“What on earth brought you here?” asked Gwen.

“I came to see you in your new enterprise,” said Lady Matheson, looking around. “Well. Remarkable, I must say. I never thought I would see you doing this sort of thing.”

“No one did,” said Gwen. “Not even me. It goes to show you how unpredictable life can be.”

“We’ve all had more than our share of unpredictability,” agreed Lady Matheson. “In fact, my being here must fall into that category.”

“We weren’t expecting you, certainly,” said Gwen. “Not that I’m not delighted to see you. It’s been some time. Iris, Patience is—Well, I’m not quite sure how to describe it. She’s not exactly a lady-in-waiting—”

“Oh, heaven forbid!” said Lady Matheson, giving an exaggerated shudder.

“But she works for the Queen in some capacity.”

“Do you?” said Iris. “I’ve always found the phrase ‘in some capacity’ both wonderfully vague and intentionally concealing.”

“How so?” asked Lady Matheson with a smile as she sat down in the guest chair.

“It’s boring enough to fend off further questions while hinting at areas of occupation too mundane to warrant any interest. People, as a result, have the idea that you do something without knowing what it is, or even thinking it’s something that it isn’t.”

“You’re the one who went to Cambridge, aren’t you?” observed Lady Matheson.

“Yes.”

“So you think you’re smarter than most people.”

“Just the ones who went to Oxford.”

“Lovely!” Lady Matheson laughed. “I must repeat that one to—Well, I have an Oxford friend or two, of course.”

“Patience, it is wonderful to see you,” said Gwen. “But we do have a client coming in.”

“I could handle the interview if you want to have a cousins’ reunion,” offered Iris.

“That won’t be necessary,” said Lady Matheson. “I am Miss Oona Travis, your eleven thirty.”

“What?” exclaimed Gwen.

“I am also Miss Catherine Prescott, your twelve o’clock,” said Lady Matheson. “That gives us a full hour together. I know that you have the only occupied office on this level, and that the one below us is entirely vacant, but I would like to ask you to close and lock your door, if you don’t mind.”

They stared at her, then at each other. Iris shrugged and got up.

“That’s ten pounds down the drain,” she muttered as she walked to the door.

She stepped out into the hall and peered down the stairwell. There was a man in a brown three-piece suit on the third-storey landing, nonchalantly smoking a cigarette. He looked up at her, gave a quick two-fingered salute, then resumed his pose, watching the stairs below him.

Iris returned to The Right Sort and closed and locked the door behind her.

“Brown three-piece suit, brown shoes, five ten, black hair, clean-shaven, well-built, mid-thirties,” she said as she retook her seat. “Yours?”

“Mine,” said Lady Matheson.

“Armed?”

“Possibly. I’ve never asked.”

“Does he have a name?”

“Possibly. I’ve never asked.”

“Patience, what on earth is going on?” asked Gwen.