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Henry Stirling, proprietor of the Aldershoff Hotel, was none too pleased to be awoken in the middle of the night.

He had ignored the ringing of the telephone the first time.

But when it rang a second time, he assumed that it must be urgent and answered it.

Clayton Miller, the night manager who’d made the call, was not the kind of man to panic in a crisis, nor to bother Mr Stirling about it.

He certainly wasn’t the sort of man who dragged his boss out of bed and begged him to travel all the way across town to give him assistance.

The very fact that he had, on this occasion, done exactly those things, was great cause for concern.

Mr Stirling was a meticulous man. He never did anything in a hurry, even when the occasion demanded a certain amount of haste.

He was measured, moderate and methodical, always.

His alarm went off every morning at exactly ten minutes past six.

His pressed grey suit, white shirt and subdued tie, which he had chosen the night before, were hanging on a wooden hanger on the hook he’d screwed into the door of his wardrobe specifically for that purpose.

His black shoes were placed on the floor beneath them, polished to such a degree that they shone like onyx, and his underwear and socks were laid out on the upholstered chair in front of the sash window.

His bedroom, decorated tastefully in pale greys and creamy whites, was as tidy as a hotel room, and just as impersonal.

Mr Stirling liked everything to be just so, and just so it was.

At the age of forty-two he was a handsome man.

He had not been attractive in his youth – his features had been too large for his face – but age had worked to his advantage.

His forehead was high, denoting intelligence; his deep-set grey eyes conveyed sensitivity and humour; his pronounced nose and full lips expressed strength of character, and his chiselled cheeks and jawbone were indecently good-looking.

He knew he was a catch, but Henry Vincent Clarence Stirling was a confirmed bachelor.

Love affairs he had enjoyed a few, but he was much too possessive of his independence, freedom and orderliness to share his life with anyone. He simply couldn’t cope with the mess.

Now Mr Stirling dressed in unusual haste.

On a normal morning, he put his clothes on with great care, checking himself in the mirror to make sure he was elegant and well-groomed, taking his time.

He always permitted himself one flourish of colour: a bright silk handkerchief with white polka dots – he only ever wore spotted handkerchiefs – stylishly poking out of the breast pocket of his jacket.

But at this early hour he was in such a terrible rush that he didn’t allow himself the luxury of choosing a silk handkerchief and left the apartment without even straightening the bedspread.

As he sat in the back of a cab looking impatiently through the window at the passing lights of shop fronts and street lamps, he wondered with rising panic what the exact nature of the drama could be.

Clayton had not been able to find the words to describe it, only that it involved Mrs Aldershoff, who, in Mr Stirling’s opinion, was something of a termagant.

Coming from England as he did, where he had rubbed shoulders with the aristocratic world, he did not consider Mrs Aldershoff quite the duchess the Americans believed her to be – or that she believed herself to be!

Naturally, the name Aldershoff still carried weight, but, rather like the other once-famous families who’d presided over New York society during the Gilded Age, they had run out of money.

In these modern times, money spoke louder than class.

Mr Stirling arrived at the hotel a little after half past one.

The facade of the building, faced with pale-grey limestone ashlar, had not been altered since it was built in 1872 in the French Renaissance style, and still gave him a frisson of pleasure every time he laid eyes upon it.

It was sublime, with its gothic arches, colonettes and pretty foliate reliefs around the windows.

The high mansard roof, covered in grey slate and adorned with dormer windows, turrets and pinnacles, endowed it with elegance and grandeur.

It was one of the few Gilded Age mansions to survive into the twenty-first century.

Mr Stirling could not understand how the city had condoned the destruction of such staggeringly beautiful art and architecture, not to mention the waste of money.

It had cost William Aldershoff the equivalent of seven million dollars in today’s money to construct his home.

The Vanderbilt palace, the largest private residence ever built in Manhattan, had been pulled down in 1926 to make way for the department store Bergdorf Goodman.

Really, how on earth had they been allowed to do that?

he wondered. In England, the historic buildings were protected, which, in Mr Stirling’s opinion, was a very good thing.

A city without a respect for history was a shallow and superficial place.

