And Herbert? It was unlikely that he would venture up to Cambridge, either, on only the strength of the anonymous letter. He was another who was doing a job he enjoyed and wanted nothing more to do with the past. He had never done anything out of respect for the group, Dickie had calculated early on. His loyalties had always lain firstly with any horse that may have appeared in his orbit and secondly to young Syd. If Oily was to be believed—and Dickie would check—Syd was hors de combat. Lying on his deathbed, face to the wall. No Syd, no group, would be Herbert’s reaction.

Should Dickie have gone to the police with his suspicions? The thought of embarking on an explanation those muttonheads would be willing to listen to for more than a few seconds made him laugh. No, he was—as usual—on his own.

Still, cornered here in a college as he was, if the worst came to the worst and he did have to make a run for it, leaving bodies behind, he couldn’t imagine who would step forward to challenge him here. There was no sign of bulldogs—those overstuffed bags of wind who paraded about, making life difficult for the students—inside the building. Genghis Khan could have ridden through with his slaughtering horde and the noise would have been ascribed to an outbreak of hijinks. In fact, the college premises appeared deserted. Everyone was dressing for dinner or doing a last bit of revision, he calculated, judging by the number of oak up signs he saw on doors.

They climbed a winding stone staircase up to the topmost floor, and here Gisbourne paused in front of a heavy door that had clearly stood there on the same hinges since the Middle Ages. He banged heartily three times, lifted the latch and pushed the door open.

Strangely, it was the cooking arrangements that Dickie took in first when he stepped into the room, so surprised was he to see them there, indoors, right alongside a large table laid for seven diners. It was a scene from any grand colonial picnic, and for a disturbing moment, Dickie was carried back to India. To service with a much-admired colonel. To a rare, peaceful summertime in Simla before the Great War. White dresses, tinkling laughter in the shade of the deodars and a phalanx of Indian servants cooking scented dishes on primus stoves. And a recently appointed, neat-waisted, suntanned young Captain Dunne fresh from his exploits in South Africa, dancing attendance on the Colonel and his family.