Meakin shook his head. “I don’t believe I have, Mr. Catchpool. I said you’ll be wanting to ask me, not that I’d be wanting to answer. I will say this, though . . .” He pointed a bony, swollen-knuckled index finger at me. “If you’ve stumbled upon three murders in your fancy London hotel, and keeping in mind that you’re a London policeman, you’d be better off asking your questions there and not here.”

“Are you insinuating that you would like me to leave, Mr. Meakin?”

“Not at all. Your itinerary is entirely your own affair. You’ll be welcome at this establishment for as long as you choose to remain. It’s no concern of mine.” With that, he turned and left.

I shook my head in puzzlement. It was hard to reconcile Victor Meakin as he was now with the man who had greeted me when I first walked into the King’s Head, who had babbled away merrily about London and his dirt-averse aunt.

I sat down on the bed, then immediately stood up, feeling the need of fresh air. If only there had been somewhere to stay in Great Holling apart from the King’s Head.

I put on the coat I had taken off a few minutes earlier, locked my room and descended the stairs. Victor Meakin was drying beer glasses behind the bar. He bowed as I entered the room.

In the corner, on either side of a table that was covered with glasses both full and empty, sat two men who were intent upon becoming as intoxicated as possible. Both had perfected the art of swaying while seated. One of these determined drinkers was a decrepit old gnome of a chap with a white beard that brought to mind Father Christmas. The other was well built and square jawed and could not have been older than twenty. He was trying to speak to the old man, but his mouth was too slack from the liquor and he couldn’t make himself understood. Fortunately, his drinking companion was in no fit state to listen, so it was perhaps lucky that it was unintelligible nonsense that was going to waste and not the finest repartee.

The sight of the young man disturbed me. How had he ended up at such a low ebb? He looked as if he was trying on a face that, if he didn’t change his habits, he would soon be doomed to wear for ever.

“Would you care for a drink, Mr. Catchpool?” Meakin asked.

“Perhaps later, thank you.” I smiled warmly. I try to make a point of being as good humored as I can with those I dislike or don’t trust. It doesn’t always work, but sometimes they respond in kind. “First, time to stretch the old legs.”