The Clarendon Hotel, one of the most fashionable in the capital, was a former town house in Bedford Place. Because of his association with it, Paul Skillen approached the building with mixed feelings. During the days when he’d been a frequent gambler, he had once lost hundreds of pounds in a card game at the hotel. Paying off the debt had been a very painful exercise. The thought of it made him shudder. By way of consolation, an image of Hannah Granville came into his mind. She had brought stability into his life. She’d also rescued him from an existence that revolved around drink, debauchery and nights at the gaming table. Paul was a new man now.

When he entered the lobby, he was reminded of a more pleasant memory of the Clarendon. Recognising him at once, the manager surged forward to shake him vigorously by the hand. He beamed at Paul.

‘Welcome back, Mr Skillen. You’ve neglected us for too long.’

‘It’s good to see you again, Mr Treen. Your hotel looks as splendid as ever.’

‘We strive to maintain its sparkle. Most of our guests revel in our hospitality but, very occasionally, there are those who abuse it.’

Paul knew what he meant. During an earlier visit, there had been a drunken fight in the lobby between two men who ignored all pleas to stop. In an effort to calm them down, Treen had shouted himself hoarse. It was only when Paul had stepped into the hotel that the unseemly brawl was stopped. Summing up the situation instantly, Paul had stepped in, used brute force to separate the combatants, then taken each of them by the scruff of the neck before throwing them out into the street. He’d earned a round of applause from relieved onlookers as well as the undying thanks of the manager. Treen was a short, slight, pale-faced man in his fifties whose hands fluttered expressively like a pair of giant butterflies.

‘To what do we owe the pleasure of this visit?’ he asked.

‘I need to ask a favour of you, Mr Treen.’

‘It’s granted before it’s even put into words.’

‘It concerns a recent guest of yours – Sir Roger Mellanby.’ The manager’s face fell. ‘A sad case, I know. You have my sympathy.’

‘My sympathy goes to his family. It will come as a dreadful shock to them.’

‘I wonder if I might have access to his room?’

‘Why? What interest can it hold for you?’

‘I’m curious, that’s all,’ said Paul, not wishing to divulge the fact that he’d actually been present when Mellanby was shot. ‘I will only need a minute.’

‘The room is completely empty, Mr Skillen. Some Bow Street Runners searched it earlier and took his luggage away with them.’

‘Did you watch them while they did so?’