I lied my way into the Café de Paris by claiming I was following up a spot check by Clubs and Vice and that I could be in and out in five minutes. The day manager either bought it or wasn’t being paid enough money to care either way.

The interior was a riot of gold leaf, red velvet, and royal blue drapes. The main room was oval with a split staircase at one end and small stage at the other. A balcony swept around the circumference that reminded me uneasily of the Royal Opera House.

“You can just feel the history,” said Simone, clutching my arm. “The Prince of Wales used to come here regularly.”

“I hope the food is macrobiotic then,” I said.

“What in the world is macrobiotic?” asked Simone.

“You know, beans and rice,” I said and stopped when I realized I didn’t know what macrobiotic was either. “Healthy food,” I said.

“That doesn’t sound like the prince,” she said. She skipped around to face me. “We have to dance.”

“There’s no music,” I said.

“We can hum,” she said. “You do know how to hum, don’t you?”

“I need to check the stage,” I said, trying to convince myself at the same time.

She pretended to pout, but the corner of her scarlet lips twitched and gave her away. “When constabulary duty’s to be done,” she said, “a policeman’s lot is not a happy one.”

The small stage had enough room for its in situ baby grand and maybe a trio, if the singers were thin. I couldn’t see the buxom Peggy strutting her stuff, however tastefully, without falling off the edge. I said as much.

“Ahem,” said Simone. “I think you’ll find the stage can be extended forward to create more space. I believe theatrical people call it an ‘extendable stage.’ Mind you, I’m certain I remember the band being at the other end.”

I could feel them, layers of vestigia etched into the walls of the Café de Paris, flashes of laughter, the smell of tea, snatches of music, a sudden sharp taste of blood on my tongue. It was like an old church far too entangled in too many lives and events to be able to pick out any one thread. Certainly nothing recent. A vestigium isn’t laid down like a groove in a record, it’s not like a tape recording. It’s more like the memory of a dream, and the harder you grasp at it the faster it melts away.

Another flash, brick dust and a ringing silence. I remembered: The Café de Paris had been hit during the Blitz, killing most of the musicians including the legendary bandleader Ken Johnson. That might explain the silence. Polidori, cheerful bugger that he was, once described a plague pit he investigated as being an abyss of solitude.

“You promised me a dance,” said Simone.