Somebody was speaking. He did not know until he was already in full flow that it was his own words streaming out. ‘You’re one of them, Maynard. I don’t know why I didn’t see it before. You and Lord Edgerton, all those fascist pigs who come and fraternise in our hotel. You serve them up whatever they desire. You crawl around and you beg at their heels. You’re a pig yourself, Maynard. Good God, this hotel was a grand place before his lordship came. You yourself were a noble man. But now? Now the Edgertons are here, with the Astors and the Schechts and the Whites and the Mosleys. Stirring up hatred, jetting off to meet their Nazi cousins, petitioning Parliament to turn a blind eye, to make a dirty deal, to go along with whatever their Führer wants. Well, out there – there in the real world – they might think the Buckingham is high and mighty, but it’s not, is it? We might have queens and princesses here. Mr Baldwin and his ministers might come to entertain. There might be the stars of stage and screen. But we’re gone, Maynard. Our soul is gone. You sold it. You sold it to the same kind of bastards who’re making war in Spain. You sold it to the same kind of bastard who turned London streets to pitched battle. You sold it to those society fools in bed with Nazis. And you turned me into a part of it too. I danced with a Mitford for you, you dog. I let you sell a piece of me. Well, I won’t sell it any longer. You don’t own me, Maynard. The Buckingham doesn’t—’

‘Well then,’ interjected Maynard, maintaining the repressed calm in which he’d endured Raymond’s assault, ‘it seems your mind is made up.’ He stopped. His eyes had returned to the tele-phone, and it was only now that he realised it was not sitting correctly on its cradle. The call he had placed to Lord Edgerton’s residence had not ended. He lifted the receiver, put it to his ear – but all he could hear on the other end was silence. Had somebody heard? he wondered. Had they listened to all the foulness Raymond de Guise had spewed out, here in his office? His heart was beating a new kind of rhythm now. He had kept his anger in too long.

‘Get out, Raymond,’ he uttered. ‘Or should I say Ray?’

That single syllable felled Raymond de Guise. Something changed in his eyes. His hands curled into fists and his eyes darted into every corner of the room. How? he gasped, inwardly. How does he know?