‘Why do they hate us so much?’ asked Ruth Stein.

‘They don’t hate us,’ replied her father. ‘They hate Germany for killing so many innocent people in the Lusitania. It’s a question of guilt by association, Ruth. We should have changed our name.’

‘Would that have made a difference, Father?’

He heaved a sigh. ‘Who knows? Your Uncle Herman changed his name yet they still wrecked his warehouse.’

‘It’s the way people look at me,’ she said. ‘It’s frightening.’

‘Try to ignore it.’

They were in the upstairs room at the front of the shop. Thanks to his skill as a bespoke tailor, he had one of the most flourishing businesses in Jermyn Street. He was a short, stout man in his late fifties with rounded shoulders. There was usually a benign smile on his face but it was now corrugated by concern. It was mid-evening and his daughter had joined him when the shop closed. Ruth was a slim, angular, pallid and undeniably plain girl of eighteen. Her father had been teaching her the rudiments of bookkeeping so that she could in time relieve her mother of that aspect of the business.

Ruth started. ‘What’s that noise?’

‘I heard nothing,’ he said.

‘It sounded like the roar of a crowd.’

‘Some lads have probably had too much to drink.’

‘It was a loud cheer.’

‘Was it?’

Stein had heard it clearly but tried to show no alarm. If a gang was on the loose, he could only hope that his shop would be spared. He had put up two large posters in the window. One declared that he and his family were naturalised and in full support of Britain in its fight against Germany. On the other poster was an enlarged photo of his son, Daniel, wearing the uniform of the British regiment he’d volunteered to join only days after war was declared. Stein felt that his credentials were impeccable but he knew that a lawless mob would take no account of them. The thirst for revenge imposed blindness.