They found him apparently asleep in a corner seat by the window, the brim of his trilby tipped low over his face, his briefcase wedged between him and the side of the carriage.

The two Americans looked at each other. One of them shook him by the shoulder as the other checked his pulse. Both shook their heads. They knew that whatever happened, this would reflect badly on them. They checked him over for any clues. The body was still warm and the blood that had seeped onto the seat from where he’d been stabbed in the back was still bright red and not yet too sticky.

‘It must have just happened,’ one of them said.

The other nodded. It was hardly much of a consolation.

Chapter 14

London, October 1945

‘Sir Roland is in the library if you would care to follow me, Mr Gilbey.’

Tom Gilbey assured the steward he knew where the library was, thank you very much, but the response was a fleeting smile and a slight bow of the head as the man stepped towards the stairs, indicating that the visitor should follow.

They found the ample figure of Sir Roland Pearson on the first floor, wedged into a high-backed club chair positioned between two tall dark oak bookcases of Victorian literature that cast him in a valley of gloom. A brass and green glass lamp threw some light in his direction. He waved a leather-bound volume at Gilbey by way of greeting. A shaft of sunlight caught the small cloud of dust from the book.

‘Our Mutual Friend – one of Dickens’ finest and most underestimated novels; I must reread it. My maternal uncle Wilfred made a point of reading it twice a year, every Easter and Christmas. “And O there are days in this life, worth life and worth death.”’

‘Pardon, Roly?’

‘It’s a quote from the book, part of a passage I had to read out at his funeral. I’m afraid I rather blubbed at the time. Thankfully it was a sparsely attended event – Wilfred didn’t marry, you know; bachelorhood is something of a family tradition, one I’m afraid I’ve followed.’

Sir Roland was gazing out of the window, the autumn afternoon’s weak sun catching his watery eyes. He blinked and turned to face his visitor, inviting him to speak.

‘From what I hear, Roly, you now have all the time in the world to catch up on your reading.’

‘Is this visit business or pleasure, Tom – I’m presuming the former?’

Gilbey nodded and Sir Roland slowly stood up. ‘There’s a room along the corridor where we can have a private chat. I’m never too sure what one should drink at three o’clock in the afternoon; it’s one of those neither-here-nor-there times, don’t you find?’

The steward had followed them and was standing expectantly in the doorway.

‘We’ll have two large whiskies, Barker, and a jug of water, please. The club’s own malt is terribly good, Tom.’

‘I didn’t know you were a member of Boodle’s, Roly.’