympathetic wasn’t exactly the word I’d hoped for, but it was a start.

“I had a feeling you’d be easy to talk to and I was right.”

“I’m terribly discreet,” I assured him. “I’m not prone to gossip.”

“To hell with it,” he replied, leaning towards me so I could smell the tobacco on his breath. “Her name is Lucinda and I call her the Harpy of the Heath.”

“That bad is she?”

“Worse, and my father thinks her an angel.”

“A very young angel.”

“Exactly. He’s too doe-eyed to spot her designs on his bank account and she’s too wily to give herself away. I need proof.”

“With which to dissuade your father?”

He nodded. “So he’ll divorce her forthwith.”

I took a long drag of my cigarette and let him wait awhile before I replied. “From my experience if you want someone to reveal who they truly are, all you have to do is let them talk.”

“She does plenty of that and it’s always so bloody inane.”

“But do you ask her the right questions?”

“I try to ask her as little as possible.”

“Then therein might lie your problem.”

He looked at me, a little bemused, but perhaps just a little impressed.

“I say, Stuart, you’re not a private dick are you?”

“No, I’m a clerk at Childs & Co.”

“More’s the pity, I was just about to invite you to dinner at the Ritz.”

“The Ritz!?” I ejaculated, utterly failing to hide the surprise in my voice.

“Father’s forced me to accompany him and Lucinda on some God-awful effort at family bonding, not that we ever bonded as a family when mother was alive. Tuberculosis.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“My mother died of tuberculosis when I was fifteen years old.”

“I’m so dreadfully sorry.”

“I was at Harrow at the time. Were you Eton or Winchester?”

“Bledwood.”

“That the frightful one on the edge of Cornwall?”

“West Sussex.” Even my boarding school had been unexceptional.

“Stet Fortuna Domus,” said Patrick, with evident pride. “Let the fortune of the house stand.”

“Numquam te videant sanguinem fundentem,” I replied. “Never let them see you bleed.”

“It’s the Harpy’s blood I want. Say, if you were to accompany us to the Ritz, would you be able to get her talking, so to speak?”

“I could give it a try,” I said, although at this point I’d try anything to prolong my exposure to Patrick.

“I want you to get her to reveal the truth – that she’s a lying gold-digger who my father would be wise to dispatch.”

“I’ll find the truth,” I replied quite shamelessly. “Whether it’s one you want to hear or not.”

He paused to contemplate my offer, rubbing his chin, and I took as nonchalant a puff on my cigarette as I could manage. Flirting on the Heath tended to be a little more straightforward.

“I like your confidence, old chap, and you’re someone who means nothing to the family, so you’ve the advantage of an outsider’s eye.” He looked down to check the time on his watch. “I’d best be off but what say you to seven o’clock at the Ritz this Friday, expenses covered?”

“I say, that’s very generous of you.”

“Anything to unburden me of my second mother.”

I’d happily unburden him of a number of things. He rose to his feet and offered me his hand, which I took with swift enthusiasm.

“Selby Bigge, eh? Perhaps I remember you after all.”

My breath quickened. Could he really remember our kiss?

“Do say you’ll come!”

He spoke with a new enthusiasm, almost boyish, and spread a wonky-toothed grin generously across his face. I had to remind myself to release his hand before it became socially suspect. If our trip to the woods required a detour via dinner with a knight of the realm, then bottoms up.

“I’ll come!”

CHAPTER 2

The trials of the week proved unavoidable. Dull conversations with my colleagues at the bank and the endless cross-referencing of balance sheets followed by the prying questions of my landlady, Miss Wickler. I lived in the attic of her house in Pimlico. The damp on the walls and the mice in them were offset by the cost of the rent and the quality of her desserts. On Wednesday evening, I was treated to a tipple at the River Styx in Soho by an older chap with a Mephistophelean beard. The saucy buggeranto asked to squeeze my buttocks and I obliged.

