So they had made contact with Reynold Bryce although if this postcard was anything to judge by, it didn’t sound as if he had welcomed them in the way that they hoped. But it was posted three days ago, giving me proof that they had been here to receive it when it arrived. I turned it over in my hand, wondering what the “Absolutely not” referred to. Maybe they had been discussing a painting, maybe this was an academic debate they were carrying on by postcard and they were actually the best of friends. Still, one thing I knew now. Gus had met Reynold Bryce. If they didn’t turn up by tomorrow, at least I’d have one person I could go to.

Then I reminded myself that Gus had a cousin here too. He was a Walcott with money and influence. He’d know what to do if Sid and Gus were injured or in trouble. It shouldn’t be too difficult to locate him. I did have allies in the city after all. Thus comforted I decided to wait until tomorrow to write to Daniel. I got ready for bed, curled up into a ball between those cold sheets, and tried to sleep. But sleep did not come easily. Down below me the city was waking up. I heard singing, raucous laughter, shouts, a police whistle. This latter made my thoughts go to my husband. Was he safe? Would they make another attempt on his life? And how did you stop people who could throw a bomb into a carriage, or take a potshot at him as he walked down the street?

“I wish I were home,” I whispered to myself, but then I remembered. I had no home. The tears came then and I cried silently into my pillow.

Chapter 13

Thirteen

I awoke to the loud cooing of pigeons, right outside my window. Bright stripes of sunlight were coming through the shutters onto my wall. As I opened the shutters pigeons flew off the balcony railing with the loud sound of flapping paper. I blinked in the strong sunlight, then put on my robe, went through to the living room, and opened the French doors onto the balcony. I saw that this was an attic of sorts with those French doors cut into the steep gray tile roof. Down below me the street was coming to life—a store owner unwinding the awning over his shop, a café proprietor putting out chairs on the narrow sidewalk, a boy going past on a bicycle carrying long sticks of bread, the greengrocer putting out a display of cabbages, small boys going off with schoolbags on their backs. The sounds echoed up from the narrow street—horses’ hoofs on cobbles as a dray made a delivery of wine barrels, a woman shouting in a harsh voice, the pigeons flapping again as they sought another place to land.