Then blankness came down over his eyes like a curtain, and he pulled his hand out of hers. ‘You must forgive me,’ he said stiffly. ‘I do not give private interviews.’

A curt nod of his head, and he passed on.

It was over. They were all being shepherded out, politely but firmly. Annoyed with herself, Lizzie returned to the neat little London house she’d inherited five years ago from her actress great-aunt, Dame Elizabeth Boothe, as she’d been at the end of her life. The Dame, as everyone had called her, had lived surrounded by mementoes of her great days: gifts from admirers, theatre programmes, some of them fifty years old, and pictures of herself in glory.

Lizzie had loved the Dame. Now she kept the house much as it had been when she’d inherited it.

On one wall was a huge coloured photograph of the actress at the height of her beauty and fame. Next to it was a picture of her most notable admirer, King Alphonse, taken when he was nearly seventy, imposing, autocratic, but still astonishingly good-looking. Near the bottom was written, in the King’s own hand, In friendship and gratitude, Alphonse.

Lizzie tossed her bag onto a chair and confronted Dame Elizabeth.

‘I made a mess of it,’ she told her. ‘Nothing happened the way I meant it to, and I just antagonised him. You’d think I’d know better, wouldn’t you? I am supposed to be a professional.’

The Dame’s eyes were laughing, her head thrown back in an ecstasy of song, but Lizzie could read her thoughts.

‘I know, I know! Dress the part. That’s what you used to say. And I didn’t. If I’d worn tweeds and horn-rimmed spectacles I suppose he’d have taken me seriously. But why shouldn’t I dress as I like?’

Good question! If a historian was a modern young woman, five feet ten with ravishing red hair and a model figure, why shouldn’t she wear skirts short enough to show off her silken legs, and suicidally high heels? Why shouldn’t she make up to emphasise her large green eyes and wide mouth that seemed made for the pleasures of life, of which laughter was only one?