“Then why shut down Bousquet?”

“Maybe Lady Matheson only needs part of the truth to come out for her purposes, and Bousquet has the wrong part.”

“What purposes? Does she want this to be true or not?”

“I suppose it depends on whether she wants Philip to become Elizabeth’s husband or not. And that depends, in turn, on to whom she owes her loyalties.”

“The Queen, surely.”

“One would hope,” said Iris. “But employment doesn’t always equal loyalty.”

“So what do we do?”

“Until we know more, we do what we were hired to do.”

“Then to whom does our loyalty belong?” asked Gwen.

“Good question,” said Iris. “You’re the one with the moral compass. You tell me.”

“That’s not fair.”

“Have you recently become immoral without letting me know?”

“Of course not. It’s just that—” She stopped.

“It’s just that what?” prompted Iris.

“I don’t exactly know what our choices are right now,” said Gwen. “I would say our loyalty is to the King.”

“But we’re working for the Queen. Or, rather, the Queen’s woman, who we assume is working for the Queen’s interests, which we in turn assume are also the King’s interests, which we also assume are the country’s interests.”

“The lines of accountability are stretched rather thin by the time they reach down to us,” said Gwen.

“And we still have no direct evidence of anything,” Iris pointed out. “Just a decent working theory, and now our correspondent is forcing the issue before we have any certainty.”

“What do we do?”

“As I said, what we are being paid to do,” said Iris. “Until and unless we come across some reason to do otherwise.”

“Sounds manageable.”

“But we are going to keep a sharp watch for that reason,” said Iris.

“All right,” said Gwen. “That’s them coming up the steps, if I’m not mistaken.”

Lady Matheson swept in, followed by a younger woman carrying a brown leather courier bag slung from her shoulder. The latter wore a tan linen suit, unadorned by any ornamentation, and had a terrier-like alertness, seeming ready to pounce on any small mouse of a detail before it could scurry away. She looked around the office with barely concealed disdain, her lip curling slightly as she saw The Forsyte Saga at work, bravely supporting Gwen’s desk.

Behind them, they glimpsed the bodyguard standing in the hall. He reached in after the women entered the office and pulled the door shut. His silhouette filled the frosted glass, facing the stairs.

Lady Matheson looked at the guest chair, which seemed to shrink under her gaze, then looked back at Iris.

“Right,” said Iris, getting up. “Please take my seat at my desk, Lady Matheson. And you are?”

“Mrs. Penelope Fisher,” said the younger woman. “I believe we’ve spoken on the telephone, if the two of you are Miss Travis and Miss Prescott.”

“Only to you,” said Iris, moving over to sit on the windowsill. “I’m Iris Sparks. This is my partner, Mrs. Gwendolyn Bainbridge. How do you do? Please take that seat there, and then we’ll begin.”