But all had more to say. Theories as to whose fault the calamity of the cavalry charge had been were as numerous as sugared almonds; and were passed around with as little reserve. Often a speech informing William of the identity of the correct figure to blame was concluded: ‘One gathers that the Russians were so taken aback by the folly of it that they took it that the Lights were in the deeper excesses of drink. In no wise else could the extreme rashness of their courage be accounted for. We read that when the Cossacks took a handful of prisoners afterwards they were apparently so bewildered to find the men sober that they plied them with champagne themselves. One hears that the prisoners were congratulated all round by their captors and treated rather as heroes.’

Oh indeed, said William. He believed he had read the same thing. Manners forbade him, however, from opining that the Times correspondent had not made himself universally popular at camp and that a certain scepticism as to the veracity of his reports would not have been misplaced.

‘Well yes, of course, you would’ve. Having been there and all. Well, not at the exact spot, perhaps …’

No indeed, said William.

Privately, when he and Alice were installed in the carriage on their way home, he would rail against the common fascination with the ill-fated action.

‘Why must people talk only of the wretched Light Brigade, when we have won a fearsome war? Why should the focus of their minds be always on this one action? Three thousand of ours lost their lives at Alma, and less than three hundred at Balaklava. Yet it is always the Charge which holds people’s attention.’

Alice was mindful at such times that her wifely duty was to soothe her husband, and as such she made it a rule never to bring up her own reservations as to the wisdom of the campaign on these occasions.

‘The bells rang out all over England for the victories at Alma River and Inkerman Heights, and boys were given a day’s holiday from school,’ Alice told him. ‘You must not suppose that these successes went unremarked here at home.’

‘Even so,’ said William.

‘I think, my dear, that Mr Tennyson’s poem has much to answer for, in engaging widespread sympathy and indeed outrage; and then as well, you see, there were engravings in the papers. One picture I recall was simply hundreds of cannon balls lying on the stony ground, such a desolate scene it was. One could almost fancy the round shots to have been human skulls. I believe it was titled The Valley of Death. Such things work their way into the public imagination.’