The only suite of rooms free at the St Nicholas was the bridal suite, on the second floor. Collis liked the irony of that, and he took it, although it cost more than they could really afford. ‘Isn’t that fitting, Theo?’ he asked as they were shown upstairs. ‘Here we are, on the brink of a divorce, and we’re sharing the bridal apartment!’

Theo gave him a quick grimace and said nothing.

The bellman opened the doors of the suite for them and let them in. The suite was justly famous. Putnam’s Monthly had called it ‘scandalously splendid’ and reported that ‘timid brides are said to shrink aghast at its marvels.’

There was a massive rosewood bed, covered with white lace and satin, heaped with white satin cushions, and topped by a white satin canopy. Even the walls of the suite were covered in white satin and the furniture was carved and gilded in the most extravagant French style. Four crystal chandeliers were suspended from the ceiling, and their light gleamed on the white satin drapes.

The bellman said expressionlessly, ‘I hope you’ll be very happy together.’ Collis tipped him generously and grinned.

‘I suppose we’ll have to sleep in the same bed,’ grumbled Theodore.

Collis sat on the end of the white satin coverlet and unlaced his boots. ‘Well, you know what they say.’ He smiled. ‘Necessity makes strange bedfellows.’

‘Are you going to ring for some drinks, or shall I?’ Theodore asked. ‘I’m thirsty enough to drink the East River.’

‘Champagne?’

‘Why not? If we’re going to be divorced, we might as well celebrate.’

Collis went over to the annunciator, and pressed the button that would send a metal disc marked ‘Room Service — Bridal Suite’ down to the first-floor office. ‘I’m surprised they didn’t put any flowers in our room,’ he remarked. ‘A blissful couple like us.’

There was a knock at the door. ‘That was quick,’ Collis said to Theo. ‘I must have gotten used to the slow pace of life in Sacramento.’ He walked across the silvery-grey carpet to answer it.

It wasn’t room service, though. It was a messenger boy from the hotel’s telegraph service. He saluted, and said he was sorry the message hadn’t been waiting for Mr Edmonds when he arrived, but the Rebels had temporarily interfered with the telegraph lines from Washington, and they had only now been repaired.

Collis took the telegraph, saluted the boy in return, and tipped him two bits. Then he walked slowly back across the room, tearing open the envelope with his thumb.

The message was from Colonel Merritt ‘Bones’ Bonham, who had opened a letter addressed to Collis by mistake, and was sending it on; but who thought that the wartime postal system was erratic enough to warrant a telegram of confirmation, too. After all this wordy preamble, the telegram simply read: ‘Your wife is dead.’

Theodore frowned. ‘Collis?’ he asked. ‘Collis — what is it?’