Mrs Channock shifted as the sunlight caught the silver of her bracelet. ‘Being from the capital, what, do you suppose, the King would say?’

‘We are not officially at war with the southern tribes.’

‘Officially.’

‘But it would be a scandal worthy of any drawing room discussion.’

‘Would it.’ She stared at me levelly. ‘My great-grandfather fought and died in an unnamed part of the world. My family had nothing to bury. My father also took up arms against the enemies of the crown but, judging by the stories he told me when I was a girl, his regiment became somewhat lost. My whole family’s contribution to the greatness of Reikova was battling insects the size of birds and naming rivers after the King’s children.

‘When have our wars ever been “official”?’

I had no answer for her, of course. Only gossip. ‘Some in the capital say the King’s actions are harder to predict of late. Unstable, is a word used on occasion.’

‘Perhaps,’ Mrs Channock said slowly, ‘His Majesty is at risk of being under the influence of foreign powers?’

‘Powers. I’m afraid you’ve lost me, Mrs Channock.’

‘Evidently.’

In fact, I was becoming more confused and disoriented with each passing moment of the conversation. I felt the need to return to matters more closely at hand.

‘The serving boy we spoke of earlier,’ I said. ‘He was sent north because of… romantic entanglements with the floppy-haired girl, as you called her.’

‘That’s right,’ she said.

‘It is strange, is it not, that Mr and Mrs Eder approve so strongly of the match between the girl and the southern tribesman? Strongly enough, perhaps, to manufacture a charge of theft?’

‘I’ve witnessed stranger occurrences, Inspector,’ she said.

I raised my teacup in salute to that. But I also determined to spend the rest of the afternoon discussing topics such as draperies, ballads of the modern variety, and the definition of a ‘solarium’.

Was there a tap at the door, or was it the sound of receding footsteps that woke him? Christophor was cautious in opening his own bedroom door so early in the evening. Bleary-eyed, but his grip on his pistol was firm enough. He expected Mrs Lehner, or the serving girl, or a tray left by one of them. A heavy southern breakfast.

Instead it was a parcel, wrapped in brown paper with the seal – the King’s seal – unbroken.

He looked uselessly up and down the corridor. Noticed, for the first time, how it listed slightly to the left and considered briefly the value of knocking on other guests’ doors to ask if they had seen or heard anything. Had they seen a clandestine deliverer of parcels? Instead, Christophor locked the door behind him and put the parcel on the desk.

He stared at the seal.

This had all begun with the very same: the crest of Reikova. A symbol that should swell a heart with pride and strengthen even the weakest of resolves. His hands shook as he broke the red wax.