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impervious to cynicism, or any other form of moral censorship, short of an iron muzzle. ‘I followed him into the dining room. Have you noticed how he walks these days? Waddles, I should say. He lurched between the tables, like a circus elephant with the squitters. Nodded seigneurial acknowledgement to complete strangers. They thought I was doing the decent thing – bringing him out for the afternoon from the nuthatch.’
    â€˜For God’s sake, Errlund. Drop the Chips Channon routine, and get on to the serial killings. Are you going to publish the surgeon’s papers in full, or are you going to “summarize” them, and bend whatever you find there to fit with your own theories?’ Hywood tugged at his earlobe in annoyance. He’d given the advantage to Errlund. He’d betrayed
interest
. Now the bastard would pad it out until all the chaps forgot it was his turn to get in a round.
    â€˜When we finally eased him into his seat, he had the greatest difficulty remembering where he was,’ Errlund sailed on, serenely. ‘He stared up at me over his half-moons in a perfect rictus of terror. He must have concluded I was his valet, or bumboy, and he simply couldn’t imagine why I was sitting down with him at table. He was far too
gentil
to mention it, of course. All that shit flogged into him at Eton and Balliol. His fine grey eyes were watering slightly, and there was just a hint of rouge on his cortisone-puffy cheeks.’
    Errlund paused. His timing was perfect. Hywood’s eyes were shut. But he was faking. ‘Get on with it, man,’ he growled. ‘Or do you want me to finish it for you? “If you do this thing…” Is that right?’
    â€˜Quite right,’ Errlund conceded. ‘He gazed at me for a few moments, in silence, to convince me of his seriousness. “If you do this thing,” he croaked, “you’ll be blackballed. No decent club will touch you. You’ll never see your name in the HonoursList. Your K will remain a pipedream.” Then he excused himself; his “secret sorrow”, problems with the waterworks. One of the waiters carried him back, trouser-cuffs steaming. He counted his cold sprouts and gave me a very significant look.’
    A snort from Hywood, followed by a jaw-cracking yawn, indicated that he was crossing the borderland of sleep. Errlund’s narrative was underwriting his nightmare. Hywood had joined them at the table.
    â€˜His concentration was fading fast,’ said Errlund mercilessly, ‘but he managed to signal for the custard. “Make me a promise,” he trembled. “You will never again associate that noble name with those tedious crimes. They can never pay you enough blood-money. Leave it to the Penny Dreadfuls, old chap. What can it possibly matter to the civilized portion of society if a few whores are slit from nape to navel? I’ve never myself cared for sports, but these hulking and vigorous young blackguards must sow their wild oats. Let them keep it to the streets, and pray they do not frighten the horses.”’
    Hywood sat up with a start. ‘Did he actually confirm that your man was the guilty party?’
    â€˜Oh no,’ said Errlund, ‘he was much too far gone. He’d wandered off among the yolky richness of Kentish brickwork, honey-coloured Cotswold stone, Winston, Guy, Jim Lees-Milne. “Must say,” he drawled,
à propos de rien
, “quite surprised, glancing out of the jarvey on the way over – the vast numbers of coloured people passing unmolested down the Haymarket.” Then, without warning, he shoved a bundle of letters towards me, under cover of the cheeseboard; coughing into his sleeve, and fluttering his eyelashes like a Venetian concubine. “You see, Errlund?” he broke out again. “You take my point? You have a contribution to make. Your name is often spoken aloud on the wireless. I can arrange for you to