Read When the Devil Drives for Free Online

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    â€˜Still, it’s a reminder to us,’ I said, trying to sound brisk. ‘When you’re looking for a missing person, you must be sure to check reports of suicides or accidents.’
    â€˜How do we do that?’ She sounded discouraged. Routine was a recently acquired word to her and she didn’t like it.
    â€˜I read the newspapers,’ I said.
    Sullen silence.
    â€˜There’s also a man I know who makes his living reporting on coroner’s inquests for the papers. I may go and see him this evening.’
    â€˜Can I come with you?’
    â€˜Not this time.’
    It might be interesting to see what Tabby and Jimmy Cuffs made of each other, but not yet.
    As it happened I didn’t make the journey to Fleet Street to see him because when I got home an invitation was waiting for me.
    â€˜A lad brought it while you were out,’ Mrs Martley said, rolling pastry.
    Embossed printing, my name written on the top left-hand corner in a hand I didn’t recognize.
    The Beethoven Appreciation Circle has pleasure in inviting you to a recital to be given on Thursday 17 October at Lydian House, Belgrave Square. 6pm for 6.30. Carriages at 8.
    That was just over an hour away. Clearly, the decision to invite Miss Liberty Lane had been taken at the very last minute. As it happened, I knew about the recital. A French pianist whom I’d been longing to hear was to perform two Beethoven sonatas. It was a subscription concert, at a price that made clear it was a society event, attended probably by people who had as much ear for music as Mrs Martley’s pastry.
    What interested me – besides a wish to hear the music – was that this kind of invitation was often the way my friend, that ambitious young MP Mr Benjamin Disraeli, chose when he wanted to talk to me. I could never decide whether it was concern for my reputation or his that made him contrive our business meetings in public places. His, probably, since he had a dashing disregard for other people’s needs. But that couldn’t be the case this time, because Mr Disraeli had married his rich widow at the end of August and departed on a honeymoon tour of Europe. They were not expected back in London until November. So if Mr Disraeli himself had not sent the invitation, it must be from somebody close enough to him to adopt the same etiquette. That meant another client, quite possibly a wealthy one. I told Mrs Martley I’d be back soon after eight.
    â€˜You be careful and take a cab back,’ she said. ‘It’s not safe in the streets on your own these days.’
    My mind was already on my wardrobe, wondering whether my blue velvet with the stand-up collar and silk facings would be grand enough, but there was an edge to her voice that made me turn and look at her.
    â€˜Why, these days ?’
    â€˜Mrs Grindley’s been talking to the cook at the Featherstone’s and she says one of the kitchen maids there was nearly carried off on Monday night in a chariot with two devils on the back. She’s been in hysterics ever since.’
    Odd, that this particular ghost story had already run all the way from the City to Mayfair. I promised Mrs Martley I’d be careful, ran upstairs and through the little door into my own room and changed into the blue velvet. It wasn’t fear of devils in the dusk that made me spend money on a cab to Belgrave Square, only tenderness for my best shoes, which were black velvet and so didn’t match the dress, but would have to do. The traffic was heavy and I arrived more than fashionably late, with just time to slide into a vacant seat in the back row before the music began.

THREE
    T he pianist was every bit as good as I’d been told. I only wished that some of my musical friends had been there to appreciate him, because it was clear that many of the present company did not. As soon as the first sonata finished, people left their seats and a babble of chatter broke