When she had seen it lying there in the drawer she had almost been fooled by it, because of the binding. Although it was much older and in poor condition, the book was similar to the standard Concordance copies kept in the hotel rooms. But it wasn’t one of the Savoy editions. One of those had already been placed in the right-hand drawer of Jacob’s bedside table. She had found this book to the left of the bed. Now she reexamined the unfamiliar name on the flyleaf, W. Whitstable, St Peter’s, Hampstead, and turning the dry, semitransparent pages within, saw that the Bible was older than she had at first realized. A particular smell exuded from its pages, of church pews and hushed rooms. The printing mark read 1873. Certain letters—S’s and T’s—were joined together at the top. Exactly one hundred years old. It felt as if it had been given as a gift, something which Mr Jacob had valued greatly. She knew that she should take it to the police, but felt sure that if she did so, she would never know the meaning of her discovery.
Instead she’d gone to the reception desk and begun her search. The phone book yielded thirty-one Whitstables in central London, eight starting with the initial W, three of them in the Hampstead area. She decided that she would ring each of them in turn.
Pulling the house phone as far as it would reach, she unfolded the notepaper on the knee of her jeans, marked off the first number with her thumb and began to dial.
Her first two calls failed to net a reply. Third on the list was Whitstable, William, of Mayberry Grove, Hampstead. By now the sun had fully set and the garden lay in pale gloom. It was never truly dark in the city. Even in deepest night the sky appeared to be made of tracing paper. She studied the dial and waited for her connection to be completed. Instantly, she was sure she had called the correct number. The elderly male voice at the other end was filled with suspicion, as if in anticipation of her call.
‘Why are you ringing here? What do you want?’
‘Have I reached the home of Mr W. Whitstable?’ she asked in her best Savoy telephone manner.
‘William?’ There was confusion now. ‘There’s no one here . . .’
‘I have something to return to him. Something he’s lost.’
‘Well, what is it?’ The speaker was agitated. His words were sliding into one another, as if he was drunk. She had nothing to gain by holding out. ‘I have a Bible belonging to a gentleman named Mr W. Whitstable.’
The single word again. ‘William.’ And a hushed silence.
Bingo. Jerry smiled in the shadows. ‘I was wondering if I could return it to the gentleman.’
‘He’s no longer here,’ said the speaker hastily. ‘Send it to me instead.’
‘I wouldn’t trust the post office with something as delicate as this,’ she replied. ‘I’ll bring it to you, if you like.’
‘I don’t think—no, not tonight, I can’t have visitors at night, not now . . .’
‘Then tomorrow,’ she pressed. ‘I’ll call by in the morning, is that all right?’
The line went dead. Jerry replaced the receiver, puzzled. At least she had located the Bible’s owner. She considered informing Mr May, just in case there was any trouble, but decided against it. The voice had belonged to an old man. She could handle it. She rose from the armchair and rubbed warmth into her arms, wondering what on earth she was doing.
Mayberry Grove was a cul-de-sac filled with solid Victorian red-brick houses hidden behind swathes of greenery; miniature castles built by confident men whose minds could not imagine the twilight of the empire. As Jerry approached the house she was surprised to find an unfriendly-looking police constable standing in the front garden.
‘I’ve an appointment to see Mr Whitstable,’ she said cheerfully, pushing back the wet gate. Having been given no information to the contrary, she was still guessing that the name was correct.
‘Oh, yes? And who are you, then?’ The constable was not that much older than she, but had already developed an antagonistic attitude.
‘I spoke to Mr Whitstable last night. I’m returning something that belongs to him.’
‘He can’t have visitors.’ The constable rocked back on wide polished boots and gave the top of his walkie-talkie a wipe. ‘Give it to me and I’ll make sure that he gets it.’
‘He told me I should give it to him myself.’
‘Not possible, lovey.’ He gave a dim smile and shifted his gaze away as if he had sighted something in the middle distance. Jerry was just about to argue when the front door burst open and there stood a florid-faced man in an ill-fitting checked suit and crooked tie. He seemed vaguely familiar, and was arguing with a second constable, who had appeared at his side from somewhere within the hall.