First published in Great Britain 2017

by Egmont UK Limited

The Yellow Building, 1 Nicholas Road, London W11 4AN

Copyright © Katherine Woodfine, 2017

Illustrations copyright © Karl James Mountford, 2017

First e-book edition 2017

ISBN 978 1 4052 8289 5

Ebook ISBN 978 1 7803 1748 9

www.egmont.co.uk

A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library

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CONTENTS

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

PART I: White Dragon

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

PART II: Green Dragon

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

PART III: Red Dragon

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

PART IV: Dragon Passant

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

PART V: Dragon Courant

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

PART VI: Dragon Combatant

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

PART VII: Dragon Regardant

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

AUTHOR’S NOTE

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

Back series promotional page

Visitors to London’s Bond Street galleries should not miss works such as Casselli’s The White Dragon, currently on display at the Doyle Gallery. This exquisite example of Italian painting has a fascinating history, having been owned by many of the crowned heads of Europe, including Philip II of Spain and Catherine the Great . . .

From Chapter IV of A Traveller’s Guide to London with 4 Maps and 15 Plans by the Reverend Charles Blenkinsop, 1906 (from the library at Winter Hall)

CHAPTER ONE

October 1909

She wasn’t sure exactly when she realised that someone was following her. The interview with Detective Worth had taken longer than she had expected, and when she stepped out on to the street, it was already dark. The daytime crowds had vanished and Piccadilly seemed unnaturally quiet, with only a few figures hurrying by in the rain, their faces hidden beneath their umbrellas.

In a different mood, she might have thought that the way the yellow light from the street lamps shimmered on the wet road was beautiful. She might have wondered about how she could paint the hazy reflections in the shop windows, or the headlamps glowing in the dark. But for once, she was not thinking about painting. She was too distracted by her conversation with Detective Worth to pay attention to anything around her.

The evening air was cold and dank: she found herself shivering in spite of her good coat. She thought longingly of tea and a warm fire, but she dared not hurry home too quickly – the pavement was slick with water, and slippery with damp leaves. Instead, she slowly picked her way towards the underground railway station.

When she became aware of the man walking behind her, she had the feeling that he must have been there for some time. Lost in her thoughts, sounds muffled by the rain, she had not noticed his presence. Now, she glanced up into a darkened shop window and saw his reflection for a split second: a shadowy shape with square shoulders and the outline of a bowler hat. He was a few yards behind, keeping pace with her – she could hear the regular rhythm of his footsteps. All at once, she felt the creeping sensation that there were eyes fixed upon her back.

She shook herself. She was being stupid, she squashed down the impulse to turn around and look. He was probably just some ordinary man leaving his office late after a long day. To prove it to herself, she made up her mind to cross the road, feeling sure that he would not follow. There, she told herself triumphantly, as she made her way across the street, and on to the opposite pavement. She knew she had been imagining things. The interview with Detective Worth had rattled her, that was all.

For a few yards, she walked more easily. But a moment or two later, she heard it behind her again: the steady beat of footsteps. A chill swept over her. The man was still there.

She couldn’t help glancing over her shoulder now, but in the darkness all she could see was the silhouette of the bowler hat moving towards her. Alarmed, she turned and crossed the street again: a minute later, the man followed. Her heart had begun to thump painfully in her chest, and her breaths were quick and sharp. She hurried on, as quickly as she dared, but the footsteps just seemed to grow louder. She went faster, panic rising, sure of nothing except that she must get away.

As she drew closer to the station, the street became busier, and she saw to her relief that a little crowd of people had gathered outside a brightly lit concert hall. The evening performance was about to start: there were motor cars and hansom cabs outside, and the sound of voices and music. She made her way into the crowd, weaving her way through the mass of people, and then out again, on to the street beyond, red-cheeked and panting – but alone.

Just around the corner was the entrance to the underground station. She hurried thankfully down the steps and out of the rain, her heart still bumping, fumbling for her ticket with shaking fingers. She made her way along the empty tiled passageway, moving more slowly now. The sudden quiet was a relief.

