‘Very well. But Lady Rose, you did a mad and foolish thing. If you had any suspicions that the killer was Mrs Stockton, then you should have come to me. Never do anything like that again. Go back to your society life. Get married. Have children. That’s what a woman is supposed to do.’

‘You are just an old-fashioned fuddy-duddy, Mr Kerridge,’ said Rose. ‘Women should be independent and have the vote.’

‘Those trouble-making suffragettes should all be locked up. I want you all at Scotland Yard first thing in the morning.’

Rose, Harry, Becket and Daisy emerged from Angela’s house. The day had turned dark and they were nearly blinded by the magnesium flashes of the press on the doorstep going off in their faces.

‘This is bad,’ said Rose as they drove off. ‘My parents are never going to forgive me. Why did you not tell Kerridge the truth about why Lord Alfred was being blackmailed?’

Harry shrugged. ‘He did not murder anyone. It would extend the inquiry and I am heartily tired of the whole thing.’

The Roast Beef Murders hit the papers the following morning. Photographs of Rose, looking beautiful, stared out wide-eyed from every newspaper. She was hailed as a heroine, as the New Woman of this new century.

Rose’s parents recovered from their initial fury to bask in the reflected glory of their daughter’s bravery. Invitations poured into the earl’s town house, every society hostess wanting to brag that she had managed to get the latest celebrity to attend her ball or dinner.

Rose became tired of relating the edited version she had told Kerridge over and over again.

Tristram seemed to be always at her side, saying loudly that he should have been there to protect her.

Rose came to the conclusion that nothing could make her want to marry such a boring man as Tristram. She decided she had better get rid of him. Everyone seemed to assume that an engagement was in the offing.

He was driving her in the park one day a few weeks later. Rose was in low spirits. Harry had not called or sent any message.

‘I am thinking of joining the suffragette movement,’ she said, unfurling her lace parasol to shield her face from the rays of the sun.

‘Eh, what? You’re joking, of course.’

‘Not in the slightest. If I marry, I would expect my husband to attend rallies with me.’

Tristram was so shocked and alarmed that he blurted out, ‘Any husband worth his salt would give you a good beating first.’

‘Take me home now,’ ordered Rose.

The former Miss Jubbles, now the new Mrs Jones, left church that day on the arm of the baker. She had experienced savage pangs of jealousy when she read about the exploits of what she considered her ‘old rival’ in the newspapers. But now she felt simply proud to be a married lady.