Oh dear. Rupert heard the bombastic tone of a London air-raid warden and sighed. This was some upstart Cockney war profiteer, no doubt having invested his ill-gotten pile in a nice little business. A jaw-cracking bore. His interest was reclaimed on noticing the scarecrow resisting the manhandling. What a fool! His best course would be to wriggle out from under the clasp of the beefy paws and show a clean pair of heels.

One abrupt upwards slashing, a cavalryman’s flourish of the right arm, was all it took for the tramp to free himself from Aunty’s clutches. Immediately following that, the bony fellow, stiff with indignation, pulled himself to his full height and rounded on Aunty. He attacked his tormentor with words, delivered in a ringing baritone. And yes, “la-di-dah” just about described his tone, which was, might one say . . . almost gentlemanly? Hard to tell when the sentiments being expressed were decidedly ungentlemanly.

“Mind your manners, you overstuffed little cream puff! I’d smack you plumb in the watch chain if I didn’t fear the resulting explosion would contaminate the market square. But, what the hell . . . In for a penny!” His second attack came swiftly as his bunched left fist punched into the distended target with surprising vigour. Aunty doubled up, gasping and heaving, eyes popping.

An audience was hurrying to get a ringside seat. Fight! Fight! Where had they all come from, swarming up from nowhere like a plague of self-generating frogs?

For a sickening moment, Rupert was back in a prep-school playground, hearing both jeers and shouts of encouragement. From the same throat, in certain instances. A soggy tomato launched with pinpoint accuracy from the nearest stall added further decoration to Aunty’s waistcoat. So, predictably, the English townsfolk had chosen to take the side of the underdog, Rupert noted. He thought he heard a police whistle somewhere in the distance. He would have to act fast. Having found his prey, he didn’t want it carted off from under his nose by the local bobbies. No time for niceties.

He stepped forward, imperious in his black gown, calming and authoritative. A Cambridge crowd always appreciated instant judgement and swift retribution. Rupert was aware that, until quite recently, public hangings outside the Castle Street jail had drawn shamefully large audiences. He looked with a shudder at the overbright eyes and gawping mouths. Probably these people’s grandparents, he calculated. But, however reprehensible, a crowd was easily manipulated. Mark Antony had played on the emotions of the mob over the bloodied corpse of Caesar in the Roman forum. He, Rupert Rendlesham, could perform the same trick with a scattering of idlers enjoying a rumpus amongst the vegetables in the Cambridge market.