‘How did you get here?’
How did I get here? The question floored me because it was so familiar. It was the phrase that had been repeating in my head ever since the previous evening: all the way to Seth’s flat on a rattling Tube train, and for endless hours where I tried to put the argument with Derwent out of my head, and then later as I waited hopelessly for sleep while Seth snored beside me. I would have been the subject of conversation in the pub, I knew, and hated it. Speculation about the state of my relationship. Liv delivering her opinion of my boyfriend in short, trenchant sentences. Derwent, scathing about how biddable I’d been, exorcising his anger about the poor dead baby by sneering at me. There would have been laughter at how I’d sprung to Seth’s defence, at how touchy I was, how easily Derwent had got under my skin.
But I should have been happier to be with Seth than with them, and I didn’t feel that way at all as I stared into the darkness of Seth’s bedroom.
It was ridiculous to be irritated that he was so attentive to me. What sort of girlfriend complained that her boyfriend wanted to spend the evening with her? What sort of person was so ungrateful for love and devotion? I felt overwhelmed, but that was my fault, not his. I was bad at allowing myself to be loved, I remembered. I had messed up one relationship by thinking my independence mattered more than being there for someone who was perfect for me in every way. I’d only realised too late how much I cared.
Seth couldn’t have been more perfect as a boyfriend. He was clever and handsome and he told me I was wonderful pretty much every day. He was just … keen. It was utterly insane to object to that.
I wasn’t going to ruin things again.
The person who had asked me the question in real life was waiting for an answer, I realised, his eyebrows politely raised.
‘I walked.’
‘You walked. Fascinating.’
‘Is it?’
‘It is to me.’ He sat in a fat, squat leather armchair. The leather was sandy with wear along the back and arms in a way that shouted money far louder than if it had been shiny and new. Not that it needed to shout, or that shouting would have been permitted in the elegant surroundings of the Chiron Club. Everything from the dull silk curtains to the gilt-framed mirrors and the heavy marble fireplaces spoke of wealth, and culture, and privilege. The bronze lamp beside the armchair was shaped like a slave girl holding a torch, her head bent, her breasts bare, the robe swathed around her hips picked out in gold. I thought it was hideous.
‘It’s a nice day for a walk. I was only coming from Westminster.’
Sir Marcus Gley beamed at me. He was a small, round man with bright eyes and a voice full of good humour. ‘It’s a little interest of mine. Much more telling than you might imagine. Most people don’t walk. If they come by car, it means they have a driver, because there is nowhere to park a car around here. If they come by taxi, it means they don’t mind spending money – or their employer’s money, I suppose. We’re slap bang beside Blackfriars Station. There is no need to take a taxi here. Then again, if they come on public transport, they are humble but also mundane and not striving for originality. There is room in life for people who take the obvious route, but one must have originality too. If they cycle, they are independent and bloody-minded and possibly a little bit stupid. I wouldn’t cycle in London for love or money and I care a lot about both.’
It was my turn to raise my eyebrows. ‘And if they walk?’
‘Then they aren’t in a hurry. Their mind may not be entirely on their job.’
I felt myself blushing and hoped the lighting was dim enough to hide it. ‘Or it’s just a nice day for a walk by the river.’
‘Indeed it is. I quite envy you.’ He twinkled at me sweetly.
‘Thank you for agreeing to see me, Sir Marcus. I appreciate it.’
He waved a hand. ‘I was interested. And aside from the Club and a handful of boards, I am retired. I can’t pretend to be busy.’
‘All the same, I wasn’t expecting to be allowed in here so easily. I’d heard it was a secret organisation.’
He chuckled. ‘Like something from a Bond film? I’m so sorry to disappoint you. We do allow visitors, from time to time. Of course, if you wanted to ramble all around the building, I might have to be more … stern.’
‘This will do for now,’ I said, holding his gaze. I could cope with being patronised all day and all night by the charming old rogue.
‘I must admit I’m hazy on what we might be able to do for you here. You mentioned something about an investigation. I’m on good terms with a number of retired police officers – even a couple of the Met’s commissioners. They can vouch for me.’
I had been deliberately vague, and now I smiled. ‘It’s not clear yet how the Chiron Club might be of interest, but as I said it’s a murder investigation.’
‘Thrilling,’ he said, sitting forward as if he was watching a particularly gripping film. ‘Who is dead?’
‘A journalist.’
‘My goodness, it really is cloak-and-dagger stuff, this. I assure you, we haven’t offed any journalists here. What was his name?’
I registered the pronoun and wondered if it was deliberate. ‘Her name was Paige Hargreaves.’
‘Hargreaves.’ He thought for a second. ‘No, I don’t remember anyone of that name. How did she die?’
‘That’s an excellent question. She didn’t try to contact you?’
