“That’s what I said. He turned up and made a lot of threatening noises on the theme of it being unwise to make unsupported allegations about my betters. He didn’t have anything else. There isn’t anything else.”

Fowler humphed. “I’ll talk to him.”

“You know him?”

“I do, yes. It’s, ah, possible he thought he was doing me a service by warning you off.”

He looked slightly embarrassed, as well he might. Joel glowered, then reminded himself Fowler was—not on his side, as such, but being decent. “Yes, well. If you could disabuse him of that?”

“I will talk to him,” Fowler repeated. “If you’ve done nothing more than make some very lucky guesses, you’ve the right to go about your business unimpeded. That said, your line of work seems very likely to bring you trouble of this sort. You might consider that.”

“Thanks for the advice, but I don’t have a great deal of choice,” Joel said. “And, you know. Thank you for...” Being honest would probably offend. “I realise you don’t believe in what I do, and you didn’t have to listen to me at all, so—thanks, that’s all.”

He made to rise as he spoke. Fowler said, “No, wait.”

“What?”

“Well—finish your drink. That’s decent Scotch.”

“Shame to waste it,” Joel agreed automatically. It tasted like most Scotch to him, which was to say burning leaf mulch, but he settled back and sipped at it.

Settled back into the sofa of a policeman’s home. What the blazes. He’d have expected Fowler to welcome his departure, not delay it. He wondered whether he was obliged to make light conversation while he finished his drink. “Family well?” he tried. “Roses coming along?”

“It’s November,” Fowler pointed out, with what felt to Joel like a similar awkwardness to his own, then relapsed into silence. Maybe this was a new interrogation technique. You put someone in an embarrassing social position and they confessed everything just to get out of it.

“So is there a Mrs. Fowler?” he asked, mostly out of desperation.

“No. No, I’m not married.”

“Didn’t think so. The place lacks a woman’s touch.”

“I’ve seen where you live,” Fowler riposted. “You could put up a picture or two.”

“Yes, hammering in a nail is very much a one-handed job.”

Fowler winced. “Of course. I’m— No, hold on. You’ve surely friends who would do that if you asked.”

“What do you know about my friends?”

“Someone bet you to grow that moustache. Only a friend would be so malicious.”

Joel couldn’t repress a grin. “Fair enough. Yes, I know people who would wield hammers for me. To be honest, a picture feels like more commitment than I want to make to that hovel.”

“That seems entirely reasonable,” Fowler said. “At ten shillings the half hour, I’d have thought you could do better.”