“They’re sending a written report. I want you both to read it carefully the minute it arrives. It’s coming down the Great North Road in the saddlebag of a motorcycle dispatch rider. That’s the importance they’re attaching to the case. But for the moment, enough to say—both heroes and villains. The regiment is still interested in a small unit of six men who managed to get their names recorded for various reasons in the Boer War. We’re looking at a mixed bag of mixed-up individuals. Don’t trust any of them if you come face-to-face with them.”

“Them, sir? I thought we had dealings with two men, the tramp Dickie and now Abel Hardy, his possible killer. Exactly how many men are still involved in this case?”

“Six, when it all kicked off. Though some may be dead. I want them all gone over, every detail. Past and present. I’ll decide if they have a future! That coffin file case of the corpse at the war memorial? Jessup? Anybody check his regiment? KOYLI! They’ve got him recorded as dead. He could be number one. With Dunne and Hardy either perished or on the loose, we’re reduced to three to interview. They’re dropping like flies. I want the remaining trio found and interrogated, whatever their state of health or wealth. Write these names down: Herbert Sexton, Ralph Merriman, Sydney Fox—and you can add that madam Abel Hardy was or is married to, Edith. Go down to London and fetch her up here, Thoday. We’ll have a little chat. And, if all else fails, what about, as a wild card—find out if Sydney Fox’s mother is still alive. He was the youngest . . .” He consulted his notes. “Seventeen at the time. She may be still with us. How old would she be? Um, er—in her seventies, would you say? Not impossible. Young Sydney may have confided something in his old ma.”

He marshalled his thoughts, drew his notebook closed again and began.

“Don’t want to bore you with stuff you’re already familiar with . . . Look, how much do you fellows know about that ghastly business in South Africa?”

Redfyre answered first. “My uncle saw action there, sir. I’ve helped him—or hindered him—many times as a youngster to refight some of those battles. Magersfontein, Modder River, Bloemfontein, Spion Kop . . .”

Thoday smiled, bemused and out of his depth. Too young for even the Great War, to him the Boer War was very ancient history. “I was a Boy Scout, sir,” he offered. “I dutifully read our founder Baden-Powell’s accounts of his exploits in Mafeking. And I’ve always enjoyed The Boy’s Own Paper adventure stories. But that’s it.”