The Angel club is in Soho, tucked away down Gerrard Street. It has an unprepossessing door which makes it appear like an office; a solicitor might operate from such a building. The bland entrance gives no hint of the interior. There is not even a door plate, giving the name of the place. Ruby only knows that this is the correct address by the faded number over the lintel and the presence of a burly man, leaning against the wall, opening the door to guests.

She pulls the little card from her coat pocket and checks it again. Tuesday, seven o’clock.

She takes a deep breath, trying to suppress the nervous excitement. She flashes the card and gives her name to the doorman. He looks her up and down, as if the decision to admit her depends on her vital statistics. It probably does. In places like this, the men will pay to become temporary members in order to skirt around the liquor licensing laws and drink all night, but the women, if they’re the right sort, will enter for free. She tells him she’s with Billy Walsh, and his eyes widen a fraction, confirming that Billy is known here. He gives her a curt nod and opens the door, saying nothing.

Another man stands at cloakroom, ready to relieve her of her coat. This one is extremely tall and shaped like a thin stick of willow, flexible and graceful. His face looks like a girl’s, and Ruby is certain that he is wearing kohl around his eyes and possibly rouge. His eyelashes are long and fluttering. He greets her in a gentle sing-song voice that is both unnerving and strangely alluring. She would bet all the money in her handbag that this one wouldn’t try to push his hands up her dress. She gives him her coat and hat. It’s not her best coat tonight – not her French one – but it’s another favourite from Grace Bartlett’s warehouse. The dark green matches her eyes and the wool, although not of the best quality, is still fine.

‘Lovely colour,’ he murmurs, stroking a hand over the sleeve. ‘It suits you.’

‘Thank you. I like it. Tell me’ – she smiles back at him – ‘is Billy Walsh here tonight?’

He steps back, a thoughtful expression on his face. ‘Yes, he’s here. He’s busy, I think.’

‘I expect he is,’ she says lightly. ‘He told me he would be.’

She makes her way through another door, down a flight of stairs and into the cavernous heart of the club and its deep, insistent throb of music. She stands listening for a moment, watching the small orchestra of dark-skinned men on a raised platform. The pianist, cigarette hanging from his lips, plays for a clarinet, banjo and drum. They are good. She recognises the tune and hums along. ‘Hindustan’; she likes this one.