He’d been wondering how to play this encounter. Quiet, unprovocative, subservient and annoyingly dull? Or—his preferred option—combative, using slay-and-spare-none verbal jousting? In a situation where he was outnumbered, outgunned and skirmishing on foreign territory, was that wise? No. It was asking for trouble. The only wise course open to him was to turn at once and make for the door and fresh air. But he’d learned a thing or two over the years from underdogs. Boer, Afridi tribesmen, Yorkshiremen. Clever sods, and they never backed down. They had the painful habit of jumping up and kicking you where it most hurt just when you thought you’d gotten the better of them. He’d stay and sing for his supper. And make this shower of shit join in the chorus.

He turned a beaming smile on Fanshawe. “Man? Did I catch the whiff of a question there? Well—manly enough to have survived three wars, is your answer. In very active service on three continents, serving three monarchs. But—too tedious at a dinner party to indulge in comparing medals, battle scars.” After the slightest pause, he added, “Lives and reputations saved . . . I’m sure you agree. If manliness is a quality you insist on establishing in your guests before the aperitif is poured, may I suggest a simple way of checking my credentials? Select someone from your group—some Achilles, some Goliath—to escort me to the nearest tall tree—I believe I spotted a superb, smooth-boled chestnut down below in the court, and I’ll piss higher up it than your champion. I’ll even wager a quid on the outcome.”

Dickie waited. He caught the look, half scandalised, half amused, saying, There! Didn’t I warn you? that passed from Rendlesham to Fanshawe.

Digby Gisbourne filled the awkward pause by offering a tray of drinks to Dickie. “Will you have a glass of sherry, sir? Or would that have a debilitating effect on your urethra masculina? Spoil your aim, even? It’s the finest from the college’s Jerez bodega. Solera-aged in barrels a century old, I understand.” He was stifling a giggle, and his left eye twitched in what might have been a wink.

“Hermes one minute, Ganymede the next, eh?” Dickie said jovially. “Watch it, young Digby! Remember the fate of an innocent shepherd boy snatched by Zeus to serve him his wine on Olympus! Have you checked the terms of your employment?” He shook his head and narrowed his eyes in warning. “I’d read the small print if I were you. No sherry, thank you. I’ll have a glass of Harrogate Spring Water, if you please. I see you have some.” He took a glass and, smiling, held it up and affected to admire its purity against a candle flame. “Aged for a million years in the limestone rocks of God’s own county.”