When, at last, the sun was shining its pale winter light across the Buckingham Hotel, he dressed in his smartest day suit and brogues, turning himself into the gentleman he most certainly was not. As he studied himself in the mirror, he wondered if his mother, his aunts and Artie were keeping to the old traditions today: turkey at noon, and then drinking in the social club through the afternoon, all crowned off with an argument of epic proportions. There was, he admitted, a part of him that wished he was there. If he looked at himself askance, he saw Ray Cohen; if he looked at himself face on, he was Raymond de Guise. Perhaps, after what he and Artie had done, they’d even expected him to be there – back where he belonged. He’d sent word, just as Maynard Charles had asked. He’d delivered the banknotes, made a promise that there was more to come – that all Artie had to do was get on with the business of being alive, and that everything would be all right. He hoped it had bought them a good Christmas – good enough to keep Artie out of trouble, at any rate. But a little piece of him still pined for the snow falling over the rooftops of Whitechapel, the dirty footprints snaking up and down the Commercial Road.

Raymond shook off the feeling and strode out of his quarters and into the golden lift. Nancy might have been working since long before dawn, but she was not the only one who had to serve the Buckingham this Christmas Day. The Grand Ballroom would be closed until evening, when the Archie Adams Band was due to play its Yuletide extravaganza, but until then Raymond had other duties to perform.

Mid-morning, and the Queen Mary was a hive of activity. The champagne breakfast was served but, everywhere, the diners remained – and here they would stay until the clocks tolled noon and Christmas luncheon was served. Raymond hovered in the doorway, watching the diners. In the heart of the room was the ceremonial serving station where the first of the Christmas turkeys would be carved by Maynard Charles. Many of the diners here were day guests, descending on the Buckingham for lunches and dinners – the whole of the Brazilian embassy had turned out at the management’s invitation to celebrate the season – but Raymond saw staying guests among them too: Mr Perez, the star of the Parisian stage; Belikov and Blokin, the Russian playwrights who, it was rumoured, were personal friends of the old king.

Maynard Charles bowed between the tables and, as Raymond sashayed through, they met alongside the sweeping mahogany bar.

‘Time to employ that characteristic charm of yours, Mr de Guise. Fraternise, my good man.’