That was clear enough. Will nodded assent. Peacock placed the teapot precisely on the table, then brought out two mugs, and put them both down. It was an invitation, so Will pulled out a chair and sat.

There was a Sporting Life on the table, folded to the greyhound racing. “You follow the dogs?”

“I have the occasional flutter,” Peacock admitted.

They talked about that, and about the respective fortunes of Northampton Town and Crystal Palace, whose ascent to the Second Division a couple of years back was a source of some smugness to Peacock. Sport did very nicely to fill the air while they took one another’s measure, and by the time they were on the second mug, Will felt he had an ally here.

So did Peacock, it seemed, because he leaned back in his chair and said, “Will Lord Arthur be looking into the case?”

“I don’t know if there’s much to look into. It seemed pretty open and shut.”

Peacock nodded slowly. “That’ll have repercussions. Re-per-cussions. Very unfortunate.”

“Some people might think it would be good for Lord Arthur,” Will said. “Promotion to the First Division, as you might say.”

“Some people don’t know any better. It’s no good for him, no good for me, and I shouldn’t think any good for you, Mr. Darling.”

That was frank. “Right,” Will said. “And what are we to do about it?”

They exchanged a long look, then Peacock’s head turned. “That’s Lord Arthur up. If you’ll excuse me?”

Will took his mug and cleared out. Kim came into the sitting room a couple of moments later, resplendent in his purple dressing gown, rubbing his face. “Good morning. I feared you’d left.”

Will jerked a thumb at the kitchen. “You’ve telegrams, apparently.”

“I’d be amazed if I didn’t.”

Peacock entered a few minutes later with a teapot and fine china on a tray—proper teacups on saucers now the master was up, and a sugar basin, which he always brought out even though neither of them took sugar—plus a stack of newspapers topped with a pile of buff envelopes. “Shall I prepare breakfast, Lord Arthur?” he enquired.

“A heaping bowl of arsenic would be very welcome.”

“And would you wish me to reconnect the telephone?”

“God, no.”

“Certainly, my lord,” Peacock said with profound disapproval, and left them to it.

Will poured Kim’s cup of tea before the brew could taste of anything, just how he liked it, while Kim took the heap of telegrams. “Christmas come early. One doesn’t know which delightful gift to open first. Let’s see. Journalist. Journalist. Harry Mitra would like me to answer my telephone. My father’s lawyer wishes me to contact him at my earliest convenience. Journalist. God.”

“God?”

“An oath, not a correspondent.”

“I was wondering. You all right?”