“Wormwood Scrubs is a men’s prison. But they’d let you off, being who you are and knowing you were just trying to help your brother.”

I nodded. “I sincerely hope so. Wish me luck, then,” I said. “I’ll meet you back here in an hour.”

I made it up the fire escape staircase with no problem, left my mack rolled up in a corner, put on my maid’s cap, and came out onto the third floor. Then, of course, it occurred to me that I had no way to get into the room. I clearly hadn’t thought this thing through properly. I wandered down the hall, trying the door handles, until a voice behind me made me jump out of my skin.

“Hey, you, what are you doing?”

I turned around to see a fresh-faced Irish girl in a maid’s uniform quite unlike my own. I decided to change my story rather rapidly.

“My mistress was staying here last night and her diamond earring must have fallen off while she was asleep. She doesn’t usually go to bed with earrings on, but she got in so late. So she’s asked me to retrieve it. But nobody answers the door so the master must have also left by now.”

“What room was it?”

“Three seventeen.”

She looked at me queerly. “Three seventeen was that French gentleman who was murdered,” she said.

“Murdered? Here?”

“Don’t you ever read the papers? Not here. In some duke’s bathtub. Anyway, the police came and gave his room a good going-over.”

“Did they find anything?”

“How would I know? They’d not have told me, would they?”

“So did you have to pack up all his things?”

“Not yet. They’re still in there, as far as I know, and the police have given orders that no one is to go in.”

“How terrible that he got killed. Was he a nice man?”

“Quite the opposite. Rude and ungrateful, from what I saw. He snapped his fingers and shouted at me because I’d moved the papers on his desk.”

“What kind of papers?”

“Nothing special. Just some magazines he’d been reading. You’d have thought I’d been snooping.” She brushed down her uniform. “Anyway, I can’t stand here chatting. I have to get back to work.”

“And I have to find that earring or risk getting my head bitten off. My memory’s hopeless. Could it have been 217? Any idea where Lord and Lady . . .” I let the rest of the sentence hang, hoping she’d take the bait. She did.

“Lady Furness? That was 313.”

“Oh, thank heavens. I’d never have heard the last of it if I returned home without her earring. Do you think you could let me in?”

“I suppose so, but I really ought to—”