“Hereditary peerage is unfair by definition,” Kim pointed out. “That’s what selection by accident of birth is. Look at my brother Chingford, whose very existence makes the word ‘aristocracy’ a contradiction in terms.”

Will sighed. “We didn’t all go to Eton.”

“Aristocracy means ‘rule of the best’, and I can’t think of any company in which Chingford would be counted as best, including the average gaol. Yet the hereditary principle demands we grant power, authority, and vast swathes of land to a man who couldn’t run a whelk stall if you gave him a copy of How To Run A Whelk Stall with corners turned down to mark the good bits.”

Will spluttered wine. Kim grinned. “Don’t tell me you disagree. I know how you feel.”

“Guillotines all round. But since the whole thing is a load of bollocks, why shouldn’t Phoebe get her unfair share?”

“Good Lord, Will, are you suggesting the House of Lords should treat women as equal beings? What next, painting the place green, white, and purple? Oh, for God’s sake.”

That last remark was at the sudden, jarring sound of the telephone ringing. Kim looked disgusted. “Interrupted in my own home, at my own table, and during the dinner hour. What sort of unregenerate villain calls at dinner-time?”

“Just answer it.”

“Certainly not. We’re eating.”

“I don’t know why you have a ’phone when you hate answering it so much.”

“Nor do I. Peacock will doubtless pick it up, he has an extension. What were we talking about?”

The ringing stopped, whether because the caller had given up or because Peacock had got to the other telephone set. Will helped himself to more rabbit pie, and had about a minute to enjoy it before there was a discreet knock and Peacock gloomed into the room.

“I beg your pardon, Lord Arthur,” he said. “There is a telephone call.”

“So I heard. Ought I care?”

“Mr. Mitra is on the line, my lord. He says it is exceedingly important.”

“Since when was I at Harry Mitra’s beck and—yes, all right, I’ll take it, you can both stop glaring at me.”

Peacock departed as Kim crossed the room and picked up the receiver. “Harry? Kim. What possible drama—” He cut off abruptly. “Say that again? ... You’re sure? Jesus wept. All right, I’m on my way. No, wait. I’ll want to bring someone with me. Not a member. Yes, I realise that, but I need him. Let’s say an expert on violence.” He shot a questioning glance at Will, who shrugged and nodded. “Thank you, Harry. I’ll be there as quick as I can.”

He put the phone down. Will said, “What’s going on?”

“We were talking about my brother Chingford, weren’t we? Speak of the devil.”

“What about him?”