The Death of Me by M J Tjia

Author:M J Tjia [Tjia, M J]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781789550481
Publisher: Legend Press

CHAPTER 15

I lean right back into the cushions of my seat, trying to listen to what the American – what was his name again? – has to say. He is seated with his back to me and, although I can hear that twang of his, I can’t make out actual words. And whoever sits opposite him speaks too low for me to catch anything. What the hell is he doing in Soho? It’s a bit of a rich coincidence him being here. He must be connected in some way with what happened at the Dernier Livre. I scrape and scrape at the last of the pudding with my spoon as I puzzle over the possibilities. He wasn’t Somerscale’s secret contact, because that was the man with the black beard. But there must be some connection. Why else would he be here?

I think of the way he stuck so close to Violette and me. What had he known? What was he up to?

I cock my head, trying to drown out the rowdy clerks, the rumble of conversation, the clinking of cutlery against crockery. I strain to hear what the American is talking about. And who is he talking to? But the damned panelling is in the way and I can’t exactly poke my head around the side to look.

Once the waiter whisks past with a tray of dirty plates, I stuff the book back into my bag and prepare to leave my booth. I will follow him, ostensibly to pay my bill, and I will have a good look at the American’s ‘pal’ on my way.

Taking to my feet, I straighten my skirts and edge a step closer to the partition between the American’s booth and mine. A step further again. But the bench seat opposite the American is now empty. Damn. I sidle towards the back of the restaurant and find my waiter. I’m very tempted to look over my shoulder as I wait for my change, but I resist. Once the bill is settled, I turn and make my way sedately towards the street. As I pass the American I glance his way, and my eyes snag on his. I look away quickly, but not before I see a grin of recognition light his face.

When I enter my temporary home in Green’s Court, I peep into the sitting room on the way to my rooms. Mrs Modesto is seated in one of the chairs, reading.

“You seem to be very busy there, Mrs Modesto,” I say from the doorway.

She looks up. “You may join me, if you please, Miss Charters.”

On my way to the armchair next to hers I peer out the front window. I scan the laneway to see if anyone – the American in particular – has followed me home. Across the way I can see directly into someone’s living room: the lamp on a side board, an overstuffed sofa, square table and chairs, barren grate. A man enters the room and I take a step back behind the curtains.

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