‘Jock,’ I said hollowly, ‘pray bring me a pot of tea – the Lapsang Souchong Tips I think – and a loaded revolver. Mine is not an ill for mending: I propose to take it to the grave but I wish to blow the top of my head off first. I have no intention of spending eternity with the top of my head in its present condition.’

He started to steal away.

‘Oh, and Jock,’ I added, ‘when you bring the tea-tray I implore you not to let the spoon or other cutlery rattle against the revolver.’

‘Yes, Mr Charlie.’ Was there a tinge of contempt in his voice?

I lay there listening to the surly, ragged beating of my heart, the tidal noises my liver was emitting and the figured-bass in the back of my skull. A silvery laugh floated up to me from the kitchen: how could Johanna be laughing at a time like this – she should have been on her knees beside my bed, promising to hold my memory sacred forever.

A few feet from where I lay there was a window: a small, diligent spider was spinning a web in one of its corners. He was spinning it inside the double-glazing, I have never seen anything more piteous in my life, it made me think of me. I dare say I shed a tear or two. Had a capable Jesuit entered at that moment he could have bagged my soul without firing a shot.

What in fact entered was my tea, borne by Jock with a minimum of clamour. I had some difficulty getting into a position where I could sip it; my bottom kept on aiding down the silk sheets. (How I have longed to have been born of common stock so that I could sleep on kindly Irish linen, but, alas, rank has its obligations as well as its privileges.)

I shall not say that the first sips revived me, for I have ever loved the truth, but it is a fact that they allowed me to contemplate the bare possibility of continuing awhile in this vale of tears.

‘Jock,’ I said sternly, ‘I can distinctly hear Mrs Mortdecai laughing. Explain this as best you can.’

‘Couldn’t say, Mr Charlie. She’s having breakfast with Farver Tichborne and they seem to be relishing it no end.’

‘Breakfast!’ I squeaked. ‘Breakfast? Tichborne is eating breakfast?’

‘Too right he is. He’s had a plate of porridge with cream and sugar,

then another plate Scotch-style with salt and dripping and pepper, then two eggs boiled very soft and runny, with richly-buttered toast, and now they’re starting on a pound of devilled kidneys with smoked salty bacon. I better run down and see if they’d fancy a bloater or two, I got some lovely ripe ones in the market yesterday.’

‘Get out,’ I said.

‘You fancy anythink?’ he asked.

‘Out!’ I cried.