The man who’d got them in was a handsome chap of Indian looks aged around thirty, with an accent as perfectly cut as his suit, and an expression that suggested he hadn’t had the best evening. “Thanks for coming, old man. This is your colleague? Good evening, I’m Harry Mitra.”

“Will Darling. Pleased to meet you.”

“Will is unofficial,” Kim said, failing to add, And so am I. “Talk me through it, would you? Have the police been called?”

“Right away. We had to: the fellow is very dead indeed. Shall I take you to Chingford?”

“Can we see the body first?”

Mitra hesitated. “I suppose that will be all right, will it?”

“I can’t do anything without information. But keep it sub rosa for now, Harry. I’ll identify myself in due course.”

Mitra made a face. “If you say so. Well, come on.”

He led the way up the sweeping staircase. Kim followed. “Who’s the victim?”

“A chap called Fairfax, Paul Fairfax. Do you know him? He joined a few years ago. Nobody in particular—used to work in finance, I think, now a gentleman of leisure. A very clubbable chap and no trouble at all, until lunchtime today when he and Chingford had a blazing row in the dining room. And when I say ‘he and Chingford’, I mean that your brother was abusing him like a costermonger while Fairfax attempted to sidle out of the room. I broke it up, sent Fairfax off to find a drink, and informed Chingford he’d be reported to the Committee.”

“How many times does that make?”

“His fourth. A Club record.”

“They don’t want to sack him because he’s the Marquess of Flitby’s heir,” Kim informed Will. “They got rid of me very happily, but I’m only a second son.”

“You resigned,” Mitra said. “Let’s not drag that up now, shall we?”

They headed along a corridor, where various well-dressed men were hanging around in gossipy groups. They all looked at Kim, wide-eyed. Mitra said, “Just a minute,” in uncompromising tones to someone who accosted him, and poked his head into a room. “Here we are. Doctor, this is Secretan, he’s official, can he have a look? Thanks awfully.” He gestured Kim and Will in without allowing time for a reply.

It was pretty much what Will would have assumed a billiard room of a posh gentleman’s club to be. Three tables, well lit from above, lamps around the edges of the room, sporting prints, classical statuettes, silverware. The corpse slumped over one of the tables was probably not standard.