She must have walked the whole of London, touching the smooth tortoiseshell case in her pocket every now and then, each time overwhelmed by that same heady concoction of fear and excitement she had experienced in the park. For a while, this had been all she wanted to do: return to the thrill over and over, the surge of electricity, as she walked along as calmly and nonchalantly as she ever did – as any decent and honest woman might. To an observer, she was a young and fashionable lady of means, returning from visiting a friend, perhaps, or someone who, having completed her shopping, was now making her way home for supper. No one would suspect that, in her own mind at least, she was as wild and vital as Ruby Mills.

Then it grew dark and, still not desiring to return to Kensington, she had begun to turn over in her mind that single word she had seen in Jimmy’s notebook – Angel – until a new possibility possessed her. Thinking blithely that she might visit Peter Lazenby’s club, she had made her way to Soho.

Now, the dark and heavily clouded sky matches the growing gloom of her mood. She has no idea where the Angel is located. She cannot find it, and she has been walking for nearly two hours. Her feet hurt and she feels frustrated and foolish.

She really ought to go home.

She stands on her own in Gerrard Street as people pass by, twisting about, trying to imagine where a club owned by an elegant aristocrat like Peter Lazenby might be. She wonders whether she might ask someone. The night makes the bright lights of the many shops and pubs seem brazen and garish. They dazzle her eyes, assault her vision, so that she strains to see properly.

‘Miss Littlemore?’

She turns around to see Peter Lazenby himself walking towards her, his puzzled expression lit up by the vibrant primary colours emanating from a shop window.

‘It is you, Harriet. I thought I recognised you. What are doing here? Is Ralph with you?’

‘No.’

‘This is not really the sort of street for a lady to wander down by herself, you should know.’

‘I was with a friend. A girlfriend. We had dinner nearby. She went home.’ Harriet falters.

‘And… Now… You’re looking for a taxicab?’ he ventures.

‘Yes,’ she says, as if that was her intention. ‘Yes –’ more firmly – ‘a taxicab.’ But then he smiles, and her previously dampened excitement sparks to life again. ‘Is your club near here?

‘My club? The Angel? Yes, that’s where I’m going now. It’s still early, but I should be there, ready to greet the guests. Saturday is usually busy.’

‘Oh. Yes, of course. And… You must make sure that the trumpeter is…’