It was dark and musty. Heavy curtains covered the windows, but they let a few beams of grey dawn light into the room. It was oak panelled, and there were lots of big, squashy sofas and armchairs dotted around. There was a large fireplace with a substantial store of wood to one side. Above the fireplace was an oil painting. Max couldn’t take his eyes off it. It showed a man in full military dress. He had short brown hair, parted on the right. Thick eyebrows. A strong jaw. He looked calm and in control. He also looked exactly like the man in the photo in the corridor. Which meant he looked exactly like Max.

Max stared up at the painting in the gloomy light. He found he was holding his breath again. The picture had an ornate gilt frame. On the bottom edge was an oval panel. Etched on the panel, in fussy copperplate writing, were the letters ‘R.E.J.’

‘R.E.J.,’ Max whispered to himself. ‘Who are you?’

‘What the hell do you think you’re doing in here?’

Max spun round to see Hector standing in the doorway. He hadn’t heard him come in. Hector looked furious. He glared at Max, then up at the picture, then at Max again. ‘I said, what the hell do you think you’re doing in here?’

‘Exploring,’ Max said calmly. He pointed up at the picture. ‘Who’s that?’

‘What does it matter?’

‘I was just curious.’

‘He’s some old soldier. How would I know who it is? What am I, a museum curator?’

It was very faint, but Max saw it: a twitch on the right-hand side of Hector’s face as he spoke. He knew the older man was lying. Max also knew he had zero chance of getting the truth out of him.

‘Get out of here,’ Hector said. ‘Breakfast.’ He stood to one side of the door and pointed back out into the corridor.

Max avoided Hector’s eye as he left the room. He walked along the corridor, across the hallway and into the room where they took their meals. None of the other cadets had arrived yet, but Martha was there. She was fiercely brandishing her ladle behind the hotplate as usual. She glared at Max as he approached.

‘What happened to him?’ Max asked.

‘To whom?’ Martha asked sourly in her strong Scottish accent.

‘The guy who broke his leg?’

‘He cried. A lot.’

‘Did you fix him?’

‘What do you think this is, laddie? Hogwarts? You think I can wave a magic wand and cure a broken bone? He’s in hospital, of course.’

‘How long will he be there for?’

‘That’s none of your business.’

‘I helped get him down, didn’t I?’

‘What do you want?’ Martha asked. ‘A twelve-gun salute? You’ve come to the wrong place, laddie, if that’s the case.’