Friday night finally arrived and there I was in black tie standing in the lobby of the Ritz! Plush red carpet beneath my feet and an elegant chandelier above my head, it was the very form of luxury. I’d done my best to look the part in top hat and overcoat, and a dimpled footman had given me the eye before easing my load.

“Selby, hallo!”

Patrick came striding towards me, his hat only just removed and a lock of his wondrous hair hanging down across his forehead. If only I could reach forward and brush it back, but he did that himself once the aforementioned sassy footman had removed his jacket.

“Patrick! Good evening.”

“So glad you could come, old chap.”

“I could hardly refuse your invitation.”

We shook hands and I felt his warm skin against mine, his grip firm and reassuring. How I’d be happy for him to grip any part of my body. He passed a quick glance at the top of my head and my heart sank. I was ever conscious of the march of time prematurely stamping itself across my scalp. I still had a good amount, mind. I wasn’t like those unfortunate chaps who were bald by matriculation. With a slick of pomade and some carefully angled combing, it passed muster. Hopefully Patrick would focus on my strong nose and quick wit instead.

“They’re already here,” he said, pointing me towards the hall beyond the lobby. We traversed more thick carpet, passing between two rows of marble columns with potted plants on top. A profusion of palm fronds and aspidistra heralded our arrival. The hubbub of the restaurant grew louder as did my excitement.

“I appreciate you doing this, Selby, I really do.”

“It’s my pleasure.”

“They met here as a matter of fact.”

“Who?” I asked, struggling to keep up.

“Father and the Harpy, some do before Christmas last year. I should have gone with him but had a dicky tummy, bad oyster. Then the next day he barges into my bedroom and wouldn’t stop going on about this beautiful young woman he’d met, called her the angel on top of the Christmas tree, which was enough to give my innards another turn. He invited her to the house a little after New Year’s and I could see at once I’d underestimated the severity of his infatuation. They were married by May and she moved in at once.”

“Efficient.”

“Repellent. I try to lock myself away in the library, but she always finds me and insists on chattering. She asks the most irritating of questions, prying into my secrets.”

“Do you have many?”

“None that she’ll ever discover, the scheming hussy,” he replied defensively and I thought better than to comment on his rather unsavoury descriptions of the fairer sex. “When things get very bad I escape here. Pa is friends with the owner and has access to one of the suites. It has a glorious bathtub.”

I pictured him in said glorious bathtub.

“I’m good with secrets,” I said. “I’m sure Lucinda has plenty.”

“You get me the knife and I’ll stick it in.”

Quite a violent metaphor but I got his gist. At least my mother had the good sense to still be living and not half as irritating as my father.

“Be careful though,” he said, suddenly gripping my upper arm. “She’ll try to charm you the way she charmed Father. Be vigilant.”

“I’m immune to those sorts of things,” I said quite honestly. “I’ll get the measure of her, all right.”

“That’s the ticket.” He sneered as we entered the restaurant. “Name’s Duker, I’m joining my father, Sir Lionel.”

A slick waiter with a pert posterior guided us between the circular tables, each laden with plates of delicious-looking food and ample glasses of wine. I spied lobsters dripping in butter, a trifle covered in a delectable latticework of spun sugar and one of those exciting new tongue dishes. My stomach rumbled. I had eaten a small luncheon on purpose.

Some of the guests watched us as we passed and it gave me a little thrill to be walking alongside Patrick. For all they knew I was one of them and belonged here just as much as they did. Up ahead, at a centrally placed table not far from the great mirrors, a man was rising to his feet. He was a sturdier, taller version of Patrick with a lot more wrinkles.

“There you are, my boy.”

Sir Lionel stepped away from the table and squeezed his son’s shoulder before turning to look at me. He too had a rather good head of hair, except his was all grey.

“And you’re his chum?”

“Yes, sir, the name’s Selby Bigge.”

He sized me up with a flash of his leonine eyes and I felt the veritable gazelle in the predator’s path. I would have to employ all the charm at my disposal.

