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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For Jackie and Zoe, for all the mysteries and adventures

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

PART I

White Dragon

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.

But if London society had moved on, Sophie had not. The photograph of her parents still niggled at her. She had to know the truth – how had her parents known the Baron? And worse still, could he really have had some part to play in her papa’s sudden death? She had spent hours searching through what little she had left that had belonged to her papa – a few letters and papers, a couple of postcards, but nothing that indicated even the smallest connection with the Baron, or with Cairo. If she hadn’t had the photograph, she would never have believed it could be true.

She had stopped talking to the others about the Baron. She knew that they were tired of hearing about him. ‘He’s gone, Sophie,’ Lil had said to her in frustration. ‘I understand why you keep coming back to him, I do. But not everything is always going to be about him. Besides, I don’t know about anyone else, but I’m jolly well ready to forget all about the Baron. That horrible man wanted to blow up Sinclair’s with us in it – he would have killed us if he had had the chance – and he made life a misery for all those people in the East End. But the Baron’s Boys are safely under lock and key in prison, and the Baron is gone, and I’m grateful for that.’

Now, Sophie gazed for the hundredth time at her collection of cuttings and photographs, trying to make sense of them. As she did so, she twisted her necklace between her fingers. It was a string of green beads, one of the very few things she possessed that had belonged to her Mama. She might have stopped talking about the Baron to Lil and the others, but she knew she would never stop thinking about him. She was determined to find out the truth – even if that was a secret she would have to keep to herself.

She opened her drawer and took out a sheet of writing paper and her pen and ink. There was still one person she could try contacting who might just know something about her papa being stationed in Egypt – her old governess. She knew that Miss Pennyfeather had gone to India to work as a governess for an English family out there. A letter would take a long time to reach her, but it had to be worth a try. Dear Miss Pennyfeather . . . she began to write.

CHAPTER FIVE

Leo stared at the paper in front of her, trying to concentrate on the whisper of soft pencil, the scratch of charcoal. Around her, the hum of voices began to blur and fade. Here in the Antiques Room there was always such a clamour of noise. It made her realise how accustomed she had become to quiet and stillness.

The students and their easels were ringed around the edge of the big airy space, scattered among the plaster casts of classical statues that gave the Antiques Room its name. The first years spent most of each day drawing here, and would continue to do so until they were considered to have mastered the basics of line and form.

Today, Leo had chosen to draw the figure of a nymph with a garland of evergreen: it reminded her a little of one of the statues in the Long Passage at Winter Hall that she had drawn many times before. The familiarity was comforting. The action of her pencil against the paper, outlining the figure’s shape in smooth strokes, felt soothing.

Nothing else felt familiar in the least. Everything here seemed so strange. The big room was stark and bare as a blank canvas: the white-painted walls, the white shapes of the plaster casts, the white shirtsleeves of the young man drawing next to her. She sensed her chest tightening as she looked around at the circle of strangers. After a week, she was beginning to recognise a few of their faces: the young man with the carefully waxed moustache; the tall girl with the habit of chewing the ends of her pencils; the red-haired, freckled boy with the Northern accent. While she drew, she stole glances at them under her eyelashes. She liked looking at their clothes: that young lady’s flowing Liberty-print smock; that young man’s paisley-patterned scarf.

Most often, her eyes were drawn to the girl who wore the most striking and unusual outfits, usually including brightly coloured stockings and odd shoes – today one was red and the other blue. She had a wild tangle of curls and a pouting mouth, and Leo had heard the boy next to her call her Connie. Leo would have liked to draw her. Now, as Leo glanced over at her again, Connie noticed her watching and frowned. Blushing, Leo let her eyes fall back to her work.

Behind her, she sensed the presence of the drawing master – the professor, she should call him. He paused, glancing over her shoulder, and she froze for a moment. Even she knew that Professor Jarvis was legendary here at the Spencer. She had already seen the way he spoke to some of the students – firing out sarcastic criticisms: ‘Is that the best you can do?’ ‘And you say you want to be an artist?’ Or sometimes, worst of all, merely a short snort of contempt. Now, he was standing right behind her, so close that she caught a whiff of his tobacco. Not knowing what to do, she kept on drawing, taking refuge in the familiarity of the pencil between her fingers. A moment later, she realised that he had moved on.

‘I say, you got off lightly!’ said the young man next to her. ‘Didn’t you hear what he said to me yesterday?’

She had – it had not been very complimentary – but the young man’s good humour did not appear to have been dented. ‘They say he’s like that all the time,’ he went on cheerfully. ‘He must think you’re good if you escaped a tongue-lashing.’

