It wasn’t until she was safely aboard the London-bound train that she opened her notebook and jotted down “Vivienne Ducognon. Mrs. Calvert.” She didn’t know any Calverts, but the number of women in London employing experienced French lady’s maids was finite.

And there was always Gwen. Gwen was bound to know her. At that level of society, she knew everyone.

Damn her.

Gwen looked at her watch. Twelve thirty and no Iris. She didn’t want to have this meeting with Patience alone. She lacked the expertise that Iris had in matters … well, criminal, if one were to call them by their right name. Not that she suspected Iris of ever doing anything illegal unrelated to her wartime duties, or for a good cause, as she had demonstrated in their recent investigation.

Not that she thought Iris would do anything risky for the mere fun of it.

Yet she was dating a gangster, and still carried her lock-picks and a knife and God knows what other apparatus in her handbag. A grenade, perhaps? A sawed-off shotgun? Dynamite?

I need a bigger handbag, thought Gwen.

She glanced at the appointment book for the umpteenth time that morning. The word HAMLEYS seemed to float up from the page and dance accusatorially in front of her eyes.

Right. Promise made to a child’s mother. Deadline looming.

She dashed off a note to Iris, stuck it in the keys of her typewriter, then left the office, the clock placard hung on the outer door knob guaranteeing her return.

Hamleys was on Regents Street, only a few blocks away. The largest toy store in London—in the entire world, proclaimed their sign. Five storeys of merchandise backed up this boast. Children clustered in front, pointing, begging and yelling, yanking their protesting mothers and nannies along as they succumbed to the mesmerising pull of the window displays. Bursting into uncontrollable sobs as they, in turn, were yanked away from the treasures that were so close yet just out of reach.

Gwen couldn’t remember the last time she had been there. Little Ronnie and she had spent the war in the country, safely away from the Blitz. And then she went away for a while herself. She had never been to Hamleys with her own son, she thought with a shock. She would have to rectify that omission now that she was—

Well, she needed to regain custody first, didn’t she? She hated that she had to ask her in-laws for permission to take her son shopping for toys. Maybe Lady Carolyne would relent while Lord Bainbridge was still in East Africa.

“BOMBED FIVE TIMES! EVEN THE JERRIES CAN’T DEFEAT A CHILD’S DREAMS!” shouted the sign over the entrance, illustrated with a photograph of staff members handing out toys while wearing tin air raid hats.

Gwen speculated for a moment about the efficacy of a tin hat in warding off bombs. She decided she’d rather be in the country.

A doorman held open the door and nodded encouragingly to her. She rallied her nerves and went in.