‘He’s gone away,’ she said, opening one eye to look at me. ‘Left a note.’ She picked something up from the bench beside her. ‘Listen to this. “Gone to Gib. Taken the boat. Back soon.” Why would he go off to Gibraltar just like that? We usually go together.’

My hands were clammy in the warm air. Could he have gone to check up on my story?

‘I don’t know,’ I said.

‘Did something happen, last night? He was odd after dinner.’

‘Isn’t that his business?’ I bit back the words as soon as I said them, too late. Lady Bailey’s face had hardened.

‘Do not presume to tell me what is and isn’t my business.’

‘Of course,’ I murmured. ‘I am sorry, madame. If you’ll excuse me.’

With every step towards the house my heart began to beat faster. She was more alert than I would like, her eyes had none of their usual torpor. I couldn’t help that. Surreptitiously, I made a circuit of the house. Bouzid was in the study; I saw him through the window, frowning over something on Langham’s desk. I let myself in through the lounge, and crept into the hallway. It was now or never.

Up the stairs, two at a time, thankful for the carpeted runner that dampened my steps. Lady Bailey’s door was open, as always. I slipped inside and shut it behind me, just in case Bouzid should pass. I could barely breathe in the perfumed air, especially with the tight brassiere squeezing my chest, but I forced myself to look about carefully. The wardrobe was a mess, silk and lace and linen garments sagging out of it. I checked the shelves in there, searching through bundles of stockings and garters and suspender belts. I tried the dresser next, listening for any sound outside.

I found what I needed at the back of the bottom drawer, shoved into a corner. A whole pile of padded white napkins, a jumble of safety pins, a garter to keep everything in place. I had to stifle a noise of relief as I scooped them up and stuffed them into my jacket.

I was about to push the drawer shut when I saw it: something made of smooth cardboard, stamped with red, hidden beneath the napkins. Whatever it was, I was almost certain it didn’t belong in a lady’s dresser. I couldn’t help myself. With one rapid glance over my shoulder, I pulled it out.

It was a file, covered in official-looking stamps. They were Italian, of which I didn’t speak much, but enough to recognize the word segretissimo.