“That you couldn’t explain yourself?”

Paul glared. “That this fraud has put the cat among the pigeons. I heard he was behind Letty Villiers giving poor old George Pursthwaite the push. All the best girls are going to this fellow and having their heads filled with poisonous nonsense.”

Aaron had no interest in the love lives of the smart set, but this story was starting to prick at him. “What benefit is this man—Wildsmith?—getting from this?”

“Money, of course. He charges a fortune for a consultation.”

“Is it mostly female clients?”

“Well, the fair sex are gullible, Lord love ’em.”

Aaron was more concerned by vulnerable. Spiritualists and the like, a group in which he was quite prepared to include graphologists, tended to be very good at coaxing secrets out of the people who came to see them, especially since the world after the war was populated by people who were desperate to believe in something, or anything. Those drawn to visit a mystic could easily be persuaded by atmosphere and cajoling to reveal far more than they had intended, and he’d heard some nasty stories of exploitation and extortion, from which women were generally more at risk. It was hard to prove, hard to prosecute, and not his professional line, but he couldn’t feel happy to ignore it.

“A colleague of mine, Sergeant Hollis, has a bit of a line in Spiritualists,” he said. “The best thing is if you trot up to see him. King’s Cross station.”

“King’s Cross?” Paul demanded, rather as if Aaron had suggested Zanzibar. “I’m not going to King’s Cross! And anyway, Mater wants you to do it. Family and all that. Discretion. Don’t want my business spread all over town any more than it is already, what with Babs can’t keep her mouth shut. I suppose it runs in the family but why women have to gabble on and on endlessly, never a pause for breath, talk talk talk and gossip gossip gossip. A man can’t hear himself think. And I’ll tell you what else—”

Aaron had already stopped listening. He had no interest in helping Paul, who had grown from a thoroughly horrible boy to a vain and self-centred man, and he was well aware of his professional obligations as laid out in the Police Handbook: An officer must not make enquiries unconnected with official duties, nor in his official capacity meddle with the private affairs of individuals. His aunt Ursula would be enraged if he refused to help, but Aaron wasn’t greatly concerned by that either; he could always unplug his telephone for a week.

He really had no reason to involve himself at all, except that this story was making his nerves prickle.