Leo kept on drawing, not knowing what to say. She had noticed the young man before: the way he drew, in bold, assertive strokes, pausing to stand back and survey his work every now and again. The way he swept back his dark hair and tossed a charming smile to the giggling girls across the room, before turning to make a friendly aside to his neighbour. She had never seen anyone so sure of himself in her life.

‘Gosh, you are good, aren’t you?’ he went on, coming closer to look at her drawing. ‘I wish I could draw half as well as you.’

Suddenly, she felt annoyed. ‘Well, maybe you should spend more time concentrating on your own work instead of looking at mine,’ she said. But as soon as the words were out of her mouth, she wished them back again. This was exactly the sort of thing that made Mother say that she was awkward and difficult. Why couldn’t she just be friendly, like everyone else?

To her surprise, the young man didn’t seem at all offended. Instead he laughed – a cheerful, hooting laugh, as though she had made a particularly good joke. ‘Yes I suppose you’re right there!’ he exclaimed. ‘Probably if I did, old Jarvis wouldn’t have told me yesterday that my fellow’s arms looked more like strings of sausages. I can see you’re going to be a good influence on me.’ He stuck out a hand, and Leo stared at it in surprise. ‘I’m Jonathan Rose, but everyone calls me Jack. What’s your name?’

She managed to shake his hand, and mumble her own name, her face still burning with embarrassment at her own rudeness.

‘Leo – I say, that’s quite a name. Short for Leonora? Oh, I see. Well, Leo it is. You’re new too, aren’t you?’

She nodded, surprised to discover that he was one of the first-year students. He seemed so comfortable, it was like he’d been at the Spencer for years.

‘Seen him?’ asked Jack, gesturing over to the corner of the room with his pencil, where Leo now noticed an older gentleman, with a sweep of iron-grey hair, deep in conversation with Professor Jarvis. He was elegantly dressed in a smart, tailored suit, in contrast to the professor, who was rather shabby in tweeds. Leo noticed that the gentleman’s silk waistcoat was finely patterned, his shoes were polished to a gleaming shine and he wore a gold lapel pin and an elaborate fob watch and chain.

‘Who is he?’ she found herself asking.

‘That’s Randolph Lyle,’ explained Jack in a low voice. ‘He’s one of the most important art collectors in London. But, more than that, he likes to support young artists while they’re getting started. They say he comes here every year looking for new talent.’

Leo looked over at Mr Lyle, intrigued.

‘Maybe that’s what he’s doing here now,’ suggested Jack, but before he could say anything else, Professor Jarvis began to speak, and the lively chatter around them fell silent. ‘This is Mr Randolph Lyle,’ he said in his usual brusque tone. ‘As I hope at least some of you are aware, Mr Lyle is a leading expert on fine art. He has come to speak to you today about an important opportunity. Mr Lyle.’

Mr Lyle gave a small bow. ‘Thank you, Professor. I am delighted to be here to speak to you all this morning. I am honoured to be a supporter of this wonderful institution. I have the greatest interest in our next generation of artists – and am proud to say that in my own small way, I have been able to help some of them on their path to success.’ He spoke with an elaborate politeness that contrasted starkly with the professor’s short, sardonic way of speaking. He looked – and sounded – very much like one of the guests that Leo might have encountered in her mother’s drawing room. ‘Today, as you have heard, I am here to talk to you about one such opportunity. I am currently working on a new exhibition, which will be opening in London in a few weeks’ time.

‘This exhibition is to be unlike any other: a combination of the very best new works and some of the masterpieces that have helped to inspire them. I have been lucky enough to have the chance to bring together a selection of old masters, including some works from my own collection, but also some treasures which have been most generously lent to me by a number of London’s museums, galleries and private collections.

‘The venue for this exhibition will also be rather unusual: it will take place at Sinclair’s, the department store on Piccadilly. As some of you may be aware, I have a passionate interest in bringing our best works of art to what we may call “the masses” – and Mr Sinclair happily shares that enthusiasm. Together, we are mounting what I hope will be one of the most exciting exhibitions of this year, in the store’s beautiful Exhibition Hall. Admission will be free to the general public, and we hope that many hundreds will attend.

‘Today, I am here to seek out some volunteers to assist me with putting together the exhibition. We will require a considerable commitment of time from our volunteers over the next few weeks, but in return I can promise a most interesting, instructive, and I hope also enjoyable experience.’

He smiled around the room again, and Professor Jarvis stepped in. ‘If you’d like to take part, come and see me this afternoon. And now, carry on with your work.’

