I shifted uncomfortably on my chair, lit a cigarette, and told myself that the sooner I could leave the Villa Mauresque the better. The atmosphere always made me uneasy, as though it had been calculated to make me feel as if I were the queer one. Perhaps I was at that. A fish out of water, certainly; out of water, and out of oxygen. I helped myself to another drink and tried to remain affable.

“I don’t know that I’d call it a secret history,” I said. “I think I told you quite a bit already, didn’t I?”

“If you were a fictional narrator, my friend,” said Maugham, “I should say that you were a narrator who was not to be trusted. Like Tristram Shandy. Please don’t get me wrong. That’s not a bad thing. Not in his case, nor in yours. It’s merely entertaining.”

Robin frowned at me and then looked irritably at his uncle. “What’s Walter doing here anyway? That’s what I’d like to know. He’s a German. Surely an evening like this should be Brits only. I can’t imagine someone like Sir John will welcome a Jerry at a meeting like this.”

“You’re right, of course,” said Maugham. “An Englishman has an instinctive knowledge of what’s right and wrong. And can always be relied on not to let the side down, unlike some fucking kraut. Especially someone who went to Eton and Cambridge. Someone like Guy Burgess, perhaps.”

Alan laughed.

“Besides, Sinbad isn’t the only one who can put on a bit of maximum security,” said Maugham. “So can I.”

“Well, I think he’s a little too old to be a bodyguard,” sniped Robin.

“Isn’t that right, Walter?”

I slipped the automatic Spinola had given me back at La Voile d’Or out of my trouser pocket for a moment to let everyone see it, but mainly the sight of the gun was for Robin’s benefit.

“So that’s what it is,” said Robin. “And here was me thinking that lump in his trousers might be his cock.”

I smiled calmly; it seemed a little more socially adept than whipping him across his pink, sweaty face with the gun. But there’s more than one way to slap a bitch hard.

“Perhaps, sir,” I said to Maugham, “your nephew might be interested to know that Anthony Blunt is also coming tonight.”

“Blunt? Coming here?” Robin Maugham was agitated. I didn’t blame him. It must be awkward to meet someone socially when you’ve been blackmailing them. He stood up, red-faced and puffing like one of the carp in his uncle’s ornamental pond, and flung away his cigarette. “No one told me. Why the fuck is Anthony Blunt coming here as well? I don’t understand. Who asked him anyway?”