As Nancy watched, a taxicab wheeled around, stopped in front of the hotel and deposited a gentleman with his entourage onto the steps. Moments later, the hotel disgorged concierges and pages to ferry the gentleman’s cases inside, while a short, round man that Nancy took for the hotel director came out to welcome the guest with a slight, yet noticeable, bow.

She had been staring too long. It was already creeping towards midday. She was due to meet with Mrs Moffatt, the head of housekeeping, at twelve on the dot. Punctuality mattered.

She steadied herself and set off across the square. This was what she had come here for. Why, then, did she feel such a sudden plunging sensation as she approached the doors?

Pull yourself together, Nancy Nettleton. You’re made of sterner stuff than this!

She had not yet reached the bottom of the steps when the doorman barked out in an accent that seemed so unfamiliar, ‘Can I help you, miss?’

She stopped dead, aware of how insignificant she seemed. The suitcase she was carrying was battered and worn around the edges. It had belonged to her grandfather, who’d bought it at auction when one of his neighbouring villagers died. Even her overcoat, which she’d thought so splendid, seemed, suddenly, to have sprouted holes, the areas where it had been stitched up standing out starkly. Why had she used mismatched thread?

‘I’m to . . . start work,’ she began. What’s got into you, Nancy? You’ve never stuttered before! ‘Here, I have my letter . . .’

The doorman’s face darkened, so that she thought he was about to let loose a foul tirade – but then he marched down the steps to meet her and whispered, ‘You’ll have to find the staff entrance, down on Michaelmas Mews. Follow it round, you’ll find it easily enough. Want to make a good first impression, don’t you? Then don’t let Mr Simenon or Mr Charles see you coming through the front doors – least of all, not dressed like that. Lord, they’re running around in there like the world’s about to end. And all because of some German dignitaries they’ve got coming in. You’d think the King himself was here for afternoon tea – but no, he’s off with that Mrs Simpson of his. Time was he crossed this threshold almost every month. But now . . .’

Nancy stared at him, dumbstruck.

‘Well, off with you, then! And make sure you look ’em in the eye when you meet ’em. First impressions count.’

As Nancy took off towards the mews entrance, she glanced again at her wristwatch. Two minutes to midday and counting.

*