The room instantly came to life again, with a rustle of papers and a hubbub of voices.

‘Well, I’m definitely volunteering,’ Leo heard Connie say decidedly. ‘I don’t care how much work it is – you’d be mad to miss the chance to get to know Randolph Lyle!’

‘It would be splendid to see all those paintings up close,’ said the freckled boy beside her enthusiastically.

Connie snorted. ‘That’s not the half of it. Lyle can make or break artists’ careers, you know. He’s terribly well connected.’

‘Well, I don’t know about that, but I reckon this exhibition sounds a lark,’ said the boy in a good-natured voice. He turned around. ‘What about you, Jack?’

‘I’m all for it,’ said Jack. ‘Let’s go and put our names down on Jarvis’s list. Coming, Leo?’

Leo glanced back over at Mr Lyle, who was already moving through the room, looking keenly over students’ shoulders to see their drawings. The exhibition sounded interesting, but all the same, she thought it would be a mistake to get involved. It was enough just getting used to being here in London without anything else to think about. Most of all, she wanted to work – and helping with this exhibition would mean time away from that.

‘No thank you,’ she said awkwardly. ‘I don’t think so.’

‘Well, it’s your funeral,’ said Connie, shrugging. She grabbed Jack’s sleeve. ‘Come on, let’s go before all the places are filled.’

Leo turned back to her drawing as they all hurried across the room, putting the exhibition out of her mind. She was so absorbed in her work that she barely noticed anything else until the session ended, and she became conscious that the others were beginning to pack up, chattering in little groups as they tidied drawings into portfolios.

‘Time to go,’ said Jack, with a grin, as he shrugged on his jacket. ‘I say, a few of us are off to the Café Royal later – want to come along?’

Leo looked up, uncertainly. Beyond, she could see that Connie and the other boy were waiting for Jack expectantly, their satchels slung over their shoulders.

‘Don’t tell me you’ve never heard of the Café Royal?’ Jack asked in surprise. ‘It’s where all the artists go!’

‘Oh, do come on, Jack,’ said Connie, impatiently. ‘She doesn’t even know what the Café Royal is – of course she doesn’t want to come.’

Leo felt her face flush redder, and she shrugged and shook her head. But Jack was still smiling at her. ‘Well, if you change your mind, you’ll know where we are,’ he said, before he was swept away, at the centre of a gabbling crowd of art students.

Leo was left alone to slowly pack up her things. She always seemed to be lagging behind the other students: she was used to being the last to leave, but today, as she made her way towards the door, Professor Jarvis stopped her.

‘Miss Fitzgerald – you haven’t put your name down to help with the exhibition.’

Leo shook her head. He stared at her for a moment, and she explained: ‘I just want to focus on my work for now, Professor.’

Professor Jarvis gave her a searching look. ‘Mr Lyle has seen your work, and he has requested you particularly for the exhibition, Miss Fitzgerald,’ he said in his dry voice. ‘If he takes an interest in your career, it could be very beneficial for you. I’d suggest you take him up on his offer.’

CHAPTER SIX

On London’s bustling Piccadilly Circus, Mr Randolph Lyle’s new exhibition was also creating plenty of conversation. In the Sinclair’s offices, high above the shop, it was time for an afternoon tea break, and the clerks were all discussing the news of the exhibition, while Billy Parker, the office boy, poured out tea from the big pot.

Billy felt that he was quite a different fellow to the one he had been just six months ago, when he had first started working at Sinclair’s. He had grown up a lot. For one thing, he was taller now: his mum had been complaining about how often she had to let down the sleeves of his jackets, and the legs of his trousers. The Billy of six months ago wouldn’t have cared very much if his trousers were too short or not – nor would he have taken such satisfaction in doing each little job carefully, whether it was preparing the clerks’ afternoon tea, or filing Miss Atwood’s papers. But, perhaps the biggest change of all was that these days, just like his uncle Sid, who was the Head Doorman, Billy felt proud to say that he worked for London’s finest department store.

Working for Miss Atwood, Mr Sinclair’s own private secretary, suited him in a way that being a shop porter never had. He enjoyed the company of the other clerks and the lively bustle of the offices. He liked seeing all the people who came and went – Miss Atwood, Mr Betteredge the store manager, and of course, the great Mr Sinclair, ‘the Captain’ himself. He liked being the person responsible for delivering the Captain’s own messages, in their special yellow envelopes, to staff around the store – tipping his hat to the salesgirls and waving a greeting to his old friends the porters as he went. He liked being able to answer the telephone, saying in his most important-sounding voice: ‘Good afternoon, Miss Atwood’s office, this is Parker speaking, how may I assist you?’

