“Sir! May I remind you that this is Cambridge! We are not savages. Quite the reverse. We take our name from an ancient Roman cook whose lavish yet refined cuisine has come down to us through the Middle Ages. One of our members is even now working on a translation into English of the original text. The . . . erm, Amici—the Friends—are a group of bons viveurs—aesthetes. Our group is fastidious regarding the choice of dinner guests for our intimate soirées,” Rupert objected, stiff with shock and anger. He hesitated, and his eyes glazed over as he remembered whom he was addressing. Had he made himself clear?

“Toffs, are you saying, Your Honour? Afficionados of the philosopher Epicurus? I thought they’d all died out, what with the recent privations. Or don’t you suffer from food rationing like the common man if you know a bit of Latin?”

Oh joy! They’d caught themselves a socialist! And a pretentious word-juggler at that. This was promising. Could Fanshawe have been aware? His shock and anger were somewhat mollified as he persisted with his explanation. “Our guests are carefully selected—and not for the pecuniary value of their various body parts.” He ran a scathing eye over the pathetic figure in front of him. “For bones, buggery or bridge, be assured I should be seeking plumper prey,” he said haughtily. The man’s appearance was certainly a drawback. Rendlesham couldn’t be certain whether he resembled Coleridge’s Ancient Mariner—the greybeard loon—or one of the more disreputable Vikings of the Sagas. Ulf the Unwashed, perhaps? Had they, after all, wasted precious time on a nonstarter? Perhaps he ought now to abandon this squalid scene and move on? He added a rehearsed mechanical formula, distancing himself as he spoke. “The invitation stands. Were you to decide to accept, it would be for sherry at six, knives and forks at seven. Over by ten in case you have plans to go on somewhere.”

The tramp uttered a guffaw instead of the snarl of derision Rupert had expected. With some aplomb, he stood upright, shoulders back, grasped the lapel of his greatcoat with one hand and extended the other in an affected gesture he’d most probably seen on a page of the Gamages catalogue. “Frightfully sorry, old man,” he said, “I didn’t pack an evening suit. Hadn’t realised Cambridge was so hospitable . . . so socially experimental. I’m dressed, as you see, for the Salvation Army shelter. I believe we’re to have jellied eels tonight, and I may even go on afterward to the dog races down the Newmarket Road if I can charm sixpence out of the hatched-faced old dears in bonnets who dispense the hospitality. So—ta, but no ta!”

He handed back the card.