superstition. She was she, her, the woman: an absolute and invisible power. Her men 
seemed to have their feet on solid ground, but in truth they drifted like the kites, 
tethered to reality only by the memory of her.
  "I've done a terrible thing, John," Estabrook said. The flask was at his lips again. He 
took several gulps before sealing it and pocketing it. "And I regret it bitterly."
  "What?"
  "May we walk a little way?" Estabrook said, glancing towards the kite flyers, who were 
both too distant and too involved in their sport to be eavesdropping. But he was not 
comfortable with sharing his secret until he'd put twice the distance between his 
confession and their ears. When he had, he made it simply and plainly. "I don't know what 
kind of madness overtook me," he said, "but a little while ago I made a contract with 
somebody to have her killed."
  "You did iv/wtf?"
  "Does it appall you?"
  "What do you think? Of course it appalls me."
  "It's the highest form of devotion, you know, to want to end somebody's existence 
rather than let them live on without you. It's love of the highest order."
  "It's a fucking obscenity."
  "Oh, yes, it's that too. But I couldn't bear . . . just couldn't bear . . . the idea of 
her being alive and me not being with her. . .." His delivery was now deteriorating, the 
words becoming tears. "She was so dear to me. . .."
  Gentle's thoughts were of his last exchange with Judith: the half-drowned telephone 
call from New York, which had ended with nothing said. Had she known then that her life 
was in jeopardy? If not, did she now? My God, was she even alive? He took hold of 
Estabrook's lapel with the same force that the fear took hold of him.
  "You haven't brought me here to tell me she's dead."
  "No. No," he protested, making no attempt to disengage Gentle's hold. "I hired this 
man, and I want to call him off."
  "So do it," Gentle said, letting the coat go.
  "I can't."
  Estabrook reached into his pocket and pulled out a sheet of paper. To judge by its 
crumpled state it had been thrown away, then reclaimed.
  "This came from the man who found me the assassin," he went on. "It was delivered to my 
home two nights ago. He was obviously drunk or drugged when he wrote it, but it indicates 
that he expects to be dead by the time I read it. I'm assuming he's correct. He hasn't 
made contact. He was my only route to the assassin."
  "Where did you meet this man?"
  "He found me."
  "And the assassin?"
  "I met him somewhere south of the river, I don't know where. It was dark. I was lost. 
Besides, he won't be there. He's gone after her."
  "So warn her."
  "I've tried. She won't accept my calls. She's got another lover now. He's being 
covetous the way I was. My letters, my telegrams, they're all sent back unopened. But he 
won't be able to save her. This man I hired, his name's Pie-"
  "What's that, some kind of code?"
  "I don't know," Estabrook said. "I don't know anything except I've done something 
unforgivable and you have to help me undo it. You have to. This man Pie is lethal."
  "What makes you think she'll see me when she won't see you?"
  "There's no guarantee. But you're a younger, fitter man, and you've had some . . . 
experience of the criminal mind. You've a better chance of coming between her and Pie 
than 1 have. I'll give you money for the assassin. You can pay him off. And I'll pay 
whatever you ask. I'm rich. Just warn her, Zacharias, and get her to come home. I can't 
have her death on my conscience."
  "It's a little late to think about that."
  "I'm making what amends I can. Do we have a deal?" He took off his leather glove in 
preparation for shaking Gentle's hand.
  "I'd like the letter from your contact," Gentle said.
  "It barely makes any sense," Estabrook said.
  "If he is dead, and she dies too, that letter's evidence whether it makes sense or not. 
Hand it over, or no deal."
  Estabrook reached into his inside pocket, as if to pull out the letter, but with his 
fingers upon it he hesitated. Despite all his talk about having a clear conscience, about 
Gentle being the man to save her, he was deeply reluctant to part with the letter.
  "I thought so," Gentle said. "You want to make sure I look like the guilty party if 
anything goes wrong. Well, go fuck yourself."
  He turned from Estabrook and started down the hill. Estabrook came after him, calling 
his name, but Gentle didn't slow his pace. He let the man run.
  "All right!" he heard behind him. "All right, have it! Have it!"
  Gentle slowed but didn't stop. Gray with exertion, Estabrook caught up with him. "The 
letter's yours," he said.
  Gentle took it, pocketing it without unfolding it. There'd be plenty of time to study 
it on the flight.
  
  
  6
  
  Chant's body was discovered the following day by ninety-three-year-old Albert Burke, 
who found it while looking for his errant mongrel, Kipper. The animal had sniffed from 
the street what its owner only began to nose as he climbed the stairs, whistling for his 
hound between curses: the rotting tissue at the top. In the autumn of 1916, Albert had 
fought for his country at the Somme, sharing trenches with dead companions for days at a 
time. The sights and smells of death didn't much distress him. Indeed, his sanguine 
response to his discovery lent color to the story, when it reached the evening news, and 
assured it of greater coverage than it might otherwise have merited, that focus in turn 
bringing a penetrating eye to bear on the identity of the dead man. Within a day a 
portrait of the deceased as he might have looked in life had been produced, and by 
Wednesday a woman living on a council estate south of the river had identified him as her 
next-door neighbor, Mr. Chant.
  An examination of his flat turned up a second picture, not of Chant's flesh, this time, 
but of his life. It was the conclusion of the police that the dead man was a practitioner 
of some obscure religion. It was reported that a small altar dominated his room, 
decorated with the withered heads of animals that forensics could not identify, its 
centerpiece an idol of so explicitly sexual a nature no newspaper dared publish a sketch 
of it, let atone a photograph. The gutter press particularly enjoyed the story, 
especially as the artifacts had belonged to a man now thought to have been murdered. They 
editorialized with barely concealed racism on the influx of perverted foreign religions. 
Between this and stories on Burke of the Somme, Chant's death attracted a lot of column 
inches. That fact had several consequences. It brought a rash of right-wing attacks on 
mosques in greater London, it brought a call for the demolition of the estate where Chant