One of his favourite tasks was taking Mr Sinclair’s pug, Lucky, on her daily outing to the park. The little dog had become almost as much of a London celebrity as the Captain himself, and attracted a good deal of attention on these walks, especially on cold days, when she was wearing the little blue jacket with the gold Sinclair’s livery that had been specially made for her.

Most of all though, what Billy loved about being an office boy was being among the first to hear all the latest news. Billy loved a good story – and there always seemed to be something exciting to talk about at Sinclair’s. Today was no exception.

‘Some of those paintings are worth a mint. Proper famous, they are,’ reported O’Donnell, as he helped himself to another biscuit.

‘When do they arrive?’ asked Billy.

‘Next week,’ said Crawley. ‘Mr Lyle is going to oversee the hanging of them himself. Very particular, he is. He’s bringing some art students to help him.’

‘Well, he’ll not have much help from the Captain, that’s for sure,’ contributed Davies. ‘He’ll be away for another fortnight yet – that’s what Betteredge says.’

‘But he’s been gone weeks already! Whatever’s he up to?’

‘He’s out in the country. Buying himself a new house, or so I hear. Some great big country pile.’

‘That’s right,’ said Crawley, nodding authoritatively. ‘He’s setting himself up as a proper English gent. His valet told me he’s getting kitted out with tweeds and shooting outfits and the like.’

‘It’ll take more than a bit of tweed to make the Captain into an Englishman,’ said O’Donnell. ‘He’s a Yankee through and through!’

‘I heard that’s why he’s so keen to pal up with this Mr Lyle. He thinks Lyle might be able to recommend him for membership of Wyvern House,’ offered Davies.

‘Wyvern House! He’ll be lucky,’ said O’Donnell sagely.

‘What’s Wyvern House?’ asked Billy at once.

‘One of the oldest gentlemen’s clubs in London. It’s in the City, near the Bank of England. Very exclusive. You have to be invited to join, and they only take people from the best old families – lords and so forth,’ explained Crawley.

‘As a matter of fact, I had a great-uncle that was a member there once,’ announced O’Donnell.

‘Ha! You had a great-uncle who cleaned the boots there once, more like!’ spluttered Davies.

A bit of good-natured bickering broke out, until Miss Atwood stepped out of her office, and said in her clipped voice: ‘Back to work, if you please, gentlemen!’

Reluctantly, they put down their cups and headed back to their desks. But O’Donnell paused to throw the latest edition of the paper in Billy’s direction: ‘Here, you can read a bit more about the exhibition in there, if you like.’

‘What on earth’s a “Living Painting?”’ asked Joe, as Billy broke off to turn the page.

It was the end of another day at Sinclair’s, and the four of them were sitting cosily in the hayloft, the rain pattering gently on the roof above them. Until recently they had spent many lunches and tea breaks in this way, and had often met here after the store had closed to discuss whatever mystery they were solving. Billy had even taken to referring to it as ‘Detective HQ’.

In the past weeks though, these gatherings had become rather less regular. The others always seemed to be so busy, Sophie thought now. Lil was occupied with her new play; Miss Atwood kept Billy busy in the office; and even Joe was immersed in life at the stable-yard. More than once, Sophie had found herself spending her tea breaks here alone, with only the day’s newspaper for company.

But today was different – they were all together again, crunching apples and passing around a bag of toffees that Sophie had bought with some of her hard-earned sixpence from Mrs Long. Sophie felt delighted to see the others. It was quite like old times.

‘The Living Paintings are Mr Sinclair’s latest big idea,’ explained Lil now. ‘A sort of stunt to help advertise the exhibition. Claudine is going to recreate a series of famous paintings in the store windows, and we – the mannequins – are going to pose there, just as if we were the people in the paintings.’

‘I thought you weren’t working as a mannequin very much now, because of the play,’ said Billy in surprise.

‘I’m not really, but I couldn’t resist this. It sounds like such splendid fun – and Mr Mountville at the theatre thinks it might be good publicity too. I’m to be a painting by Fragonard, and I wear a marvellous frilly pink dress, and I sit on a swing surrounded by flowers.’

Winking at the other two, Joe said in a very serious voice: ‘Blimey, Lil. You’re awful grand these days. I’m surprised you think we’re fit to associate with someone so fancy.’

