‘In Chelsea,’ said Harry. Daisy’s face fell.

‘What are you doing here?’ demanded Rose.

‘I was summoned by Mr Kerridge,’ said Harry, looking at Rose and thinking that a working life did not suit her. The hem of her coat was soaking from melted snow, her face was thinner and her eyes tired.

‘Please sit down,’ ordered Kerridge. ‘Tea?’

‘Oh, I would like tea,’ said Rose, ‘and perhaps some biscuits. We are very hungry.’

Kerridge picked up the phone and ordered tea, biscuits and cakes.

‘Now, Lady Rose,’ he said. ‘Tell me what you have found out.

‘Miss Levine and I have been working as typists at Drevey’s Bank.’

‘Why were you working as a typewriter?’ asked Kerridge, who did not approve of new-fangled words like ‘typist’.

‘Because I wished to earn my living.’

‘But you are taking employment away from some woman who really needs it,’ said Kerridge.

‘On the contrary. Captain Cathcart here arranged the work and it is make-work. Neither Miss Levine nor I are doing anything constructive. But if we could move on from your radical views, sir . . .’

‘Go on.’

‘For a short time I was working for a Mr Beveridge as his secretary. While I was in his office, one of the clerks came in and said something about large sums of money being deposited in Freddy Pomfret’s account.

‘Today, because of the snow, the bank was quiet, few having turned up to work. I went upstairs and searched until I found a statement of his account. During the last few months, three large sums of money were paid into that account. Each for ten thousand pounds.’

‘Who gave him the money?’

‘Lord Alfred Curtis, Mrs Angela Stockton, and Mrs Jerry Trumpington. I think,’ said Rose triumphantly, ‘that they were being blackmailed.’

‘People lose a lot of money at cards,’ Harry pointed out.

‘Not for the same amount of money.’

‘Lady Rose has a good point there,’ said Kerridge, and Rose flashed Harry a triumphant look. ‘His flat had been turned over, papers thrown everywhere, but his jewellery was left and fifty pounds in a desk drawer. So what do you know of those three?’

‘I met Mrs Jerry last year, Mr Kerridge,’ said Rose, ‘and so did you. Large, gross sort of woman.’

‘I remember.’

‘I do not know Mrs Stockton or Lord Alfred.’

‘I do,’ said Harry. ‘Mrs Stockton is a widow. She married an American millionaire who died soon after they were wed. Lord Alfred Curtis is a willowy young man. One of the lilies of the field.’

‘The whole lot of them are lilies of the field,’ grumbled Kerridge. ‘A hard day’s work would kill ’em.’

‘Now, now, Mr Kerridge. You have before you three representatives of the working class and we are very much alive.’

‘Sorry. I’ll follow this up, Lady Rose. We shall ask all three why they paid him that particular sum of money.’