‘Here it is. Full of details of the royal birth. To the Duke and Duchess of York, a daughter. Little Lady Elizabeth. Fourth lady in the kingdom and all that. You’d think that with a general strike looming they could come up with something a bit more serious on the front pages.’

‘Oh, I don’t know. What’s more serious than new life? Makes a nice change to think about birth instead of death . . . for me at any rate. Give it ’ere.’

‘Tell me about your evening, Maisie. Seemed pretty successful from where I was standing. Emotion swirling thickly around, you’d say!’

‘It was good. Better for some than others, of course. It always is. Never held a seance yet where all the punters got through. Just as well. The new bugs would often rather just watch and listen and not participate. They like to get my measure and hear the exchanges with the old hands. When they’re confident, they’ll try for a contact. There were three approaches last night. Out of eight guests around the table – that’s not bad.’

Maisie, he knew, preferred to speak only glancingly of her work as a medium. She could never be certain that Joe believed in what she did. Nor could Joe. A profound sceptic, he had had his firm beliefs shaken to their foundations by Maisie’s powers one night in Simla. Working under her professional name of Minerva Freemantle, she had been coerced by Joe into helping him to pursue a murder enquiry. They had fallen, since their return from India, into a routine of discussing her occupation as the remarkably successful and profitable business that it was. Profitable, certainly, but Maisie was convinced that her work had therapeutic value. If someone desperately needed her help to make contact with a loved one who had passed over – and eight years after the war there were still many of these – the help would be given and free of charge if the client could not afford to pay. Her many well-heeled and grateful callers made up for any losses. She owned her own smart house in its discreet square in an increasingly fashionable area and had, as long as Joe had known her, been financially independent. Emotionally independent also, he recognized with some relief. He sometimes wondered if she filed Joe Sandilands under the heading of emotional charity case. She was difficult to read. He accepted the comfort and support their relationship offered but it was not a connection which could ever be made public and both acknowledged this.

‘But if it comes to swirling emotion, mate, how about you? How did your evening with the Sea Lord’s daughter go?’

‘Elspeth Orr? Champion bore!’ Joe grinned. ‘Won’t do, Maisie. Won’t do.’

Maisie made clock eyes and held out her cup for a refill. ‘You’re too bloody choosy! How old are you now? Thirty-two? Three? Certainly time you were settling down. You should be thinking of moving out of that crazy flat of yours on the river and buying a nice little villa in Hampstead.’

She smiled to see the look of horror on his face. ‘What? Not tempted by the idea of a neat little house . . . up there on the hill? Somewhere to walk the Labrador of an evening?’

‘No indeed! But I’ll tell you, Maisie – I have found the house of my dreams. Yesterday. In Surrey of all places,’ he said conversationally to distract her from her favourite topic of settling his future.

She listened, absorbed by his account of King’s Hanger and its assorted inhabitants. She exclaimed with indignation as he told her of the treatment meted out by Mrs Joliffe to her grandchildren. ‘Some women don’t know when they’re lucky! Undeserving bitch! Two boys and two girls and one on the way? She should be thrilled. What’s the matter with her?’

‘Lord knows! She seems quite determined to make life unpleasant for those children. I had a bad feeling about the whole set-up. There’s more than unkindness in her attitude . . . it’s . . . vindictive. As though she’s holding them responsible for some injury or slight . . . punishing them. The children are as poor as church mice. They run around barefoot . . . No toys . . . the only books they have are the leather-bound tomes in Granny’s library and they’re about a hundred years old . . . Tell you what, Maisie!’ said Joe, struck by a sudden thought. ‘When you next pop into Harrods – could you get some things for me?’

Maisie groaned. ‘Should I be making a list? Go on.’

Well, you could start with . . . yes . . . that’s it! A red dress! Something to fit a skinny twelve-year-old. She’s actually fourteen but you’d never guess. And a book. Let’s think . . . Something the oldest can read to the rest. For fun. How about The Wind in the Willows? Oh, and,’ he gave a wicked smile, ‘a copy of The Constant Nymph and I’ll put a note in saying “This is not the way to live your life.”’

He stopped, catching Maisie’s indulgent and quizzical expression.

‘You’re a great softie, Joe Sandilands!’

Bill Armitage, a short pigeon’s flight away across London, stirred and swam up to wakefulness, hanging on to an entrancing and dangerous dream of a black-bobbed head, sleek as a seal, an elegant straight nose and mocking blue eyes. He clutched at a foam of silver chiffon which melted through his fingers and as the image faded he became aware of the sound that had awakened him and he groaned in frustration and disgust. In an unaccustomed flash of bad temper, he jerked his heel backwards, hitting his companion viciously on the kneecap. A shriek of pain split his skull.

‘What the bloody ’ell do you think you’re up to, Bill Armitage? You meant that to ’urt! What’s got into you? What ’ave I done to deserve a kicking at six in the bloody morning? Eh? Answer me, you great lummox!’

Armitage rolled out of bed and went to stand at the foot, tugging down the hem of his athletic vest and wondering where he’d left his drawers. Wishing he could present a more impressive figure to underline his comment, ‘You snore and you sweat and you stink of fish,’ he said. ‘And your name’s Edith. That’s what.’

‘God’s sake! What’s got into you? I’m human and my old man works at Billingsgate! What do you expect? And you wake me up with a kick at six to complain about my dad’s taste in Christian names? You knew I was called Edith before you started calling round ’ere. I’m not good enough for you any more, am I? That’s what this is all about! Seen it coming for some time. Well, bugger off! And don’t come back ’ere. Frank’s on the other shift next week anyway and if ’e caught you ’ere all your police clout and your posh ways wouldn’t stop ’im rearranging your face! Push off! William!’

The angry face took on a narrow-eyed, vindictive sneer. ‘Just you wait! ’E’ll get his own back on you!’

‘Good. That Frank should get his own back again is exactly what I have in mind. He’s very welcome.’

‘Clever sod! I’ll report you to your inspector. That’s what I’ll do. I’ll go down the nick this morning and tell them what you’ve been up to! Policemen’s supposed to ’ave standards.’

‘I wouldn’t advise such a course of action, Edith. Listen – tell you a story . . . last week one of our lads was reported for having it off with some trollop in the park. It was broad daylight and he was wearing – well, half wearing – his uniform at the time. A crowd gathered. Certain amount of public disorder broke out. Bets being placed . . . underage ruffians shouting encouragement . . . you can imagine the scene. What do you think happened? A mild reprimand. On that scale my governor will buy me a jar of ale when he’s sent you off with a flea in your ear. Not a good idea to snitch on the police, Edith. We look after our own.’

She rallied and then attempted a last defiance, her pretty face twisted into ugliness by petulance. ‘Well, they might be interested in hearing what you get up to on Tuesday nights, my lad! Ha! Didn’t know I knew that, did you? I thought you might’ve got yourself a fresh piece on the side and I followed you. I saw where you went and asked about a bit. Very surprising! Nobody likes your kind! Things like that can get you into a lot of trouble. Someone might end up with a red face if ’is bosses found out. Very red! Now – what’s ’is name? That officer you’re so fond of? Sandilands! That’s it! I’ll go down the Yard and have a word with him!’