This was meant to prompt a decent tip, so I duly obliged.

'Do you want me to wait for you?'

'No thank you. I'll be coming back in the Rolls.'

'Good for you, missis. Enjoy it while you're young.'

I was not quite sure what he meant by that, but never mind.

As the cab drove off, a young constable swaggered towards me. He was a tall, well-built fellow who would pack a punch and not be slow to draw his truncheon.

'Afternoon, Mrs Shackleton.' He could not resist throwing out his chest.

'Good afternoon, constable.'

'I've orders to stay nearby, should you need me.'

'Thank you. I hope that won't be necessary. Perhaps you wouldn't mind keeping out of sight.'

He nodded, and tapped his nose in music hall fashion. 'Rely on me.'

He walked on a little way.

I glanced up at the name above the door, Landlord Joseph Mudge.

Pushing open the heavy, bra.s.s-handled door, I hoped no one inside had seen the bobby speaking to me.

Entering a pub alone is something I have to brace myself for. There is an odd sensation when a room of normal size becomes enormous and traversing it feels like crossing a continent. Heads turned to look as I stepped directly into a lounge bar with the usual wall seats, round tables and stools, and the usual smell of beer and old cigarette smoke. A large door to my right was emblazoned with the words Concert Room. So this was where Lydia spent her childhood, tap-dancing her heart out, practising her smile, picking up the knack of conquering hearts.

Look as if you belong, I told myself as I approached the bar where a stout woman was polishing a gla.s.s. Beyond her was another bar, which I guessed must be the tap room.

'h.e.l.lo. I'm meeting Lydia here.'

She looked surprised, as well she might. 'Lydia's in the back.'

I tried to look as if I knew my way to the back, but did not succeed.

She pointed. 'Door next to the concert room.'

I knocked.

Lydia's cheerful voice yelled, 'Come in, Freddie.'

I came in. Lydia sat at a round table covered in a check cloth. Opposite her was an older woman, her red hair wound around metal curlers partially concealed by a green cotton turban. Her head resembled a rock covered by c.o.c.kle sh.e.l.ls.

'h.e.l.lo, Lydia.' In spite of not being Freddie, I marched up to the table.

Lydia glared at me. 'Where did you spring from?'

A quick lie was called for. 'Your mother said I'd find you here. I know how much you value your jewellery so I thought I'd pop in and let you know that one of your emerald earrings rolled under the bed at the Cavendish Arms.'

'Where is it then?'

'Waiting for you at the Dorchester.'

Lydia scowled.

The older woman pursed her lips and widened her eyes in an exaggerated fashion, 'Oooh, hark at that, eh? You don't even miss an emerald now, Liddy.'

In for a penny, in for a pound. I smiled at the woman. 'You must be Lydia's aunt Emily. Your sister says h.e.l.lo.'

'Does she now? Well you better sit down, Mrs...'

'Shackleton.'

'... and name your poison.'

'I'll have what you're having, Mrs Mudge.' There was a cheap tin tray on the table, etched with an image of the Taj Mahal. 'That's nice.'

Just keep on lying, I told myself.

The aunt picked up the tray. 'Isn't it? My present from India. Best out of harm's way.' She carried it to an overcrowded sideboard and slid it to stand at the back, behind flowers under a gla.s.s dome, candlesticks, a fruit bowl and a china dog.

'India. Doesn't it make you melt when Liddy talks about it?' She turned to her niece. 'Does your friend know about your palace, Liddy?'

Lydia smoothed her hair. 'I might have mentioned it.'

'Tell her. Tell her about the marble halls, the satin cushions embroidered with gold, the silk bedding, the parrot, the sunken bath. Tell her about the journey to the hills in the hot weather. Tell her about the elephants. She loves it there, don't you? It's become her spiritual home, and we're all going to visit one fine day.'

'It's true. India gets under your skin. I shall go back. That palace and everything in it is mine.'

'Tell her about how the maharajah gave you the pick of the treasure and...'

'Not now, Auntie. What about that drink?'

The aunt walked to the door that led to the bar. 'You never know, I might meet a prince myself, when your uncle isn't looking.' She hoisted her skirt above her knees. 'But I'll need them stockings you promised me.'

'You'll have to wait until I go to Paris, Auntie.'

The door to the bar swung closed behind her aunt.

Lydia whipped round to face me. 'All right, what d'you want?'

'You. At the Dorchester.'

'Why?'

'You left the farm without telling anyone.'

'And is that a crime?'

'You were asked not to leave the area pending investigations into the missing diamond.'

'I have diamonds of my own. Why would I take that?'

'You tell me.'

'You'd like that wouldn't you?'

'Lydia, what are your plans?'

'To go out on the town with Freddie. You want to know a lot don't you?'

