That wasn’t supposed to be what coppers were for, although in reality of course it was what coppers were for. It was about privilege, and young Vimes had hardly worn in his first pair of policeman’s boots when his sergeant had explained what that meant. It meant private law. In those days an influential man could get away with quite a lot if he had the right accent, the right crest on his tie or the right chums, and a young policeman who objected might get away without a job and without a reference.

It wasn’t like that now, not even close.

But in those days young Vimes had seen butlers as double-traitors to both sides and so the large man in the black tailcoat got a glare that skewered him. The fact that he gave Vimes a little nod did not help matters. Vimes lived in a world where people saluted.

‘I am Silver, the butler, your grace,’ the man carefully intoned reprovingly.

Vimes immediately grabbed him by the hand and shook it warmly. ‘Pleased to meet you, Mister Silver!’

The butler winced. ‘It’s Silver, sir, not Mister.’

‘Sorry about that, Mister Silver. So what’s your first name?’

The butler’s face was an entertainment. ‘Silver, sir! Always Silver!’

‘Well, Mister Silver,’ said Vimes, ‘it’s an item of faith with me that once you get past the trousers all men are the same.’

The butler’s face was wooden as he said, ‘That is as maybe, sir, but I am and always will be, commander, Silver. Good evening, your grace,’ the butler turned, ‘and good evening, Lady Sybil. It must be seven or eight years since anyone from the family came to stay. May we look forward to further visits? And might I please introduce to you my wife, Mrs Silver, the housekeeper, whom I think you have not met before?’