“Well then, Mr Bigge,” he said, gripping my hand. I tried not to wince, it was like a bloody vice. “Allow me to introduce my wife, Lucinda.”

Where I had expected to see a winged creature with raven hair, vicious eyes and a hungry mouth, sat someone actually rather beautiful. She was dressed in a gown of pale-blue silk, which left her arms bare. She wore a little make-up and her ash-blonde hair was pulled back in the current style. Not quite the Harpy Patrick had led me to expect.

“A pleasure,” she said, reaching her hand across the table.

I took it in mine, not risking bending over to kiss it lest I knock over a glass.

“Be seated, boys,” ordered Sir Lionel. “There’s champagne and smoked salmon for starters.”

With Patrick to my left and Lucinda my right, the gormandising began. We tucked into thickly buttered brown bread with delicious slabs of salmon on top. I added plenty of lemon and pepper to mine, scrumptious! Champagne was poured by the oily waiter and soon Lionel had us all making a toast.

“I didn’t think it was possible, at my ripe old age, but it turns out an old man can have a second chance at happiness.”

He beamed at his wife and she smiled back. And, if I hadn’t been forewarned, I would have said her smile was quite genuine.

“Here’s to love.”

“To love,” we echoed, and I sensed Patrick shudder.

I ordered steak with a creamy, peppercorn sauce and boiled potatoes. Patrick had lobster, Lionel the steak, and Lucinda the confit of duck. The food was pure nectar and my steak perfectly done, which meant very well done. I watched Lucinda out of the corner of my eye as she ate her food. She did so in polite, little bites but whether or not she was planning on stabbing her husband with her fork I could not tell.

As the meal unfolded, so Lionel proved to be his own favourite topic of conversation. With a new audience member to hand he regaled me of his time in the army and the adventures he’d had fighting in a number of wars. All that was required of me was the occasional nod or exclamation. It transpired he’d earned his stripes in the Second Boer War, which resulted in a number of anecdotes concerning the best tactics for massacring the Dutch.

“I’ve never trusted people who wear wooden shoes,” I said in an ill-fated effort at humour. Sir Lionel did not look amused and I returned to my role as audience member.

“It’s a shame you and Patrick were too young for the Great War. It’s the making of a man.” He spoke with a zeal that reminded me of my father. “And after victory comes the next best thing: the spoils.”

At this he reached across the table and took his wife’s hand in his. He slowly and delicately, given his strength, raised her arm so I could see the bracelet on her wrist.

“Each one half-carat,” she said. “Aren’t they beautiful.”

“Truly.”

A thin band of gold interspersed with diamond after diamond. It was as if the restaurant went quiet and maybe the rest of London too as the glittering band twinkled in the low, electric light. Her naked wrist was slender and pale, the perfect setting for this piece of jewelled splendour. Perhaps now I was looking at her motive for marriage.

“That’s what I fought for,” said Lionel, and suddenly the room was all clattering cutlery and chatter again. “Gold and diamonds. It’s a better life owning mines than living in a trench, that I can assure you.”

He bent his head forward, almost in supplication, and kissed his wife’s hand. But whether he was bowing to her or the bracelet I could not tell. Then followed a lengthy autobiographical account of how he’d made his fortune in the mines of South Africa. After ousting the Dutch, he’d struck immeasurable riches and was quick to climb the ladder of power. He even supplied gold to the Bank of England.

“You can’t build an empire with guns and ships alone. You need the money to buy them first!”

“You’re quite right,” I said. “We’re on the gold standard, after all, and that requires full vaults.”

Unsurprisingly, Sir Lionel cared little for my experience of working at a bank, much preferring the sound of his own voice. I didn’t even get the chance to impress him with my degree from Oxford, not that I ever shared the specifics of my finals result.

I kept Lucinda in my periphery. She must have heard these stories numerous times before but she managed to keep a polite smile on her face. I wanted to see the mask slip to reveal the calculating conspirator beneath but either she was an actress worthy of a West End role or just an attractive young woman who’d struck gold.

