Just after five, Crawfie delivered the Princesses back to the nursery, their pockets bulging with shiny conkers, some still in their spikey green armour.

‘Oh dear, dear!’ Alah said in front of them. ‘Poor Crawfie, you look awful pale. Have you got one of your heads?’

Crawfie blushed at the lie. Alah’s subterfuge was so kindly meant, but it made her feel a fool. She managed an embarrassed, ‘I think so, yes.’

‘Then you’d best get to bed. Off you go. Bobo and I will see to the young ladies.’

Nervously, Crawfie slipped out of the below stairs door next to the kitchen unnoticed. She calculated that it would take her about twenty minutes to get to Leicester Square, so she set off with a brisk stride and her head down, hoping that Ainslie or Cook didn’t spot her.

The September afternoon had the scent of autumn about it. Yellow leaves from the plane trees were scuttling on the roads, and the pavements were crowded with hurrying, sidestepping office workers leaving for their train home. She dodged round them, pulling her coat tightly around her. At last she reached her destination just as a nearby church clock chimed five thirty.

The place was filling up with workers meeting up with friends, planning the evening ahead of them. Marion scanned the room. A waitress approached her.

‘May I have a table for two, please?’ Marion asked and was shown to a small table in the centre of the room.

‘What will you have?’ the woman asked, with the pen and notepad ready.

‘May I wait a few minutes? My friend hasn’t arrived yet.’

Ten minutes went by. The train was probably late arriving at King’s Cross, Marion thought to herself. At least she could sit and compose herself, plan what she would say to him. She would be open and friendly, tell him not to worry that she had waited. After all, she was in the warm.

Another fifteen minutes went by and Marion decided to order a pot of tea and a teacake.

By six o’clock, she began to worry. Had she given him the right address? Had there been a train crash? Was he lost somewhere on a bus? Had he gone straight to Kensington? She had sent him the address, so perhaps he was now being shown around his new home by the landlady.

She’d give him another ten minutes.

Then another five.

At half past six, the afternoon crush around her had dissipated. She felt exposed, sitting in the middle of the emptying room. She saw a couple of women look at her and nudge each other, giggling as they left.

‘Can I get you anything else, miss?’ the waitress asked again.

‘No, thank you. I am afraid my friend must have been delayed. I wonder, if a man called George Buthlay comes in, medium height with a moustache, carrying a suitcase – would you tell him I waited but that I have now gone home?’

‘Of course, miss.’