‘I spoke with the policemen, as I said. The inspector from Scotland Yard is a friend of my father’s, and he told me –’

Pickford gives her a weary look. ‘We have men in the magistrates’ courts, writing our trial reports whenever they catch one of them. They will have all the information.’

She says nothing.

The greying moustache twitches a fraction. ‘Go home, Miss Littlemore. Go and enjoy your evening. I’ll print your piece.’

He doesn’t have to print anything she writes, she reminds herself, as she scrubs at the teacups and saucers that have piled up next to the sink in the dank washroom along the corridor. The women’s section is a new feature in the Gazette. Not even a whole page. It only appears twice a week, and never with her name. She tips the cigarette ends into a wastepaper basket.

She can write. She will write. Once Mr Pickford puts his shabby chauvinism aside and lets her. She was the editor of her school newspaper. She submitted several articles to suffragette journals – one of which was printed. She rinses a cup and leaves it to drain with the others, shaking water from her fingers. There is no tea towel.

At her desk, she folds the edited pages into her handbag, shrugs on her coat and fixes her hat.

Only when she is through the front door and on the pavement does she reach into her coat pocket to extract the ring that is carefully secreted in a folded handkerchief. A large lozenge of a diamond surrounded by twelve smaller ones. She slips the ring onto her left hand. It still feels heavy and new, but she assumes she will grow used to it.

She walks quickly, pulling on her gloves as she goes. The evening is drawing in and the air is damp and chilly. She has no reason to fear the dark and does not have far to walk, but her parents will be waiting.

Nearing home, she pauses outside a jeweller’s shop on Gloucester Road. The jeweller is tidying away the trays of rings and necklaces that he was laying out when she passed this morning. He catches her eye and nods a greeting. She nods in return. Mr Enderby did not go off to France or Belgium like Ralph and the rest, being an older man, but he lost all three sons, and his eyes are still dark with grief. There is no one left to take over this small family business now except his daughter. Cecily Enderby is a nervous, twitchy creature, and Harriet does not suppose that she would have the least notion of how to run a business. The best Mr Enderby can hope for is that she marries a man who knows a sapphire from an emerald.