“The college is rich in land in various parts of the county, Redfyre. We own a particularly productive farm up near Huntingdon. I think it came to us by way of the deathbed will of some Cromwell or other. They produce much fine fruit and bring on their strawberries in glasshouses. Though I must ask you again—are you perfectly sure my daughter turned you down? This is quite a spread she’s laid on in double-quick time, and I don’t think she had me in mind! A slice of leftover Victoria sponge is what I usually have on a Wednesday.”

He directed a good-humoured gaze at his daughter, who reddened perceptibly and replied at once.

“It was meant as an apology, Father. I was rude to the inspector the first time we met, and I hope that he will accept an offering of early strawberries as a show of contrition.”

“For a man who spent four summers in the wastes of Flanders dreaming of little else not so long ago, strawberries will cancel out any debt, real or imagined.”

The master laughed. “In Scapa Flow, it was jam roly-poly with custard I used to dream of.”

“You’re a military man, sir?”

“The Royal Navy. Not in an active way in the last lot, you understand. Advisory. Signals Intelligence.”

Into Redfyre’s puzzled silence he added lightly, “I’m not one of your lifetime academics. I’d rather live the life of Odysseus than study it.”

“An unusual candidate for the mastership of a college?”

“Oh yes. The previous master was pretty ineffectual. He was sick for his latter years and, this being the sort of establishment where you die in harness, the college decayed along with him. Rudderless, no compass and no following wind. A bad situation. There was no obvious successor—four candidates who all loathed one another—so someone thought of making a bridging appointment, bringing in a piece of grit, a breath of fresh air, to wake the place from its medieval torpor.”

“I understand.” Redfyre spoke uncertainly. He did not really understand, his mind racing to fill in gaps and tie up ends. The whole story of this appointment smacked of manipulation from a higher source. The Admiralty? SigInt? Room 40? This self-styled “piece of grit,” this disarming pudding-fancier, might well be a formidable character. Rosa’s father was beginning to look very like one of the stout supports of the English establishment. Could he be persuaded, tricked or charmed into telling a policeman what had gone so wrong in one of the country’s oldest and most prestigious colleges that a tricky, fire-eating commando force of one had to be smuggled aboard to sort out the problem?