There was no one to be seen on the station platform – not even a guard on duty. She stood alone at the edge of the platform, staring up at the big clock, watching the second hand flick forwards. Here, everything seemed ordinary again. The ticking of the clock, the tattered advertisements for Bird’s Custard and Fry’s Milk Chocolate, the colourful poster instructing her to ‘Take the Two-Penny Tube and Avoid All Anxiety!’ were soothing. Her breathing began to slow. She almost began to wonder if she had imagined the man in the bowler hat was following her, after all.

She felt more tired than ever now, and she stared down the tunnel into the darkness beyond, willing a train to appear. But even as she did so, she heard it again: the heavy, hollow thud of footsteps approaching along the empty platform.

There was no time to turn around; no time to think; no time even to scream. The man was behind her; she felt the scratch of his rough coat sleeve, the cold leather of his gloved hand, pressed hard and shiny across her mouth, silencing her before she could make a sound.

Even as she tried to twist away, she knew it was hopeless. The leather glove covering her mouth was scarlet: the bold cadmium red of her paintbox. It was the last thing she saw clearly before he pushed her. There was a clatter and a gasp, and she was falling through the air for a moment, landing on the train tracks with a sickening thump – then everything was still.

She groaned. Her eyelids fluttered. She was sprawled painfully across the tracks: she could feel the hard metal rail pressed against her side. Before her, the dark mouth of the railway tunnel yawned open, vast and pitch black. Then came a flicker of light ahead – and the scream of a train, rushing out of the tunnel towards her.

CHAPTER TWO

Three months earlier – July 1909

The letter was lying on the silver tray on the hall table when she came down to breakfast. A narrow white envelope with her name, Miss Leonora Fitzgerald, typed at the top. The sight of it made her mouth suddenly dry, and her chest squeeze tight. She knew there was only one thing it could be.

She reached for the envelope, but before she could take it, Vincent came swaggering into the hall, still doing up the studs on his collar. She snapped her hand back at once, but it was too late.

‘What’s this? A letter – for you?’ He grabbed for it, but Leo shot out her hand and snatched it up first. She might not be very fast on her feet, but she had learned to be quick in other ways.

‘That’s mine,’ she said. She began to back away, but Vincent stepped forwards and seized her wrist.

‘I know what that is,’ he said, his voice triumphant. ‘That’s a letter from your little art school, isn’t it? Let me guess what it says: Dear Miss Fitzgerald, We are terribly sorry but we can’t accommodate talentless lady daubers at our establishment.’ He twisted her wrist hard and Leo gasped, but she kept clutching the letter. ‘Shall we have a look and see?’

To her enormous relief, just then, she heard the jingling of the housekeeper’s keys: Mrs Dawes was coming along the corridor towards them. Scowling, Vincent let go of her wrist, and Leo shoved the letter into the pocket of her frock, darting down the passage and away.

Breakfast didn’t matter. She was too excited to eat anyway, and it wasn’t as though her absence would bother anyone. Most days Father barely grunted at her from behind the newspaper; and as for Mother, she always took her breakfast in bed, then spent the morning relaxing in her room. The main thing was to get as far away from Vincent as fast as she could, so she could open her letter in peace.

She slipped around a corner where an old tapestry hung on the wall, woven with a design of lions and unicorns. Glancing quickly around her to be sure that Vincent hadn’t followed, she lifted up one corner, revealing a small door in the wooden panelling. A moment later, she was through the door and into the narrow, stone-flagged passageway that lay beyond, letting the tapestry fall back across the door behind her.

Winter Hall was an enormous old mansion, rich in secret stairways, forgotten cubbyholes and concealed corridors that no one seemed to know or care about, except for Leo herself. These hidden passageways had fascinated her for as long as she could remember – but what’s more, they came in useful. This wasn’t the first time they’d helped her escape from her family.

Now, she made her way carefully along the crooked passage, and then up a skinny staircase. There was a hidden room tucked away at the top that was one of her favourite corners, which she had furnished with an old chair and an oil lamp. She kept her sketchbooks there, away from Vincent’s prying eyes, as well as a collection of objects that were interesting to draw, but that Nanny would certainly say were ‘nasty old rubbish’: some pieces of wood twisted into interesting shapes; a couple of small animal skulls that she had picked up on her walks in the grounds; an abandoned bird’s nest.

