Alice Dunning. She repeats the name to herself. Alice Dunning.

Alice Dunning, one of the Forty Thieves, is in Holloway.

It might be possible to interview her if she has not been tried yet. She does not know how, but there must be a way. What a scoop that would be! It would be pleasing to put Jimmy’s nose out of joint and have her words on the main news page, certainly. She might find out more about the Forty Thieves and their circumstances. And the wild girl she saw in the back of the motor car.

Harriet unloads the milk jug and sugar bowl onto the shelf and returns to her desk. The women’s section article that Mr Pickford has asked for – ‘What the discerning fiancée looks for in an engagement ring’ – is almost written. And it can wait.

She places her hands flat on the desk and thinks hard. A newspaper reporter like Jimmy – or even a polite female one – surely wouldn’t be allowed into the prison. But a well-spoken woman of the right sort ought to be able to visit any prisoner. One of her mother’s friends visits such unfortunates. She takes them Bible tracts and improving literature. She once attempted to encourage Isabel to visit with her, on behalf of the church, and was disappointed by Isabel’s frosty refusal.

Dare she?

Perhaps she might make use of her own knowledge and family connections and do as Jimmy would do – look under the surface of what other people see.

She collects her handbag and coat, walks down to the front hall and asks the doorman to hail her a taxicab.

She steps out of the cab on Camden Road less than half an hour later and instructs the driver to wait for her, swallowing down her nervousness as she gazes up at the thick walls and imposing turrets of the prison. It looks like a fortress, a fantastical castle built to contain monsters rather than women who steal a few silk blouses, like Alice Dunning. She knows that the driver is watching as she makes her way carefully down the driveway to the gatehouse, feigning boldness.

Just inside the main gate, she finds a porter’s lodge that is only a little less austere. The man standing behind the desk is sturdy, with a greying moustache and a head of hair that is balding at the peaks. He is neatly dressed in police uniform. He raises his eyebrows as she approaches.

‘May I be of assistance, madam?’ The tone of his enquiry suggests that she has wandered in by accident, lost her Pekinese or mislaid her umbrella. She is out of place.

‘Miss Harriet Littlemore,’ she says, extending a gloved hand. ‘From St Saviour’s Christian Mission.’