Page 14 of The Locked Room

Harry thought she saw a faint softening around the woman’s eyes. ‘Don’t know what you mean, Mr Black. We never met before tonight.’

Harry waited until they had reached the bottom of the rickety staircase before turning to her brother. ‘Hortensia Croft?’

He gave a sage nod. ‘First rule of bottle parties, Sis. Never give your real name on the paperwork.’

She saw Beth suppress a smile. ‘I’ll be sure to remember that.’

The door at the top of the stairs was every bit as nondescript as the one facing the street. Seb rapped on it with his knuckles and they waited again, although Harry could now feel the vibration of an insistent beat through the barely covered floorboards. After the scrape of more bolts being drawn back, this door opened to reveal a heavy gorilla of a man who stared out at them without any discernible expression. ‘Yeah?’

‘Hello, Pierre,’ Seb replied pleasantly, raising his voice to be heard over the music that was now thumping from beyond the man. ‘We’re here to see Albert.’

‘Names?’

With a patience that was evidently born of experience, Seb repeated the false names he had given Nell at the front door. Pierre ran a thick finger down the list he held and nodded. ‘Welcome to the Hot Spot. Albert will be delighted you’re joining him this evening.’

They stepped past him into another corridor, much shorter than the entrance hall below. This one also ended in a door, but it was swept open as they approached. A blast of frantic jazz hit them, the wail of trumpets mingling with the heavy thud of the beat and sibilant hiss of the brush on snare. Accompanying it was a torrid swirl of heat, the foetid air laced with a heady haze of smoke and alcohol fumes that swarmed over them with the fury of a sandstorm. But it was the scene expanding before them that really took Harry’s breath away. What looked like the entire upper floor had been opened into one enormous room. The band occupied a small raised dais along the furthest wall, with a dance floor in front that was filled with moving bodies. White-clothed tables were dotted at regular intervals, surrounded by chairs. Elsewhere, Harry saw armchairs and settees, grouped around low tables. All were lit by crimson-shaded lamps that painted everything a deep, unsettling red. It put Harry in mind of Dante’s Inferno, which described a journey through Hell. She shook the thought away. Really, what had she expected?

As they reached the threshold, a dark-haired man dressed in an immaculate cream suit stepped into their path, his arms thrown wide in exuberant welcome. ‘Mr Black, it is so good to see you!’

Seb’s mouth quirked. ‘Albert, I presume?’

‘The very same!’ the man cried, his luxurious black moustache quivering as he waved them through the door. ‘It’s an honour to welcome you to my humble abode.’

Harry heard Beth snort. ‘If this is his home, I’m the Queen of Sheba.’

Albert turned his smile upon her and widened it to include Harry. ‘But where are my manners? Which of you is Miss Croft and which is Miss Doone?’

Beth surprised Harry by stepping forward, her hand outstretched. ‘Lizzie Devine. Pleased to make your acquaintance.’

Albert let out a gurgle of delight as he took her hand. ‘The pleasure is all mine, I assure you.’ He eyed Harry with undisguised amusement, giving her the distinct impression he knew not only her real name, but her relationship to Seb too. ‘And what may I call you this evening, dear lady?’

She sighed. ‘Would you believe me if I said Hortensia?’

His laughter was a shout. ‘Here you can be whomever you choose and someone entirely different tomorrow.’ He leaned towards her confidingly. ‘Tonight, we shall be Albert and Hortensia, yet with the dawn, we may shake off those names like serpents shedding their skins.’

Harry blinked. ‘Well… quite.’

And then Seb was there, tucking her hand under his arm. ‘Will you show us to our table? I suspect darling Hortensia is in need of a drink. The heat, you understand.’

‘Of course,’ Albert said, with a small bow.

Harry caught any number of interested looks being cast their way as they wove between the tables to a comfortable velvet banquette curved around a table at the back of the room. It offered a clear view of the band, the dance floor and many of the other guests, and was clearly a premium seat, reserved for the very best customers. That, together with the easy familiarity with which Seb had navigated the hurdles to get inside, told Harry that this was not his first visit to the Hot Spot. Given the dangers Oliver had hinted lay within its walls, she wasn’t sure how she felt about that. But there was no doubt that his acquaintance with the club had benefitted her this evening. Perhaps it was best not to dwell too much on what Seb might have got up to in the past, especially since it was the actions of Rufus that had launched the family crisis they were trying to defuse.

Albert waved an expansive arm. ‘Please, make yourselves comfortable. Mi casa es su casa.’

‘My house is your house,’ Harry murmured to Beth, seeing her brow furrow ever so slightly.

Taking their coats, their host gave another ingratiating bow. ‘Your drinks will arrive momentarily.’

Harry slid behind the table and took the opportunity to examine their surroundings in more detail. Her first observation was that she was overdressed – not in terms of finery but definitely in terms of coverage. Many of the women she saw around her had bare shoulders and wore scandalously low necklines, while hemlines varied from floor-length to almost non-existent. The men, by contrast, wore dinner dress, although those on the dance floor had discarded their jackets and waistcoats. Some of the shirts had come untucked as they danced and others had dispensed with their collars. It was all so wonderfully unbuttoned and free.

‘Did you spot Maud and Rosalind Goldsworthy as we came in?’ Seb asked. ‘They certainly saw you so we shall have to say hello at some point.’

Harry’s gaze swept across the tables until she saw the two sisters, holding court among a small group of other young men and women. ‘Isn’t that Cecil Porter with them?’

Her brother nodded. ‘And Josephine Dibley. She’s the star of Noël Coward’s new play. Beside her is Ivor Novello – another of Noël’s darlings.’

‘Is there anyone here you don’t know?’ she asked.