‘No. We knew that he had left Elba, but not where he had gone. The day that Mr. Gilman asked for the single lamb, he was passing on that message to the circle of spies in Brussels.’

‘That seems an awful lot of work, when you could just meet in private to discuss things.’

Vincent nodded. ‘So we do. However . . .’

‘However, you could not meet when I was present.’

‘Just so. Forgive me, Muse, for being so cross with you.’

Jane raised his hand and kissed the back of his fingers. ‘Now that I know the reason, you are forgiven. But I still do not comprehend the purpose of the lambs.’

‘No one would take note of Mr. Gilman’s meetings with a glamourist, so we were able to meet with relative ease. Mr. Gilman’s chief benefit is that he is known to be a society man, absolutely disinterested in politics. If he were seen meeting privately with any of the political characters he would be suspect at once. A glamural in his drawing room can serve as a map which others may consult while at his home for parties. In much the same way, my benefit is that I am known to be a glamourist. It affords me entry into homes that would mistrust another Briton.’

Jane remembered now the portrait of Napoleon over Mme Maçon’s fireplace. ‘Such as discussing folk glamours with Mme Maçon.’

‘Exactly. That ostensible interest and a few small odd jobs took me to homes that our fellow countrymen do not have access to.’ He pointed at the Scottish Blackface section, which had a list of ewes and rams after it. ‘This is my most promising lead, given accidentally by you when you mentioned the tricolour cockade.’

‘Lieutenant Segal.’ That, coupled with the memory of the ribbon shop – which seemed so long ago now – came together in sudden understanding. She had been so used to the tricolours representing France during the long years that Napoleon reigned that she had not recognised the cockades as unusual, but with the Bourbons in power, the lieutenant should have been wearing a white cockade. Jane hastily told Vincent about the ribbon store, leaving out only the moment when the woman had struck her.

When she had finished, Vincent rubbed his jaw, a muscle tightening in the corner. ‘Are you certain you will not take ship? I would rest easier if you would.’

She did not dignify that with a response, fixing her attention on the paper instead. ‘Should we visit Mme Meynard? I owe her a call, and the officers frequent her house.’

‘Not yet. Let us see how the week plays out. We may yet be taking ship.’

‘You have more breeds of lamb. Who are your other suspects?’