It was a distinctly swisher place than Joel’s. The kitchen was an actual separate room, as was the bedroom. Nice for some. There was a single picture on the walls, a print of some country scene, and a couple of photographs around the place; otherwise it had a rather plain look. There was no sign of female occupation. Or of another man either, or of anyone who particularly cared about their surroundings. Joel lived in a bleak empty room too, but at least he did it to save money.

“What can I do for you Mr. Wildsmith?”

“It’s what you may be doing to me,” Joel said. “I had a visit from a Sergeant Hollis today. He let me know that Paul Napier-Fox is liable to sue me for slander. I wondered what you knew about that.”

Fowler took that in for a few unblinking seconds. Then he said, “Sit down.”

Joel took the sofa, since there was only one armchair, which looked to be the room’s most-used seat. Fowler hesitated, then said, compelled, “Tea?”

“Had too much today, thanks.”

“Whisky, then?”

That was slightly unexpected. “Are you allowed to drink on duty?”

“I’m not on duty. And our conversations have never been official.”

Fair enough. “Thanks.”

Fowler poured two whiskies—generous amount, good heavy glasses, splash of water—and passed one to Joel, then took his own seat. “Explain. This business with Paul first.”

“Well, I don’t know for a fact it’s him,” Joel temporised. “Sergeant Hollis informed me that the Met have received a complaint about me causing a lady to break her engagement to a gentleman with a specific allegation of immoral conduct. He said there’s a claim for slander and material damages that the gentleman will be pressing.”

“Have you provoked any other ladies to break their engagements recently?”

“One,” Joel admitted. “But only your cousin’s affair matches the circumstances Hollis described, so I’m assuming it’s him.”

Fowler frowned. “He can hardly claim slander, given he did exactly what you said he did.”

“Well, that’s my problem,” Joel said. “There’s no proof he wrote that letter post-coitally except his own admission.”

“Which he made to both me and his fiancée. You could call us both as witnesses.”

“I could. But he’s your cousin, and the lady might not choose to wash her dirty linen in public.”

“I believe she’s been hanging it, and Paul, out to dry all over London,” Fowler remarked. “But in any case you don’t need her. My testimony will be enough.”

Joel blinked at him. “You mean that? You’d speak on my behalf?”