Safe at last, she felt able to take out her letter – a little crumpled from being stuffed into her pocket, but no less precious for that. She held it for a moment, weighing it in her hands, and then she ripped it open, drawing out the thin sheet of typed paper inside.

The rest of the words swam in front of Leo’s eyes: she couldn’t take them in. She sank into the chair, the letter fluttering down into her lap. She had actually done it. She had been accepted to the best art school in London!

It still seemed incredible that she had been allowed to apply to the Spencer at all. She had been begging Father and Mother to let her go to art school for more than a year, but they had barely listened, while Vincent had scoffed and jeered. Even Nanny had said ‘nonsense’ and that such places weren’t for young ladies. If it hadn’t been for Lady Tremayne, she doubted that any of them would ever have taken her seriously.

Lady Tremayne was Leo’s godmother. She was an old friend of Mother’s, a wealthy widow who lived in London, and who seemed to Leo to be unimaginably sophisticated. She always wore wonderful clothes: gracefully draped dresses in jewel colours; embroidered silk shawls; gorgeously feathered hats. She talked of the writers and musicians she knew; the art galleries and concert halls she visited; the new books she had read.

Lady Tremayne was the only one who cared about Leo’s passion for drawing. Mother just said ‘very nice, dear’ in a bored voice; while Nanny grumbled that the charcoal marks on her muslin frock were dreadful to get out, and suggested she might like to learn some nice embroidery stitches instead. But Lady Tremayne was different. On her all-too-rare visits to Winter Hall, she always asked to see Leo’s sketchbooks; and sometimes she even brought her presents – pencils, a new drawing book with lovely paper inside, once a little set of watercolour paints in a neat leather case.

It was to Lady Tremayne that Leo had been able to pour out her dream of going to a London art school. She longed to learn from proper teachers; to work in a real artist’s studio; and perhaps most of all, to see London and explore its wonderful galleries and museums. She had told all this to her godmother, who had promised she would try to help.

Leo was not supposed to have heard Lady Tremayne’s conversation with Mother, but it had been an easy thing to listen in from the secret passage with its discreet ‘peephole’ that ran behind the boudoir sitting room. Leo knew that she ought not to eavesdrop on other people’s conversations, but any sense of guilt she might have felt was swept away, as she realised what her mother was saying in her high, whining voice.

‘The truth is that I haven’t the slightest idea what to do with her. She’s so sulky and difficult. I never had any of these troubles with Helen!’

‘Leo’s growing up,’ came Lady Tremayne’s voice, clearer and deeper. ‘She needs something to occupy her. Don’t forget, at her age, Helen was busy planning her coming-out ball, and getting ready for her first Season.’

‘But whatever am I to occupy her with?’ Leo’s mother demanded, sounding even more petulant than usual. ‘A London Season is quite out of the question for her. If she was a different sort of girl, I suppose I might have taken her abroad with me this autumn, but Horace doesn’t like her to be on show. She doesn’t care for society, and she doesn’t take any interest in anything except fiddling around with pencils and paint – and this preposterous idea of going to a London art school.’

‘It’s more than just fiddling, Lucy. Leo has a real talent – I’ve always thought so. Are you so sure that art school is out of the question for her?’

‘Really, Viola! Art school! She couldn’t possibly – what would people think? We couldn’t allow her just to racket about London, all by herself!’

Mother’s voice was shocked, but Lady Tremayne laughed. When she spoke, her voice was warm and amused: ‘Oh, Lucy, don’t be so old-fashioned! She’d be far too busy for any racketing. Why, at the Spencer Institute they have drawing classes every day, and then there are lectures and museum visits. It would be good for Leo to have that sort of occupation, and to meet other young people who share her interests. Far better than moping around here, with only her old nanny for company.’

Mother sighed heavily. ‘I suppose you’re right. Something ought to be arranged. Perhaps a good finishing school might help to rub off her corners?’

Leo’s heart sank to her stomach, but Lady Tremayne had not given up. ‘Finishing school?’ she repeated. ‘I hardly think dancing and deportment are going to be of any use to Leo! Art school would be a much better use of her time. They are perfectly respectable places these days – after all, the Duke of Roehampton’s sister went to the Spencer, you know.’

