Matching trousers came next, mutated by long-storage, shirts fine but yellowed, and collars, their starch turned to crusted powder. Underwear and silk socks lay curled like strange boneless fish in the darkness of the case. So far there was nothing to tell him anything about A. L. except that he was a man – someone who could afford personalized cases and silk and scent. As he lifted out the last bundle of socks and handkerchiefs, he saw an extra pocket, half-concealed down one side. Immediately, he reached in.

Heavy paper met his fingers. With a stab of excitement, he pulled it free, expecting a letter, or perhaps money, but it was neither. Instead, he was holding a rectangle of green card.

PASAPORTE

Consulado de España de Tánger

Certifico de Don: Alejandro del Potro

Profesión: Secretario

Natural de: Sevilla, España

Edad: 21 años

Sam frowned. Alejandro del Potro? But the suitcase said A. L. He looked eagerly at the face on the passport. It showed a young man – younger than he’d expected, with dark hair and eyes and a wary, scowling expression, at odds with the stylish hat pulled down over his forehead. He didn’t look wealthy enough to own personalized luggage. So then, who was he? Someone who had bought the case second-hand, like himself? Someone who was borrowing it? Or – Sam’s fingers tightened on the passport – a thief?

He began to search the case again, convinced he’d missed something. Finally, tangled amongst the socks, he found another object. A book, pocket-sized. At first he thought it might be a diary or a journal, until he saw a title printed on its worn blue cover.

THE GENTLEMAN’S GUIDE

If anything, it was even stranger than the passport. Why would someone pack a book on etiquette when they were obviously travelling light? Still frowning, he flicked the book open and saw a scrawl of handwriting. A dedication, written in English:

If you’re going to play the game, you have to learn the rules.

The hairs on the back of Sam’s neck stood up. No initials, no date, just that sentence, almost a warning … He turned the page, hoping to find more writing, but there was nothing, only chapters of advice on dressing and deportment, luncheon menus and which type of hat was appropriate for a picnic. Occasionally, words and phrases had been underlined in pencil, as if the book had been diligently studied. Sam kept turning the pages. About a quarter of the way through, the spine felt looser, the leaves coming away from the binding, as if the section had been read many times. It contained recipes for cocktails, for punches and sodas, and – left to itself – fell open on one particular entry.

Blood and Sand