‘I just wish I had a little something to take the edge away. Good God, even a cocktail would do. A gin rickey or a bee’s knees, one of those I used to drink with the girls back in New York. Or . . . I need Mr Simenon. I wouldn’t have to indulge. Just a little sugar so I can sleep.’ Vivienne paused. ‘But if I can’t have that, well . . .’ Her fingertips ran up Nathaniel’s thigh, closer and closer to his body – until, at the last moment, he got back to his feet.

‘Get your rest, Vivienne. I’m glad you’re still among us.’

Only as he disappeared through the door did she find the breath to utter, ‘Nathaniel, what’s wrong? What have I done?’ But Nathaniel had already gone.

Then Vivienne’s eye was caught by something glinting in the lamplight.

Quite by accident, Nathaniel had left his key.

*

Mr Simenon was up, as he always was, with the dawn. In the head concierge’s office, he folded the calendar from the twenty-first of December, the winter equinox, to the twenty-second. Routine made a man like Mr Simenon happy. He was the sort of man who wakes daily at sunrise, whether he has an alarm clock or not; the sort of man who has laid out his clothes – identical every day – the evening before; the sort of man whose morning ablutions happen like clockwork.

He was scanning over the hotel guest list, preparing himself for the possibilities of the day ahead – in spite of his love of order, Mr Simenon enjoyed the impromptu missions he was sent on by the Buckingham’s most high-profile guests; if a man could please lords and ladies and assorted gentry, he was a fine man indeed – when, without warning, the door opened behind him.

He turned on his heel to see Vivienne Edgerton.

She looked pale. Her cheeks were still washed out and her eyes, devoid of any make-up, seemed black and sad. But she was standing here too, and that meant she had rediscovered something of her old self.

‘You’re supposed to be recovering from your little ordeal. Miss Edgerton, what do you think you’re doing here?’

‘I need your help.’

Mr Simenon kneaded the bridge of his nose, with just an air of deliberate melodrama. ‘Vivienne, you need somebody’s help, that’s for certain. A doctor of medicine, no doubt. You do understand that Mr Charles has charged me – me – with unearthing the supply of your little indulgences. What am I supposed to do here, Vivienne? You might have died. You might have brought ruin on us all and—’