“I remember now. There was some kind of scandal, wasn’t there? His wife ran off and left him. Not that that kind of thing causes a scandal anymore. People are always doing it. Look at the Prince of Wales. One hears he’s trailing around after some American woman who is married to someone else. I don’t know what the world is coming to.” She turned to look behind her. “Don’t just stand there, Humphreys. Go and find out where I’m to be sleeping and put my things away.” She looked back at me. “She’s a poor specimen. No backbone. But she’s loyal. Been with me five years now.”

We arrived in the drawing room and Lady Hawse-Gorzley made the introductions. The other guests were suitably overawed by the dowager countess, except for the Rathbones. When they found out she had been to India, they entered into a lively session of name-dropping and one-upmanship with the countess.

“And Simla? How did you like Simla? Our of our favorite places, but of course we adore Ooty. Did you ever meet the Maharaja of Udaipur? Such opulence.”

“Yes, he was comfortably off, shall one say, but nothing to compare with dear old Pixie of Hyderabad. And did you ever go to Government House when dear Tommy was viceroy? Now, those were parties.”

The countess was winning the name-dropping handily when tea was announced. Low tables were produced, and a trolley was wheeled in, laden with all the items I particularly adore: warm scones with cream and strawberry jam as well as smoked salmon sandwiches, éclairs, brandy snaps, mince pies, slices of rich fruitcake and a Victoria sponge. Everyone’s mood lightened enormously. The Wexlers and the Upthorpes exchanged boasts about how much they spent on their motorcars and their wives’ furs. The Rathbones and the countess agreed that the good old days had gone and would never return. Even Junior Wexler had to agree that the scones and cream were “swell” and ate an impressive number. I was enjoying my own scones when Lady Hawse-Gorzley suddenly looked up at the doorway. “Why, the boys are here and I didn’t see them arrive,” she said. She got to her feet. “Monty, darling. How lovely to see you. So you made it safely, then.”

“No, Mother, we’re lying dead in a ditch,” Monty said, giving a grin to his sister. “Of course we made it safely. We’re here, aren’t we?” He was tall and slim and looked absurdly young.

“And Badger. You are most welcome.” Lady Hawse-Gorzley held out her hand to a red-haired, freckled young man. “Come on in.”

“Thanks, Lady H-G,” the freckle-faced lad nicknamed Badger replied, giving her a hearty handshake. “Looking forward to it awfully. Frightfully decent of you to invite me.”

“May I introduce my son, Montague, and his friend Archibald, usually known as Badger,” Lady Hawse-Gorzley said to the company. Then she looked around. “Didn’t your cousin come down with you on the train? He said he was going to.”