As he crunched towards me through the snow, I was suddenly aware of Dogger at my side.

“S’truth,” the man said, wincing at the wind.

With a disbelieving shake of his head, he approached Dogger, sticking out a raw, meaty hand.

“McNulty,” he said. “Ilium Films. Transport Department. Jack-of-all-trades and master of ’em all.”

Dogger shook the huge hand but said nothing.

“Need to get this circus round back the house and out of the north wind. Fred’s generator cuts up something fierce when it gets too cold. Needs coddling, Fred’s generator does.

“What’s your name, little girl?” he asked suddenly, turning to me and crouching down. “Margaret Rose, I’ll bet. Yes, that’s it … Margaret Rose. You’re a Margaret Rose if I ever saw one.”

I had half a mind to march upstairs to my laboratory, fetch down a jar of cyanide, seize this boob’s nose, tilt his head back, pour the stuff down his throat, and hang the consequences.

Fortunately, good breeding kept me from doing so.

Margaret Rose, indeed!

“Yes, that’s right, Mr. McNulty,” I said, forcing a smile of amazement. “Margaret Rose is my name. However did you guess?”

“It’s the sixth sense I’m gifted with,” he said, with what looked like a practiced shrug. “Me Irish blood,” he added, putting on a bit of the old brogue, and giving me a saucy tip of his cloth cap as he stood up.

“Now, then,” he said, turning to Dogger, “their lordships and ladyships will be along at noon in their motorcars. They’ll be hungry as hounds after the drive down from London, so look sharp and see that you’ve got buckets of caviar laid on.”

Dogger’s face was a total blank.

“Here, I’m only joking, mate!” McNulty said, and for a horrible moment I thought he was going to dig Dogger in the ribs.

“Joking, see? We travel with our own canteen.”

He gave a jerk of his thumb to indicate one of the vans that sat patiently waiting in the forecourt.