‘I want to see this Mr Jones. I want to see what he looks like. I want to see if I can waylay him and speak to him.’

‘Do you think he’s dangerous?’

‘What can he do? With Harry trying to see him, he must know he is under suspicion and he won’t make any rash moves.’

‘How did you get out?’

‘Mama is enduring some treatment to bleach her tan and Father is at his club. We’ll take the cab I’ve got waiting outside.’

It took quite a long time to reach Notting Hill. Rain had begun to fall and the roads were a morass of mud and horse droppings. Carters, bus drivers, tram drivers, cab drivers and the few motor chauffeurs had no protection against the rain. They sat in the open, wearing oilskin hats and capes, with the rain pouring off them. Noise rose up around Rose and Daisy. A motor bus honked and banged, encouraged by shouts of ‘Whip behind, guv’nor!’

The buses were of all colours: red, blue, yellow, white, green, purple, orange and chocolate. Like the old stagecoaches, they all had names, such as The Favourite, The Atlas, The Royal Blue, The Royal Oak and The Wellington.

Hawkers still hawked their wares, but they seemed angry about their goods, whereas their grandfathers had been pleased. Instead of the old melodious chants, they bawled and yelled.

As they arrived at Notting Hill, the rain stopped and a watery sunlight gilded the muddy pavements. Rose paid the cabbie and they both stood, irresolute.

‘We’ll sit in the tea room,’ said Daisy. ‘Look, it’s quite empty. We can get a table by the window and observe the haberdashery.’

They ordered tea and biscuits and tried to watch the shop but the sun was making steam rise from the pavement and the window was misted up. Rose kept rubbing a viewing circle with her handkerchief.

‘Are you watching that shop?’ asked the waitress.

Rose swung round. ‘No, I like to look at the people passing by.’

‘’Cos Mrs Jones over there wondered what you was up to.’

With a bob of her head, the waitress indicated a woman sitting in the far corner.

‘I shall go and put her mind at rest,’ said Rose. ‘Come, Daisy.’

They approached the haberdasher’s wife. Rose judged her to be in her late twenties. She was wearing a long grey coat unseasonably trimmed with fur. A large grey hat was perched on top of her piled-up blonde hair. Her eyes were small and looked at them warily.

‘I am Lady Rose Summer,’ said Rose. She quickly noticed her name meant nothing to Mrs Jones. ‘We are sorry we upset you. My companion, Miss Levine. May we join you? We do not know this area.’

‘Please,’ said Mrs Jones, looking flustered and delighted at the same time. She would tell her friends that an aristocratic and beautiful young lady had joined her for tea.

Rose signalled to the waitress to bring their tea things over. She smiled charmingly at Mrs Jones. ‘Have you lived in Notting Hill for long?’