Christmas night, and at last all was quiet in the Buckingham Hotel. The ballroom lay still and serene. The Queen Mary had served its last meal. The Candlelight Club was closed to all but the most privileged guests – and Maynard Charles had finally handed over the keys to the bronze revolving doors to his night manager for the evening. Now he stepped out of the golden lift, walked his familiar circuit to his own quarters – just in case he was being observed – and, doubling back, arrived at the doors of the Park Suite.

At the little dining table in front of the fire, Mrs Moffatt and Aubrey Higgins looked around as Maynard entered. Aubrey raised his glass of cognac and gave Maynard the most sympathetic smile. Christmas Day was hard toil; Maynard looked as if he needed yet another stiff drink.

Maynard took off his evening jacket and draped it over the back of a chair. By the time he reached the table, Mrs Moffatt was on her feet and tidying her plate away. Maynard touched her tenderly on the arm. ‘I’m grateful, Emmeline,’ he said. ‘You’ve been such a good friend to us, over the years. Thank you for being here for Aubrey when I cannot. Christmas Day would be the worse without you.’

‘Nonsense,’ Mrs Moffatt declared, collecting her own coat from the stand in the corner. ‘Christmas is for family and friends. I consider you both. That goes for you as well, Mr Higgins. Besides, I’m too old for whatever shenanigans they’ll have been up to in housekeeping.’ At the table, Aubrey gave her a salute. ‘He’s a monster at rummy,’ Mrs Moffatt whispered. ‘He had me gambling for matchsticks. I lost my fortune.’

‘Yes,’ said Maynard, ‘he’s always been a hustler,’ and he lifted the lid from the silver platter on the room service trolley. There was dinner enough here for him. ‘Emmeline,’ he said, ‘from the bottom of my heart – thank you.’

Mrs Moffatt’s face turned an unlikely shade of crimson. ‘That’s the last I’ll hear of it,’ she said. ‘Happy Christmas, gentlemen.’

After she was gone, Maynard poured them both a glass of cognac.

‘To one more year,’ Aubrey began, raising his glass for a toast.

Maynard said, ‘It isn’t over yet.’

‘There’s something bothering you,’ said Aubrey. ‘No, don’t deny it. I’ve known you too long, Maynard. I can see it on your face. You get a single crinkle between your eyes. You’re lost in thought. Has –’ he hesitated before going on – ‘something happened, my dear Maynard? Was Christmas Day a catastrophe?’