Oily had slipped it from his own neck without a second thought. “You can’t go anywhere respectable without a tie, man! Here, take mine. I’ve got six more like it at the hotel. Edith buys them for me by the armful. She loves the colours, and stripes are all the go this season, she tells me. She bought a bundle yesterday over the counter at Ede & Ravenscroft and picked out this one for me to wear. Just cross your fingers it’s not some college Tiddlywinks Club tie! That’s just the sort of thing that gets them riled up, apparently! A non-tiddlywinker making free with the club tie! Gor blimey! It’s another world! Unreal! These academic blokes are like orchids in a hothouse. They can only survive in a place like this, with their greedy roots sucking up expensive nutrients.”

Dickie had agreed and accepted the tie.

Rendlesham was staring at his neckwear with a mixture of amusement and disbelief. He gulped. He fought off a fit of the giggles. He turned to share the joke with his companions. Snorts and gasps followed and then an inexplicable relaxing of tension amongst the dark-suited gents. Dickie guessed that whatever they were seeking from him as a dinner guest, he’d unwittingly provided.

The oldest man stepped forward. Time for introductions. Distinguished as their leader by his grey hair, which had the discreet gleam of polished pewter, and by his clear commanding voice, he introduced himself as Oliver Fanshawe. Fanshawe proceeded with slow solemnity to present him to the remaining three hosts. Hubert Sackville and Quintus Crewe, middle-aged, sharp of feature, cold of eye, were committed to memory. Dickie loathed them on sight but gave no sign of his antipathy. “And you have just met our most recent member: Digby Gisbourne. Like your good self, I understand, Digby is a native of our largest and what is considered by some to be our most splendid county, Yorkshire. By those who happen to be a connoisseur of cricket or puddings.” He turned a thin, placatory smile on Digby, who frowned.

Ah! The first jibe, and it was a feeble one. A distancing shot that fell short of its target. Dickie had no sentimental feeling for his home county and no particular affinity with any other man who hailed from it.

“Indeed? And how about you, Mr. Gisbourne? Do you proudly claim your northern heritage? Are you one of those fellows who embellishes his conversation with sentimental phrases of a ‘dark and tender and true is the North’ variety?” Dickie asked pleasantly.