Chapter 1: Barrow

In one of the secluded laneways off Macleay St in Potts Point, Sydney, sits a set of five handsome two-story Victorian brick terraces; each with a brass plaque beside the door identifying the surgeon or barrister who practices within. The westernmost of the group has no name on its plaque; just a relief impression of a woman in profile, not unlike the obverse side of a coin; one from a realm blessed with a most beautiful and elegant monarch.

This building is The Winsome Widow; a gentleman's club of such secrecy that it has no business registration or certificate of incorporation, no advertising, no web site and as near as I could tell, no membership roll or club dues. Men come and go of an evening, but there is no evidence of debauchery, such as deliveries of alcohol or exotic dancers; no loud music, no drunken, stumbling patrons leaving at late hours and never a hint of trouble that has involved law enforcement.

Surprisingly, no disenfranchised or loose-lipped member has ever revealed the secret of what happens within its walls; but perhaps most surprising of all is that the club allows members to admit guests, and to the best of my investigations, every guest has thence become a member and maintained the secrecy of the club. Every single one; no exceptions.

It was not without some trepidation that I stood inside the gate, looking up at the barred and curtained windows as I prepared to enter what members simply called The Widow; my sole intent being to discover her secrets. Curiosity killed the cat? Ah yes, but information revived it!

"We'll be met at the door by Stevens," Riley explained, my reluctant co-conspirator for the evening. "He's the butler; try not to say anything, but if you must then keep it brief."

"Stevens?" I smirked. "How butlery. Not Mr Stevens? No first name?"

"If he has one then I don't know what it is," Riley said without any humour in his voice. "It would be a mistake to underestimate him. He is the most singularly enigmatic man I have ever met; I believe that very little escapes his notice."

"Well, are we going in?" I asked ironically. "Or waiting for him to come outside and get us?"

"You might be surprised," he answered enigmatically. Perhaps it was rubbing off from Stevens.

We walked to the wide oaken door and I looked for either a bell or a knocker but there was none. I glanced at Riley, but he made no move to announce our presence so I reached out to knock.

"Give it a moment," he murmured.

I turned to look at him, my hand poised in mid-knock, when the door was opened by a tall, austere man of about thirty wearing a plain black suit and grey necktie. I half expected tails and a bow tie with a white linen napkin draped over one wrist, but even in his conservative modern dress, Stevens' bearing and manner still screamed English butler.

"Welcome back, Mr Campbell," said Stevens, his neutral accent not exactly English but not exactly Australian either.

"Thank you, Stevens," Riley replied in neutral tones of his own. "This is Alex Barrow, a colleague."

Colleague? I was a junior associate and Riley had his name on the door, but I suppose he could hardly introduce me as his extortionist or his blackmailer.

"Welcome to The Winsome Widow, Mr Barrow," Stevens said dryly, managing to line up all those Ws without sounding comic.

I held out my hand but he chose that moment to step backwards and open the door fully, thereby ignoring my offer of greeting without appearing to do so. It was probably a butler thing; no fraternisation, no contact.

Riley allowed him to take his coat but Stevens made no attempt to remove my tweed jacket, something that Riley insisted I wear; his only condition before acceding to my threatening demand to be brought to the club. I had tried to get an explanation for this insistence, but even upon threat of exposure, he still refused and I had no further gambit to play. In the end I wanted The Widow more than I wanted to know why I had to wear a jacket that went out of fashion fifty years ago. I managed to spare myself the indignity of leather elbow patches and I was actually surprised at how stylish and quirky I looked with a matching waistcoat and a pair of designer, rectangular-framed eyeglasses. Riley only shook his head when he saw my attempt to 'pull off' the tweed look, telling me I had missed the point, but conveniently forgetting that he refused to explain the point in the first place.

I followed Riley down the corridor into a large sitting room with high Victorian ceilings and decorated in timeless gentleman's club chic: timber panelling, burgundy patterned wallpaper, leather wing-back armchairs and an open fire with a good bed of coals and a low flame. I looked around for Stevens, but he was gone so I joined Riley at the liquor cart just inside the door; it was stocked with labelled decanters of red wine, sherry, port, cognac and scotch whiskey. No ice, no mixers, and certainly no beer; I wondered if Stevens would fetch me a Bloody Mary, but I was disinclined to ask.