“Of course we can. This is an artist’s house. Things work differently here, you’ll see.” She strides on. With a sigh, I follow. We clamber over assorted boxes and heaps of unknowable objects until the hallway opens out through a gaping hole in the wall and we step into the studio itself. Charlotte gives a little gasp as she takes in the scene. I am shocked, too. Charlotte is doing her utmost not to stare at the very beautiful and very naked model reclining on a table on the far side of the room. The sculptor stands, hammer and chisel in hand, entirely absorbed in working a likeness of the woman’s form into the rough lump of stone in front of him.

The model returns our bashful glances with an expression that shows not the merest hint of embarrassment, and she makes no effort to cover herself up. Instead she says in a rather bored voice, “Mangan, you have visitors.”

I recognize her now as the woman I saw with Mangan outside the opium den. I remember that glorious red hair and her German accent.

With difficulty, Mangan forces himself to turn from his work. He frowns at us so fiercely I half expect him to start ranting and raving again, but I know that however great his reputation for wild living, he takes his work seriously, and is not drunk today.

Charlotte finds her voice and steps forward, hand extended. “Mr. Mangan…” she begins.

“Mangan will suffice. I want none of your ‘Mister,’ thank you.”

“Oh.” She tries again. “Charlotte Pilkington-Adams. We … I … have an appointment. Do you recall?” When he changes his expression to one of blankness she goes on. “The commission? You agreed you would undertake a sculpture of myself. For my parents.”

“Ah yes!” He is at once animated, throwing his tools to the ground to clasp and shake Charlotte’s hand. “The society beauty, delivering herself into my rough hands.” Charlotte blushes a little at this but is not given the chance to speak. “You are brave, child, as well as deliciously innocent and fresh.” He lets his fingers rest lightly on first her hair and then her cheek before gently turning her face a little to the side, the better to examine it in the light. “You have about you the look of the perfect maid, untouched save by God’s hand. Delightful!” he booms, causing Charlotte to jump. “You understand I rarely accept commissions.”

“Indeed, it is so good of you…”

“But when I saw you, when we were introduced—where was it? Some wretched ball or other Gudrun had dragged me to.”

Behind him the model stirs slowly, sitting up and pulling a diaphanous robe about her. “It was the Asquiths” summer ball, Mangan.”

“I barely remember it.”

“Why would you?” she says. “You were very drunk.”