‘They stayed in the Continental, but I’m quite sure you already know. Listen, Mr Moorcock, the clock above your head is ticking further and further towards ten. The longer I sit here enjoying this scintillating battle of wits with you, the less time I have to attend to my actual duties in this hotel.’

‘It is always amusing to see how you try and set the terms of our meetings, Mr Charles. But you and I know that I alone set these terms.’

Maynard Charles glowered. Of course, Moorcock was right. Mr Moorcock was always right. And yet . . . there were things he wanted to know too. Things he needed to know. ‘What word from the Palace, Mr Moorcock? The last time you came, you promised me—’

‘I don’t make promises, Maynard.’

‘The good King was to take afternoon tea here in July. He was to bring Mrs Simpson. When he didn’t keep his appointment, the society pages began to say he had, perhaps, moved on. That Mrs Simpson, perhaps, isn’t as enamoured by the Buckingham Hotel as the King is. You know how much we rely on the associ-ation of His Majesty, Mr Moorcock.’

Mr Moorcock nodded.

‘Well?’

‘Well, what?’

‘We might be in ruder health now, but the winds change so quickly in a hotel like this. The King and his entourage are due to spend New Year’s Eve with us here, in our hotel. The Masquerade Ball we are, even now, readying for is a celebration of the fact. It will be the event of the season. And yet . . .’ Maynard was struggling with what to say next. I’m twice your age, Mr Moorcock. How can it be that you make me so fearful? ‘We allied ourselves with His Majesty. Our reputations are entwined, one might say. I scarcely think we’d have made it through the Depression if the King hadn’t deigned to make us one of his regular haunts. It brought so many new guests. It restored our reputation. It’s what brought you here too, remember?’

Mr Moorcock remained silent, impassive – but Maynard Charles knew he had struck a blow. When the King had begun coming to the Buckingham, a wealth of new aristocratic patrons had followed.

Of course, it brought unsavoury types too – the type of men Maynard Charles would rather didn’t use his hotel. He was staring into the eyes of one of those men right now.

‘The King. Is he to . . . ? That is to say, that The Times has speculated that . . .’ Maynard Charles clenched his fist, found his courage. Why do I find it so hard to speak to this man, this stranger who comes to my hotel and makes his insidious demands? ‘Is he to abdicate, Mr Moorcock?’

For a time, Mr Moorcock said precisely nothing. Then, pointedly ignoring Maynard’s nervous request, he said, ‘Enough chatter, Mr Charles. Shall we dispense with the pleasantries and exchange gifts?’