Chapter 1

“Marmaduke! Marrrrrmaduke!”

The coaxing calls in a rather pleasant light baritone were accompanied by the jarring bang of a tin. George stood under a street lamp, shivering in the chill December air, and peered at the address he’d jotted down on a little scrap of newspaper. Yes, this was it: Allen Street. And number twenty-one must be…right where a broad-shouldered but slender man was standing silhouetted in the doorway, banging a tin dish against the brickwork.

George gazed at him for a moment, trying in vain to make out the man’s features, then roused himself to speech. “Excuse me, is this number twenty-one?”

“Yes! Are you here about the room? Come in, come in, it’s perishing out here.” It was quite disconcerting to hear such a friendly voice coming out of the shadows that veiled the young man’s face. “I say,” the man added with a touch of concern, “you haven’t seen a black cat around here on your travels, have you?”

A cat? George had been expecting a dog, though he supposed there was no reason to, really. He raised an eyebrow, then recalled that his own expression was most likely equally invisible to the other and indicated the dimly lit street with a wave of one hand. “There could be several dozen hiding out here for all I know, I’m afraid.”

“Ah. Yes, I suppose they are rather well adapted for concealment. Beastly nuisance, these dark afternoons. Still, come on in, I’ll take you to Mrs. MacPherson. I’m Matthew Connaught, by the way.” He extended his left hand for a handshake.

Momentarily startled into immobility, George cursed himself for an idiot and tried to calm the sudden pounding of his heart. The man’s right arm was missing below the elbow, his shirt sleeve pinned up neatly to cover it. “George Johnson,” he said hurriedly, giving Connaught’s hand an awkward shake.

Any hopes that his hesitation might have gone unnoticed were swiftly dashed. “I’m afraid I lost the other hand at Passchendaele,” Connaught said with an easy smile, his face now revealed by the soft glow emanating from the doorway to be as personable as his voice. “They fitted me up with a tin one after I came home, but the wretched thing was more bother than it was worth. Still, awfully good of Jerry to realise I was left-handed and aim for the right, that’s what I always say. Here, let me take your hat and coat.”

“Thank you.” George shrugged off his coat and handed it to Connaught to hang on the stand, feeling more than somewhat uncomfortable to be doing so—after all, the man had only one arm. But Connaught seemed to manage perfectly well, holding the coat draped over his truncated arm while reaching for George’s hat.

The outer vestments now disposed of, Connaught led George down a narrow, tiled hallway. The kitchen at the end was small and cosy-looking, spotlessly clean except for a pile of potato peelings on a folded sheet of newspaper, no doubt part of the preparations for the evening meal. The room was inhabited by a still-handsome lady of middle age with a comfortable figure, her glossy chestnut hair pulled back into a simple bun. She raised her eyebrows on catching sight of George, but favoured Connaught with a small smile.

“No luck finding Marmaduke, I’m afraid,” Connaught said cheerfully, “but I’d wager you’ll be better pleased with who did turn up, in any case. Mrs. MacPherson, this is George Johnson. He’s come about the room.”

Recognising his cue, George stepped forward and offered the lady his hand. “Pleased to meet you, Mrs. MacPherson. I hope the room is still available?” It’d better be.

Mrs. MacPherson nodded. “It is. You’ve a problem with your present lodgings?” she asked cautiously.

By which she presumably meant, had they chucked him out, perhaps for some heinous crime such as non-payment of rent or whistling on a Sunday? “Oh, I’ve been staying in an hotel.” George shrugged. “I’ve only lately arrived in town.”

Mrs. MacPherson folded her arms. His recent arrival in London seemed from her expression to be a black mark against him. “So you’d be looking for employment, would you?”

“No, no—I’ve got a position,” George hastened to reassure her. “I’m an articled clerk with Forrester & Lindley—the solicitors, you know. I started there a couple of weeks ago. Jolly interesting work, actually,” he added with a smile. “What with the war, some people’s affairs are in a fearful muddle. It’s rather satisfying to sort all that out for them.”

The arms unfolded themselves. “Well! Would you like to see the room, then?”

She made as if to untie her apron, but Connaught forestalled her with a grin. “I’ll take him, Mrs. Mac—wouldn’t want to interrupt your wonderful cooking. I dare say I can answer any questions he may have.”

In the brightly lit kitchen, Connaught had revealed himself to be a handsome young man with soft brown hair that tended towards a curl and what seemed to be a permanently sunny expression. He and George were much of a height, but George fancied he had the advantage by perhaps half an inch. Connaught’s accent marked him out clearly as officer class, and George could imagine he must also have been a popular one.