She walked up the driveway to the servants’ entrance and rang the bell.

A young woman opened the door. A housemaid, Iris guessed from the uniform.

“May I help you?” she asked.

“I’m here to see Madame Bousquet,” said Iris. “We have an appointment.”

“Your name, please?”

“Mary McTague.”

“One moment.”

She closed the door. A minute later, it was opened by a woman in her mid-forties, also in a maid’s uniform. Her hair was brown with wisps of gray scattered through it. Her makeup and eyebrows were impeccable, yet there was something about her eyes that seemed off. The expression—she was on edge, thought Iris. As if she expected to see someone over Iris’s shoulder, watching. It was all Iris could do not to turn around and see for herself.

“Miss McTague,” said Madame Bousquet, with only a trace of an accent. “I am sorry that you came all this way. I am afraid that I cannot talk to you.”

“Madame Bousquet, I don’t understand,” said Iris. “When we spoke on the telephone, you seemed willing, even eager. Is it a question of money? Because I might be able to—”

“It is not the money,” said Madame Bousquet. “It is the propriety.”

“I don’t intend to pry into anything confidential,” said Iris. “Our readers merely would like to have the eyewitness account of—”

“I am sorry to have wasted your time,” said Madame Bousquet, shutting the door.

Iris turned to see if there was anyone, but the street leading up to the house was empty.

Someone got to her, she thought dispiritedly. Damn. There goes half a day’s work.

She looked at her watch. It was only ten thirty-five. She could make the next train back to London if she walked briskly.

Or she could stake out the house to see if Madame Bousquet had any errands to run in town.

She walked down the street, turned the corner so that she was out of sight of the house, and waited.

Hamleys didn’t open until ten, which meant Gwen wouldn’t be able to shop for Tommy’s present until her lunch break, unless Iris returned earlier. She wished she could have gone with her. Iris had a habit of acting impulsively and jumping to conclusions quickly. They were usually correct, but not always. Without Gwen there to—

To what, exactly? Gwen herself had plunged into the rabbit hole of someone else’s past with nothing more than some old newspaper articles and an old man’s memory of a moment that could have meant any number of things. Yet it had felt right to her. Prince Andrea’s behaviour towards his wife and son had been shameful. If she had been in Princess Alice’s position, who knows what she would have reached out for to find solace? Not that Ronnie had ever given her any cause to. She doubted that he ever would have.

And yet she had had less time with him, counting their actual days together—

They married in June ’39. He joined the Fusiliers at the end of August, and after that, she only saw him when he was on leave. Then came the Battle of Monte Cassino, and she was a widow.