‘Thanks Eddie,’ said Charlie.

Hargrave didn’t reply.

The morning was spent re-indexing and replacing on the shelves the books that had been returned overnight but Charlie was ready long before the first borrowing period, the half an hour before the midday break. The dark-haired boy he’d seen at breakfast that morning with Prudell was the first one to enter the library.

‘I want a good spy book,’ said the boy. He lisped.

‘There isn’t one,’ said Charlie.

Sir Alistair Wilson had been disappointed with the Chelsea Flower Show. Or, to be more strictly accurate, with the roses. Because growing them was his hobby they were all he’d bothered to see. He thought the attempt to hybridise the Provence Duc de Fitzjames was a disaster, like sticking the stem into colouring instead of preserving water, which made a mockery of the bloom. And the hybrids themselves were pleasing but not outstanding: only the Mullard Jubilee was worth anything more than a second glance. He left early and considered going to his club but then decided against it. If he entered the Travellers without an obvious luncheon companion he risked being ambushed by bores and he didn’t want to relive an expedition up the Nile when the fallaheen knew their place and were damned glad of it or debate the superiority of mule over husky for an Arctic crossing. Instead he went immediately to the office. Although it was lunchtime and Sir Alistair wasn’t scheduled back until mid-afternoon his deputy, Richard Harkness, was in the office. Sometimes the Director wondered if Harkness slept on the premises.

‘Disappointing show,’ said Wilson.

‘I’ve never been,’ said Harkness.

‘Wouldn’t bother this year, if I were you.’

‘I won’t.’

‘How’s it look?’ demanded Wilson. Instead of going to his desk he went to the window with its view of the Thames and the Houses of Parliament beyond. His right leg was permanently stiff from being crushed under a falling polo pony and it was sometimes more comfortable to stand than to sit. Today was one of those days.