“Another bottle, sir?” asked the slick waiter.

“Oh dear,” boomed Lionel. “I’ll be done for.”

“Don’t be silly,” chided Lucinda. “It’s a special occasion.”

“You know I’m just an old man who can’t take his drink.”

“Nonsense, you’re not old to me.”

“And you are much too good a liar.”

“Hush.”

He reached out and traced the back of his index finger along her cheek, an act I was worried would induce Patrick to return his lobster to its shell.

“If a serpent bit your ankle,” said Lionel, still gazing at his wife, “I would bribe the ferryman of Styx with gold and bury Cerberus in a pile of diamonds.”

I always appreciated a classical allusion and while the story of Orpheus and Eurydice was quite an obvious choice, it seemed to be doing the trick. Lucinda looked on enraptured.

“I would follow you into the very depths of Hades and guide your spectre all the way back home.”

“But you mustn’t look back,” she said, almost worried. “You mustn’t.”

“No,” he said plainly. “From the moment I met you I have never looked back.”

They stared deeply into one another’s eyes and I couldn’t help it, I was touched. How lovely to be able to look at someone like that in a crowded room of strangers without the least hint of self-consciousness or worry. To be able to touch someone else’s hand, maybe even kiss them on the cheek, and not fear any recriminations. For the possibility of police involvement to seem so palpably absurd it wouldn’t even be given a thought. I could quite understand Patrick’s bitterness, denied even this most basic of human needs, but it was clouding his vision. With patience and tact I might be able to incline him to a sunnier disposition.

“My God.”

“What is it, darling?” asked Lucinda.

“It’s… it’s him.”

Sir Lionel looked utterly furious. She followed his gaze between Patrick and I, her smile quickly becoming a grimace.

“Do not worry,” she whispered. “They won’t let him in. He can’t afford here.”

“I won’t have my evening spoiled.”

“Darling, please don’t make a scene.”

I shifted in my seat to get a better view and looked across the tables of conversing guests. It was hard to know of whom they spoke, but on the far side of the room a new arrival was arguing with the maître d’ – a youngish chap in an immaculate suit with the air of the dandy about him. From the waiter’s gesticulations it was clear the man didn’t have an invitation. As he argued, his eyes roamed the room until they stopped at our table. He gave a sly little wave and Lionel choked.

“If that man takes one more step, I’ll kill him.”

“Darling, please.”

Lucinda’s voice was one of pleading as she placed her hand delicately on top of her husband’s. He was gripping the side of the table, scrunching the tablecloth beneath his fingers. Her marvellous bracelet glittered in the low light.

“I’ll run my steak knife through his heart…”

“Ignore him, he’ll go.”

“… and feed it to the foxes on the Heath.”

“You will do no such thing, darling.”

“There’s no place for sodomites here,” spat Lionel.

The word hit me with its violent mix of sibilants and plosives but I hid my discomfort, an act I was so skilled in that it had long become a habit. Like boxing at school, I had learned to take the blows.

“Sorry, Selby,” said Patrick quietly. “This is a most unfortunate situation.”

“Who is he?”

He leaned towards me and I smelt the citrus scent of his eau de toilette masking the musky tang of his sweat.

“Morrow Davenport.”

“Does he have a grudge against your father?”

“You could say that.”

Patrick looked back across the room, his lips slightly parting to reveal the wet of his mouth within. There was moisture at his temples. We were all perspiring in this place, filled as we were with alcohol and food, and wrapped in so many layers.

“Dammit,” he whispered.

The unwelcome guest had wheedled his way into the room and was making his way between the tables. The maître d’ hovered at his side, buzzing in protest but unable to stop him. The dandy paused to observe the waiter then reached forward as if to caress his cheek. The maître d’ staggered back. He looked utterly terrified, as if his skin might burn.

