The dreaded word “agitator” was accompanied by a theatrical clattering of chains. The snort of irritation the inspector could not quite suppress did not go unnoticed.

“Just humour me, sir,” Redfyre said evenly. “Swear as much as you like, but leave out the politics.”

“I’m sorry, but I must again decline your invitation to reminisce. I’d be wasting your time. My South African experiences, fighting the enemies of the Great White Queen, can be of no conceivable interest to a . . . provincial English constabulary.” He left a brief pause to allow the insult to be registered. “We are separated from my youthful misfortunes by two continents, a waste of seas and a quarter of a century. To say nothing of the War to End War. I simply can see no connection.”

The prisoner appeared to have found and touched a nerve in the phlegmatic officer. “Murder! That’s the connection!” the inspector barked at him. “Multiple murders! It’s hardly the Spion Kop for body count around here and may scarcely rate with an old warrior like you, but bodies carelessly left lying about on my patch will be accounted for and retribution exacted from the guilty!”

Then, more calmly: “And let’s think of us as the Cambridge CID, shall we? You’ve met our Detective Superintendent MacFarlane and come out of that encounter with a bloody nose—figuratively speaking. The superintendent is nothing if not correct in his dealings with villains. You are aware of the quality of the policing you are attempting unsuccessfully to slur, so come off it! When recent deaths are calculated to have sprung from murky sources in the past, we have the habit—uncomfortable for some—of rooting around until we come up with what we’re seeking. And, believe me, here in Cambridge, we have history by the bucketful to play with! Drawers and filing cabinets bursting with it! Bodies buried six deep! The whole damn place is built on bones.”

The upwards twitch of the corners of the inspector’s tight mouth was intended to be conciliatory. “Yes, we’re busy blokes, but don’t fret—you can leave any deriving of connections to us! Now then, you were about to tell me your whereabouts between the hours of midday and midnight on the twenty-eighth of November, 1899.”

“Twenty-five years ago? Are you mad?”