Lil gave a little squeak of indignation, and threw the bag of toffees at him, spilling sweets everywhere. Joe coolly picked one up, unwrapped it and popped it into his mouth, making them all laugh.

Sophie laughed too. She sometimes found it hard to believe that the Joe they knew today – still rather quiet, but with a very definite sense of humour – was the same down-and-out vagabond she had once seen begging outside Sinclair’s. Now, he was respected for his skill with the horses, and well liked by all the stable boys. Since the summer, he had been spending more time with Lil: indeed, the girls in the Millinery Department had all been asking Sophie if it was true that they were ‘walking out’ together.

Sophie had just shrugged and smiled. ‘They’re friends. We all are.’

‘Well, you wouldn’t catch me stepping out with a groom,’ said assistant buyer, Edith, in a superior tone. ‘I like a man with prospects.’

‘Didn’t that Joe used to be some kind of a criminal?’ chimed in Ellie.

‘Ooh, he never did!’ squeaked Minnie, delighted by this titbit of scandal.

Sophie had given her short shrift, but now she found herself wondering what Jack would make of his sister spending time with a young man who, it was true, had once been part of the Baron’s gang. Joe was her friend and she trusted him as much as she would trust anyone in the world. But how might someone who didn’t know him feel about his history?

It was Joe who asked now: ‘When do we get to meet this famous brother of yours?’

Lil smiled at him, and shrugged. ‘I haven’t the faintest,’ she said. ‘He was awfully keen to meet you all when he arrived – wasn’t he, Sophie? But I haven’t heard a peep out of him for days. I suppose he must be busy at the art school.’

Outside, a clock began to strike the hour. ‘I think I’d better go,’ said Billy, getting to his feet reluctantly. ‘Uncle Sid’s coming round for tea tonight and Mum wanted me to stop at the grocer’s on the way home.’

‘Me too,’ said Joe. ‘The Gaffer’ll be wondering where I’ve got to.’

‘And I have to get to the theatre,’ added Lil. ‘Why don’t you walk with me?’ she suggested to Sophie. ‘It’s on your way home anyway.’

Sophie was only too glad to agree. She didn’t want their jolly afternoon to be over just yet – and besides, Jack’s sudden arrival meant that she and Lil hadn’t had as much chance to talk over tea as she had hoped. But as they walked towards the theatre, she soon found that her brother was the only thing that Lil wanted to talk about.

‘I still can’t believe Jack has left Oxford! He’s always been such a goody two shoes. You know, top of the class at school, captain of the cricket team and all that sort of rot.’ She paused for a moment. ‘But then, in another way, I suppose I’m not exactly surprised. He’s always had a way of managing to do exactly what he wants.’

As they approached the theatre, she was still talking: ‘I am awfully glad he’s here though. It will be fun to have him in London – just as long as he isn’t going to start trying to boss me around. I just hope he likes Joe – and Billy, of course – and that they like him.’ She looked over at Sophie slyly. ‘He liked you awfully, you know.’

‘Oh don’t be silly.’

‘He did! He told me so on the way home.’

By now they had come to the stage door, and it was time to say goodbye. Sophie turned away from the bright lights of the theatre, and headed back towards her lodgings. For once though, she didn’t stop to collect the evening paper. She wasn’t thinking about the Baron – instead, she found herself turning over the memory of meeting Jack Rose. Surely he couldn’t really have told Lil that he liked her awfully? In spite of her long day in the Millinery Department, she found that she was, after all, feeling rather cheerful.

PART II

Green Dragon

Painted in approximately 1455, this rare surviving painting from Casselli’s ‘Dragon Sequence’ was given as a wedding gift to Her Majesty Queen Victoria by her husband, Prince Albert of Saxe-Coburg and Gotha . . .

Randolph Lyle, A Short History of the Royal Art Collection, 1901 (from the Spencer Institute Library)

CHAPTER SEVEN

Leo paused for a moment, tapping her pen against the paper, unsure what else to say. She had never been very good at putting her feelings into words. What’s more, it was difficult to express just how different her life was here in London to life at Winter Hall. There, the fields and woods would be golden now and the air would smell of smoke and moss. Father and Vincent would be preparing for their autumn shooting parties; Mother would be packing for her European trip.

But autumn meant something else to Leo now. It meant rain on the windows of the Antiques Room in the morning; afternoons spent walking through the grand spaces of London’s museums and galleries; or sitting on the rug before the fire in her room, reading art history books. It meant a jumble of raincoats and umbrellas on the underground railway in the morning; the steamed-up windows of the little tea shop around the corner from the Spencer, where all the art students went to eat buns and drink endless cups of coffee.

