“Outbreak of silver-stealing in the pantry,” the master said by way of explanation. “The culprit was satisfactorily tracked down and has now been dismissed. The villain seems to have been working his way through the colleges, but his career of crime stops here.”

Redfyre interpreted this piece of staged flummery as an assertion of power. We have our own methods and resources and never need to call on institutions like the local police force was the implication. How was he supposed to react to the man? With a demeaning Do let me know how I may help you in a professional capacity, Master? A forelock-tugging, deferential yes-sir-no-sir subservience was clearly expected. But eye-to-eye good manners and respect where earned came more naturally to Redfyre.

He nodded at Rosamund, who seemed to be mischievously enjoying the encounter she had set up, and decided for the second time that this girl was worth watching. As also, it now appeared, was her father. “Miss Wells? So good to see you again! I thought our paths might cross, so I brought up a small gift. Stolen from your own garden, I’m afraid. I must hope that your father isn’t minded to arrest me for it and suppress a character reference. A rose for a Rose. A red rosebud.” With a gallant gesture, he snatched the rose from his lapel and handed it to her. “This one is a very old French variety, I believe. Its name is ‘Dark Secret.’ Do you see, it starts out almost purple, the colour of venous blood on its way to the heart, then, the heart having worked its life-giving magic, it bursts out into the bright red of arterial blood. And its perfume is intoxicating.”

Rosamund gulped and murmured something unintelligible. She politely sniffed the rose, then took it to a vase of sweet peas standing on the mantelpiece and pushed it into the water with them.

Redfyre turned to the master, and hurriedly Rosamund remembered her duties. “Father, may I present John Redfyre, who is our neighbour over the north wall and an inspector with the Cambridge police force? John, this is my father, Dr. Cornelius Wells.”

Dr. Wells moved forward, hand outstretched, and the two men muttered polite formulae, eyeing each other with interest.

On closer inspection, it seemed to Redfyre that the gown disguised rather than exaggerated the man’s athletic build. He had the strong shoulders of an oarsman and the sure-footed gait of a fencer. His features were more difficult to determine, covered as they were with outbreaks of facial hair. The dark eyebrows were a luxuriant windbreak for the bright eyes now scanning him from head to foot, the well-trimmed short beard slightly peppered with grey offering the only evidence of advancing age. The voice was also youthful. Firm and clear, it had none of the querulous academic affectation Redfyre had dreaded.