“No, he was my sergeant. And—yes, that bloody business.” The man’s eyes flicked back regretfully to the shop window. “Still—as I say—stupid of me. I was probably mistaken.” He shrugged. “He couldn’t possibly have survived. And he’d never recognise me after all these years anyway. It was just that feeling of someone walking over my grave . . .” He gave an exaggerated shudder to illustrate his thought, then, “I’d best be off. But thank you for your kind intervention, sir. Truly—it was much appreciated.”

Rupert seized him by the arm. “Look here . . . when did you last eat?” he asked bluntly.

“Lord! Dunno!” The tramp frowned in mock concentration, then: “Ah! How could I have forgotten the unctuous tripes à la mode de Caen? Washed down with a tankard of eau du robinet. Last week, courtesy of the Sally Bash down the Mill Road Shelter. Tripe. Familiar with tripe, are you? The lining of a cow’s stomach, stewed up with onions and washed down with a measure of best Cambridge tap water. They know how to treat a bloke with respect, the Sally.”

Rupert took the jibe on the chin and managed to produce a sympathetic smile. “You’ve earned a damn good meal, I think. And I don’t have a Bath Bun in mind. I say . . .” Head cocked on one side as though the thought had just occurred to him, he added, “What about a slap-up dinner in congenial company this very evening? There’ll be a couple of pals. We always treat ourselves to something special on a Friday evening. Accompanied by fine wines, of course.” His eyes gleamed as he added his ultimate temptation: “A refined hock and a hearty burgundy? You’d be very welcome, frisky chap like you. Here.” He fished about in an inside pocket and took out a printed card.

The tramp took it between grimy fingers, looked at it in disbelief and read:

INVITATION TO DINE.

You are cordially invited

to break bread with the Amici Apicii.

Please bring this card with you

when you attend.

“Well, I never . . . ! Sure you didn’t mean a refined cock and a hearty buggery?”

“Oh! I say!”

The tramp grinned, enjoying the embarrassment and indignation his crude observation had caused. He handed the card back to the spluttering don. “Well . . . bit vague, isn’t it? No names, no pack-drill, no rendezvous. What sort of a mug do you take me for? And who the hell is this crew? Body snatchers? White slavers? Or just a bunch of tosspots who can’t manage to get a fourth for a hand of bridge?” He leered unpleasantly. “Seems to me I risk being boiled up for glue, shafted or bored out of my brains.”