'Imperceptible. Lang appeared in his cassock to say some prayers. Does it better a man in Heaven, being seen off by the Archbishop of Canterbury, or by the chaplain of Pentonville jail? As I watched the King die, I found myself thinking quite ridiculously about our old friend Crippen. Though the prison chaplain doesn't say prayers,' Eliot recalled, 'he reads the burial service. Which is rather kicking a man when he's down, don't you think?'

'The chaplain's farewell would stand a man better in Hell, where presumably Crippen went.'

'Thank God the poor little fellow didn't hear the authorities bury him, no more than subsequently feeling them hang him.'

'If he swallowed your dose.'

'I'm sure of it. I heard from Campion, the prison medical officer.' Eliot drew his white shirt over his head. 'I'd not be attending His Majesty tonight-nor entering the House of Lords next month-without that nasty little murder twenty-six years ago in Hilldrop Crescent.'

'If Charlotte Corday hadn't murdered Marat in his bath, Napoleon would be remembered only as a competent artillery officer. I do wish you'd forget that Crippen episode.'

'Who could? When Paul Martinetti died in Algiers a dozen years ago, _The Times_ said only, 'Crippen Case Recalled.' Yet he was famous on the halls before you and I knew him. It's as hard as Leigh Hunt being only remembered as Shelley's friend. And I really think Crippen didn't murder her.'

'You thought so then because we were terribly romantic.'

'We were terrible hypocrites.'

'I certainly wasn't bogus! I honestly wanted to devote my life to the sick.'

'There isn't room for more than one Florence Nightingale in the century, my dear. Anyway, she was a dreadful woman. She saved the lives of the rabble by driving good men to their graves.' He unstrapped his wristwatch. 'You needn't look twice at the time tomorrow. His new Majesty King Edward VIII has put the clock back at Sandringham. His first act on accession. Is that significant?'