“But how dull this is!” he continued jovially. “Rendlesham, I would have certainly turned down your invitation had I had warning that I was expected to wallow in past military disasters. If you suffer from such self-flagellating patriotic propensities—may I suggest—to enter into the spirit of things—you clear the tabletop after the second bottle of brandy and have some illustrative equipment brought in? We could have a salt-cellar sergeant or two, a pepper-pot private, a claret-jug general, a front line of petits fours and a battery of brandy glasses bringing up the rear. I believe these are the items most frequently put to use by fuddy-duddy old fire-eaters to illustrate their unremarkable campaigns before they retire to the snooker room. We could refight the Relief of Kimberley! We could follow on with Ladysmith and Mafeking for the best of three Reliefs!”

Even his list of tedious dinner service items did not distract Digby Gisbourne from his hunt for information. “Tell me, sir. The young men who ‘paid dearly for the blunder’—should the world still fear ‘the dread revenge they will take’?”

Dickie’s eyes narrowed, and his voice lost its cheery enthusiasm. It took on the cold threat of a steel bayonet held within lunging distance of a man’s throat. “Oh yes, young Gisbourne. It’s not the world, however . . . not even the drawing-room generals who should walk in fear . . . but if I were a certain pepper-pot private, a certain conniving, murderous Judas, I’d be shitting my britches. I’d be looking over my shoulder. Constantly. Until the day I saw creeping up on me, my Nemesis in khaki.”

They all were visibly startled by the rap on the door, though at least three of them were expecting it.

Dickie turned to look back over his shoulder but maintained his position, defensive and aggressive at the same time. Was he two steps away from his own easy exit, or a threatening obstacle to anyone trying to get away?

Fanshawe recovered quickly and called out a peremptory “Come in!”

The buttery boy put his head round. “Sorry to disturb you, sir. Here’s your second guest. He’s signed in.”

He flung the door open to admit a dark-suited man.

Dickie was the first to find words. “Well, I never! Is this the moment to say: ‘I get sick to death of seeing your ugly mug every time I turn my head’? I believe it is. Come in, man, and state your hellish business.”

Chapter 8

Chapter 8

Cambridge, Sunday, the 18th of May, 1924