“I would that, Mr. Ruthven, ta very much.” He shoved his cup forward. Ruthven poured.

“Tell me something, Gerrard,” said Melrose. “It’s ‘Mr. Ruthven,’ when technically it should be just ‘Ruthven’; it’s ‘Mrs. Ruthven,’ when technically it should be ‘Martha.’ But it’s just plain ‘Mel,’ when technically it should be ‘Mr. Plant.’”

“Ah, come on, Mel. We’re mates, that’s why.” Gerrard winked.

Melrose, although he was now feeling kind of matey, did not return the wink.

“So ain—aren’t—you going to get some eggs and sausages?” Gerrard pointed with his fork in case Mel might not know where to find them.

“My regular breakfast is a little different … and here it comes.”

Ruthven set down the buttered toast and the boiled egg in an eggcup unlike the usual silver one. This one Melrose hadn’t used since he was a toddler. Melrose asked him, “Did you get hold of Treadwell?”

“Indeed, sir. Mr. Treadwell said he would be glad to come to Northamptonshire this morning and should be arriving shortly.” Ruthven was looking at the longcase clock.

“Would ya look at that!” said Gerrard, nodding at Melrose’s breakfast. “That eggcup has some kinda fella holding a hammer and a spoon.”

“To crack it open and to eat it. Notice, too, the round hat. That keeps the egg warm.”

“My God, Mel. That’s for a kid-like.”

“I am kid-like.” He proceeded to cut his toast into oblongs.

“You ain’t making soldiers?”

“I always do,” Melrose said as the doorbell gave its dulcet ring. He was trying to use the tiny hammer to crack the egg, but found it clumsy going. There! He peeled the shell down a little and, as Ruthven hadn’t supplied the silver egg-spoon, he had to gouge it with the play-spoon. “Just right,” he said to a fascinated Gerrard, as he dipped into it with one of the toast pieces.

At that point, Agatha, walking straight through Ruthven’s announcement of her, entered. She was hauling a large book that Melrose recognized as Burke’s Peerage. It was probably his own copy of Burke’s, though he couldn’t imagine how she could have got it out of his library without his knowing. He knew only what it meant and, after she was settled at the table with her cup of tea and a biscuit, butter and jam, she began.

“As you see, I’ve been dipping into Burke’s—”

Melrose loved the familiarity of that address.

“—and was surprised to see that the Ardry–Plant line has no mention of a Gerrard, nor any name resembling it.” Here she cast a smug look at Gerrard, across the table from her.