Leo smiled to herself in the dark. Her mother’s sudden little sound of interest and approval did not surprise her in the least. ‘Oh! Did she really? I had no idea!’

Evidently aware she had an advantage, Lady Tremayne continued: ‘So, you see, it couldn’t possibly do Leo any harm. Perhaps she may become a little more unconventional, but that doesn’t really matter, does it? After, all, it’s not as if . . .’

Her godmother’s voice trailed away, but Leo could have finished the sentence for her. It’s not as if she will marry. Suddenly feeling that she didn’t want to hear any more, Leo turned away from the peephole.

Marriage was something that girls from a good family were supposed to do. It was all that was expected of them – to look pretty, to be charming, and then to eventually marry a ‘suitable young man’ and produce lots of children, exactly like her perfect older sister Helen had done.

But Leo knew that no ‘suitable young man’ would ever want to marry her. For one thing, she was not in the least bit pretty. Pretty girls had curls and rosy cheeks and dimples; Leo was thin and pale, and her hair hung straight and smooth, refusing to curl in spite of Nanny’s best efforts. Pretty girls dressed in dainty gowns with ribbons and lace trimmings. Leo preferred plain things: as a child she had always looked enviously at Vincent’s clothes, admiring the smart cut of his velvet jackets, the shiny leather of his riding boots. Mother had been horrified when she had asked why she couldn’t dress like her brother, and Nanny had told her to ‘hold her tongue’ and to ‘act like a little lady’.

What’s more, she knew she wasn’t charming. She had always spent so much time alone that she never seemed to know what to say to people. Then, just before her eighth birthday, she had been ill, and that had changed everything. The long illness had confined her to bed for months. One of her legs had been badly affected; they had thought she might never walk again but she had been determined, and at last she had been able to manage with the help of a crutch. It was this, of course, that Lady Tremayne was referring to. Far more important than being pretty, marriageable young ladies were expected to be perfectly healthy: as glossy and energetic as prize racehorses. They could not possibly have what Mother referred to, in a hushed voice, as an affliction.

But it had been when she was ill in bed that Leo’s drawing had really begun. She had spent hours drawing anything and everything she could see: Nanny, the medicine bottles by the window, the view of leafless trees outside. When she had at last been able to hobble about the house, she had amused herself by exploring the long passageways, opening doors on neglected rooms and drawing what she found there. She spent hours contemplating strange old oil paintings, sketching the shapes of Chinese vases and marble statuettes, copying the intricate patterns of old carpets, and later painting her own careful imitations of the portraits of her Fitzgerald ancestors.

‘Of course, the Spencer is very competitive,’ Leo heard Lady Tremayne say, as she turned back to the peephole. ‘It’s the finest school in the country – they take only the very best.’

‘She probably wouldn’t even be able to win a place,’ said Mother, more comfortably. ‘I suppose I’ll speak to Horace about it – perhaps he may consent to her writing to them. But really, Viola, that’s quite enough about the matter. I’m longing to hear about your trip to Vienna – is the opera as splendid as they say?’

Now, remembering this, Leo felt hot inside. She knew that Mother had never believed she stood even the slightest chance of winning a place at the Spencer – but she had been accepted. The Spencer Institute of Fine Art, she read again, tracing her fingers along the shape of the letterhead, and murmuring the words to herself as though they were a magic spell. She couldn’t wait to write to Lady Tremayne to tell her the news.

But first, she had work to do. She grabbed her crutch and pulled herself to her feet. She was going to the Spencer, and she would not let Mother or Father or anyone else stand in her way. Moving quickly, she made her way along the secret passageway, and back out into the corridor. So much for Mother’s relaxing breakfast in bed, she thought grimly. She pushed open the door to Mother’s bedroom. ‘Mother!’ she announced. ‘The Spencer Institute have written – and I’ve got in!’

CHAPTER THREE

September 1909

It was a wet afternoon in London, and on Piccadilly Circus the windows of Sinclair’s seemed to shimmer. The city’s most famous department store spilled out golden light on to the dull grey street. The people hurrying by under their umbrellas were unable to resist pausing for a moment to look at the glittering displays of glorious autumn fashions in the store window, or to peep through the grand entrance, at the throng of elegant shoppers within.

