ONE

      Dread. That was the feeling James Lionel Falconer was experiencing as he sat at his desk in his office at Malvern House in Piccadilly.

      It was the afternoon of Wednesday 25 September 1889, and an hour since a packet of documents had arrived by courier from Paris. James had opened the packet hastily and read them immediately, shocked by the bad news they contained.

      James looked down at his hands resting on the pile of documents, a chill running through him at the thought of giving them to Henry Malvern, who was an ailing man. Rocked by his daughter’s breakdown and his brother Joshua’s stroke and lingering death, his employer had been unwell all summer with a debilitating fatigue. But James had no choice. The head of the company had to know everything.

      A deep sigh escaped him as he opened the top drawer of his desk, placed the documents inside, locked the drawer and pocketed the key.

      Taking out his watch he saw that it was almost seven o’clock. At least he didn’t have to face Mr Malvern until tomorrow morning, by which time his friend and colleague Peter Keller would be in his office next door if James needed him. Keller was stalwart; they had shared interests and had become close friends. And Keller worked in the Wine Division and might be able to help solve this mess. Though it was hard to see how, since it now turned out that Percy Malvern, Mr Malvern’s cousin, was not only a thief who had stolen millions from the Wine Division in Le Havre, but also a bigamist.

      Striding across the room, James put on his coat and left his office.

      When he stepped outside onto Piccadilly, it was drizzling after a day of heavy rain. The early evening light had dimmed, and there was a slight mist, but the street lamps were aglow. People were rushing home, dodging in and out and around each other, the pavements wet and slippery. James joined the throng.

      He hurried toward Half Moon Street, wanting to get home as fast as he could. The sound of horses’ hooves, the rattling of carriage wheels, and the general bustle of the traffic in the streets grated on him tonight. He turned up the collar of his topcoat and plunged his hands into his pockets. It was not only wet but also cold for September.

      The moment he opened the door and went into the small flat he shared with his Uncle George, a newspaperman, James felt a great sense of relief. The gas lamps on the walls filled the room with a shimmering light and a fire burned in the hearth. In an instant his uncle’s smiling face appeared around the kitchen door. ‘Supper is almost ready!’ he announced. Smiling, James hung his damp coat on a hook behind the door, then returned to the kitchen to help George.

      His uncle was deftly carving a large piece of roast beef, and he said, without looking up, ‘Your grandmother left this for us today, while we were at work.’ Laughing, he added, ‘And these two loaves of freshly baked bread. You see, she dotes on you, Jimmy lad.’

      ‘And you too, Uncle George … you’re her son.’

      A smile slid across George’s face, and he finally looked across at his nephew. ‘She’s the best there is, nobody like her.’

      James nodded, and spotted the small glass pot with a white paper label stuck on it. Horseradish sauce, it read, in his grandmother’s handwriting. He smiled inside. She always thought of every little thing, right down to the last detail.

      Sitting at the kitchen table a bit later, eating their roast-beef sandwiches and drinking mugs of hot tea, James was quiet. His mind kept going over the problems dogging the Wine Division in Le Havre, problems that the documents he’d received today confirmed.

      ‘I dread giving the terrible news from France to Mr Malvern,’ James said, grimacing.

      ‘Just give him the documents and tell him he won’t like what he reads,’ George had suggested. ‘You may well find that he’s been expecting bad news anyway.’

      Sleep did not come easily that night. James considered it to be his saviour, the key to his health. Yet when it was elusive he did not toss and turn like some people might; instead he lay perfectly still. Reflection and analysis were his special friends during these wearisome, sleepless hours.

      He was glad he had his uncle to talk to. He had always been particularly close to George, even as a child, and they had truly bonded on a different level when he moved into the flat on Half Moon Street in Mayfair. Not that they saw much of each other. George was a journalist working on The Chronicle, where his star had risen over the years. His hours at the newspaper changed constantly.

      James appreciated George’s wisdom and began slowly to relax, stretching his long legs in the bed, settling himself comfortably on the pillow. The dread had slithered away. Mr Malvern had to know everything, and perhaps he might not be too surprised after all.

      Unexpectedly,