‘There are over ten years between us. He was the changeling. Is. Was. You see I am in a muddle too. You have no news of him at all?’

Aronovich shook his head slowly, moving his flute of champagne about in tiny circles on the table, spreading the melting ice from the bucket.

‘Not a word. Not hair nor hide. You can say that? Since … oh, well before he disappeared. Before January. He just went away. People can do that, you know? If life becomes intolerable to them they close the shop and go away. It is easy for them, hard for those left behind.’

‘Desperate for his wife. She is in constant anguish. Wondering where? If? I feel certain that we should go against his wishes, in his letter, and inform someone officially. The British Consul. The police … Someone. There should be a search. He can’t have left the country after all, he must be somewhere around.’

Aronovich was nodding in agreement, but suddenly looked up at me with curiosity. ‘Why do you feel sure of that? He could be miles and miles away by now. In Germany. Italy is easy from here. Anywhere.’

‘On a bike?’

For a moment we held each other’s gaze. Mine of inquiry, his of belief. He broke it finally by saying, sadly I thought, ‘We’ll never know. I feel certain of that.’

‘I am equally certain that he did not ride a bike to Rome or Naples or Berlin and Hanover.’

He refilled our glasses with expert grace. There was no spillage, no head of foaming bubbles. A perfectly poured glass of champagne. Which, after all, I thought he ought to know how to manage by now. After the Poisson d’Avril days.

‘It’s all humbug, isn’t it?’ he said suddenly. ‘I mean, about the Agendas? There are no copies, are there?’

‘How can we tell? I would have copied them if they had been mine. For safety.’

‘They were James’s. And he did not. You used it as a bait to lure me to this meeting. Confess!’

‘I confess. Yes. But it was imperative that I see you. You are the last hope I have. You knew him, you were, I gather, fond of him, you wished him well. You may know where he has gone to. Why.’

He shook his head again. ‘I know neither. He was a friend, I agree, but he did not confess his innermost thoughts. And if he left, then he left. I can’t tell you.’

‘Am I to really believe that?’

‘It is up to you, Mr Colcott. I paraphrase: I am not your brother’s keeper. I am sorry. Why do you persist so hard? Why not accept the fact that he has fled? You know perfectly well, I am certain indeed, that he was never actually married to Florence Prideaux. All that was just a happy bit of romantic nonsense. There is no marriage.’