Now here he was, but still with only the vaguest notion of what it was all about. No doubt he would get a briefing later today, or perhaps tomorrow, and all would become clear.

The clanging of a distant gong roused him from a deep sleep. Then he remembered: he was at Bawdsey Manor and the sound must be the summons for tea. His mouth began to water: he’d eaten nothing since breakfast in Cambridge that morning. Turning the wrong way out of his room, he quickly became lost in a maze of anonymous corridors lined with closed doors that all looked the same.

At last he found a heavy oak door, different from the rest and slightly ajar. Gingerly pushing it open, he found himself on a balcony overlooking the grand panelled hall with the ornate plastered ceiling. He hadn’t noticed the balcony from below, but remembered a similar structure at school, where student string quartets scraped away tunelessly for special events. The musicians’ gallery, that was what they’d called it.

Unseen below, he could hear voices and laughter. The sound of cups clinking and the tinkle of teaspoons only served to intensify his hunger and thirst. But how to get down there? He followed a short corridor that led to another door, also ajar, through which he was astonished to discover the most sumptuous billiards room he’d ever seen: oak-panelled and lined with raised benches upholstered in green-buttoned leather. On the walls were racks of cues and scoreboards in brass and gilded lettering, and in the centre of the room was the baize table, over which green glass lampshades hung from the ceiling. It was the sort of place where gentlemen of a certain class would retire after dinner, clutching their glasses of port and expensive cigars; the sort of place that made Vic feel even more acutely like an outsider.

The only other door out of this room opened into a small snug with an oversized stone fireplace, where no doubt the gentlemen would retire when they wearied of the game. Apart from that the only exit was a wide French window leading out onto a few steps and a lawn, beyond which Vic could see nothing but grey sky melting into an equally grey sea.

He’d thought he was on the first-floor level, so this was obviously a raised part of the garden. Sure enough, he discovered a set of steps leading downwards and through a stonework grotto onto a further lawn. At last, he turned a corner onto a terrace with the most spectacular view southwards over the mouth of the river, towards the distant town of Felixstowe. A group of men were sitting at a table in the sunshine, taking tea.

As he approached they looked up with the double-take expressions he’d come to expect from strangers. But at least they all managed to smile.

‘Mr Mackensie! Made it at last, old boy. Best view in town, ain’t it? Come and join us. We might be able to squeeze the pot,’ Johnnie said, leading Vic into an enormous room carpeted and furnished in various gloomy shades of green. On an oval table, several crumb-spotted plates attested to the feast he’d missed. A single piece of fruit cake remained. From the teapot emerged a dribble of molasses-black liquid glistening with scum.