Most of all, it meant long hours working in the studio. Professor Jarvis was working them all hard, but no matter how much effort she put in, Leo had found she could not entirely avoid the sharp edge of his tongue. His criticisms rattled her confidence – and she knew she was not the only one. A couple of the other first-year students had left, unable to handle Professor Jarvis’s acid remarks – but Leo kept on, refusing to allow herself to be discouraged.

When she was not at the Spencer, she was usually at Sinclair’s. Working on Mr Lyle’s exhibition had turned out to be more enjoyable than she had expected. It was fun spending time at the beautiful department store, but most of all, she had been surprised by how much she had enjoyed the chance to get to know the other students who were helping with the exhibition – particularly Jack Rose and the red-haired, freckled boy, Tom Smith, who everyone called ‘Smitty’ – though she was still a little intimidated by their outspoken friend, Connie.

Now, as she sat in her room, hesitating over how to say all this in her letter to Lady Tremayne, she found herself thinking back to that afternoon, when Mr Lyle had gathered the students together to see the unwrapping of one of the most important works in the exhibition. It had arrived earlier that day in a large motor van painted with the Royal crest, and two men had personally delivered it into Mr Lyle’s own hands. Usually Mr Lyle allowed the students to unwrap the paintings, wearing white cotton gloves and following his careful instructions, but this particular painting was so precious that he was handling it himself. The students had gathered in a semi-circle around him to watch.

‘This is one of the finest pieces in our exhibition,’ he had said, as he gently removed the painting from its wrappings, and stared at it reverently. ‘I am honoured to say that His Majesty the King himself has lent us this magnificent piece.’

Leo gazed at the painting. It was much smaller than the other paintings in the exhibition, but it at once drew the eye towards it. It was clear that it was extremely old, and yet its colours were lush and intense. The central image was of a dragon, with a twisting, serpent-like body, magnificent wings and a coiling tail. It was painted in a rich emerald green that almost seemed to glow. The background was elaborately patterned with gold leaf in ornate symbols and tiny stars. Mr Lyle stared at it for a long moment before he spoke.

‘Is anyone familiar with this painting?’ he asked. ‘Yes – Miss Clifton?’

‘It’s part of the Casselli Dragon sequence,’ offered Connie.

‘Very good,’ said Mr Lyle. ‘That is quite right. This is in fact one of only two surviving paintings from the sequence thought to have been painted by the artist Benedetto Casselli in Venice in 1455. Miss Clifton, do you know how many paintings we believe there were originally?’

‘Was it seven?’ said Connie, a little less confidently this time.

‘Oh excellent, Miss Clifton,’ said Mr Lyle, and Connie looked pleased. ‘Yes. Seven paintings, each one depicting a dragon. This is known as The Green Dragon. I am sorry to tell you that the other surviving painting, The White Dragon, was most unfortunately stolen from Mr Doyle’s gallery on Bond Street earlier this year.’

‘That’s right – I read about it in the paper!’ exclaimed Smitty. ‘Wasn’t it supposed to be worth a whole lot of money?’

Lyle looked troubled. ‘The loss of such a treasure is a genuine tragedy. I only hope that the thieves have the sense to take proper care of the painting, and that it will find its way back into the hands of a museum or a reputable collector before long.

‘Now, as Mr Smith rightly points out, both The White Dragon and The Green Dragon are of great value. They are particularly special because of their unusual subject matter. There has been much speculation about why the artist chose the dragon as his subject, though of course it is unlikely we will ever know for sure. But the painting is a fine example of the craftsmanship of the time. I urge you to study it closely.

‘Moving onwards, I am very pleased to say that I have another special painting to show you today, painted by Gainsborough around 1780. This is on loan from a dear friend of mine, the Duke of Roehampton, and it also has a remarkable history. Mr Rose, if you could perhaps assist me? This one is large and rather heavy . . . thank you . . .’

The others crowded around the new picture eagerly, but Leo found that she couldn’t stop staring at the painted dragon. The dragon’s expression was inscrutable: at first glance it appeared proud and regal; in another light, cruel and fierce. But the more Leo looked at it, the more she began to feel that it looked in fact a little sad. How was it possible that a painter so many hundreds of years before had managed to capture so many shades of feeling in just a few blobs of paint?

She was still contemplating it when Mr Lyle’s little lecture on Gainsborough came to an end, and the students dispersed. After a moment, he came over to her, and she started back, afraid that he was going to accuse her of not paying attention to what he had been saying. But then she saw to her surprise that he was smiling. Up close, she was struck all over again by his exquisite clothing: the fine silk of his necktie, the immaculate kid gloves, the richly spiced scent of the unusual cologne he wore, the gleaming gold pin at his lapel.

