ARTEMIS sat on an ox-blood leather armchair, facing Beckett and Myles. His mother was in bed with a slight case of the flu, his father was with the doctor in her room, and so Artemis was lending a hand in entertaining the toddlers. And what better entertainment for youngsters than some lessons.

He had decided to dress casually in a sky-blue silk shirt, light grey woollen trousers and Gucci loafers. His black hair was swept back from his forehead, and he was putting on a jolly expression, which he had heard appealed to children.

‘Artemis need toilet?’ wondered Beckett, who squatted on the Tunisian rug, wearing only a grass-stained vest, which he had pulled down over his knees.

‘No, Beckett,’ said Artemis brightly. ‘I am trying to look jolly. And shouldn’t you be wearing a nappy?’

‘Nappy,’ snorted Myles, who had potty-trained himself at the age of fourteen months, building a stepladder of encyclopedias to reach the toilet seat.

‘No nappy,’ pouted Beckett, slapping at a still-buzzing fly trapped in his sticky blond curls. ‘Beckett hates nappy.’

Artemis doubted if the nanny had neglected to put a nappy on Beckett, and he wondered briefly where that nappy was now.

‘Very well, Beckett,’ continued Artemis. ‘Let’s shelve the nappy issue for now, and move on to today’s lesson.’

‘Chocolate on shelves,’ said Beckett, stretching his fingers high to reach imaginary chocolate.

‘Yes, good. There is sometimes chocolate on the shelves.’