Neville Watkins’s elegant carriage took the two men around Berkeley Square, into Piccadilly, and through Trafalgar Square, continuing in the direction of the Strand where the head offices of the Deravenel Company were located.

      The splendid horse-drawn carriage finally came to a standstill outside the imposing office building of the great global trading company in the Strand.

      Eyes turned as the two men alighted. Both were elegantly dressed in dark suits and black overcoats, the fabric, cut, style and impeccable tailoring proclaiming the garments to be of the finest quality and therefore undoubtedly from Savile Row.

      Passers-by, hurrying about their business on this cold January morning, paused to gape at the tall distinguished men as they strode confidently towards the front doors of the Deravenel Company. Gentlemen with a bit of a dash and dazzle, toffs from the upper class, that is how they were perceived, and mostly without any resentment whatsoever. England in 1904 was a world of class distinction, and everyone knew it and accepted it.

      The two men went through the ancient portals and stood for a moment in the marble-clad lobby, the ceiling of which soared upward like a great cathedral. The veined marble was in tones of black and a deep terracotta colour, and it covered the walls, the many high-flung circular pillars and the vast floor. Imposing and grand, it reeked of money and success.

      A uniformed doorman, who was positioned inside at a small desk in the winter weather, hurried over to them. Immediately he recognized Edward Deravenel. Who could ever forget this tall, good-looking young man with burnished red-gold hair and brilliant blue eyes. The son of the late Richard Deravenel, and wasn’t he one of the finest gentlemen in the world, the doorman thought, and then said politely, ‘Good morning, Mr Edward, Mr Watkins. Please go right up to the first floor.’

      ‘Thank you, Johnson,’ Edward answered, giving the commissionnaire a warm smile. ‘And how is your son doing? The last time we spoke he was joining the Indian Army.’

      Flattered that Edward had recalled their last conversation, he nodded, smiling with real pleasure. ‘Very well, sir, thank you. Good of you to remember my Jack, sir.’

      Edward inclined his head slightly and he and Neville headed towards the wide, double staircase of carved mahogany that floated upward to a wide landing at the top.

      The two men climbed the stairs to the first floor where the executive offices were located, aligned along a wide corridor which ended at the giant double doors leading into the company’s board room. Edward thought of that room now…As a small boy he had often wished he would one day dominate that room when he grew up. He felt a sudden, peculiar sinking feeling inside as he saw his father’s office in his mind’s eye. He was not quite certain that he could face going in there today, although perhaps he should. Putting it off was ridiculous, wasn’t it? Nonetheless, he baulked at the idea. It smacked of memories and more pain.

      Halfway up the red-carpeted stairs, Neville paused, his hand resting on the mahogany banister. ‘Once the greetings are over I think it would be wise to move right in with your questions, Ned. Let us avoid procrastination. You know how Aubrey Masters can be.’

      ‘Long-winded, to put it mildly,’ Edward answered. ‘And you don’t have cause for concern. I’m as impatient as you are to get to the bottom of this situation. Let us hope he can supply some of the more important details, give us satisfactory answers. After all, he is the one dealing with Italy.’

      Neville nodded and the two continued on up the stairs. They were both anxious, filled with apprehension; they dreaded what they would soon learn about the deaths of their loved ones, and the terrible way they had died in the fire. Although they had not discussed it with each other, both men realized it must have been a brutal and terrifying way to die.

      The two staircases came to a stop at the wide landing, more like a room in size and shape. Placed in the centre of this space was a large desk and behind it sat an attractive young woman in a black, long-skirted suit and white blouse.

      She glanced up as Edward and Neville approached the desk; her eyes automatically shifted, swung to Edward, whom she recognized at once.

      ‘Oh, Mr Edward, good morning,’ she murmured, offering him a small, half smile. She wanted to say something about his father’s death but knew it would be improper to make any kind of personal remark to him. It was not her place.

      ‘Good morning, Matilda. This is Mr Watkins. We’re here to see Mr Masters.’

      She inclined her head in Neville’s direction, acknowledging him, and then stood up. ‘I’ll let Mr Masters know you’re here, sir.’ She hurried off down the corridor.

      Edward and Neville took off their overcoats and hung them in the coat cupboard, and a moment later Matilda was back.

      ‘Mr Masters will see you immediately,’ she said, and led them down the corridor, ushered them into an office and closed the door behind them.

      Aubrey Masters came around the desk to greet Edward and Neville. He was a fussy, small, somewhat rotund man in his late forties, dark haired with a florid complexion and brown eyes set close together.

      Hurrying forward, grasping Edward’s hand, he exclaimed, ‘Mr Edward, come in, come in, and sit down!’ Turning to Neville, he shook his hand also, and indicated the other chair in front of the desk. ‘Welcome to Deravenels, Mr Watkins. It’s some time since you’ve been here. Over a year, if I recall correctly.’

      ‘That’s true,’ Neville responded and lowered himself into the chair. His gaze remained on Aubrey Masters, who had gone to sit down behind the desk.

      ‘Please accept my condolences, Mr Edward, for this awful loss you have suffered, and you too, Mr Watkins. My deepest condolences to you both,’ Masters began. ‘This tragedy has been a blight on the company for the last few days, since we received the dreadful news. Everyone has been plunged into sorrow and gloom—’

      ‘Thank you,’ Edward said peremptorily, cutting Masters off sharply. ‘My cousin and I are most appreciative of your kind thoughts and sympathy, and we certainly thank you for sparing our mothers undue and additional heartache. To have received the news by telephone would have been perfectly ghastly for them both, unbearable actually.’

      ‘Yes, it would. It seemed to me at the time that contacting Mr Watkins was the right and proper way to handle the matter,’ Aubrey Masters answered, leaning forward over the desk, his hands clasped together.

      ‘Most sensitive indeed,’ Neville interjected, his eyes appraising as he studied Masters, weighing him up.

      ‘Mr Watkins and I are very anxious to know exactly what happened to our fathers and brothers in Carrara, Masters. We have been given only the slightest information about their deaths, and we hope you will now supply more of the details.’

      Clearing his throat several times, Aubrey nodded. ‘I’m sorry to say I do not have a great deal of information, Mr Edward. All I know is that a fire started in the hotel last Sunday night. I was informed on Monday, by telegram from Carrara.’

      ‘And who sent the telegram?’ Edward asked, keeping a tight rein on his emotions. He was re-discovering his inherent antipathy towards Masters, who had never been a particular favourite of his father’s either. There was something shifty about him, and Edward was convinced that his loyalty