Up the steps and through the great doors, the store was warm and inviting, delicious with the fragrance of chocolate and warm caramel that drifted from the Confectionery Department. Customers were dawdling in the Book Department, flicking through the latest novels, or dallying in Ladies’ Fashions, taking their time to choose exactly the right fur tippet, or silk umbrella. Meanwhile, others simply luxuriated in the thick softness of the carpets and the glitter of the chandeliers, watching the people go by. There was always something – or someone – to watch, at Sinclair’s.

No one knew that better than Sophie Taylor. But that afternoon, she was walking swiftly past the store windows, without even a glance at the brightness within. Today, she was quite unrecognisable as a smart salesgirl from the Millinery Department. Her fair hair was windblown; her frock was streaked with mud; her buttoned boots were dirty; and her thin coat did little to keep off the rain. In fact, she was so bedraggled that one or two people looked askance as she came through the door of Lyons Corner House. Holding her head high, and ignoring their curious glances, she dripped over to a corner table for two, spread with a white cloth and laid for tea. She dropped down into a chair with relief.

‘Tea, miss?’ asked the waitress hovering at her elbow.

Sophie looked up at her with a rueful smile as she peeled off her sodden gloves. ‘Yes please,’ she said. ‘Tea would be heavenly.’

The pot was almost empty when the door opened again, and a young lady hurried in. She was tall and striking, snug in a smart blue coat with a velvet trim. A matching hat with a crest of feathers was pinned at a dashing angle upon her shiny dark hair. She was not dressed expensively, nor in the very latest fashion, yet there was something about her appearance that made the tea-shop customers sit up straighter in their chairs. Suddenly, an ordinary wet afternoon seemed tinged with a sparkle of glamour.

One lady nudged her friend, and nodded in the newcomer’s direction. Surely she was the young actress whose photograph they had seen in the Daily Picture? A young man who considered himself quite an expert on the theatre whispered to his companions: ‘That’s Lilian Rose! She plays Arabella in The Inheritance. Last week’s Theatrical News called her a rising star!’

The only one who did not look at all taken aback was the girl sipping tea by herself at the corner table. The other customers exchanged surprised glances as the young actress hurried straight over to Sophie.

‘Oh, Sophie – I’m so sorry that I didn’t make it to Mrs Long’s!’ exclaimed Lil, as she flopped down into the chair opposite her friend. ‘My dress fitting took an age!’

‘That’s the third appointment you’ve missed this week, you know,’ said Sophie, decidedly unimpressed.

‘I say – it isn’t really, is it?’ Lil looked stricken with guilt. ‘Gosh! I really am most awfully sorry. Let me buy you some cake to make it up to you. Excuse me, waitress!’

After ordering more tea and a quantity of cake that would have fed a large family, Lil turned back to her friend and looked so beseechingly at her across the table that Sophie couldn’t help smiling. It was impossible to be annoyed with Lil for long.

‘Tell me all about what happened at Mrs Long’s. Did you find the stolen cat?’ Lil took in Sophie’s appearance for the first time. ‘I say, you do look rather . . . er . . . damp.’

Sophie laughed. ‘I hadn’t noticed,’ she joked. ‘I found the cat all right. It hadn’t been stolen at all! It was stuck up a tree at the bottom of Mrs Long’s garden. I had a terrible job getting it down.’ She pushed up the sleeve of her blouse to reveal several long, angry-looking red scratches.

‘Golly!’ exclaimed Lil. ‘But I suppose Mrs Long was awfully grateful?’

‘For about two minutes. Then she gave me a long lecture about how, in her day, girls didn’t clamber about in trees like monkeys, and it wasn’t really ladylike behaviour.’

‘Oh, I say!’ exclaimed Lil. ‘That’s a bit much! I’m surprised you didn’t ask her if she’d rather you left her silly old cat up there for good!’

The cakes arrived just then, as well as a plate of hot buttered toast. The girls were both hungry and helped themselves before Sophie carried on: ‘Then there was the matter of the bill. Since it turned out that Snowy hadn’t actually been stolen after all, Mrs Long thought this would suffice.’ She drew a sixpence out of her pocket and put it on the table, where it made a sad clinking sound against the milk jug.

