With the last of her clothes stowed away, Posy washed up, then fixed her make-up in the bathroom mirror – making sure the second door was locked first. The taps were stiff, and groaned when she tried to turn them. The shower, over the ancient bathtub, looked like it might have been installed when indoor plumbing first became a thing.

In the bedroom, the sunlight streaming through the windows showed up the faded patches on the peeling wallpaper, and the carpet underfoot was worn almost back to the underlay. Posy figured her guess had been right; those royalties weren’t rolling in right now. Hopefully that meant that Hugh would agree to Libby’s script whatever he thought of it, just to get the cash.

‘Everybody wins,’ she murmured to herself, as she headed for the door. She hoped she’d be able to find her way around without getting lost. Maybe the house tour came with a map …

The envelope on the floor stopped her in her tracks. It must have been pushed under her door while she was in the bathroom. She frowned as she picked it up.

Probably it was more convention info from Clementine, or perhaps a note from Anton. But neither of those explained the way her heartbeat kicked up as she opened it. Or the dryness in her mouth as she reached inside to pull out …

Photos. Of her.

For a moment, she could almost believe that it was those classic paparazzi shots that covered every website that ever mentioned her – a much younger Posy Starling passed out on the sidewalk outside the Magpie Club.

But they weren’t. These were photos of her, now – or at least, not as long ago as she’d like. The photo-stamped date in the corner showed they were only a couple of weeks old. But even without that, she’d have known exactly when and where they were taken.

Outside a London flat, owned by her ex-boyfriend, Damon, on the one night she wished most of all she could forget. The night she risked everything – her sobriety, her slowly rebuilt reputation, her heart – and went to him when he called and told her he missed her. And here was the proof. Photographic evidence of her, so out of it she was practically unconscious, slumped against the railings of Damon’s flat after he kicked her out of bed and told her it was just a one-off.

She’d thought she could pretend it never happened. She’d gone to meetings, she’d stayed away from temptation, she’d tried to forget.

But somebody wasn’t going to let her.

The photos, slippery and glossy, slid out of her grasp and onto the carpet, leaving her with a single sheet of paper. A page from a script, with The Lady Detective – 25th August printed at the top.

And on the back of the text was scrawled the words:

Meet me at the folly at 3PM.

Chapter Five