‘All very Byzantine. Yes, I don’t see why not. We are friends. Ah, I hear your parents returning. I shall ask your father’s permission.’

Lady Polly was in a high good humour. Ever since Rose’s disgrace, she had been diligently making calls, reminding society how Cathcart had snubbed her poor Rose, how he had never been at her side; how, having sunk to trade, the captain spent all his time working like a common labourer. Her last call had shown her that the gossip had taken. ‘Poor Lady Rose,’ fickle society was now saying. ‘Of course she could not go on.’

The earl, who had just returned from his club, was told by Brum, ‘Sir Peter Petrey wishes to speak to you, my lord.’

‘Does he now!’ Lady Polly and her husband exchanged glances.

When they entered the drawing-room, Peter rose to meet them. ‘My lord, my lady, I will get directly to the point of my call. I wish to marry your daughter.’

‘You have my permission,’ sighed the earl. ‘I’ll send Rose to you, but don’t get your hopes up.’

‘Lady Rose has already intimated that she would be pleased to accept my suit.’

‘Splendid! Splendid!’ said the earl. ‘I’ll leave you to it.’

Harry was so furious when he read the announcement that Becket did not dare tell him it had been his idea.

Instead Becket said cautiously, ‘I fear, sir, that Lady Rose may have been anxious to set up her own household and found in Sir Peter someone amiable who would let her have her own way.’

‘Oh, to hell with her,’ raged Harry. ‘I’m well out of it. I’m going to see Kerridge.’

At Scotland Yard, Kerridge looked sympathetically at Harry. ‘It’s your own fault,’ he said. ‘You did neglect her.’

Harry shrugged. ‘I may as well tell you now. It was an arrangement between us to stop her being sent out to India.’

‘That’s a pity. I always thought the pair of you were eminently suitable. Still, that’s an end to her detecting. She won’t be getting into any more trouble now.’

In the following weeks Rose began to relax and feel she had made a wise decision. Peter was always in attendance and was a free and easy companion. But there was still some black little piece of sorrow inside her. She told herself it was because she missed the excitement of being with Harry and Becket and solving cases.

One morning, she remembered guiltily that it had been some days since she had last visited Miss Friendly. She went up to the attic. She stopped outside the door. Miss Friendly was singing in a high reedy voice:

Under a spreading chestnut-tree
The village smithy stands;
The smith, a mighty man is he,
With large and sinewy hands;
And the muscles of his brawny arms
Are strong as iron bands.

Rose pushed open the door and went in. ‘I heard you singing. I assume that means you are still happy with us, Miss Friendly?’