1. One Month Earlier
   

Geoffrey Sayles glanced at his older colleague, Peter Neville, as the performance of The Lady From Paris neared its rousing conclusion.

Neville, though certainly more of an opera buff – very much a regular at Covent Garden – looked to be enjoying it easily as much as Geoffrey: a big smile on his face.

Meanwhile, the stage of Drury Lane – the famed and historic “Theatre Royal” as it was more commonly known – had been absolutely filled with the entire company. Dancers lined up in front, while the leads stood on elevated sets upstage, as the silhouette of the Paris skyline slowly came into view behind them.

And what superb leads, Geoffrey had to admit.

Reviews had been good, the show regularly selling out. The music: light and bubbly as champagne. And the lead singer, Lucille Young?

What a voice! But also, such wonderful comic timing! A star to be, that was for sure. The programme indicated that she had more West End musicals lined-up and, with her new movie to be released in the new year, a successful career looked assured.

The orchestra soared through the romantic finale. And the dancers – pretending to be from the scandalous Folies Bergère, but here garbed much more decorously – high-kicked their way through the closing song about young love in the fabled City of Light.

All jolly good, Geoffrey thought. The cast were clearly enjoying this spectacle of song, light and dance as much as the audience.

The music now swelled, and Lucille Young and her co-star – a dashing enough chap, but all but invisible next to her – had their final solo, the chorus briefly silent.

Their two voices rising...

And then the climax came, and the full company joined in for the big finish.

Thunderous applause already beginning, the red brocade curtain came flying down and everyone in the theatre stood up and clapped as if this ending had come all too soon!

*

Then came the curtain calls – so many of them. The director, Freddie Francis – a rising star in his own right – took a bow, graciously even inviting the conductor to come up from the hidden orchestra pit for another burst of applause.

And it was finally over.

Time for the audience to stream out of the theatre, people chatting away, eager to share their personal reviews of this grand entertainment, smiles all around.

Geoffrey and Neville stepped out into the late-night bustle of Russell Street, crowds milling, London’s theatre crowd out in force on this December evening.

“So, what did you think?” he said.

“Absolutely loved it,” said Neville. “And well done you, old chap. Back in the office I heard you were a driving force in suggesting we invest in the show.”

“Oh, you know how it is,” said Geoffrey as modestly as he could. “Pure luck it passed across my desk, that’s all.”

“Nonsense,” said Neville, patting him on the shoulder. “You’ve caught the eye of the partners, that’s for sure.”

Geoffrey wondered if there wasn’t a bit of an edge to that comment, and he scanned Neville’s face for a clue.

Though Neville’s responsibilities in the investment house lay in the exciting new area of movies rather than his own more staid theatre department, Geoffrey didn’t want Neville to see him as a rival on the slippery ladder to a partnership.

Word in the office was that Neville wasn’t someone to get on the wrong side of.

But the congratulations seemed genuine enough.

“Peter, I could get us a visit backstage if you like, meet the stars? Lucille Young? Freddie Francis himself?”

But though Neville was smiling, he shook his head.

“Awfully kind of you, old boy, but I think... not. Love to remember the whole lot just as we saw them now, singing their hearts out on the streets of Par-ee.”

Geoffrey – offer declined – did feel a tad disappointed. Backstage visits were always so special and fun, and one of the bonuses of his little niche in the world of theatre finance.

He wondered if Neville might have other plans for the rest of the evening?

And indeed he did.

“I was thinking, rather, perhaps a nightcap at the Savoy? Chase away that bit of chill in the night air? What say you to that?”

Geoffrey gulped. He’d only once had drinks at the Savoy and the round had come to more than his weekly rent!

But he nodded, as if he were a regular visitor. “Splendid! I mean, the bar at the Savoy? How could anyone say ‘no’?”

“Precisely!”

They left the theatre and turned into Catherine Street – Christmas lights twinkling – making their way through the dispersing crowd, and heading down to the Strand, towards what was, in Geoffrey’s opinion, the best bar and hotel in all of the capital.

*

This is the life! thought Geoffrey.

But, too soon, the brandies were all good and done. He was just thinking perhaps another round was in order – more fun still to be had – when he saw Neville look at his watch.

“I say, old chap,” said Neville, draining his glass. “Afraid it’s getting a bit late for me. I’d best toddle off.”

Geoffrey had been enjoying sitting at this table: the festive decorations so charming, the smart set chattering away all around them, a piano playing nearby, feeling he had come such a long way from his modest roots in Manchester.

And damn the expense if it got him into Peter Neville’s good books!

Still, he joined his colleague in settling the bill, and together they walked out to Savoy Court, and again to the Strand – the wide street quieter now, shops and restaurants closed, just the occasional cab chugging past.

“You heading for Charing Cross?” said Neville, as they buttoned up their coats against the night-time chill – Geoffrey, glad of his silk scarf.

“Yes, still living south of the river,” said Geoffrey, keenly aware how much he needed a promotion before he could afford a smart flat in Albany like Neville. “Should just catch the last train.”

“I’ll walk with you,” said Neville. “Clear my head a bit after those brandies!”

They crossed the street so that Neville could buy some cigarettes from a machine on the corner, then they strolled off down the Strand.

For a few minutes, they walked together – chatting about affairs at the office, pending deals – already, the fun and fizz of the night giving way to preparations for another day in the city.

Geoffrey even being rather forward now in his opinions!

They came to Heathcock Court, a little alleyway right by the Adelphi theatre, and Neville stopped.

“You know what, old chap?” he said. “Think I’ll turn in here. Bit of a shortcut. Change of pace for my way home, eh?”

Geoffrey peered into the narrow alley, brick walls rising high on each side, a lone gas lamp giving out barely a flicker, the filament clearly having failed.

The darkness... ominous.

“You sure?” he said, dubious. “Looks rather—”

“Nonsense,” said Neville, laughing, and shaking Geoffrey’s hand. “Do it all the time. Many thanks for the evening, by the way. I owe you one sometime very soon.”

Geoffrey knew that Neville’s prestigious apartment was the other side of Piccadilly, so perhaps the decision made sense – after all, he was nearly at the station, anyway.

“My pleasure, Peter. It’s been great fun.”

Neville smiled, and Geoffrey watched him turn and head off into the gloomy darkness of the alley.

He continued on his way, hoping he’d not missed his train – pleased with the way the evening had gone.

But he’d only taken a few steps when he heard a strangled cry.

Geoffrey stopped. Probably nothing, he thought. A sound in the night. Someone in his cups taking a late-night misstep.

The sound came again – louder – coming from precisely the alley down which Peter Neville had headed for his brisk walk home.

Geoffrey turned and started to trot back in that direction; then, hearing another cry, picked up the pace. He rounded the corner and rushed into the alley. He could just make out two shapes. One person on the ground, arms up, and a man looming over him.

Then – worse – something in that man’s right hand catching the light.

Now, Geoffrey Sayles didn’t necessarily think of himself as a brave man.

Many a night at the Front, all those years ago in Belgium, he’d lain awake, absolutely petrified of the battle and blood that the next day would bring.

But here, he knew that he had no...