‘Five?’ I said, gesturing along the row.

Wendeline could not contain her grin. ‘Nothing gets past you, Inspector. Mr Coller was most pleased, most pleased. Perhaps the find of his season, though with that man who can say?’

‘Yes,’ I said, not really listening. A clutch of five, with such colour – granted there was a queen among the maidens, but still. I made the rough calculations, determined not to be surprised one way or another when they named the price. ‘Interesting,’ I said. I made a good show of examining the rest of the drawer and inquired as to how much was left ‘unpacked’, as Gloria put it. ‘Very well. How m—’

The shop door opened. I staggered, as if under cannon fire. I rounded, ready to chase off whatever dandy browser or collector sought to interrupt.

‘Morden,’ the chief inspector said, as he stepped into Larn & Gale’s with undisguised curiosity.

‘Sir,’ I said. ‘I did not realise you were also a customer of this establishment.’

‘I’m not.’

I wished Gloria had the tact to return the drawer, but perhaps she thought I might lose sight of my purchase.

‘Eggs, Morden?’ the chief said, leaning over the drawer.

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Are they… expensive?’

Wendeline barely stifled her laughter, pretending to cough until she didn’t have to pretend and appeared to almost choke. The chief watched the woman with his soft, half-hooded blue eyes until he seemed certain the shopkeeper wasn’t in any mortal danger.

‘Not very,’ I managed, then nodded to Gloria. ‘The avocets. On my account.’

The chief raised an eyebrow at that but allowed me to move our conversation out into the street.

The fog had lifted, only to be replaced by a light drizzle – a type of rain that would leave an unsuspecting man drenched. The chief was not unsuspecting. He guided us a few doors down and into a sunken doorway: a coffee house I had not frequented and, as far as I could remember, neither had Alexsander.

We took a table near the back of a long room. The fresh-faced enthusiasm of the waiter took both the chief and I by surprise. I stuttered through a simple order of black coffee, no sugar, and the chief ordered a pot of chamomile tea.

‘A letter arrived this evening,’ the chief said. ‘From the warden of St Leonars. I imagine there will be another letter soon, bearing the King’s seal.’

‘Did the warden explain the situation? The southern boy?’

The chief stared at me, letting a hypnotic silence grow between us. His half-open eyes, his thin waves of hair that seemed oblivious of the notion of fashion, his dry lips. I couldn’t outlast him.

‘I can’t go,’ I said. ‘It’s too far, and I’m too old.’

‘Go where?’ the chief said.

I checked for any sign of mischief, but he was as sleepily straight-faced as ever. ‘The boy’s village, Drekenford.’

‘And why would you go there? Small town, farmers and the like, not much to recommend it. A long way away, isn’t it?’