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tip of his cue. ‘Been trying to construe seventeenth-century manuscripts all day, until you called and rescued me. The men of those benighted times loved their fusty, musty paper and tended to spill eggs and cheese all over their poems. That, on top of being too enthusiastic in dealing with a very large luncheon with some dons up in town. Anyway, look at you, six feet and more of youth and suavity, played billiards since you were a young blade, and me a middle-aged bookman with short sight! Perhaps you would like a game of chess – far more up my street old man!’
    His associate was Lord George Lenham-Cawde, and he could never resist teasing his friend. After all, he was well aware that, as they stood in the billiard room of the Septimus Club in Piccadilly, his friend was a rather shabby, tweed-clad bachelor still living like a vicar in his Cambridge rooms, while he himself had the funds to buy half of the university if he wished. ‘Lacey old man, why on earth do you waste time on old paper? That’s all you do … mess about with smelly old yellow paper!’
    ‘Oh stop it, George, you know you’re jealous. You are as bored as an old dowager in her knitting circle, and you have to have a go at me to raise a smile. I love my work. Fine, so you wear a Savile Row suit and shoes that shine like a horseman’s breeches, but are you happy? I’m jolly happy with old poems. You know where you are with them … unlike people, with whom you have something of an unhealthy preoccupation, I might add. I prefer my work.’
    ‘Ah yes, your work … I tried to read your dull tome on the sonnets of Shakespeare. I dropped off to sleep at page two. Sorry and all that …’
    At that moment the door was burst open and a stout, red-faced man of around sixty came in, with Smythe behind him, calling out apologies.
    ‘I’m terribly sorry Lord Lenham-Cawde, but he pushed past me and …’
    ‘Not to worry Smythe … leave us to have a chat with our desperate friend.’
    As Smythe left, the visitor advanced angrily towards Lenham and grabbed his collar. ‘By heaven Sir, you have defiled my daughter and you will pay … every court in the land … every court I tell you. I have powerful friends.’
    Lord George, who was a foot taller than the assailant, pulled himself free of his grasp and smiled. ‘I have no idea who you are … but this is my friend, Professor Harry Lacey. Let’s sit shall we?’
    The man responded with a shout and then loosened his collar. ‘You are beneath contempt Sir … my heart is racing … and I am not a well man, I may add.’
    At that point, Lacey intervened and led the man to a sofa, spoke gently to him and offered him a gin from the tray of drinks on the side-table. Lord George sat opposite, lit a cheroot and crossed his long legs.
    ‘Now, who are you, and who is your daughter?’
    ‘I am Charles Perch of Richmond … you know very well who I am. You are Lord Albert Lenisham?’
    Before Lord George could reply, Professor Lacey spoke up. ‘No you buffoon, this is Lord George Lenham-Cawde! You are mistaken and have made a grave error, Sir. I suggest you apologise.’
    Perch put down his drink. There was a flush across his face and he stood, then walked across to George and bent forward, almost as if to curtsey. ‘My deepest apologies, My Lord … I was misinformed. I’m so awfully sorry…’
    Lord George stood and patted him on the shoulder. ‘Hey … no harm done old chap. We all get things wrong at times. Sounds as if you’ve a little problem there. Some cad seduced your daughter?’
    ‘It’s a long story … but I think we have a villain abroad. This Lord Albert Lenisham must be found! He is a philanderer of the first order. I’ve never met the man, but I’ve heard all about him from my daughter. He’s been working his charms on her this last two months or so … been to Ascot, been to the theatre … taken her to Boulogne once. But the devil never shows his face in Richmond. I got the names