The neon lights of Soho bounced off the autumn puddles, their reflections half‑ interrupted by the steady droplets of freezing rain. The ­ high‑heeled stride of Vera Huntington sliced through one of the deeper ones as she cut her way across the drenched alleyway. Her heels clacked loudly as she quickened her pace, and she threw worried glances over her shoulder as she walked. Once or twice she caught someone staring too intently at her, or a passerby bumped her shoulder, and so she drew herself deeper into the shadows to shake the feeling of being watched.

Finally Vera rounded a corner off Carnaby Street, her attention caught by the warm light of a nearby pub. Her shoulders relaxed as she spotted a constable she was friendly withstanding in the doorway, out of uniform and smoking with his mates. He turned to her and smiled, but something in his eyes made her shoulders tighten again. His face was too friendly, too ­ inviting— something was off. Vera’s throat constricted as she considered the possibilities. The constable’s grin widened, ­ fox‑like. Carefully, Vera schooled her features into a sweet but apologetic look, as if to say, I’d love to join you, but I have somewhere to be.

After she turned the corner down the next street, she ran. The glow of Ronnie Scott’s jazz club felt like a sign, and she hurried to the door like someone claiming sanctuary at a cathedral. It may have been a sacrilegious comparison, but in 1968, jazz was Vera’s religion and Ronnie Scott’s was her place of worship.

The music for the evening had already started, but she knew the doorman well enough to bribe her way inside. She’d be safe in there, and she could find Frances. Lately, every Thursday night, Frances would be eagerly perched on a barstool at the back of the crowded club, taking in every note played like it could change her life.

As a society girl, Vera had only recently discovered the delights of listening to a sax bleed out a tune so ­heart‑wrenching it should come with a warning label. Frances had shown her that. Frances had her own London, the kind that included hidden Soho spots that were cool because they were shabby, and Vera never felt freer than when they ran around nightclubs and went to ­ lock‑ins at bars together.

She was hit with a wall of sound as she stepped into the venue’s main room. Smoke hung above the heads of the seated crowd, who were illuminated by the glow of red table lamps. It smelled of heavy tobacco and weed, of spilled red wine and the sweat of a packed audience.

The flame of Frances’s hair in its smart uptwist popped out of the crowd, distinctive even in the low light. She was watching the combo onstage like she’d been hypnotized, and the man to her right was watching her the same way. His suit was expertly tailored, but he wore it in a relaxed way. As though luxury should be quiet; comfortable, even. His dark hair was thick with a slight wave held in place by some kind of wax. He was a throwback to the postwar era, in stark contrast to the men with ­ shoulder‑ length hair and turtlenecks all around him, whose fashion was the folk music answer to the Swinging Sixties.

“Vera?” Frances’s expression was bright as she noticed her friend, but her brows quickly knitted together when she saw a hint of fear on Vera’s face, and how tightly she clutched her coat, her knuckles white.

“What’s wrong? Has something happened?” Frances asked as she pulled Vera gently by the arm, away from the noise of the crowded bar.

“I got in over my head, Frances,” Vera said. Her careful composure started to crack, and tears shook her voice, making it quiver like someone had pounded a fist down on a table near a full glass of water.

“What do you mean?” Frances asked.

Vera shook her head fiercely. “I shouldn’t tell you any more,” she said. “This is very much a curiosity-killing-the-cat kind of situation, Frances. Believe me, I wish to God I could unlearn the things I found out.”

Frances gave Vera a long and considering look. “I can help you, but only if you tell me everything. I can’t fix something I don’t have all the pieces to.”

Vera swallowed hard. “I’m sorry, Frances. I can’t risk it.”

Vera was looking around now, examining the shapes of the people in the club, jumping at the crash of a dropped glass and clutching her bag even tighter.

Frances’s expression shifted between concerned and confused. “I . . .” she said, hesitating. “Don’t take this the wrong way, Vera, but if you can’t tell me anything, then why are you here?”

“I ­ just—I can’t rely on anyone in my own social circle. I need . . .” Vera barked out a laugh. “I need more friends in low places.”

Frances was quiet. Finally, she said, “And you think I’m the person to put you in contact with these kinds of people?” Her voice was unreadable, and if she was offended by what Vera was implying, she didn’t show it.

“Your job at the diner,” Vera said, not looking at Frances, but scanning the doorway as waiters and waitresses came and went. “You connect with ­ people— all kinds of people. And I know you’ve made friends while you’ve been studying here in ­ London . . . friends who might be able to help me out of this horrendous spot I’m in.”

“Vera, tell me ­ honestly— is there someone threatening you? Is it your brother?”

“He’ll kill me,” Vera whispered.

There was a long pause, and a trumpet solo finished to raucous applause. In the hush of the audience, as the musicians drew breath to start their next number, Frances surprised her. This was why Vera had come to Frances for help, this fighting spirit and willingness to get stuck into problems, even when they weren’t her own. Even when vital information had been carefully left out.

“What if you got to him first?” Frances said.

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