Will put a polite end to what was shaping up into a lengthy meditation on consonants, and went back to the bookshop with frustration buzzing through his nerves. He could have sworn he’d heard Beresford, and hadn’t checked further. A stupid and needless error, considering the value of the Aveston business. Now he’d have to call a lot of hotels to find the viscount and explain himself, if he wasn’t already leaving to catch his train.

He’d just hung up his coat and sat down with a directory when the telephone rang. With luck, it would be Aveston’s man wondering where he was. “Darling here.”

“Mr. William Darling?” A quavery male voice he didn’t recognise.

“Yes?”

“Mr. Darling, it’s Quiller. John Quiller, from the Symposium Club. I’m the Chief Steward.”

Will sat up straight. “Mr. Quiller? What can I do for you?”

“I need to talk to someone about what I know. About the murder.”

Will was barely breathing, as if that would prevent the man on the other end from being frightened off. “You know something?”

“I can’t go to the police or the Club. He’ll find out if I do.” The words were low and hurried, and fearful. “You aren’t one of them. You weren’t afraid of them, and you wanted to know what happened. Will you help me? Please!”

“Of course,” Will said. There was terror in the old man’s voice, and every hair he had was standing on end. “Where are you?”

“My rooms. Goodge Street.” He gave the address. “Please come quickly. I’m afraid he knows.”

“Who—?”

Quiller rang off. Will gave a second’s thought to trying to contact Kim as he grabbed his coat and hat, but decided against it: he didn’t want to miss a second opportunity this afternoon. Aveston would have to wait.

It was only a little way to the Leicester Square Underground station, and a train arrived within a couple of minutes. Will didn’t like the Tube—the smoky atmosphere made his lungs itch—but it brought him to Goodge Street in just a few minutes, sparing him the crowded Tottenham Court Road.

The address Quiller had given him was a lodging house of the usual kind. The brickwork was blackened with soot and the windows dusty, but a skinny maid was labouring over the front step. Will said, “Good afternoon. Mr. Quiller, please?”

She pushed a damp fringe out of her eyes without looking up. “First floor back.”

Will headed up the stairs, and along the corridor to what looked like the right door. He knocked. No reply. He knocked again. “Mr. Quiller?

Silence. Which was odd. What was the fellow playing at, calling him here and not answering the door?