Howard spoke up before she could reply for herself. ‘That’s rather why we came over, as a matter of fact. I . . . we were wondering if she might—’

  ‘I’d love the chance to sing with you, Mr . . . ?’

  ‘Kent, but call me Mickey.’

  ‘I’d love to sing with you, Mickey. Do you think I might?’

  Mickey glanced around at his colleagues but they were all engrossed in their own business. He made a decision.

  ‘Next up is “All Alone”. Irving Berlin. You know it?’

  ‘I do.’

  ‘What key?’

  ‘F sharp, please,’ she purred.

  If Mickey were the swooning type, he would have swooned.

  ‘You ready there, Mickey boy?’ said Skins.

  ‘Slight change of plans,’ said Mickey. ‘Let me do an intro.’

  He stood at the front of the stage, briefly surveying the glamorous youngsters on the dance floor and the more mature guests reclining at the tables beyond. The meal had been sumptuously modern, and though everyone had eaten more than their fair share of roast haunch of venison, there was still room for the petits fours and yet more champagne being served by the uniformed footmen and housemaids who had been assigned to waiting duties for the evening.

  ‘Ladies and gentlemen. We in the Dizzy Heights are always keen to show off new talent when we find it, so this next number is going to be sung by our new friend . . . Miss Hetty Hollis.’

  There was a smattering of applause from the tables, and raucous whooping from Howard’s young friends on the dance floor. The Dizzies exchanged cheerfully bewildered shrugs, but said nothing.

  Mickey turned to the band. ‘F sharp minor all right for you?’

  There was a small amount of eye rolling, but no complaints as the band readied themselves to transpose the piece on the fly.

  ‘Let’s not leave the nice ladies and gentlemen waiting, then,’ said Skins. ‘I’ll give you four for nothing . . .’ He tapped his drum sticks together to set the tempo and they were off.

  Howard retreated from the stage and rejoined his friends.

  Hetty Hollis was a sensation. Her singing voice more than lived up to its promise, and even the more staid guests at the tables were clapping enthusiastically by the time she finished.

  She beamed out at the partygoers and gave an awkward curtsey before turning back to the band.

  ‘Do you think I might do another?’

  ‘You can do the whole set,’ said Dunn from behind his double bass. ‘Mickey? Take the night off, mate.’

  After a brief discussion they launched into a more upbeat number.

  Ellie wanted to stay and listen, but she also wanted to explore. She had been married to Skins for six years and was well used to amusing herself while the band played. Not that she saw them every time they played – she often used his absence as an opportunity to catch up with her many friends.

  In her elegant beaded dress, she made her way down the steps at the side of the stage and on to the crowded dance floor, where she quickstepped her way past the exuberant young dancers and weaved through the tables where the older guests were sitting in voluble clusters.

  As she strolled along the canvas wall of the huge tent, she played a game she often played at social events when she was on her own. As a young girl before the war she had been taken to charity parties by her philanthropist mother, and had devised the game as a defence against the crushing boredom of having to spend time in the company of self-satisfied, rich old people. While feigning interest in the goings-on elsewhere in the room, she would listen discreetly to a conversation and try to divine the speakers’ life stories from the clues she picked up.

  Two people sat alone at one table with an unopened bottle of champagne in an ice bucket between them. They were clearly mid-argument, and Ellie wondered if the chilly atmosphere generated by the glowering couple rendered the ice redundant.

  ‘. . . with my own father,’ said the man. ‘How could you, Charlotte? How bloody could you?’

  ‘Keep your voice down, Gordon, for goodness’ sake.’

  ‘What, in case anyone finds out that you’re a—’

  ‘I’m a what, Gordon? Go on, say it.’

  ‘You disgust me. He disgusts me.’

  Ellie edged casually around the table to try to get a better view while pretending to watch the dancing. The man seemed to be in his late twenties and had a familiar look about him. She couldn’t place him until it dawned on her that he must be a Bilverton. He somehow reminded her of enthusiastic young Howard without the enthusiasm, and there couldn’t possibly be two unrelated people with a nose quite like that. The woman was young and blonde, but Ellie couldn’t get a clear view and didn’t want to be caught staring.