‘Sixpence!’ exploded Lil. ‘What awful cheek!’

‘Well, I suppose it will pay for the tea,’ said Sophie. ‘Though perhaps not my laundry bill.’

‘We certainly shan’t be taking on any more cases from her in future. We’re worth a whole lot more than sixpence,’ said Lil indignantly. Then she giggled too. ‘The Sixpenny Detectives. Gosh, that sounds rather like the title of a tale in one of Billy’s story-papers!’

It was true that since they had solved the mystery of the famous Mr Sinclair’s stolen jewels – and then exposed one of London’s most dangerous criminals in the strange affair of the Jewelled Moth – Sophie and Lil had gained something of a reputation for their detective skills. Barely a week now went by without someone turning up with a new ‘case’ for them to solve. At first, they had been rather astonished that so many people wanted their help – but they had soon grown used to these enquiries.

To begin with, it had been thrilling. Sophie had felt full of pride when they helped people, even when the mysteries they solved were as small and ordinary as helping to find an old watch that had been a family heirloom, or reuniting a young lady with a long-lost grandmama. The small fees they had earned had helped to supplement the slim wages she earned as a salesgirl at Sinclair’s, but more than that, there had been the fun of teaming up with Lil – and often with their friends, Billy and Joe, too – to pit their wits against each new puzzle.

Just recently though, she had begun to feel a little less excited by their ‘cases’. It had been a while since they had had a really interesting mystery to solve – getting lost cats out of trees didn’t pose the same kind of challenge. And since winning a role in a fashionable new play in a West End theatre, Lil had far less time for detective work. She was always very busy flitting from rehearsals to dress fittings to appointments with photographers, and Sophie missed her. Solving mysteries without Lil was harder work – but what mattered more, it wasn’t nearly as much fun.

‘I’m just glad I didn’t see anyone from Sinclair’s while I was going down the street like this,’ she said now. ‘I was dreading bumping into Mrs Milton – I’m rather in her bad books at the moment,’ she went on, referring to the Head Buyer of the Millinery Department.

‘Nonsense!’ exclaimed Lil. ‘I don’t believe that for a second. Mrs Milton thinks you’re wonderful.’

Sophie shrugged. Perhaps that had been true a few months ago, but recently she knew that she had been distracted, and her standards had slipped. The truth was that being a salesgirl wasn’t always very interesting, and there was rarely much chance for her to use her brain. She knew she ought to be grateful to have work at all, never mind a job somewhere as marvellous as Sinclair’s, but after everything that had happened to her over the past few months, it was difficult to go back to simply selling hats.

But it wasn’t as though she had any other options. Sophie was all alone in the world, and she had to work to support herself. She might sometimes have fanciful thoughts about becoming a professional detective, but she knew they were just that – fancies.

She opened her mouth to begin to try and explain some of this to Lil, but before she had said anything, she noticed that her friend was staring over her shoulder at someone who had just come through the door of the tea shop.

‘Lil? Are you all right?’

But Lil didn’t seem to hear her. Her mouth had fallen open as though she had seen a ghost.

‘What on earth are you doing here?’

CHAPTER FOUR

Sophie turned around to see that a tall, dark-haired young man was striding energetically over to their table. To her surprise, she realised that he looked slightly familiar.

‘What do you think I’m doing here?’ asked the newcomer in a cheerful voice. ‘I’m looking for you, of course! I went to the theatre to find you and the fellow at the stage door said you’d be here.’

Lil’s expression shifted from shocked to delighted. ‘Well, I like that!’ she exclaimed, as the young man gave her a hearty hug – much to the interest of the people sitting around them, who all began whispering and nudging each other. ‘I hope he doesn’t go giving out my whereabouts to any old Stage Door Johnny!’

‘Ah, but I’m hardly any old Stage Door Johnny now, am I? Don’t pretend you aren’t pleased to see me!’ Releasing Lil, the young man turned to Sophie and held out a hand. ‘How do you do? Awfully sorry to barge in like this. I’m Lil’s brother – Jonathan Rose. Most people call me Jack.’

