George Marsh was Albert’s de facto security man, and tonight, Flora could see he was here on business. Off duty, George was loose and gregarious. This was on-duty George, his step quick, his tone clipped. George and Montgomery were speaking in very low voices, but Flora could make out a few words.

“. . . thirty-five minutes,” George said. “Have you . . .”

“No, sir,” Montgomery replied. “No police . . .”

Within a few seconds, he was ensconced in Albert’s office along with Montgomery.

Police. Not a word Flora wanted to hear. She had to act.

She went down the servants’ stairs to the floor below, and then made her way to Iris’s dressing room by keeping close to the wall. She pulled a key from the pocket of her dress and unlocked the door to a large room—an oasis of comfort. The pearl-gray carpet was soft under her bare feet. The long silver satin curtains were still open and pale moonlight seeped in, causing the gold trim and threading on Iris’s Louis XV furniture to take on a gentle glow.

Iris had so many things; Flora needed one object in particular. She started at the mirrored makeup table, where Iris’s extensive collection of cosmetics were kept in rigorous order by her maid—lipsticks lined up like soldiers, French perfumes pleasingly arranged, silver hairbrushes and mirror tidily side by side. Flora tore into the drawers of powders, shadows, hairpins, creams, lotions . . . where was it? Not in here. She moved on to the chest of a dozen drawers that housed Iris’s gloves, hat pins, cigarette cases, sunglasses, and any number of small accessories. Not in there. She worked the room, steady and fast, drawer by drawer, until every one was exhausted.

Flora heard knocking on the doors down the hall and her name being called. The maid was looking for her. There wasn’t much time. She had to think. Where had she seen it last?

An evening bag. The pink silk one they’d gotten that day in Paris when it rained so much they had to run barefoot down the street.

Flora ran to the closet, opened the baize door, and switched on the light. The closet was not a closet—it was another room full of racks and shelves of silk and satin, with beads and fur, with enough shoes to fill a store all lined up on shelves. The handbags took up an entire wall. Flora scanned them until she found the pink bag. She yanked it off the shelf, snapped it open, and removed a Schiaparelli makeup compact in the shape of a telephone dial.

The knocking was getting closer. Flora had to hurry. The maid was at the dressing room door, knocking and calling.

“Coming!” Flora said.

With only seconds to work, she shoved the compact down the front of her dress, wrapping her arms over her front to conceal any lump, and went to the door to admit the maid.

“You’re needed downstairs,” the maid said. “At once, miss.”

“Why? What’s going on?”

“I’m not sure, miss. Mrs. Ellingham and Miss Alice didn’t come home and Mr. Marsh has come. That’s all I know.”

Flora pushed the compact down near her belted waist as she followed the maid downstairs; she would have to deal with its contents later. She was ushered into the office. She had only been in here once or twice before. It was the nexus of Albert’s business, his private area. Tonight, the large room was strangely close, the long curtains drawn, the fire in the fireplace making a sweaty heat.

“Flora,” Albert said. His voice had an urgency she had never heard before. “Did Iris tell you anything about where she was driving today?”

“No,” Flora said. “Just that she was going for a drive.”

“But she didn’t say where? Was she going toward Waterbury? Burlington? Which way?”

“I don’t know, Albert,” Flora said. “What’s happening?”

Albert turned toward the fire.

Flora looked to George. She and George knew each other very well. Normally, she could read his expression in a moment. He had a wide face, with a heavy jaw and big brown eyes—the kind of face that could take a blow, rattle a crook, or melt in infectious laughter. Tonight, he was a cypher.

“Please,” she said. “What’s wrong? Where’s Iris? Where’s Alice?”

“It’s fine,” George said. He was such a terrible liar, and what was the point of lying under these circumstances? “If you could just go back to your room . . .”

“I want to know what’s happened to Iris,” Flora said.

“Flora, please!” Albert cried.

The desperation in his voice made her physically cold. His secretary, Robert, shook his head, indicating to her not to press the question.

“Of course,” Flora said. “I’ll see myself upstairs, Montgomery.”

The maid was out in the atrium, fluttering around. It was obvious to Flora she was trying to find some business near the office door so she could monitor what was happening inside.

“I’m in desperate need of a pot of coffee,” Flora said to her. “Could you have one brought to my room?”

“Yes, miss,” she said, and skittered off.

When the maid left to go to the kitchen, Flora turned quickly and silently to the ballroom, next to Albert’s office. These rooms had intentionally been built side by side because they were rarely in use at the same time, and both benefited from high ceilings.

The lights in the ballroom were off and the curtains all drawn. The motley black-and-white floor still felt rough and dirty from the weekend’s revels; the staff had not yet cleaned it. There, under the soft padding of her feet, were the paper streamers, the gravel from the drive tracked in on dancing shoes, the endless sticky patches of spilled champagne.

Iris had shown Flora a trick about these rooms: the mirrors in the room were interspersed with panels covered in wallpaper, in a pattern depicting the characters of the commedia dell’arte. On the last panel on the left side, there was a wall sconce in the form of a Venetian mask. Flora climbed quietly onto one of the gold chairs against the wall and stretched to reach it. She put her fingers through the eyeholes of the mask and pulled down sharply. The wall panel tilted, exposing a space behind. Flora pushed the panel, which swung open on a well-made hinge.

The ballroom and the office, while seemingly sharing a wall, actually shared a secret space, about two feet wide. The ballroom mirrors on this side were one way and could be used to watch goings-on in the ballroom. There were switches that could be used to make the lights dim and flicker, and tiny panels you could open to snatch a glass from a confused partygoer. The perhaps unintended second use was that it was a perfect place to listen to what was happening in Ellingham’s office. Flora slipped along until she found the little door that led into Albert’s office. The door was far enough away from the men and sufficiently hidden in the wall that she felt she could safely crack it open an inch without anyone noticing, exactly as Iris had shown her.

“Most of what I hear is very boring,” Iris said when she showed Flora the passage and the door. “I wish he’d get a mistress and give me something better to listen to.”

Flora had a feeling it would not be boring tonight.

“. . . the one that came on Thursday,” George was saying. “Do you still have it?”

“Of course.” That was Robert Mackenzie. “Here.” He handed George a paper.