Bad move. Dickie cursed himself. This was clearly not the first time Fanshawe had addressed such a challenge, judging by the swiftness and length of his defensive response. Finding himself sucked into their repugnant game, Dickie was tempted to open his own score sheet. Quintus Crewe took up the bowling from the other end and suggested smoothly that an elderly itinerant gentleman ought, rather better than most, to understand the concept of hopelessness. Was Mr. Coward prepared to regale the company with stirring tales of his descent—or could it be ascent?—to his present position in life? A position that might be defined as a few square yards of a public space where pennies from the pockets of the generous rained down to support the indigent?

Ouch! Uncomfortably close to the jugular. Even young Digby flinched and looked concerned, he was pleased to notice.

Dickie stood tall and squared his shoulders, but before he could answer for himself, Digby Gisbourne had begun to speak, his tone emollient. “Dr. Crewe, you were perhaps not present when Rendlesham told us that our guest is an old soldier? That he served with distinction in the African war, last century? He could have chosen to appear at our table with a chest clanking with medals, outdoing any of us in a show of manly endeavour rewarded by a grateful country. We are all eager to hear, Mr. Coward, whether you would condescend to explain something of what transpired. These things are so quickly forgotten. We college types in our ‘ivory tower,’ as you call this splendid stone monument to learning, can list all the warriors and the skirmishes of classical times, from Agamemnon and the Trojan War to Mark Antony at Actium, but we have retained the vaguest knowledge of—what shall we say?—the Disaster at Koonspruit? The exploits of ‘Bobs’ of Kandahar?” His voice took on an artless innocence. “And I, for one, would love to know exactly how Baden-Powell of the Boy Scouts helped relieve the siege of Mafeking. How Captain Dunne of the King’s Own Yorkshire Light Infantry, Captain Richard Dunne, thief and looter, escaped from the Pretoria jail, abandoning his deluded men to rot away in unjust incarceration?”

There it was! The challenge! The puff of smoke that betrayed the enemy’s position. And it had come from the least likely quarter. There was no good reason that Digby Gisbourne should be in possession of his name and rank and history.

“You little rat!” Dickie said, but he said it only to himself.