The enemy had gathered some distance away to take his measure. In the background at the far end of the very large room stood a cluster of four dark figures formally clad in dinner jackets. At his entrance, they had all turned to look at him and had fallen silent. Digby went to join them. This was a calculatedly intimidating scene, Dickie thought, for any outsider lacking confidence. “The first one of these blighters to raise a lorgnette to his eye the better to quiz me, gets that eye poked out,” he promised himself to ginger up his spirits. But then, at his age, why risk it? Attack any of these gilded, whey-faced effetes and he’d find himself hauled up before the local magistrate, who might just happen to be the second cousin of the master of the college, and he’d be condemned to tramp the treadmill until he dropped dead. He almost turned and made for the door while he still could. And probably not the first guest to do that, he thought, if he’d read their game aright.

The tallest figure detached itself from the group and came forward, hand outstretched. Dickie was almost relieved to recognise Rupert Rendlesham.

“Noël! Is this you? Great Heavens! I believe it is! What a difference a shave makes! I see you have chosen to live up to the pseudonym I conferred on you and acquired a veneer of brilliantined elegance to chime with the insouciance and the ready wit. Gentlemen, may I present our guest who—for this evening—is going by the name of Noël Coward? Though he more regularly answers to ‘Charlie Chaplin,’ he tells me. Loquacity and wit in one corner, mute buffoonery in the other? I wonder what we may expect. Either way, we may be assured of an entertaining evening. Perhaps we may encourage him to embark on a debate with himself? Let me take your coat, Mr. Coward, and I’ll introduce you to the others. No footman tonight—we’re waiting on ourselves. You must forgive our informality.”

The greatcoat was whisked away to an antlered hat stand by the door, and while pretending not to stare, Rupert was covertly checking to see what his guest was wearing below the all-encompassing garment. The secondhand dark grey serge funeral suit that Dickie had bought from a pawn shop was noted as incorrect, though acceptable, but Rendlesham tossed his head like a startled horse at the sight of the red, green and silver–striped tie.