Scything their way though a ten-year-thick growth of suppression, a pair of mischievous eyes swept in and recaptured his memory. A soft, inviting voice. “It’s a Persian dish. Do try some, Dick! I’d love to hear what you think of it.” And emotion had taken him by the throat and squeezed out words and thought, as it always did in her presence. Gargles and grunts and mindless braying formulae were all she’d ever heard from him.

Dickie was aware that the same symptoms of speechless anxiety—down to the sweating palms—were unaccountably in possession of his body at this moment. Why the hell?

Here, a million miles away in Cambridge, a single chef in full white regalia was officiating at a range of cooking hobs, piling cooked food into chafing dishes. A piece of equipment driven by electricity, Dickie could only suppose, since there was no smell of primus oil evident, just the mouthwatering scent of slightly scorched meat—was that lamb?—with an undercurrent of butter, garlic and herbs. That was lamb! And there was the aromatic trigger for his unwelcome memory.

Shaken, but satisfied that he could at least account for his nervous spasm and therefore control it, Dickie achieved some professional calm by picking up his routine for survival. He swiftly assessed his surroundings. The lights of a range of tall windows, overlooking a courtyard of some kind, were conveniently open to air the room, but they stood many feet from the ground, and the drop below was long. The threat facing him would have to be of dire proportions before he exposed himself to such an exit three floors above ground level, where doubtless unyielding stone pavings would halt one’s descent. He was no Douglas Fairbanks to leap out onto a hoped-for network of ivy and drainpipes. There lay certain death. A screen in Spanish leather to one side concealed a small door—slightly ajar, he noted—leading off to a bedroom or study. A dead end. His sole escape route was through the door by which he’d entered.

This now closed with a velvet thud behind him.