“Absolutely not. This is my personal curiosity only. You are not entitled to call yourself a graphological consultant to the Metropolitan Police.”

“All right. Let me think about it, and I’ll let you know.”

Aaron raised a brow. “I might have thought you’d leap at the chance to prove yourself.”

“You’d be wrong, then,” Wildsmith said. “I want to be sure I’ve thought the consequences through first. Well, here’s one for starters: I’m not doing this for free. This will probably take a while and my time is a pound an hour.”

“That’s fair. Well, let me know, then.”

Aaron rose. Wildsmith did too, started to extend his hand for a shake, then pulled it back. “Actually, since this is unofficial...have you eaten?”

“Sorry?”

Wildsmith shrugged. “I’ve got more questions, and I’m starving. There’s an A.B.C. just down the Pentonville Road.”

“I thought you said no greasy spoons,” Aaron said, stalling, because he’d felt a surge of panic. Going out for a meal with—

With someone, that was all. Not a suspect because Wildsmith had done nothing wrong; not a pal, because Aaron had no grounds to call him that. Just someone to share a meal with, instead of another solitary night at home, another omelette eaten with only the accompaniment of a book.

“I said no greasy spoons if you’re paying,” Wildsmith clarified. “Well?”

“I’m peckish myself,” Aaron found himself saying. “Go on, then.”

***

THE A.B.C. WAS EXACTLY like all the other A.B.C.s in London, which was to say rather downmarket compared to a Lyons Corner House, less clean than it might be, but warm and cheap. Wildsmith greeted the waitress by name, and was gestured to a table in a manner that suggested he was a regular.

“The bread’s all probably stale by now but the pies are reliable,” he advised Aaron.

Aaron glanced at the menu. “Can I trust the beef rissoles?”

Wildsmith rocked a hand. Aaron took that as a warning and went for the rump steak pie, Wildsmith for the macaroni cheese.

“Are you vegetarian?” Aaron asked.

“Me? No. Why would I be?”

“A lot of Spiritualists are.

“I’m not a Spiritualist.”

“No, but you’re—” He realised abruptly that this sentence wasn’t taking him anywhere good. “Unusual?”

“Red-headed, left-handed, and queer,” Wildsmith said, the words thankfully low enough to be lost in the chatter around him. “Is that what you mean?”

“Well—”

“I didn’t choose to be any of the above. I didn’t choose the graphology, come to that. I don’t go out of my way to be different, I’m just going about my business as best I can. And I ordered macaroni cheese because I can eat it with one hand.”