“Except that he wasn’t drunk and hadn’t been in a fight. It was neat and sweet, Oily. Just like we were taught. His private life was a bit messy, apparently. Unsatisfactory wife he wanted to be rid of and who would have been glad to be rid of him. Otherwise? Perhaps we’re destined to go one at a time, perhaps all in one fell swoop. But why? Is it revenge, impure but simple, or does one of us know something he shouldn’t, and we’re all being picked off in case he ever opens his mouth? We were witness to some strange events, Oily.”

“Witness to? Huh! We triggered most of ’em! But that’s defeatist talk! I’m not going to succumb. I have a life to lose. I’ve got two boys at Eton, three businesses to run and Edith depending on me! But at least this meeting . . .” Oily put down his fork and grimaced, his plate only half-empty. “This meeting . . . encounter between us . . .” He floundered theatrically for a moment. “Not quite sure what you’d call an assault with a razor, followed by attempted poisoning! But at least it’s cleared up one thing. It’s not you, it’s not me. One of our number you say is dead. That leaves three men.”

“And what a trio! Not one of them at all likely.” Dickie sighed. “Not one capable of murder. Killing, for God’s sake—well, yes, we’ve seen enough of that. With rifle and bayonet. But murder? No. We all know the difference. Oily, what is it we’re not seeing? Tell me in detail how you got that message today.”

“By letter. Typed . . . No signature, of course. I kept my copy. Want to take a look?”