Only occasionally does the anxiety flicker in her stomach as she wanders through the store. It is only hair, she tells herself firmly, in answer to the anticipated criticism. My own hair. Mine to dress – or cut – as I wish.

She stands at a counter in the lower hall of Debenham and Freebody, examining a row of manicure sets. She pulls off a glove, reaches out a finger and strokes one or two. The tortoiseshell boxes are shiny and smooth, cool to the touch. She covers one of them with her hand, so that it nestles under her palm.

This is what Ruby does. What the Forty Thieves do. She knows the tricks now. Alice Dunning told her.

How easy would it be, to curl her fingers around this one inexpensive and insignificant item and slip it into her pocket?

Harriet feels the energy rush through her body so violently that it makes her giddy. She staggers, snatches her hand from the manicure set and walks away hurriedly, her heart beating at a frantic pace.

No one appears to have noticed her.

She makes her way to the perfume counters across the hall, calming herself, drawn by the glass bottles glimmering under the chandeliers. She catches a hint of a scent, something warm and exotic, and turns to locate the bottle from which it is emanating. She sniffs at a few and asks to try the one that she recognises.

Mitsouko, it is called.

‘It doesn’t suit everyone,’ the assistant tells her, dabbing a small amount on her wrist. ‘It’s very modern. You might prefer something a little more delicate, perhaps with lily of the valley?’

Harriet shakes her head and breathes in the perfume, rubs her wrists together, continues walking around the store. She does not want to smell like an English garden.

She browses, examines, assesses sundry items around the hall, as she ordinarily would, taking her time, revelling in the luxurious scent that envelopes her. She returns to the manicure sets and, once more, rests a hand over the smallest of them. The tortoiseshell case is hardly bigger than a duck egg under her palm. She quietens her breathing, smiles softly, takes a graceful, languid look about her – then closes her fingers and lifts the case from the counter.

She turns from the table and, as she does so, slips the case into her coat pocket.

No one has seen her do this. She is almost certain. Her heart begins to beat faster again and her eyelids flutter as she stares around the hall. It is busy now. Saturday afternoon, and the aisles between the counters are full of women just like her, examining the fancy goods.

But no one has seen her take the case.