“So you did. Sir. And delivered a compliment. At least I think it was a compliment.” The tramp paused, then added, “King’s Own Yorkshire Light Infantry. Once upon a time.”

Rupert surveyed his target from head to toe with fresh eyes. Even he was aware of the fire-eating reputation of the regiment. “KOYLIs, eh? Well, the king would be looking at you a long time before he recognised one of his own, I’m afraid. Down on your luck, you’re going to tell me? But I’m puzzled. Help me out . . . What on earth were you doing, mounting an incursion into a douce tea shop by the front door?” He wrinkled his nose. “Your feral odour risked overpowering the fragrance of the Earl Grey, wouldn’t you say?”

The sharp features hardened as the tramp studied his face, and Rupert understood that, unusually, he was being regarded with dislike, and—more disturbingly—his prey was about to break loose. Pity. For a moment, there had been something promising, even intriguing, in his manner. Rupert acknowledged that he’d gone too far. The fish was off the hook. He’d have to take a step back and select a different, more attractive lure.

“I mean to say—Aunty’s of all places! Whatever possessed you? You couldn’t drag me in there to join that clientele even with the promise of a pot of Lapsang Souchong and a petite madeleine to soak it up. Just look at the hats!” He pointed through the window. “All feathers and frills nodding at one another over the china.”

He’d chosen the right tack, it seemed. The scruffy gent was nodding. Even producing a grudging response. “Right. I haven’t seen so many pink frou-frous outside a tart’s boudoir.”

A comment calculated to challenge and silence a monastic academic, Rupert judged, but he replied anyway. “And the conversation!” he said heartily. “The conversation, if similarly elevated, would render us catatonic in thirty seconds, eh?”

The man had not made off into the crowds, but the scorn in his eyes told Rupert that his attempt at comradeship was despised. “It’s none of your business, sir, but I happened to see a soldier from my old regiment going in there for a cuppa. Stupid, but I wanted to see him again. Make sure he was all right. He was in a pretty bad state last time I clapped eyes on him. Being stretchered off a Transvaal battlefield, covered in blood. Shrapnel bullet, they said.”

“Ah. The Transvaal? That bloody business in South Africa? He was your officer?” Rupert asked, spinning out the conversation, reeling in the line and wondering how long it took for a bobby to run from Parker’s Piece to the marketplace.