“Thank you,” said Mrs. Fisher, pulling the guest chair up to the desks.

“Isn’t this cozy?” said Lady Matheson acerbically. “One would think with what we’ve paid you, you might have invested in another chair.”

“It’s on the list,” said Gwen. “Now that we’re all here, perhaps you should fill us in on the letters.”

Lady Matheson nodded to Mrs. Fisher, who opened the courier bag and pulled out a manila folder. Gwen put on her gloves and took it from her, then opened it so that Iris could see its contents over her shoulder.

The first sheet was covered with the same scrawl as the previous letter, its top similarly torn off. Gwen held it up to the light.

“No watermark this time,” she observed. “He’s not continuing with the same stationery. Looks like the same handwriting.”

“Looks like someone deliberately using the wrong hand to disguise his handwriting,” added Iris. “But it’s the same person as the first letter, if I’m any judge. Have you had them analysed by an expert?”

“Not yet,” said Lady Matheson. “We’re keeping the number of people who know about this to the bare minimum. Once we catch the man, we’ll do more.”

“Is that the plan now?” asked Iris. “To catch him?”

“The plan is to avert embarrassment to the Crown,” said Lady Matheson. “There are alternative ways of accomplishing that goal. Read the letter.”

“‘Here’s a taste,’” read Gwen. “‘If you don’t want the rest on the front page of the Tatler, put a personal advertisement in the Saturday Times to Violet from Lily with a telephone number. I will call at two in the afternoon with further instructions. The price is five thousand pounds. No bargaining, no excuses.’”

“Five thousand,” said Iris. “Clearly, we’re all in the wrong professions, although it’s probably just mad money for the Queen. What about the other letter?”

The second sheet in the folder was of light blue onionskin, slightly faded. Its creases divided it into thirds, and the folds were loose and supple.

“It’s been read many times,” said Gwen softly. “Opened, then refolded and replaced. I have letters from Ronnie that—Well, speaking as a woman, this letter appears to have been kept by someone who valued it.”

“There should be fingerprints,” said Iris.

“We’ll have that done,” said Lady Matheson. “Read it.”

“It’s in German,” said Gwen. “Shall I translate?”

“If you feel up to the task,” said Lady Matheson.

“Finishing school in Geneva, thank you very much,” said Gwen. “I’ll manage.”

It was strange, she thought, reading someone’s letters from another era. Intruding on the past, where all those who lived there were now old. Or dead. She cleared her throat and read.

“‘My dearest A.,’” she began. “‘I will be in Lugano on the seventeenth, my usual rooms. Leave a note with Franz at the front desk. My heart will not be denied. C.’ And that’s all.”

“That’s it?” exclaimed Iris. “He expects to be paid for that? It doesn’t name names. It could be from anyone to anyone.”