‘Jack, this is my dearest friend, Sophie Taylor!’ exclaimed Lil. ‘You remember – I’ve told you simply heaps about her.’

Jack grinned at her, and Sophie found herself smiling back. It would be hard not to, she thought. His resemblance to Lil was obvious – and it wasn’t only that they looked alike, but he had exactly the same kind of bouncy confidence. She found herself blushing as she shook his hand, and rather wishing she didn’t look so very muddy and bedraggled.

‘I’m delighted to meet you,’ he said heartily. ‘I say – do you mind if I join you?’

A moment later, he had conjured a chair for himself seemingly out of nowhere, and was sitting down beside them, while a waitress hurried over with an extra cup. ‘But whatever are you doing here?’ Lil was saying, pushing the plate of cakes towards her brother. ‘I thought you were back in Oxford. Isn’t term about to start?’

Jack leaned back in his chair. For the first time since his arrival, Sophie detected that he was suddenly a little less sure of himself. ‘Well . . .’ he began, in a rather-too-casual voice. ‘The thing is that I’ve given it up. Quite a lark, don’t you think?’

‘Given it up . . . ?’ Lil’s voice was incredulous. ‘Whatever do you mean?’

‘I’m not going back.’

‘What? But . . . but . . . you can’t!’

Jack’s voice was impatient now. ‘Of course I can! You know that Oxford isn’t for me. Oh, I had a jolly enough time there last year – and I met some decent fellows – but it was just like school all over again. I don’t want to study law and spend all my days in a stuffy office, like Father – any more than you want to stay at home and go to tea parties with Mother. You know what I want to do.’

Lil nodded. ‘You want to go to art school and be a painter. But you know Father’s never going to agree to that He’s always talking about what a wonderful asset you’ll be to the firm. Jack, do be serious. You can’t leave Oxford – he’ll never allow it.’

‘Too late, I’m afraid. It’s already done.’

Lil looked astounded. ‘But . . . how? What will you do now?’ she demanded.

‘That’s the good part,’ Jack said, all at once looking more cheerful. ‘I’ve got myself a place at the Spencer Institute. It’s one of the top art schools in London. All the best painters have studied there. I met a couple of the professors in the spring and showed them some of my work – and the long and short of it is, they offered me a scholarship, so here I am! Classes there began this week.’

‘Well – that’s marvellous, of course, but you never said a word about any of this,’ said Lil, still staring at him, her cake quite forgotten now. ‘Where are you staying? What about Mother and Father? Have you told them?’

‘No, and I don’t plan to,’ said Jack, rather more stiffly. ‘There’s a fellow at my college in Oxford who is going to forward on my mail to my new digs – I’ve found a studio in Bloomsbury not too far from the art school that I can afford on my allowance. There’s no sense in telling the Aged Parents – it would only upset them. If I can get myself established and get my work noticed – then I’ll tell them. They’ll see I’m serious and that this is going to work.’

‘Oh golly,’ said Lil, her eyes round. ‘Father will have forty fits! He still hasn’t got over me leaving home to go on the stage – and now you’ll be throwing away all their plans for you too. And you know what they think of artists. Why, they’re practically worse than actresses!’

Jack gave a rueful grin. ‘I know. Awful bohemians who live in dirty attics and lead scandalous lives. Sounds rather fun to me. But that’s exactly why I’m not going to tell them. Do say you’ll keep the secret.’

‘You know I will,’ said Lil. ‘But I do think this is all a ghastly mess. Don’t blame me when it all blows up in your face.’

Jack relaxed in his chair. ‘Thank you,’ he said. Then he turned to Sophie. ‘I say, I’m sorry to have interrupted your tea with all this family business, Miss Taylor.’

‘Don’t be so prim and proper, Jack. Her name’s Sophie,’ said Lil.

‘And what do you do, Sophie?’ he asked. ‘Are you an actress too?’

‘Oh no,’ said Sophie hurriedly. ‘I work at Sinclair’s – I’m a salesgirl.’

‘Yes, but much more importantly than that, she solves mysteries,’ chimed in Lil. ‘We both do. But Sophie is an awfully good detective. Fearfully brainy. You know that. I wrote to you and told you all about our adventures.’

