We bought tickets for the show. Tim wanted to see it, and having come all this way across London, I thought why not? We bought two of the last seats and followed the crowd in. Somehow the tent seemed even bigger inside than out. It was lit by flaming torches on striped, wooden poles. Gray smoke coiled in the air and dark shadows flickered across the ring. The whole place was bathed in a strange, red glow that seemed to transport us back to another century. The top of the tent was a tangle of ropes and wires, of rings and trapezes, all promises of things to come, but right then the ring was empty. There were wooden benches raked up in a steep bank, seven rows deep, forming a circle all around the sawdust. We were in the cheapest seats, one row from the back. As a treat, I’d bought Tim a stick of cotton candy. By the time the show started, he’d managed to get it all over himself as well as about half a dozen people on either side.

A band took its place on the far side of the ring. There were five players, dressed in old, shabby tailcoats. They had faces to match. The conductor looked about a hundred years old. I just hoped the music wouldn’t get too exciting—I doubted his heart would stand it. With a trembling hand, he raised his baton and the band began to play. Unfortunately, the players all began at different times and what followed was a tremendous wailing and screeching as they all raced to get to the end first. But the conductor didn’t seem to notice and the audience loved it. They’d come out for a good time, and even when the violinist fell off his chair and the trombonist dropped his trombone, they cheered and applauded.

By now I was almost looking forward to seeing the show . . . but as things turned out, we weren’t going to see anything of the performance that night.

The band came to the end of its first piece and began its second—which could have been either a new piece or the same piece played again. It was hard to be sure. I was glancing at the audience when suddenly I froze. There was a man sitting in the front row, right next to the gap in the tent where the performers would come in. He was wearing a dark coat, a hat, and gloves. He was too far away. Or maybe it was the poor light or the smoke. But once again his face was blurred. Even so, I knew him at once.

It was the man from the Brompton Cemetery.

The man in the photograph at the Café Debussy.

Lenny Smile!

I grabbed hold of Tim. “Quick!” I exclaimed.