“Pay him no heed, darling,” said Lucinda, trying to calm Sir Lionel’s fury. But its object was swift approaching and all we could do was sit politely in our seats. An electric hum of excitement filled the room as some tables fell to silence and others whirred with speculation, forkfuls of food paused halfway between plates and open mouths. Then he was upon us.

“Good evening,” he said, evidently relishing this moment. “What a pleasant surprise to find you all here.”

He gave us a wicked, white-toothed smile as he took us in one by one. I cannot lie, he was very handsome, with a trim moustache and bright, green eyes. His hair was chestnut brown and voluminous, cascading down to beneath his ears in a wavy, Wildean manner. His eyes eventually met mine and his eyebrows rose in involuntary surprise.

“There is nothing pleasant about it,” said Patrick, speaking before his father could.

“I beg to differ.” His words were slightly slurred, the joker was half-cut!

“Go back the way you came, Davenport.”

“Leave us alone,” begged Lucinda.

“Leave us alone,” he mimicked.

“You’re a beast!”

“And you’re just the latest in a long line of women.” He swayed on his feet. “Women with spacious morals.”

“Not another word,” warned Patrick.

“But London needs to know that my column isn’t mere gossip, it’s the truth. Isn’t that right, Lionel?”

It was at this point that the artillery fuse triggered the shell as Sir Lionel slammed his palms against the table and rose to his feet in an explosion of anger. Cutlery rattled, a wine glass toppled and his chair crashed to the carpet as he confronted the interloper.

“Get out,” he roared, “you vile…”

He employed a slur I knew all too well, as shocking as it was offensive. His explosive outburst spread as shockwaves throughout the room, slamming into the ears of the silent onlookers and crashing against the gilded mirrors. But the man in question remained unfazed and he simply laughed, the machine gunner’s rattling response to the artillery.

“Be quiet!”

Sir Lionel stepped away from the table, ready to kill, and Davenport’s laughter was quick to die as he staggered back in surprise. The millionaire raised his hand, the fingers clenched into a fist. Patrick leapt to his feet and took hold of his father’s arm. He was smaller and possibly weaker than his father, but his action did the trick, stopping the man in his tracks. It was at this point I heard her gasp.

The others missed it but I turned at once to Lucinda, her hand held out in front of her, blood trickling from her palm. Beneath her hand, the wine glass’s stem remained standing on its base but the bowl had vanished.

“Quick,” I said, taking her hand gently in mine and turning it to reveal her palm. A nasty shard of glass stuck out from her skin as the blood pooled around it. “This will hurt but it’s for the best.”

I placed my index finger and thumb on either side of the fragment and pulled it quickly from the flesh. Tears rolled down her cheeks. I picked up her glass of water and poured some across the wound. Some of the blood drained away onto the tablecloth but more was quick to come. I saw another smaller piece of glass poking into her skin, which I also removed. Hoping that was it, I wrapped her napkin tightly around her hand.

“Hold it high,” I said. “It will lessen the bleeding.”

“I… I can’t,” she gasped, audibly in pain.

“You must, there will be help soon.”

A flurry of waiters was fast approaching the table, like the reserve troops who had missed the battle. I lifted her hand up and held it there.

“Thank you,” she whispered, her face deathly pale. “I hate blood.”

“So do I,” I said in sympathy, and I wasn’t lying, it was horrible stuff.

“I’ll have you in prison, Davenport,” shouted Sir Lionel. “I will see justice done.”

“I’ll have you ruined, Duker,” he retorted, as two waiters escorted him away. “I know all your secrets.”

Lionel righted his fallen chair and it was only at this point did he see that his wife was in agony. His face changed from fury to panic in the blink of an eye.

“My God, you’re hurt.”

“It’s… it’s… nothing,” she lied. “Just a scratch.”

“A doctor has been summoned,” said the maître d’, suddenly deciding to make himself useful. “Perhaps Lady Duker would care to reside somewhere a little more private.”

“Take me away, please.”

The gathering waiters helped her to her feet, offering their arms for support, and slowly Lucinda was guided from the table. She looked as fragile as the glass she had just broken.