‘It’s Miss Fitzgerald, isn’t it? Professor Jarvis was kind enough to show me a little of your work. I was particularly impressed by some of the copies you had made of one or two very fine pieces – I believe I recognised them from the collection at Winter Hall.’

Leo looked up, astonished. ‘You’ve been there?’ she blurted out.

‘Oh, not for a few years. But I remember some of the paintings well. Let me see – I believe it was your grandfather, Lord Charles, who was the keen collector?’

Leo was suddenly embarrassed. She should have known that a man like Mr Lyle was bound to know her family.

But Mr Lyle was still talking: ‘I wonder if perhaps growing up surrounded by such a collection has helped to set you on this path,’ he said thoughtfully. ‘Your copies of some of those pictures are very skilful. Your version of that little Watteau portrait, for example – an ambitious choice, but cleverly done. I have a soft spot for Watteau, myself, I must confess. You have a real gift, Miss Fitzgerald.’

Leo looked back at him, surprised and pleased. None of the guests in her mother’s drawing room – with the exception, of course, of Lady Tremayne – had ever spoken to her like this. ‘I don’t know if I should spend so much time copying other people’s work,’ she managed to stammer out. ‘Professor Jarvis says it’s important that I find my own style, instead of imitating others.’

‘My goodness, my dear, no!’ Mr Lyle looked so horrified that Leo almost wanted to laugh in spite of herself. ‘There is no finer way to learn than to apprentice yourself to the masters. Professor Jarvis is quite right, of course – all artists need to find their own style eventually, but for now, I would encourage you to keep on this path.’

Leo felt a sudden sense of relief. She knew that she did not have the same bold, definite style as some of the other students. Smitty, for example, painted enormous scenes of jagged abstract industrial landscapes; while Connie’s taste seemed to be for large portraits in odd colours, which exposed every blemish of her subjects’ faces. Leo knew that she did not want to do work like that herself, but what exactly she did want to paint, she was not quite sure.

‘Why not see what you can do with The Green Dragon?’ said Mr Lyle now, gesturing to the painting before them. ‘It won’t be easy, but it would be a good challenge for you.’

Leo gaped at him. ‘But . . . I could never recreate that! It’s so old, and I don’t have any of the materials. All that gold leaf . . .’

Lyle waved a gloved hand, as if to say all that was nothing. ‘Oh, I can supply you with the materials you would need. Think of it as a little commission. Perhaps, if it turns out well, I might buy it as a memento of this exhibition? I’d rather like to be able to say I purchased your first piece.’

She had still been stumbling over her thanks as he had strolled away to talk to Connie about the Gainsborough. Now, remembering this, Leo set aside the letter to her godmother. Instead, she took out one of her art history books, which she felt quite sure contained a picture of The Green Dragon.

Back at Sinclair’s, there were preparations of a different kind under way for Mr Lyle’s new exhibition. In their dressing room, some of the mannequins had gathered to try on their costumes for the Living Paintings display, and to practise their poses. As Sophie made her way along the passage, carrying a couple of hat-boxes, she could hear the voice of Claudine, the window-dresser, emanating loudly from within:

‘Rosa! You’re supposed to be a painting – you ought to be still. Don’t twitch like that! And Millie – you’re meant to be Joan of Arc. A saint – a heroine – not a music-hall dancer!’

Sophie grinned to herself as she went on her way down the stairs into the Entrance Hall. At the foot of the stairs, she was rather surprised to see none other than Mr McDermott standing waiting, accompanied by a large dog. Mr McDermott was the private detective who worked for Mr Sinclair – and sometimes, Sophie knew, with Scotland Yard too. The thin, grey-haired man might not look much like it, but she knew he was a clever detective – and someone that she could rely on. She suspected that he might be one of the only people to understand how she felt about the Baron, although they had never really talked about it.

‘Miss Taylor – good afternoon,’ he said, tipping his hat to her as she approached.

Sophie smiled back a greeting, and stopped to give the big Alsatian a pat. ‘He’s lovely – is he yours?’

‘He’s a she – and as a matter of fact, she belongs to Sinclair’s department store,’ explained the detective. Sophie frowned, confused, and McDermott went on: ‘She’s a guard dog. Trained by Scotland Yard’s experts.’

‘A guard dog?’ repeated Sophie in surprise, looking down at the dog who was currently licking her hand in an extremely affectionate manner.

