After a while, she was able to fight the tears down. Spent, she picked herself up, sat on the end of the bed, and dried her red, raw cheeks. Feeling sorry for herself would get her nowhere. She was tougher than that.

But the image of her dear Raymond de Guise, lying bloodied and broken on the floor, would not leave her alone.

Moments later, Nancy was back on her feet. This, she supposed, was what Mrs Moffatt was talking about – how she couldn’t just meekly sit by, how she couldn’t keep herself to herself, how she couldn’t stop caring.

She had to know if he was all right.

If she took the staff entrance, Mr Simenon need never know. Despite Mrs Moffatt’s words, she had to see for herself. She had to do something. So, in her black felt coat and embroidered cap, she marched straight back to the service lift and down to the ground floor.

She got to the staff exit without being seen. Then she was out, back into the chill darkness of Michaelmas Mews.

As she reached the end of the mews and slipped out into Berkeley Square, she saw the headlamps of an approaching cab. Nancy stopped dead. The cab had screeched to a stop directly in front of the Buckingham Hotel and, as its doors opened, she saw Louis Kildare and Hélène Marchmont scrambling out. It was Louis who heaved the limp form of Raymond out of the back seat. He was bloody and bedraggled and, as Louis tried to hoist him up, he plummeted to the first of the hotel’s marble steps.

‘Go!’ Louis said urgently. ‘Hélène, get help!’

Hélène Marchmont disappeared through the revolving bronze doors. When she returned, dragging Mr Simenon with her, the concierge’s face was a rictus of pure horror.

‘What in the Lord’s name happened to him?’

‘Help me with him, Albert. We’ll explain later . . .’

‘And get blood on this suit?’ Mr Simenon recoiled. ‘Wait here. I’ll fetch . . .’

Mr Simenon made as if to retreat through the revolving door, but Hélène grappled with his arm. ‘Help him, you fool.’

‘Get him to the staff entrance,’ Mr Simenon hissed. ‘If the guests are to see—’

‘No!’ Hélène cried. ‘He needs—’

Mr Simenon seemed animated, hopping from foot to foot with irritation. ‘If you people won’t listen, I’ll simply fetch Mr Charles. I’m waking Mr Charles this instant!’

As Mr Simenon vanished back through the doors, Hélène clearly decided enough was enough. Dropping down, she inveigled herself under one of Raymond’s shoulders. Raymond dangled between Hélène and Louis heavily as they heaved him up the marble stairs – and the last thing Nancy saw, as the cab took off again with a screech of tyres and a spluttering of exhaust, was Raymond lolling between them as they disappeared through the revolving door.