Jack laughed. ‘Oh yes, I remember. Stolen jewels – and criminal gangs – and being chased over rooftops. It all sounded awfully exciting!’ He sounded as if he hadn’t believed a word of it, Sophie thought; although she supposed she couldn’t really blame him. After all, some of the things that had happened to them over the last few months had seemed almost too extraordinary to be real.

‘I do hope you won’t mind if I tag along on a few of your adventures, now that I’m in town,’ Jack continued. ‘In fact, what are you both doing this evening? I’m heading to the Café Royal – why don’t you come too?’

‘The Café Royal? You mean that place on Regent Street?’ asked Lil.

‘That’s right – it’s where all the artists spend their evenings. It’s awfully good fun. You can spot all sorts of famous painters there. It’s exactly the sort of place that the Aged Parents would loathe and despise.’

‘Oh, I wish I could – but we’ve got a show tonight,’ said Lil, her eyes gleaming at this description.

‘Sophie? What about you?’

‘I can’t tonight,’ said Sophie hurriedly. ‘Maybe another time.’ Enticing as the idea of spending an evening with Lil’s charming – and she had to admit, rather handsome – older brother might be, staying up late was hardly an option. She was working at Sinclair’s first thing the next morning, and she knew she had to be there early if she was going to get back into Mrs Milton’s good graces.

‘I’ll hold you to that,’ said Jack, flashing her a grin.

He and Lil left soon after that. Sophie watched them as they headed down the street arm in arm, their dark heads close together as they chattered. She turned away in the direction of her lodgings, pulling her coat close around her, feeling very cold and tired now. It had been fun to meet Lil’s brother, but she couldn’t help feeling disappointed that his appearance had meant that her rare tête-à-tête with her friend had been over almost before it had begun.

As she passed the newsboy on the corner, she handed him a penny in exchange for a copy of the evening paper. ‘Good evening to you, miss,’ he said, touching his cap just as he did every day. Reading the newspaper each morning and evening had become part of Sophie’s daily routine. She told the others that it was because it was useful for their detective work, but the real reason was that she was looking for news of the man called ‘the Baron’.

The Baron was never very far from Sophie’s thoughts. She and Lil and the others had tangled with him twice now, and she found herself thinking back, as she often did, to the last moments she had seen him, on the edge of the docks in the East End, just before he had made his escape. I daresay we’ll meet again, he had said. For now, adieu.

Lil and the others believed that the Baron was gone, and wouldn’t come back. Mr McDermott had told them that Scotland Yard believed he had fled the country. But Sophie knew that his photograph had been sent to police detectives across Europe, and as far afield as America – and as yet, no one had seen so much as a glimpse of him. She couldn’t feel so confident that they had really seen the last of the Baron, and that he was really gone from their lives for good. She knew he wouldn’t forget that they had been the ones to blow apart his false identity.

Now, she let herself into the lodging house, and trudged up the staircase to her room. Once inside, she took off her muddy boots and hung up her wet things, then settled down in the easy chair, spreading the newspaper across her lap.

Across from where she sat, on the wall above her dressing table, she had carefully pinned up the few pieces of information she had managed to gather so far about the Baron, including several newspaper cuttings from his time posing in the guise of Lord Beaucastle. In the very centre was the mysterious photograph that Mr McDermott had given to her after it had been taken from Beaucastle’s study. It showed Sophie’s parents standing either side of the Baron, with the words Cairo, 1890 inscribed on the back.

This had been her most unexpected – and disconcerting – discovery of all. She had learned that the Baron had known her parents, and that they had perhaps once even been friends.

Now, as usual, she carefully combed the evening paper for anything that might be relevant. A jeweller’s shop in Knightsbridge had been robbed, but only a few cheap trinkets had been taken, and the burglar’s methods were much too crude for the Baron. She flicked to the society pages where, for a brief moment, she paused to grin at a photograph of some friends who had helped them in their last adventure. Two smart young men and a young lady were sitting in an expensive new motor car, the picture captioned: Young gentlemen-about-town Mr Devereaux and Mr Pendleton take the Honourable Phyllis Woodhouse out for a spin! But there was no mention anywhere of Lord Beaucastle. The summer’s scandal was all but forgotten.