Rupert just made out the words murmured behind his back as he returned to the hubbub of the street. Yon Blandish would bear watching, he decided. Hidden depths? A possibility there? No. Too useful in his capacity of outfitter to the university and gentry of the town. Rupert’s nephew would be coming up next term, and he’d planned on confiding the boy to this establishment for his sartorial needs. Never curdle the cream and never foul your own nest—those were the rules. He must seek his prey farther afield.

He strode through the market square, surveying the midday crowd from his formidable six-foot-two stature. It had been a good idea to wear his gown. At worst, it cloaked him in anonymity; at best, it granted him ease of passage. People moved out of his way, demonstrating their mistrust and dislike of academe. He scanned the mass of housewives and traders, lounging townies and the sprinkling of students desperate for fresh air and a change of scene. Checking, scorning and ultimately rejecting the lot of them. A predictable and boring collection with nothing more interesting on their minds than the size of Sunday’s ham joint and the freshness of the cauliflower. Nothing here remotely resembling his target.

Had he missed him? Mistimed his sortie? Rendlesham was growing anxious. His afternoon meeting was due to start at one; there was little time to spare. After a very brief consideration, Rupert forgave himself. He would have to suggest a postponement. But his pride would be eternally dented if he let down the chaps. This was his first quest, and he’d volunteered, after all. What’s more, the selection had been made for him—the scented lure had been pressed to his nostrils by Fanshawe himself. He merely had to follow where it led. He could not be seen to fail. He’d have to calm down, put a lid on the cauldron of conflicting emotions bubbling over and put his nose to the ground.

Testily, he wondered whether Fanshawe had been ill-advised. Surely there were more fruitful hunting grounds than the market square? The sunny green banks of the Cam? No, not during exam season. The only people lurking discreetly below the trailing green foliage of the willows were students. Swotting, sweating, occasionally throwing themselves off bridges. The bar of the Eagle? Packed with unintelligible science-wallahs. Drunk or boring. Frequently both. To be used only as a last resort.