“Enough’s stuck already he could start his own farm. But a lot of people will think that him being innocent of this makes him innocent of everything else he’s accused of. It’s worked before.”

“Oh, God in heaven! Who else have you—No. Don’t tell me.”

“I wasn’t about to.” She regarded him almost fondly. “I know it doesn’t sit well. But if it makes you feel better, we’ll expect certain assurances. As regards future behaviour.”

“Assurances,” repeated Oliver Nash. “Yes, that’s a comfort, isn’t it? Assurances.”

“It’s not nothing.”

“Well, you consider the source, don’t you?” said Nash. “From a man of honour, no. It wouldn’t be nothing.”

He stacked the papers into a pile, tucked them under his arm, and left the office.

And before the day dies John Bachelor, too, has caught up with events, or at least, has learned that events have moved on without him; has switched on Solomon Dortmund’s funny little television set, with its rabbit-eared aerial, and switched it off again once the news has rolled past, over and over. It seems that the story Benny Manors was anxious to sell is just that: a story. It seems that writs are descending from on high, and that lawyers all over London are rubbing their hands in glee or running for cover. It seems that rumours that have slow-cooked for a decade or more have been plated and served, and found to be foul. And it seems that John himself was party to this feast, though on whose side, and hoping for what end, he remains unsure.

Perhaps the peach brandy will clarify matters. But for the moment all he has is a painful knee and a sore throat, and a mind that can’t keep up with itself.

He wonders about Benny and Daisy, and how they will fare in the face of this reversal. (He will not have to wonder long. Partners in slime will read one headline the following morning. Devious pair plot to destroy Prince’s reputation. And Daisy’s bruised and battered face will grace many pages, next to an old mugshot of Benny Manors, current whereabouts unknown.) Mostly, though, out of habit and fear, he wonders about his own situation, and how bad it will turn out to be. And again, he will not be left long in limbo: soon the phone will ring, and it will be Diana Taverner, or if not Lady Di, someone tasked by her with making a tiresome call. Is he John Bachelor? He is. Is he currently residing at blah blah, blah blah, blah blah? Yes, and yes, and yes. In which case, he is hereby informed that his presence at such address is illegal and unwarranted and shall cease forthwith. Keys to be surrendered. Absence to be swift and permanent.

As for his role in the Service, and its continuation or otherwise . . .