  So . . . he was a Bilverton and she was his wife. And she’d done something with his father. But what? Something to do with the business, Ellie wondered. Embezzlement, perhaps? That was it. She and the managing director were stealing the biscuit company’s money and were planning to invest it in . . . in a tea importer’s.

  She smiled and turned her attention back to the dance floor.

  ‘If you weren’t so pathetic, maybe I wouldn’t have wanted to—’

  The woman’s words were cut short by the sharp sound of a slap. Ellie turned to see her clutching her cheek, stiff-backed. Calmly and coldly, she got up and left the man sitting alone.

  Ellie’s absorption in the intimacy of the moment had made the rest of the room fade away, and the bright conversation and laughter in the marquee seemed oddly loud now the spell was broken. Abandoning her game, she slipped away and hastened towards the fresh air.

  Although the sun had gone down, the evening was still quite light, and the sky glowed a luminous blue. If she had looked to the west she would have seen thunderclouds on the horizon, but for now she savoured the warmth of a summer’s evening.

  She made her way across the duckboards and back to the salon. The room was large, roughly square, and decorated in a style that was just old enough to be ‘classic’ rather than old-fashioned. The chairs had clearly been chosen to match the rest of the furniture rather than for comfort, but they were plentiful and mostly occupied.

  What set the salon apart from similar rooms in other houses was its domed glass roof. In the relative dark, it reflected the electric lamps that lit the room and the party guests below, but in the daytime it would fill the room with a glorious light of its own.

  The lights in the house were brighter than in the marquee, but the atmosphere no less jolly. The guests were no less glamorous, either, and Ellie slipped among them after accepting a Sazerac from a silver tray proffered by a white-gloved servant – listening once more to their conversations.

  ‘You should come down the club one night. Shouldn’t they, darlin’?’

  The speaker was a man in his forties wearing a fashionably cut dinner suit. His hair was slicked back and there were hefty gold rings on the fingers of both hands. His ‘darlin’’ was no more than twenty-five years old and was wearing an elaborately embroidered knee-length dress, the bottom six inches of which consisted entirely of tassels. Her headdress sparkled. Ellie wasn’t sure if spending so much of the past month thinking about them was making her see them everywhere, but she would have sworn that the sparkle came from diamonds.

  ‘That’s very swell of you, old chap,’ said a younger man in the group. ‘I say, I don’t suppose you’ve got any’ – he sniffed loudly – ‘on you, have you? I can pay.’

  Ellie turned in time to see the older man’s chummy smile replaced with a terrifying glare.

  ‘Don’t be a bloody idiot, son,’ he said, coldly. ‘Who the bleedin’ ’ell do you think you’re talkin’ to?’

  The younger man stammered an apology and scurried away.

  ‘Bloody kids’ll be the death of me,’ said the slick-haired man. ‘You try and run a respectable nightclub, and look what comes crawlin’ out of the crevices.’

  This one was too easy – the man was a gangster. She didn’t even have to make that one up. She’d met many like him over the years, thanks to Skins’s profession, and he conformed perfectly to the type, right down to the impressionable and bejewelled young lady on his arm.

  The doorway to her left, Ellie remembered, led to the library. She turned quickly to the right, intending to find out what lay beyond the other door, and bumped into a middle-aged man. He was of medium height and stocky, though not yet running to fat. His greying hair was cut in a style that looked somehow military, and his extravagant moustache was waxed. He was holding a silver-topped walking cane in one hand and most of a glass of champagne in the other. With a smile, he transferred his glass to his cane hand and brushed spilt champagne from his jacket.

  ‘Oh my goodness,’ said Ellie. ‘I really am most terribly sorry. Are you soaked?’

  The man chuckled. ‘Not at all, m’dear. Wouldn’t be a party if there weren’t spillages.’ He inspected the front of his jacket. ‘My man will get this out in a jiffy. Had worse things spilled on it, what?’

  ‘I’m not usually this clumsy, I promise.’

  ‘Think nothing of it.’ He offered her his hand. ‘Malcolm Bilverton – disreputable younger brother of our gracious host.’

  Ellie shook the proffered hand. ‘Ellie Maloney.’

  ‘Are you one of the children’s friends?’

