With a swirl of the academic gown he’d chosen to retain as protective camouflage for his foray into the market, he breezed into the shop.

“Dr. Rendlesham! May I be of assistance, sir?”

“Ah, Blandish!” Rupert returned the greeting of the salesman who stepped forward at once to attend him. “You certainly can! I was just passing and felt the need to check the length of my gown in your—”

Before he could finish the sentence, a tall mirror was being pushed towards him and angled correctly. Rupert twirled in front of it, peering critically at his own elegant figure.

“Tell me now, Blandish . . . It’s being whispered around college that the longer length of gown, like this one you sold me last year, is somewhat passé. I invite you to share your thoughts. I like to have these things straight from the horse’s mouth.” He turned again, adjusted his tie and smoothed down his short fair hair. At that moment, Rupert caught Blandish’s sardonic eye, and a flash of skittish humour prompted him to grasp the two sides of his gown at heart level, elbows out, in a parody of a lecturer’s stance. He tilted his head to offer the mirror an inspiring profile. He’d do! By George, he’d do! If the goddess Britannia had had a son and that son had been admitted as a scholar to St. Jude’s, he’d surely have presented just such an image. Clean-cut. Direct gaze. Yet sporting a nose that would have provoked an envious Duke of Wellington into calling en garde!

Nerves calmed, he could now go on his way. Complete his mission. But Blandish appeared to be taking this nonsense at face value; he was giving the matter serious consideration.

“All is perfection, Dr. Rendlesham. I assure you the hemline rests where it has rested for seven hundred years. Halfway between hock and heel, just brushing the fetlock. But . . .” A reproving finger was raised. “If you will permit me, sir.”

From heaven knew where, the man had suddenly conjured up a tailor’s sponge and was dabbing at a fold in the back of his gown, tutting all the while. “Eve’s pudding for supper last night, sir? You must have been seated in front of a clumsy custard-eater. There, that’s better. I’ll just give the shoulders a brushing and you’ll be ready to take tea with the queen.”

“Ah! Tea with the queen?” Rupert snorted with amusement. “Dinner with the devil is more what I have in mind! Thank you, Blandish. I’ll be on my way.”

“Give His Satanic Majesty my regards, sir.”