The walrus bristled. “Wouldn’t have stood for it in the army.”

“Perhaps that’s what’s wrong with the army,” suggested the man in green.

That observation provoked an uncomfortable pause of the exact right length to let Sir Richard take over the conversation once more. “Oh, but where are my manners? Liza and Hanna, these are, in no particular order, my Aunt Tabitha,”—he indicated the woman next to him—”Professor James Worth of the University of … somewhere or other.”

“Don’t worry,” said the professor, “it scarcely matters.”

“Then we have Reverend Lincoln, and Colonel Coleman.” He indicated the last two men: the vicar in green and the colonel the other, both of whom made polite, if perfunctory, hellos. “Everybody, these are Liza and Hanna Blaine.” He paused for a second and then added: “They’re married.”

Lady Tabitha scrutinised the Blaines with instinctive disapproval. “Well,” she said. “How decidedly modern.”

Hanna seemed like she was about to say something, and normally, Liza would have been happy for her to; her passionate commitment to her beliefs was one of the things she loved most about her. But it was late, and she was tired, and they were in a hotel in a snowstorm surrounded by some very posh people who weren’t about to change their opinions about either lesbians or interracial relationships. “How about”—Liza leaned over and semi-whispered to her wife—”we don’t make a scene?”

“This isn’t a scene,” Hanna whispered back, “unless you turn it into a scene.”

Either in rescue or boredom, Malcom Ackroyd turned to Liza. “So, what is it you do?” he asked.

“She’s a podcaster,” answered Hanna, and Liza wanted to take it as pride, but in the moment it felt a lot like just not letting her answer.

“True crime,” added Sir Richard. “She’s fearfully good. Their miniseries on the Canonical Ripper Victims was excellent.”

Mrs Ackroyd wrinkled her nose. “I’m afraid I’ve always found that sort of thing a bit morbid.”

“Don’t be a killjoy, Vivien,” said her husband. “There’s nothing wrong with a bit of murder every now and then.”

Vivien didn’t seem convinced. “That’s what novels are for. You’re talking about real things that happened to real people.”

“And she—” Hanna began.

“We always try to bear that in mind,” Liza finished, shooting her wife an I-can-speak-for-myself look. “And everything we discuss is a matter of public record.”

“Ignore her.” Malcom Ackroyd pointed at his wife with a fork. “She just likes to make everyone feel bad about things we don’t need to feel bad about.”

Liza cringed inwardly. It was going to be one of those evenings, wasn’t it? “It’s fine,” she tried. “I do get that there are valid criticisms you can make of the genre. Still, I like to think we’re responsible in what we do.”