  ‘No, I tagged along with the band. The drummer is my husband.’

  ‘Oh, I say, how very splendid. And what a marvellous band they are, too.’

  ‘I’m rather proud of them, certainly. Do you like jazz? I know it’s not to everyone’s taste.’

  ‘I love it. I love all music, though. I run Bilver-Tone Records. I’m glad I bumped into one of you, actually – I’d love to record the Dizzy Heights. Do you think they’d be interested?’

  ‘I can’t speak for all of them, but I know Ivor would love it. I’m sure the rest will be easy to persuade.’

  ‘Good show, good show. Is their manager here?’

  ‘She’s in the marquee dancing, I think. Her name’s Katy Cannon.’

  ‘I shall seek her out. I think we might be able to strike a deal. D’you know I once—’

  ‘Are you boring our guests again, Uncle Malcolm?’ It was Howard Bilverton.

  Malcolm chuckled indulgently. ‘Cheeky young pup. You’ve met my nephew, Mrs Maloney? Howard Bilverton, layabout of this parish.’

  ‘I welcomed them all to the house,’ said Howard. ‘And we met again a few moments ago on the stage.’

  Ellie nodded a greeting. ‘I’m surprised to see you here, actually. I thought you’d be listening to your friend Miss Hollis. She has quite a voice.’

  ‘Oh, she’ll be fine. I’ve heard her sing before – my pal Kenneth has dragged me to many a club to keep him company while he drools into his champagne and listens to her. I’m here in search of a little something more to eat. I heard there were cheese and biscuits.’

  ‘New blood?’ said Malcolm.

  ‘Hetty Hollis, Uncle M. I introduced her to you yesterday.’

  ‘So you did, so you did. I might go and have a listen. Always on the lookout for new talent for the record label. I shall leave you in each other’s company while I sally forth into the thronging multitude. I’ll see if I can track down Mrs . . . ?’

  ‘Cannon,’ said Ellie. ‘Katy Cannon.’

  ‘. . . Mrs Cannon while I’m there, too. Two birds with one stone, what?’ Malcolm nodded his thanks and limped away.

  Howard smiled fondly at his uncle’s retreating back before returning his attention to Ellie. ‘Your husband and his pals are the monkey’s eyebrows, you know.’

  ‘Absolutely the clam’s garter, I’m told. They do seem to be going down rather well.’

  ‘I’ll say. I’m glad I managed to book them.’

  ‘They’re delighted to be here. Your family has a lovely home, Mr Bilverton.’

  ‘I told you before – call me Howard. It’s not bad, is it? The old manor house. Wouldn’t fancy the upkeep, mind you. Though that’s not likely to be something I’ll ever have to worry about. Youngest son, d’you see? Big brother gets the spoils. And the bills. Ha ha.’

  ‘Is your brother here?’

  ‘We’re all here. Three-line whip. Gordon’s about somewhere. Tall chap. Miserable expression. Sour mood to go with it. Gorgeous wife, though – Charlotte.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Ellie. ‘I think I might have seen them in the marquee.’

  ‘Probably. Arguing?’

  ‘I really don’t know,’ she lied.

  ‘Oh, you’d most definitely know. It’s all they seem to do these days. There are two sisters knocking about somewhere as well, but I’m dashed if I know where.’

  ‘They’re older than you, too?’

  ‘They are indeed. Classic youngest child, me.’

  Ellie laughed. ‘I’m an only child. We have a reputation, too.’

  ‘We should form some sort of society. But we oughtn’t to be standing about here like a couple of lemons. Come with me, won’t you? I’ll give you the lowdown on all the fun people.’

  Ellie happily allowed herself to be dragged off to the next room.

  It turned out to be the dining room. There were more people here, milling around the huge dining table which had been pushed against the wall. The table was oak, and built to withstand the rigours of even the most rumbustious dinners, but it was so heavily laden with food that it was possible to imagine it bending under the weight. The Bilvertons had already fed their guests an elegant sit-down supper in the marquee, but someone in the family had clearly been worried it might not be enough and had provided this supplementary buffet indoors.

  John Bilverton and his young wife brushed past them on their way out of the room, looking troubled.

