Angels in the Gloom by Anne Perry Read Free Book Online Page A

leave. There was a hectic gaiety about them, as if it took all their energy of mind to absorb every sight and sound to remember in the days to come. Even the young women with them caught the mood—elegant, romantic, a little wild, as if they too knew that tonight was everything, and tomorrow might slip out of their hands.
    There were only three musicians on the small platform: a pianist; a slender, wispy-haired man with a saxophone; and a girl of about twenty in a long, blue dress. She was singing a haunting lyric from one of the popular music hall songs, but altered every now and then to be sadder, harsher, full of the reality of death. Her smoky voice added passion to it, belying the innocence of her face. Her hair was short, and she wore a band around it, over her brow.
    Matthew found a place at the bar and sat down.
    He had nearly half an hour to wait, and he was surprised and annoyed with himself at how tense he became. He listened to the music; all the tunes were familiar, from the madcap “Yacka Hula Hickey Dula,” popularized by Al Jolson, to the heartbreaking “Keep the Home Fires Burning.”
    He sipped his drink, spinning it out, watching couples dancing. It was natural that he should be anxious to see Detta in order to further his work convincing her that the code was unbroken, but his disappointment was personal. The emotion of the music, the fear in the eyes of the young men around him, made him overwhelmingly aware of loneliness, separation, clinging too hard to the present because the future was unbearable.
    Then he heard a slight commotion in the doorway, a momentary silence, and Detta came down the steps. She was not tall, but she walked as if she were, with a unique kind of slow grace, as if she would never stumble or grow tired. She was wearing a black dress, cut low at the bosom, a red rose at her waist. The skirt was lined in satin so it rustled very slightly as she moved. It made the flawless skin of her neck seem even whiter, and the cloud of her dark hair accentuated her eyes. One of her brows was a little different from the other, a blemish to perfect beauty that gave her a vulnerable, slightly humorous look.
    As happened every time he saw her, no matter how much he guarded against it, his pulse raced and his mouth went dry.
    At first she did not appear to have seen him, and he hesitated to stand up and draw her attention. But then she turned and smiled. Walking elegantly past the young men who had crowded toward her, she approached Matthew. As she seated herself, she spoke to the bartender first, as if that were what she had really come for, then turned to Matthew.
    “I haven’t seen you for a while,” she remarked casually. Her voice was low, and the soft Irish lilt gave it a unique music.
    It was five days since they had last met, but he did not tell her he had been counting. He must not let her know it mattered so much, or she would be suspicious. Whatever he felt—and it was far more than he wanted to—it must never affect his judgment. He could not afford to forget for an instant that they were on opposite sides. She was an Irish Nationalist, with sympathy for Germany, and perhaps any other enemy of England. Only here, in the lights, the laughter, the music, they pretended it did not matter.
    He paid for her drink and another for himself, and they walked over to one of the few free tables.
    “I went back to Cambridgeshire,” he explained. “My brother was wounded rather badly and they sent him home.”
    Her eyes widened. “I’m sorry.” She said it instantly, without time to consider loyalties or causes. “How is he?”
    The girl in the blue dress was singing again, a sad, angry little song with downward-falling notes.
    “Better than many, I suppose,” Matthew answered. He could be reasonably dispassionate about other people—one had to be—but seeing Joseph gray-faced and obviously in appalling pain had shaken him more deeply than he had been prepared for. It brought back the