“He’s never shirked from his duties to the Crown,” I said. “The queen quite depends upon him.”

“He’s charming enough—and handsome enough—for us to tolerate nearly anything he does. But you don’t quite share his status, my dear. It would behoove you to be very careful when choosing how you occupy yourself. People are prone to talk. You should keep well clear of the investigation. I know you’ve insisted on doing otherwise in the past.”

“Mr. Hargreaves is taking care of everything,” Ivy said. “You’ve no need to worry on Emily’s behalf.”

“Only intervenes when he gives her permission, does she?” Mrs. Harris asked, as if I weren’t standing directly in front of her. “I’m glad to hear someone in the family has a drop of sense.”

“Forgive me, Mrs. Harris,” I said. “Ivy and I will be late to the Women’s Liberal Federation if we don’t beg our leave at once. It was as lovely to see you as it always is.” The sentiment was strictly true. If she chose to take from my statement that I found it empirically lovely to see her, that was her choice. Pulling Ivy by the arm, I dragged her back to the pavement before she could protest our hasty departure.

We walked along the southern side of the Serpentine, the park’s long, curving lake and then continued on towards the Round Pond, where countless children were playing with toy boats. The pavements were slightly less crowded here, and became even emptier as we passed Kensington Palace and moved out of the park and into Kensington Palace Gardens, one of my favorite streets in all of London. Tall plane trees lined both sides and elegant houses stretched the half-mile length of the edge of the park. We turned left to reach Palace Green, the southernmost part of the road, but stopped before we’d taken ten paces. There was Polly Sanders’s house. Its noble edifice was gracious and neat, but the front door and the steps, along with the fence in front of the property—all of which had been gleaming white—were covered with a swathe of dark red paint.