WILL TURNED UP AT THE St. James right on time. There were a couple of dozen drinkers, and he had failed to establish how he and Yoxall would recognise one another. He had no idea what the fellow might look like, and a quick look round turned up absolutely nobody who resembled his old captain. There was, however, a well-dressed black man in his early twenties looking his way, and as Will’s gaze skimmed over him, he tipped his head and raised a hand.

Will came over. “Er, I’m meant to be meeting a gentleman—”

“George Yoxall. That’s me. You’re Will Darling?” He was a handsome fellow, well built, with skin a few shades lighter than Maisie’s, and a smile that brought out the resemblance to Captain Yoxall after all. “I’m told you took a swing at Alan Cheveley in the Club earlier.”

Will cursed himself. “Er. Yes.”

“Don’t blame you. Man’s a stinker. I should say, I called Uncle Jimmy up after you ’phoned me, and he remembers you well. Had a fair bit to tell me, actually.”

“Flattering?”

“I should hope not.” Yoxall grinned. “Drink?”

They settled with a couple of pints and exchanged brief notes on their service. Yoxall had enlisted as soon as he was of age, in 1917. “They put me in the Tank Corps. Got out there just in time for Cambrai.”

“Oof. Do you know, you’re the second man I’ve met in a few days who was in the tanks at Cambrai.”

“Really? Who was the other?”

Will felt a spasm of embarrassment at what would doubtless look like name-dropping. “Well, it was Lord Aveston, only he wouldn’t be called that then.”

“Hugo Lavery. We were at school together. Lovely fellow. Rotten shot. How do you know him?”

Will explained about selling the Aveston library with a vague feeling of unreality that he was discussing a viscount with an earl’s nephew. Come to that, he’d punched a baronet and fucked a marquess’s son. Talk about the high life.

“And what about you?” Yoxall asked. “Whole show in Flanders?”

“Soup to nuts. Signed up on day one, demobbed ’19.”

“That’s a long stretch, especially for trench raiders. Uncle Jimmy told me some hair-raising stories.”

Rehashing those and telling more took up the first pint, and put them on a very comfortable footing. When Will returned to the table with the second round, Yoxall said, “It’s a pleasure to meet you, but I suppose we ought to get down to brass tacks. You wanted to talk about that business with Fairfax.”

“That, and the murder.”

“I don’t know anything about that. Look here, may I ask what your interest is? You aren’t a journalist, are you?”