The lights glowed golden as Mr Stirling walked briskly up the three wide steps that led to the big front doors, making an effort not to reveal how flustered he was. Above him, from an ornate stone balcony, the American flag was motionless, for tonight there was no wind to enliven it.

Clayton Miller awaited him in the foyer, rubbing his hands together anxiously for he did not know how to deal with this extraordinary situation.

When he saw his boss, his face relaxed, for now the responsibility would not weigh on his shoulders alone.

He could defer the problem to the higher command.

If anyone could sort this out it was Mr Stirling, in his calm, unflustered way.

‘This had better be good,’ said Mr Stirling in a low voice.

He took in the young couple sitting at a low table in the far corner of the foyer, and Mrs Aldershoff with her daughter and two friends at another table, drinking what appeared to be whisky, or something similar.

They looked sheepish, which immediately raised his suspicion.

He had never seen Mrs Aldershoff looking sheepish before.

She usually had the air of a general in command of an army.

‘I think you’d better come and take a look,’ said Clayton.

He didn’t wait for Mr Stirling to agree but made his way swiftly to the drawing room.

He hesitated a moment in front of the double doors.

‘Hear that?’ he said to Mr Stirling, who was right behind him.

A shadow darkened Mr Stirling’s face as he listened to the strange shuffling sounds coming from within.

‘What the devil is going on, Clayton?’

‘That’s the trouble. I don’t know,’ Clayton replied with a shrug.

‘Well, open up,’ Mr Stirling commanded. It wasn’t like Clayton to be so feeble.

Clayton put a trembling hand on the knob and opened the door a crack.

The shuffling stopped. It was eerily quiet.

Clayton stood aside for Mr Stirling – he wasn’t keen to enter the room again.

Mr Stirling strode in, typically no-nonsense.

Whatever it was, he didn’t doubt he could sort it out, and swiftly.

But nothing could have prepared him for the terrifying sight.

It was as if a raging bull had been confined in there, creating havoc.

He blanched. His beautiful hotel had been brutally vandalised.

The sight of the devastation cut him deeply.

How had Mrs Aldershoff and three other elderly ladies managed to cause this much destruction?

Lamps were shattered on the rug. Chairs were broken.

The table was on its side – that alone would be much too heavy for four old women to move.

Almost all the paintings had been thrown onto the floor.

Even the curtains had been pulled off the pole. It was pure vandalism.

He was considering how to confront Mrs Aldershoff and demand that she pay for the damage, without descending into rudeness, when there came another loud crash to his left.

The last remaining painting, one he had personally chosen at auction in London, crashed to the floor, joining the others in a pile of broken glass and wood.

His heart sank. Then he frowned in bewilderment.

The nails were still on the wall and, glancing at the wreckage, the hooks were still on the back of the frame.

What had caused it to come off the wall? He hadn’t noticed any earth tremor.

Mr Stirling took a deep breath. Nothing would be achieved by panicking. With studied calmness, he stepped out of the room and closed the door softly behind him. He looked at Clayton’s anxious face. ‘Have you spoken to Mrs Aldershoff?’ he asked quietly.

Clayton slid his eyes to the four women and dropped his voice. ‘She’s claiming that she doesn’t know what happened.’

Mr Stirling narrowed his eyes. He didn’t believe that for a moment.

‘I will go and speak with her now,’ he said.

She had requested a private room in the middle of the night for her and her small party, and demanded that they not be disturbed.

He hadn’t asked what they’d needed the room for. Well, he was going to ask now.

Alma stiffened as Mr Stirling walked across the hall towards her. He looked very serious. ‘Oh dear,’ she whispered to her daughter and friends. ‘I think I’m going to have to come clean.’

‘That would be a good idea,’ said Bonnie, who was finding it hard to stay awake. ‘Then we can go home to bed.’

Mr Stirling stood before them. ‘Ladies,’ he said. ‘May I sit down?’

‘Please, Mr Stirling,’ said Alma grandly.

He pulled up a chair between Alma and Leona, then knitted his long fingers and looked steadily at Alma. ‘With all due respect, Mrs Aldershoff, I think you owe me an explanation.’