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Harry smiled again as Charles signalled to a waiter with a slightly raised finger. ‘Ah, James . . .’

Harry watched a man with movie-star looks bend down by Frobisher. ‘Good evening, Sir Charles. How can I help?’

‘I’ve asked my companion here, Captain Blake, to use the club telephone to call my daughter, Mrs Britten-Jones, as he needs to make an appointment with her. Could you organise a private cubicle please?’

‘Certainly. I gather Mr Britten-Jones is arriving back into York this evening, sir.’

‘Really? First I’ve heard. How the devil would you know, James, if his family doesn’t?’

There was something oddly smarmy in the man’s smiling response. ‘I took a message an hour or so ago, sir, that he was travelling up from London but that he would be so late he’d likely overnight at the club.’

‘I see. Oh, well, that’s his business.’

‘Curious that he wouldn’t return directly to his wife, though,’ Harry uttered, then was vexed at himself for airing the thought aloud.

‘It’s not my business, sir,’ James replied and again something in his slow-blinking response captured Harry’s attention. He stared back at him. There was challenge leaping somewhere between them; he couldn’t pinpoint why. ‘Mr Britten-Jones is a very busy man, sir,’ he added, using words that were polite but Harry heard the well-buried defiance. And there it was; he had an answer to his question but it set up a new one. James, the waiter, was defending Matthew Britten-Jones. Why?

‘You know him quite well, then?’ Harry asked, helplessly intrigued.

Charles came back into the conversation, looking up at James, back at Harry, and gesturing with his pipe. ‘Oh, this young fellow is originally from Bristol. I thought Matthew might know him but they assure me they’ve not met.’

‘Wrong sides of town,’ James offered, and his smile looked like a mask to Harry. Years in the trenches had taught him plenty about how men cover their true feelings. James wasn’t lying, he decided, but he was also not being forthcoming with the truth. ‘Captain Blake, would you like to place your call now?’ The smile was as forced as the polite tone; Harry presumed the man didn’t enjoy his work and it was clear James wasn’t enjoying serving him.

‘Yes, that would be fine. Er, Sir Charles, can I trouble you for the number?’ he asked deliberately, to give Alex the cover she pleaded for.

‘Oh, yes of course. James, have the switchboard put through the call directly to the Britten-Jones household please.’

‘Yes, sir. Follow me please, Captain Blake.’

Harry swallowed the last small sip of his single malt. ‘That is the most delicious Scotch, sir.’

Frobisher tapped his nose. ‘I warned you.’ He looked pleased by the compliment, returning to enjoying his Cavendish.

Harry fell in step with the waiter. ‘How long have you been here, James?’ he asked as casually as he could.

‘Er, let me see. I arrived in the summer of 1915, sir.’

‘You weren’t conscripted?’ Harry frowned.

The man shook his head briefly. ‘I have a heart murmur. They didn’t want me.’

‘One of the lucky ones.’

James cut him a sly smile. ‘I did my part, working on the railways to make sure goods got through from north to south and across the Channel.’

‘I’m sure. And it sounds as though you’ve got to know Mr Britten-Jones quite well?’

‘Is that a question, sir?’

‘I suppose it is.’

‘A curious one, sir.’

‘Why?’

‘Sounds personal.’ James appeared instantly suspicious but hid it well behind a controlled expression of puzzlement.

‘It’s not meant to be,’ Harry said. ‘I don’t know him at all, you see, but I’m a guest of his family’s, and dining at his house. I just wondered what his tastes might be.’