‘Blighty?’ said BW.

‘That’s Captain Neville-speak, old chap,’ said Miles, sounding rather pleased with himself. ‘So when are you seeing Christina?’

‘I have a meeting with her in chambers tomorrow morning, when I intend to take her through the agreement clause by clause, stressing the consequences of her failing to sign it.’

‘Good, because if she ever thought she could get her hands on my art collection simply by telling her friend Beth that Miles Faulkner is still alive and kicking …’

‘You’d end up having breakfast in Pentonville and not the Savoy.’

‘If that were to happen,’ said Miles, ‘I wouldn’t hesitate to kill her.’

‘I’ve already made that painfully clear,’ said Booth Watson as the waiter returned with their breakfast. ‘Though I confess, I haven’t spelt it out quite that explicitly in the final agreement.’

• • •

‘The full English breakfast, madam?’

‘Certainly not, Franco,’ said Beth, looking up at the name badge on his jacket. ‘We’ll both have cornflakes with melon and a slice of brown toast.’

‘We can offer three types of melon, madam: cantaloupe, honeydew or water.’

‘Water, thank you,’ said William.

‘A wise choice,’ said Beth. ‘I read somewhere that the average person puts on a pound a day during a sea voyage.’

‘Then let’s be thankful,’ said William, ‘that we’re going to New York and not Sydney.’

‘I’d be quite happy to go to Sydney on this floating palace,’ admitted Beth as she glanced around the room. ‘Have you noticed the little touches they’ve done so exquisitely? Fresh sheets, tablecloths and napkins every day. And when you return to your cabin, the bed has already been made with yesterday’s clothes hung up and tidied away. I also love the way our laundry is returned each evening in those little wicker baskets. They must have dozens of people slaving away to make it all run so smoothly.’

‘Eight hundred and thirty Filipinos are hidden below, madam,’ chuckled their waiter, ‘who serve our one thousand two hundred guests. However, nowadays we have an engine room, so the galley slaves no longer have to row.’

‘And is that the slave master seated at the top of the table in the centre of the room?’ asked Beth.

‘Yes, that’s Captain Buchanan,’ said Franco, ‘who, when he’s not whipping the slaves, is chairman of the Pilgrim Line.’

‘Captain Buchanan?’ queried William.

‘Yes, the chairman served as a naval officer during the Second World War. It may also interest you to know he was a friend of the late Miles Faulkner and his wife Christina, who, incidentally, called to tell us you would be taking their place and asked us to take special care of you.’

‘Did she indeed?’ said William.

‘Is that the chairman’s wife sitting at the other end of the table?’ said Beth.

‘Yes, madam,’ replied Franco. ‘Mr and Mrs Buchanan are almost always the first to arrive for breakfast,’ he commented, before leaving to fulfil their order.

‘He looks every bit as formidable as Miles Faulkner,’ said Beth, taking a closer look at the chairman, ‘although he’s obviously deployed his talents to achieve something far more worthwhile than robbing his fellow man.’