The noise of gay chatter increased as Maynard stepped out of the lift and stepped through the doors. The Candlelight Club was suitably busy tonight. The Lebreton-Whites, in from Paris on their monthly sojourn, were being served champagne from a magnum bottle by one of the waiters, dressed head to toe in white. Mr Caponne, from Room 24 – who had made his riches in iron – was perusing a list of wines that the hotel sommeliers had spent years cultivating. Merivale Lloyd, whose librettos were performed on stages from New York to Berlin, had a table to himself in the corner closest to the harpist, until a lady dressed in a scarlet gown presumed upon him to take the neighbouring seat.

As Maynard crossed the club, his eyes took in every last detail. Soon he found himself at the marble bar that skirted the circumference of the room. As he pulled up a stool, the cocktail waiter glided over.

‘Your speciality, Mr Charles?’

‘Not tonight, Diego. Give me an Angel Face, there’s a good man.’ It was not his usual drink, but there were some moments when a dry Martini would not do. Tonight demanded something more decadent. Something more indulgent? Something sugary and sweet, to take the edge off what he was about to do.

He looked over his shoulder. Merivale Lloyd and his new companion had slid closer together.

When Diego returned to present the rich amber cocktail, Maynard asked, ‘The lady in red, speaking with Mr Lloyd. Who is she?’

‘One of the hotel dancers, sir.’

Maynard nodded. Diego did not mean dancer in the trad-itional sense. The lady entertaining Merivale Lloyd, and the others like her who flitted through the Candlelight Club tonight, were dancers in spirit only – private dancers, with whom a guest might decide to retire for the night. It was, Maynard Charles had often reflected, one of the more interesting – yet less salubrious – aspects of his role that these workers needed managing, just the same as the cleaners and valets, chambermaids and chefs who made up the rest of the Buckingham army. That these particular hotel dancers were not in the official hotel accounts did not mean he did not keep cards for each of them in his private index. They may not have drawn salaries from the Buckingham books, but they were every bit as important for the health of the hotel. A place like the Buckingham could not expect to exist without attracting some sort of parasites. And better to make sure they were of the correct class and comportment than outlaw them altogether. A lone man, even a man of Maynard Charles’s calibre, could not stand up against an unstoppable tide.

‘Send for one of the pages, won’t you?’ he said airily. ‘Have someone watch Mr Lloyd’s room this evening. I don’t recognise our lady friend. If she’s above board, then fine. But let’s find out first.’

‘As you wish, Mr Charles.’