  ‘I’m not talking about this any more,’ said John in a fierce undertone. ‘Not one more bloody word.’

  ‘And when will you talk about it, John?’ said his wife. ‘When are you going to stop being such a coward and address it?’

  ‘How dare you talk to me like that, you little—’

  Ellie never found out what she was a little example of, but she guessed it wasn’t very nice.

  Howard made a face. ‘Families are always embarrassing, aren’t they?’

  ‘Always,’ said Ellie. ‘You can rely on me to pretend nothing happened, though. I’ve been living in England long enough to have learned how to do that, at least.’

  ‘You’re very kind.’

  Howard led Ellie to a discreet vantage point in the corner of the room, next to a set of heavy velvet curtains. Or drapes, as Ellie still thought of them, much to Skins’s amusement and their servants’ bafflement. The slick-looking man Ellie had seen in the salon had followed them in, and Howard gave a subtle nod towards him.

  ‘That fellow over there is our very own gangster.’

  ‘I thought he might be,’ she said. ‘I overheard him talking to someone a little while ago.’

  ‘Valentine Baisley. He runs a nightclub in Oxford for the moneyed and fashionable, from which he also supplies half the county with whatever chemical entertainment they desire. The muscular chap standing nearby . . .’

  ‘The one who looks like he’s imagining turning someone inside out?’

  ‘Even he. That’s Don Mowlam, Baisley’s . . . Actually, I’ve no idea what his job title is.’

  ‘Henchman? Minder?’ suggested Ellie.

  ‘Minder? Oh, how splendid – that’s an ideal name for him. I say, you’re not part of the underworld yourself, are you? I’ve not marked the poor lad for death at the hands of your own “minder”, have I?’

  ‘I move in an interesting twilight world – in the evening at least. The Dizzies play at a lot of clubs owned by men like him. One picks things up.’ She looked around the room for another guest. ‘Talking of my twilight world, is that Jo-Jo Furnace?’

  ‘In the flesh. D’you know her?’

  ‘Only to say hello to – she’s been on the same bill as the Dizzies a few times. Such a voice. I remember one time she – holy Moses! Is that a leopard?’

  Howard laughed. ‘Surely you know about her pet? D’Arcy, I think his name is.’

  ‘I’ve heard of it, sure. But I thought it was just a newspaper stunt. I didn’t think she actually—’

  ‘Takes it with her everywhere, apparently.’

  ‘Not when I’ve seen her. Maybe the London clubs have a “no pets” rule.’

  Howard laughed again. ‘If they didn’t before, they’d have instituted one pretty damn quick when she began turning up with D’Arcy by her side, leash or no leash.’

  Ellie smiled. ‘I think I recognize one of the women with her. Isn’t that Felicia La Castra?’

  ‘It is. You seem to know more people than I do.’

  ‘Only because she’s another chanteuse. She specializes in South American music. She has an impressive pair of maracas.’

  Howard smirked. ‘Doesn’t she just?’

  Ellie shook her head. It was like talking to Skins. ‘Who’s the third one? Dark hair and absurdly long cigarette holder.’

  ‘That’s Priscilla. I’m not sure she has a last name. Nor am I entirely certain what she does. I’m too afraid to ask, to be honest.’

  ‘She does look rather forbidding,’ agreed Ellie, enjoying the unexpected gossip with Howard, her eyes lingering on the remaining guests. ‘How about those two striking older ladies over there?’

  ‘The Bohemian-looking one on the left is “Dame Jelargy” – that’s definitely not her real name, but that’s what everyone calls her. There are rumours that she lives a second – much more mundane – secret life, but we just know her as our local sculptor and artist. And the other is Joanna Weston who owns a rather natty little boutique in Partlow’s Ford. Objets, trinkets – you know the sort of thing.’

  ‘They certainly look like fun. And those three ladies over there with the enormous drinks? They look rather fun, too.’

  ‘Vivica Selway, Micki McNab and Lola Toft. Absolutely the best pals, and utterly charming ladies, but they’re always plotting some sort of mischief. They call themselves “The Gang”. You don’t want to tangle with them. Unless mischief is your idea of a good time, of course, in which case I should definitely introduce you.’