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from the country – most of them can’t read so the signs mean nothing to them. If it looks like there’s going to be real trouble I scoop ’em up and take ’em along to the stationmaster’s office. Good bloke! Family man himself. He calls in Dr Barnardo’s or the NSPCC or the Sisters of the Night. I was a runaway myself, miss,’ he confided. ‘From the north. Years ago. I know the signs. And I can spot the vultures gathering … Like now …’ Stan’s voice rasped with dread. ‘Here they come.’
    The words struck chill. Wentworth waited anxiously to hear more. But Stan just nodded, absorbed by the crowd beginning to gather to greet the train. Most of them were clutching a platform ticket in their hands.
    ‘What do you make of that lot, then?’ he asked.
    Unresentful at being challenged by the old soldier, she murmured her way through the individuals and groups. ‘Reading from the left … if they’ll just keep still a minute and let me clock them … Two girls. Under twenty. Maids’ day out clothes. Excited. They’re so alike they must be sisters. Probably here to welcome a third and younger sister up from the country to take up her position as between-stairs maid … Of course, they could be alumnae of the local house of ill repute on a recruitment drive. Aphrodite’s on Park Lane? No, I don’t think so.
    ‘Moving along we have two ladies. Uniformed nanny and her well-dressed employer. Judging by the small bicycle that the nanny’s holding – a shining brand new one – I’d say they’re waiting for the lady’s seven-year-old son who’s taking a break from his prep school … Sick leave? But a bicycle like that – it’s bait that could lure any child into trouble. In the hands of the wrong adult. How am I getting on, Stan?’
    He smiled and nodded his approval of her reasoning.
    ‘Next along. Young man. Smartly turned out. Straw boater. And spats. Spats in summer? Trying too hard, would you say? He must be waiting for his lady-friend. Yes, look – he’s clutching a bunch of florist-bought flowers in one hand. Hothouse roses. Expensive. And in the other he’s got what would seem to be a grotesquely coiffed poodle on a lead. He’s brought the dog along to meet its mistress. It clearly doesn’t belong to the young gent. It rather hates him, do you see?
    ‘And then, just arrived, a very well-groomed middle-aged man. Sleek dark hair. What do you bet he smells of Trumper’s best hair oil? Foreign-looking. I think we have a valet waiting for his gentleman. Possibly lives in Mayfair and he’s strolled on to the station at the last moment, every hair in place, to take charge of the hand luggage.
    ‘And at the end there’s a young man with a clipboard. Military bearing. Bored. Commissionaire’s uniform is that? A flunky of some sort, anyway. He’s been sent out by a London club – the Army and Navy? – to scoop up some doddery old duffer and steer him safely to St James’s.’
    And, after a moment: ‘They all seem to have come to collect someone in particular. I can’t say any one of them strikes me as a vulture, Stan.’
    ‘Not vulture. No, I got that wrong. Those birds hang about in noisy mobs, don’t they? What we’ve got circling today is one silent professional. A sparrowhawk.’ Stan shuddered and glowered at the crowd. ‘That’s what they call them. Miss, you ought to watch out for the—’
    His words were cut off by the screech of the approaching train’s whistle, the swoosh of steam and the protest of huge wheels grinding to a halt. Doors slammed, greetings were called out, passengers jumped down from the train. The platform ticket holders surged forward hallooing with varying degrees of eagerness, claiming their people.
    Lily ticked them off in her head as they made contact. ‘Well, I got three out of five right, Stan,’ she muttered.
    The two maids were suddenly three – peas in a pod, twittering with excitement.
    A podgy seven-year-old squealed in delight at the