“Let me get something straight, Redfyre. I want to know to what exactly I owe the pleasure of your company this afternoon. Are you here to complain about the noise, prune the roses or ask for my daughter’s hand in marriage?”

This was more like it! Brusquerie with a touch of humour—exactly what Redfyre appreciated.

“None of the above, sir, you’ll be relieved to hear. Your students are ideal neighbours—silent and invisible, your gardens are tended to perfection and Miss Wells has sensibly rejected my advances. We shall be free to exchange views and information on a subject of equal and vital interest to the college and the Cambridge CID.”

“Then may I suggest we repair to my domestic quarters and embark on the discussion over a cup of tea and a scone or two? If rumour has it right, my back lawn would appear to be the centre of your current enquiries. I shall be entertained to watch the law on its knees seeking clues to . . . to what? I can’t wait to find out! Follow me.”

They settled to their very English overtures over their very English tea in the master’s drawing room, where tall windows stood open onto the expanse of lush lawn that separated the college land from the Anglo-Saxon graveyard. The usual conversational pawns were deployed.

“Heavenly, isn’t it?” The master picked up and echoed his guest’s thoughts. “Do you see that old mulberry tree over there? They say that it was planted by the poet John Milton himself.”

“Like the one at Christ’s?”

“Same vintage. King James was very keen on establishing the silk trade, and to that end purchased a job lot of mulberry plants in 1608 and sold them off all over East Anglia at six bob a hundred.”

“Mmm . . . The poet Milton, if we’re to judge by the folklore, would have been more of a gardener than a poet. His trees are here, there and everywhere. My aunt in Madingley lays claim to one. Every town a recipient of a tree and planted by his very own hand. Quite an achievement for someone who was no more than a babe in arms at that time,” Redfyre ventured.

“And in later years, a man much more of a disposition to have dug them up rather than cared for them.”

“So we’re to understand, if last year’s biography of the great man has it right. Did you . . . ?”

“I did. Much enjoyed!”

They exchanged knowing grins, each pleased with his showing in horticulture, classic verse and local history. Rosa rolled her eyes and yawned rudely.

“Pour your friend another cup, Rosa, love. And he looks like a man who can manage a second scone, topped off as it is with clotted cream and early strawberries from the home farm.”

“Farm, sir?” Redfyre looked about him in surprise.