The door to Maynard Charles’s office opened and Nancy ner-vously walked through. She had often seen the hotel director from afar. He was a corpulent fellow, the sort of indulgent man who might quickly have perished if he’d lived the same life as her father, but here in the Buckingham his rounded tummy and second chin gave him the air of a leader. In the office he was standing behind his desk, with his hands folded behind his back and his belly straining at his simple black waistcoat. By his eyes, Nancy took him for a wearied man.

‘Thank you for waiting, Miss Nettleton. If you’d like to take a seat, Mr Simenon here will provide us with a pot of tea.’ The head concierge, who had been lurking solemnly in the corner, turned on his heel to do as Mr Charles instructed. ‘Bring the girl some sugar too, Mr Simenon. She has had quite an experience.’

There seemed a sickly pallor around Mr Simenon too. He looked over his shoulder as he left, as if to consider Nancy more closely, and then closed the door.

Mr Charles came to sit beside her. She should not have been anxious to be seated beside the hotel director – she was not some foolish little girl! – but the shock of the morning was indeed working its way out of her system. She shivered.

‘You’re not in trouble, my dear. I asked you to come here because I am very grateful for your service. What you did today may have been the difference between life and death for Miss Edgerton, and it does not go unnoticed.’

Nancy wanted to say that she hadn’t done very much. It was by sheer accident that she’d found her. The rest – sitting with her until the doctor came, wetting her lips with water from the hem of her dress, reaching into her mouth to stop her tongue from rolling back and choking her – had been instinct.

‘Is she going to be all right, Mr Charles?’

‘The doctors are confident of it. Vivienne had overindulged in the ballroom last night. She has been a very foolish girl, but she will live. Whether or not she may live with the humiliation is, of course, a very different matter. And that, in a roundabout way, is why I asked Mrs Moffatt to bring you here, Nancy.’

At this moment Mr Simenon reappeared and, clearly finding it beneath him to act as a waiter, proceeded to pour tea begrudgingly for Nancy and Mr Charles. Then he resumed his place in the corner.

‘Nancy, the Buckingham is in your debt. We will be in your debt further if you might do us another little service. I promise it won’t take any of your time.’

Haltingly, Nancy asked, ‘What is it, Mr Charles?’