In white tie and tails Schmidt looked like a portly penguin. He wandered to the mirror and began preening, straightening his tie and adjusting the ribbon that stretched diagonally across his chest. The ribbon was purple. I’d been with him when he bought it. I had talked him out of buying a medal to hang on it.

I decked myself out in my jewels, including the gold locket and not including the enamelled rose. The locket had never looked tackier. Watching, Schmidt opened his mouth and then decided not to comment. He’s tried several times to buy jewellery for me, and in that area, as in anything to do with art, he has superb taste. He also has more money than he knows what to do with. So why hadn’t I accepted his gifts? Not because I suspected his motives. Schmidt loves me like a daughter and a friend. I suppose it was because I didn’t want our friendship to be contaminated by expensive and one-sided presents.

I can be a damn fool at times.

At the top of the stairs Schmidt offered me his arm and we strutted down them with slow dignity. I knew he was seeing us, not as a cute little fat man and a tall gangly female, but as King Rudolf and Princess Flavia descending to the ballroom between rows of curtsying courtiers. In a sudden burst of affection I squeezed his arm. He squeezed back but he didn’t look at me. He was smiling with regal condescension and matching his steps to the strains of the royal anthem of Ruritania.

I can’t say that intimate dinner party was particularly enjoyable. Whitbread and Schroeder weren’t present; I assumed they were supervising the final arrangements for the reception. Schmidt devoted himself to Mary, whose slim arms and delicate collarbones were exposed by a low-cut, blue chiffon frock that might as well have been printed with dollar signs. She was wearing a parure of sapphires and diamonds – earrings, necklace, and bracelet. The heavy bracelet weighted her narrow wrist.

For once John said very little. He seemed preoccupied; once or twice Mary had to repeat a comment or question before he responded.

Finally Larry looked at his watch. ‘We’d better go in. The guest will be arriving soon.’

The grand salon occupied one entire side of the house. Words fail me when I attempt to describe it. (They fail me because I still don’t know much about Islamic architecture.) The outside wall, the one facing the gardens, was a glorious hodgepodge of stained-glass panels and intricately carved wooden screens. The arches and pillars framing the windows were covered with antique tiles in shades of blue-green and coral.