The row of weeds lined up against him deserved his pity, not his anger. For all their advantages of wealth and education, their veneer of civilisation, they were rotten at their core, and it was too late to save them. By the natural laws of survival of the species, they should be put down like rabid dogs. He’d shot down without compunction lines of men much less deserving of annihilation than this selection. Their supper parties, he calculated, were the mental equivalent of the snaring and torture of a defenceless kitten by a gang of little boys. They trawled the streets looking for someone who would provide them with good sport. A stranger who, with the lure of a place at their dinner table, would be a butt for their cruel jokes, their twisted wit. An hour’s entertainment for them. A continuing shame for the victim.

Dickie knew what he had to do. He had to exact retribution. A retribution concerning which they would not be able to lodge a formal complaint to the university authorities or the police. In other words, no knuckle sandwiches on offer, no cracked shins or bloodied noses. Shame, but there were other, less dangerous victories to be won.

Satisfied with his arrangements, the chef caught the eye of Fanshawe, bowed and excused himself, leaving the dinner party to “wait on itself.”

Dickie cast an eye over the table, taking in its opulence. White linen, gleaming silver, hock standing in a chilling bucket, claret in its jug, brandy on the sideboard and a series of fragrant dishes lined up in battle order. None of which delights Dickie had any intention of tasting. Let these self-indulgent toads guzzle their way through the feast; he could never bring himself to “break bread” with such excuses for men. No one seemed eager to rush to table, and Dickie remembered that Rendlesham had told him: “Knives and forks at seven.” Judging by the level of sherry in the glasses of his fellow diners, Dickie calculated they were counting on a further ten minutes’ fluidity of formation. Testing their weapons. Encircling their prey. Digby Gisbourne helped himself to a second glass of sherry.

The bell had rung for round two, and Dickie decided to come out fighting. Against all the rules of chivalry, they had chosen the adversary, the place and the weapons. They could hardly complain if he used their choice of weapon against them.

When facing a group attack, always take out the leader first. He turned to Fanshawe with an affable smile. “The college of St. Jude . . . With more than a score of colleges to choose from, I’m wondering what drew you to enlist with the patron saint of Hopelessness and Lost Causes?”