‘Oh she’s friendly as anything now, but when she’s on duty, it’s a different matter. Mr Sinclair has asked me to put some additional security measures in place while the exhibition is here,’ McDermott explained.

‘Is that because of the burglary that happened before, when the Clockwork Sparrow was stolen?’ Sophie asked. She knew that Mr McDermott had already helped to improve the store’s security after the last break-in. The windows of the Exhibition Hall had been specially reinforced, and there was always a nightwatchman patrolling the store after closing time.

‘It’s just an extra precaution,’ said McDermott in a neutral voice. ‘Mr Sinclair didn’t want anyone to be concerned about the safety of the paintings.’

Just then, the Head Porter Sid Parker appeared, accompanied, rather unexpectedly, by Joe.

‘This the dog, then, is it?’ asked Sid briskly.

‘Her name’s Daisy,’ said Mr McDermott. Daisy yawned, lolling out a long pink tongue.

‘Daisy?’ repeated Sid. ‘What kind of a name is that?’

McDermott laughed. ‘It doesn’t matter what her name is – she’s an excellent guard dog. She’ll bark the place down if she gets so much as a sniff of an intruder.’

Sid grunted. ‘Well, Joe here is going to take charge of her for the time being. He’ll look after her at the stables, and then we’ll station her on guard with the nightwatchman outside the Hall each night.’

‘Just the man for the job,’ said McDermott, nodding approvingly. ‘Make sure you introduce her to the nightwatchman, and anyone else who might be in the store at night. Otherwise she’ll bark if she hears them coming.’

As he said this, the detective reached out to hand over Daisy’s lead, but before Joe could take a firm hold of it, Billy appeared through the main door, leading Lucky. As usual, several passing customers turned at once to coo and fuss over the adorable little creature.

Lucky, however, had other ideas. Glimpsing Daisy across the Entrance Hall, she made up her mind that here was a new friend. To everyone’s astonishment, she shot suddenly away, jerking her lead right out of Billy’s hand. As Lucky bounded towards Daisy, she leapt forwards too, barking joyously, obviously quite delighted by this new game.

Several customers turned to stare at the commotion.

‘Good heavens!’ sniffed a fashionable lady.

‘Bless my soul!’ exclaimed a gentleman in a top hat.

‘Oh blimey,’ said Uncle Sid. ‘Joe – Billy – get after them – quickly!’

Joe and Billy chased after the two dogs, who were now racing up the main staircase – and Mr McDermott and Sid hurried along behind. After a moment’s pause, Sophie followed too. She knew she had already been far too long delivering the hat-boxes, but she simply couldn’t resist seeing what would happen next.

The two dogs bounded up the stairs, darting between customers, upsetting a porter with a stack of boxes, and knocking over a small boy in a sailor suit, who began to wail. One lady screamed as the big Alsatian rushed past her, but luckily Uncle Sid was there in the nick of time, with a steadying arm. ‘I do apologise most sincerely for this unseemly disturbance, madam,’ Sophie heard him saying in his politest voice.

Upstairs, the dogs had dashed along the gallery and through the Stationery Department, sending sheets of writing paper and envelopes fluttering up into the air, and upsetting several bottles of coloured ink. They paid no heed to the chaos left behind them, or the angry salesman shaking his fist as they raced on, with Billy and Joe hot on their heels. They careened past the door to the Library, where a very serious-looking lady looked over her spectacles in great disapproval. Finally, they shot through the door into the mannequins’ dressing room: for a moment, the two boys hesitated on the threshold, and looked at each other.

‘We’re not allowed to go in there!’ hissed Billy.

A cacophony of shrieks and yells were heard from within, followed by the distinct sound of tearing fabric, and then Claudine screaming something very angry in French.

‘I think we better had,’ said Joe, and dived through the door, Billy following close behind him.

Some more yells were heard, but a few moments later, the two boys emerged, each leading a dog, and looking rather red in the face. Daisy had the remains of what looked like a long white glove in her mouth. Lucky, meanwhile, was dragging a chewed feather boa behind her, wriggling her little tail in pride and delight.

Sophie couldn’t help laughing. McDermott was grinning too. Behind them, Uncle Sid panted along the passageway, having safely delivered the swooning lady to the Ladies’ Lounge, smoothed down the rumpled feelings of the salesman in the Stationery Department, and extended all due apologies to the lady in the library. Now, he wiped his forehead with his handkerchief, shaking his head.

‘Crikey,’ he gasped. ‘I reckon this art business is a whole lot more trouble than it’s worth.’

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