Although Amos had been taken aback to see Mark Ledbetter at Haddon House, his surprise was mostly due to the hour more than anything else. Usually Lady Fenella had gone home by this time, but as Vicky Forth had said, they were there tonight because of an emergency. And perhaps this was the reason Ledbetter was present as well. But not necessarily.

      Amos was well aware that the Chief Inspector knew Lady Fenella and her spinster aunt, Lady Philomena Howell. Ledbetter’s mother was a close friend of Lady Philomena’s; the two women had come out together as debutantes years ago.

      He had always liked Mark Ledbetter, had known him for over seventeen years, actually since Ledbetter had started at Scotland Yard. At twenty-two he had been a dashing young aspiring detective, Amos a copper on the beat. They had met in the East End on a strange murder case, and had always got on well since that time.

      Mark, who had gone into Fenella’s office, returned to the great room carrying two cups. He was a tall, slender, pleasant looking man, with dark wavy hair and warm brown eyes and at thirty-nine, fit and athletic. With a brilliant mind, superior intelligence and dedication to work, he had quickly moved up the ladder at the Yard.

      Amos studied him as he strode over to the fireplace, asking himself yet again why a man with Mark’s looks, Cambridge education, aristocratic forebears and a wealthy mother would want to be a policeman. He had once asked Mark that question and the younger man had answered that he wanted to help people in despair. Perhaps that philosophy explained his interest in Haddon House, and the support he gave it.

      As he came to a standstill Mark said to Amos, with a grin, ‘I’ve just stolen some of Lady Fenella’s brandy, but I’m perfectly certain she won’t mind.’ As he handed the cup to Amos and sat down in the other leather armchair, he added, ‘She keeps a bottle in her office…for medicinal purposes or emergencies. I need this tonight, and I’m sure you do, too.’

      With a nod, Amos took the cup. ‘I do. Thank you, and good health, Chief.’ Amos took a swallow of the brandy, felt its warmth immediately.

      ‘Cheers,’ Ledbetter murmured and tasted the cognac himself, then sat for a moment, looked down into the cup, his expression thoughtful.

      After a moment, Amos cleared his throat and asked in a quiet tone, ‘What was the emergency here tonight? If you don’t mind me asking, Chief? Obviously something serious to bring you here.’

      Mark glanced at Amos and pressed his lips together for a moment. ‘I’m here by chance, actually. I was at a meeting with Lady Fenella and Hugh Codrill, the barrister. We were discussing ways to improve Haddon House, raise additional funds. Codrill had come along at my request, just to help…well, kick a few ideas around, to be honest.’

      Mark paused, took a drink, went on, ‘We were still at her house on Curzon Street when she received a telephone call from Mrs Barnes, who was here doing the cooking. Anyway, to continue. A local woman had been brought in by two other women…neighbours. The woman was badly battered around the face, and appeared to be almost unconscious. The nurse on duty at the time was Clara Foggarty, and she was baffled and worried. She thought the woman might have concussion, and asked Mrs Barnes to contact Lady Fenella. I came along because I was worried.’

      ‘And where is the poor woman now? Here? Or at the hospital?’

      ‘Oh, at the hospital, of course. I immediately sent for an ambulance, and they took her away at once. I was pretty certain that there was concussion. We were just about to leave here and go home when you arrived with the little chap.’ Mark shook his head, a sorrowful look sliding onto his face. ‘I wish there was more we could do for these destitute boys living on the streets. Despite all the wonderful work done by Dr Barnardo’s and others, there are plenty of them out there still. Too numerous to count.’

      ‘I know that, sir. I used to think mudlarks and urchins and all the little street thieves had disappeared finally, been rehabilitated. But I’m not so sure. I can’t help thinking it’s as bad now as it was when Charles Dickens was writing about them.’

      ‘That wasn’t so long ago, you know—’ Mark stopped abruptly, and his expression changed. He looked across the room towards the kitchen door, bafflement flooding his face.

      Amos followed the direction of his gaze, his eyes widening in amazement as he stared at Lady Fenella and Mrs Worth. Both were ushering a little girl into the room. A beautiful girl at that, with amazing golden-red hair. Oh, my God. The girl was clutching the cloth bag. It couldn’t be…she wasn’t the boy, was she? It wasn’t possible.

      Almost as if she had read his mind, Vicky said, ‘Look what emerged from underneath all the dirt and grime, Mr Finnister. This lovely girl who had been wearing a boy’s clothes—a disguise. From what she told me, her mother dressed her like that most of the time. More than likely to protect her, I should think.’

      Jumping up, smiling hugely, Amos came across the floor, stood in front of the two women and the child. He reached out, touched the child’s glorious red hair, and murmured, ‘Will you tell me your name now, little one?’

      ‘Mam…she call me her liddle rosebud,’ the girl answered, gazing up at him through her brilliant blue eyes. Her face was serious, her eyes suddenly sad.

      ‘That’s a pretty name indeed,’ Amos answered, smiling at her, then lifting his head, looking at Vicky, he raised a brow questioningly.

      Vicky bent down to the child’s level. ‘But that isn’t your real name, is it?’

      ‘Dunno…’ The child’s voice trailed off and she looked bewildered.

      Vicky noticed that the girl’s hands had tightened on the bag and she wondered what was inside. Possibly information they needed, something which might explain who she was. How to get the bag away from her? It was an impossible task.

      Fenella now knelt down in front of the girl, and said slowly, ‘I am Fenella. And this,’ she glanced up at Vicky, ‘is Vicky. And the gentleman who found you is Amos. Over there is Mark. And you are…who? Tell me your name so we can call you by it.’

      The little girl shook her head and then addressed Vicky, ‘Rosebud…Mam say.’

      Vicky smiled at her and knelt down on the floor next to Fenella, gazed at the child through eyes that were warm and tender. ‘All right then, that will be your name. We shall call you Rose. Do you like that?’

      The child nodded. A faint smile flicked and was gone.

      Vicky reached for the bag, saying, as she did, ‘Let me lock this up for you, to keep it safe.’

      ‘Naw! Naw!’ the girl cried and clutched it even tighter.

      ‘That’s all right, don’t cry,’ Vicky murmured, ‘come, let us go and have another cup of cocoa.’