A man in a pink frock coat with crimson vest and black top hat greeted them. “Good afternoon, ladies. I am one of the gatekeepers here. How may I be of assistance?” His voice was barely above a whisper, pitched to be heard below the buzz of business and the echoing footsteps on the marble floor. Along the far wall, men sat behind high counters with barred rails, issuing currency and helping patrons.

A gatekeeper? Did that mean the man was tasked with keeping out the riffraff, or was he a glorified messenger of some sort? Like a footman? His clothing smacked of livery from the last century, but his manner suggested butler.

“I’m here to access a personal vault.” Agatha sounded cowed, as if she thought she were somehow bothering the man, and Juliette wanted to put her arm around her friend.

“I see. Allow me to tender you into the care of one of our employees. He will gather your information and assist you in any way he can.”

They were led through the large currency issuing room and taken down a white hallway with a rich red carpet. Everywhere Juliette looked, opulence and finery spoke of power and the money behind that power. After many twists and turns, during which time she was thoroughly lost for direction, they entered another vast room with staircases leading up and down and doors marching like soldiers in formation along all the walls. The floor was a massive expanse of black marble with mosaic inlays. The gatekeeper tapped on one of the heavy walnut doors along the perimeter and turned the brass knob without waiting to be admitted.

“Mr. Nighly, this young lady wishes to access a private vault.” With a small bow, the pink-coated man gestured for them to enter and closed the door behind them with himself on the other side.

Silly to feel abandoned by someone they had met only moments before, but Juliette wanted to call after him. How were they to find their way back to Threadneedle Street?

“May I help you?” An austere man rose from behind his desk, looking over a pair of half-moon glasses. “You wish to apply for a security box? Do you have an account at this bank?”

Agatha offered the paperwork to him. “I do not have an account at this bank. However, my father had several.”

Mr. Nighly perused the papers quickly, then dropped his officious manner. “Miss Montgomery. Of course. I am so sorry for your loss. Word of your father’s passing was a blow to many here. He was a valued customer and friend.” He handed the papers back to her. “There should be no problem getting access to your father’s security vault. There is, however”—he paused—“the small matter of verification of your identity. Have you visited the bank before? Is there someone here who can vouch for you?”