All his courtesy training coming to the fore, Ambrose was there before him to unlock and hand him his boater as he ran out, turned left, turned about, then shot off to the right in the direction of the town centre.

“Thank you, Ambrose,” the tramp said coolly. “Did someone mention a cup of tea?”

“Good idea! Steady the nerves,” Stan breathed. “The way my hands are twitching, you wouldn’t want them anywhere near your throat, mate, not when I’ve half the face left to do. And if you were thinking of inviting me to your party tonight, please forget it! I think the entertainment might be a touch overstimulating for me.”

Chapter 3

Chapter 3

Cambridge, Friday, the 16th of May, 1924

The guest arrived looking about himself warily, seeking amongst the untidy row of run-down Victorian villas the number of the hostel he’d been given by the receptionist at his hotel. He’d called in at the Regent to clean up, apply a plaster to his neck and change his clothes. Edith hadn’t been there, thank God, and he’d left in good time for his dubious assignation with mad Dickie.

The tramp stepped forward from the concealing embrasure of a neighbouring door. “Glad to see you, Oily!” Dickie greeted him by his army nickname.

Was that meant to be reassuring? Oily thought not, but he didn’t raise an objection or demand to be addressed by his real name. Dickie was on a short fuse these days, he’d heard it rumoured . . . skittish, quick to take offence—nervous! But, then, who could blame him? They all had good reason to be nervous, though Oily preferred to think of it as alert and prepared for danger. He corrected himself: not all of them. One of their number did not need to go about in fear, looking over his shoulder. His was the face the others feared seeing.

Best, anyway, to handle the bloke with kid gloves. He touched the sticking plaster on his neck to remind himself of the man’s bad-tempered bursts of violence. Any mention of the difference in their present social standing and financial status might well wind him up. He assessed the tramp’s getup. Still wearing that old greatcoat, swaggering about like an officer. Though with his new haircut and shave he could just about get away with it, Oily conceded. If you didn’t despise ancient eccentricity. Oily did. But at least the man was dressed correctly for the time and place—unlike himself. Oily’s London suit, his stylish hat and polished shoes would get him stopped at the doorway of this den if he attempted to go inside. Too bad. It was all he had in his suitcase. He could hardly have told Edith to pack a scarecrow outfit on the off chance he’d be invited to a down-and-outs’ tea party.