‘No. No, I’m sure of it. What made you think she had?’
‘She was working on a story that might have been about the Club.’
‘Might have been,’ he repeated. ‘Don’t you know?’
‘We’re at an early stage of the investigation.’
‘You certainly must be if you don’t know something so basic.’ He shook his head, smiling, baffled. ‘I can’t see how we could have been of interest to her or how we might help the police now. We have nothing to hide.’
‘Even though you are so secretive about your membership and what goes on here?’
‘Where you see secrecy, we see privacy.’
‘What can you tell me about the Chiron Club? I’ve found it very hard to get much information about the way the club works or what it does.’
‘That’s quite deliberate, but not for any sinister reason. The details are only of interest to members, and one cannot apply for membership. Prospective members are selected with great care. They are approached and offered the opportunity to be a part of this organisation. We don’t want to attract attention from those who would be … let’s say unsuitable.’
‘How many members are there?’
‘Hard to say. Some are involved very little. They are members in name only. Others are here every day.’ He spread his hands helplessly. ‘You make me feel I’m being quite vague. I promise, I’m not doing it deliberately.’
‘What makes a suitable member?’
‘Financial stability. Fees are somewhat steep but buildings like this don’t maintain themselves, unfortunately.’ He waved a cheery hand at the room as I wondered what ‘somewhat steep’ meant in these surroundings. Fifty thousand a year? A hundred? ‘Everyone pays the amount they can afford, which is fair. And they have to be the right type of person. Someone with prospects. Brilliant, of course, and successful, with potential. Most of our new members are in their twenties. We don’t want to become a collection of OAPs rattling our walking sticks at one another.’
‘All male, I gather.’
He looked mildly disconcerted. ‘Well, yes.’
‘Could there ever be a female member of the Chiron Club?’
‘Difficult to say.’ He laced his fingers under his chin and twinkled at me. ‘It’s never arisen. One of the issues, you see, is that we are not altogether keen on the feminist movement, which seems designed to reward the less able simply by virtue of their sex. Either women are our equals and don’t need special treatment, or they are fragile and require opportunities to be created for them, and quotas, and so forth. Feminists seem to be promoting a most confused and illogical ideology that is much more about making trouble than anything else. And of course, they aren’t good company, these people. In short, any woman who would wish to be a member of the Club would find that they were unsuitable, simply by virtue of expressing that wish.’
I almost admired the neatness of it.
‘Are women ever allowed in the Club as guests? Or to work?’ I found myself giving it a capital letter in my head, as Sir Marcus so clearly did. I hadn’t seen another woman so far. A large, tough-looking man had welcomed me, introducing himself as Carl Hooper, the head of security. He had ushered me through the black-and-white-tiled hall to the side room where Sir Marcus had been waiting for me, cheerful in pinstripes. A couple of members had glanced in my direction as I passed through the hall, their expressions studiously neutral, but women were clearly an unusual sight.
‘There are administrative staff on the top floor and I think we have two ladies in the kitchen at present.’
‘What about social occasions?’
‘It depends on the occasion. Some of them are for members only. For others – our Christmas party and our summer ball, notably – we are very happy to welcome wives, girlfriends and so forth. We bring in temporary hospitality staff for events and there can be waitresses. But women aren’t allowed in the Club dining room or bars as guests.’
I flipped open my file. ‘Here’s a photograph of Paige Hargreaves. Does she look familiar?’
He took it from me and stared at it earnestly. ‘No. Striking girl. I don’t have much of an eye for faces but I’m sure I would have remembered if I’d met her.’
‘Can I have a list of members?’
‘Absolutely not.’ A twinkle that had no warmth in it at all. ‘It’s against the Club rules to share that kind of information with outsiders.’
‘Can I speak to the administrators on the second floor?’
‘They’re much too busy. I can pass on any questions, if you like.’
‘I ask my own questions.’
‘Not on this occasion, I think.’ He was still smiling but I could see the power of the man for the first time. I could keep pushing but I would get nowhere. ‘Now, I’m afraid I must bring this fascinating conversation to a close. I have another appointment.’
‘May I have the photograph?’
He tucked it into his inside breast pocket as he stood up. ‘I thought it might be useful if I kept it. I can show it around and so forth. Try to find out if this young lady was here behind my back, in some capacity.’ He looked bewildered for a moment. ‘I do try to stay on top of these things but I don’t always succeed.’
I did not think it would be useful at all, but there was nothing I could do short of pinning him down and ripping it out of his suit. I shook his hand instead and thanked him (for nothing). He had told me very little I hadn’t known or suspected already.
The sunlight was still glittering invitingly on the waters of the Thames under a clear blue sky, but I trudged down the steps to the grim underpass that cut under the road and led to the station. I would take a humble, unoriginal underground train to the office, proving once and for all that I knew my place.