'If I don't ask you, someone else will. Scotland Yard is involved, and the India Office.'

She snorted, 'The India Office. The Indians might kowtow. I won't.'

'So is Freddie someone you can safely pa.s.s a diamond to?'

'He's a dancer, and a good pal. We were in the chorus together at the Little Theatre, my first job. And don't look at me like that. People swallow their grief in different ways. I take mine neat. And I haven't got their b.l.o.o.d.y diamond.'

'Is it true that you're going back to India?'

'Why shouldn't I? I have my palace there.'

'Without your maharajah to protect you, the establishment will have you turned back at the port.'

'Let them try.'

'The Indian Civil Service, the police, they will find some way of keeping you out.'

'I have as much right to be in India as anyone else. An Indian maharajah loved me. Can the British government say that? I don't think so.'

Her aunt returned with a tray holding a gla.s.s and bottles of Beefeater gin and dry vermouth. 'No sign of Freddie.'

'He's always late.'

The aunt placed the gla.s.s in front of me.

I took a sip. 'Don't know why you need curlers. This is strong enough to give you a permanent wave.'

She laughed. 'Oh, your friend's a card. You know how to pick 'em, Liddy.' When she had stopped laughing, she said, 'There's a copper outside, trying to play the invisible man. If Freddie sees him, he'll get the wind up. He hasn't been the same since that business blew up over his brush with big Albert in the back pa.s.sage. All a shameful misunderstanding if you ask me.'

Lydia glanced at me. 'Is the copper with you?'

'Absolutely not. I've never had a police escort in my life. Not important enough.'

Mrs Mudge laughed. 'She's a card, your friend.'

'Nice gin. What are the c.o.c.ktails like in the bar at the Dorchester? I've never had the pleasure.'

Lydia stood, 'Well then, since you were so kind as to find my lost earring, I'll stand you a treat there. Auntie, tell Freddie I'll see him another day.'

The woman's face became a picture of disappointment. 'Poor Freddie.'

'He shouldn't be late then, should he?'

A stout porter opened the door of a room on the second floor of the Dorchester. Lydia stepped inside the sumptuous room, and for a moment stood still and drank in the luxury while James, Chana and I looked on from the doorway.

We followed her in, to make way for a second porter who brought a trunk.

Lydia delved in her handbag and produced a key ring. 'Well, here we are, quite a party. Never thought you'd find yourself in my hotel room, did you, Mr Chana?'

Chana looked at James. 'May we proceed?'

James handed Lydia a piece of paper. 'Miss Metcalfe, this is an order taken out by Maharajah Shivram Halkwaer, requiring you to open your trunks in the presence of the maharajah's representative, Mr Chana.'

As she studied the paper with great care, James looked a little embarra.s.sed. 'Perhaps you are tired after your journey and would like to have tea, or take a rest before we begin?'

Chana let out something like a m.u.f.fled groan.

Lydia studied the paper. 'This says the hotel manager must be present.'

James and Chana exchanged a look.

'Well?' Lydia demanded.

There was a tap on the door. Another porter struggled in with a second trunk.

James turned to him. 'Please ask the manager to attend urgently.'

The porter stared, as if he could not believe his ears.

'Urgently,' James repeated.

When the man had gone, Lydia handed the paper back to James. 'It does not say how many trunks you wish me to open.'

'You sent two trunks from Bolton Abbey.'

'Ah yes, but I have another forty-eight trunks stored in the bas.e.m.e.nt. What if I have colluded with a member of staff and a jewel of inestimable worth is folded in a nightgown and tucked in one of those forty-eight trunks?'

Mr Chana attempted to look through her. 'We will see all forty-eight trunks.'

'Fifty,' Lydia corrected. 'Must try harder in arithmetic, Mr Chana.'

Three hours later, Lydia opened the fiftieth trunk.

She took out writing paper and envelopes, holding up each envelope separately, to prove it contained nothing. She shook out a hand towel, embroidered with the Ritz Hotel initials; a hand towel embroidered with the Dorchester's initials. She held out a used tablet of soap for inspection. Picking up a packet of tea, she announced it to be Darjeeling, opened it and carefully emptied the contents into a large gla.s.s ashtray, allowing it to overflow onto the walnut dressing table. Over each theatre programme and each signed photograph of an actor, singer or dancer, she lingered. There were trinkets she must have had since childhood, cheap gla.s.s beads, a copper bracelet, an imitation pearl pendant. She waved a menu from the SS Malwa. Finally, she picked up a packet of sanitary towels, ripped it open and, with a flourish, placed pad after pad on the bed. She shook out a pair of stockings, which brought a flicker of interest. She examined the toe of one, and discarded the pair in the waste basket.