The wooden cellar door, sunk into the wall, was so battered and ancient-looking, it might have been the entrance to the Ark. Ray pushed it open and stood to one side, shouting, ‘Mind your head!’ and ‘DUCK!’ as everyone went through and then, ‘Watch your step! Let your eyes adjust!’ as they descended the flight of rickety stairs, into the gloom of the cellar.

It took several minutes. Some people had run back for their gas masks but Pam point-blank refused. ‘Ghastly things,’ she said. ‘I never have mine. If they gas us, they’ll get me for sure.’

Brummie, his Lordship’s driver, didn’t have one either. ‘Don’t believe in ’em,’ he said, gruffly. ‘I’ll put a wet towel over my face, if it comes to it.’

Oh blimey, here was his Nibs. He was carrying something. No, someone: a small, sleeping child wearing striped pyjamas. Lord Ashford had his own gas mask and a child’s Mickey Mouse mask hanging from straps over his shoulder.

Ray felt suddenly like a maître d’ at one of those posh restaurants up West. He tried to assume the air of someone in control. He gave a little bow from the waist. ‘Good evening, Sir.’

‘You got the hang of the hunting horn then, Maguire? It can be the very devil to sound, so well done.’

Ray swallowed. ‘Thank you, Sir. Will, er … will her Ladyship be joining us? No? Very good, Sir. Do mind your head as you go through.’

His Lordship paused at the door. ‘Any news on Miss Barbour’s money?’

Ray’s stomach fell. He’d hoped his Lordship wouldn’t ask about that. The whole sorry business was making his head ache. Why had he been lumbered with investigating the matter?

‘No, Sir, afraid not.’

‘Not good for morale, Maguire, a thief among the staff.’

‘No, Sir.’

‘The last thing I want is to have to involve the police.’ He nodded at the list in Ray’s hands. ‘Is that the lot now, Maguire?’

‘Yes, Sir. I mean, no, Sir.’

There it was again: that unmistakeable flash of irritation on Lord Ashford’s face.

‘If anyone’s missing now, we’ll take it they’re not coming,’ his Nibs said. ‘Assume the worst, as though this were a real raid.’ He placed a protective hand over the crown of the child’s head and bent to go through the cellar door.

After one final glance down the empty corridor, Ray followed him, shutting the door firmly behind them.

The cold hit him immediately, along with a musty, earthy smell. There were a few lights in the ceiling, which cast shadows onto the stone walls. Ray braced himself. There were bound to be grumbles from the staff.

Rows of wooden benches had been set up in the cellar. Snowden employees were seated on one side, bank workers on the other.