Muller broke the gun at once and set it down. Now I was no longer mesmerised by the weapon I was sure a moment ago was about to send me to my doom, I took in Muller’s full and rather glorious appearance. He wore a green garment, something between a smoking jacket and a dressing gown. Embroidered golden dragons swooped and dived across it. It shimmered by the light of his lantern. On this feet were matching slippers and his legs were clad in green pyjamas of a similar hue. His short brown hair, greying at the sides, without its usual hair oil, curled around his face. In this dishevelled state he looked quite the best I had ever seen him. It occurred to me that in everyday life he did his best to appear as normal and as nondescript as possible. This immediately made me thing of Fitzroy and spies. (Fitzroy had also once levelled a shotgun in my direction, but in fairness this had been to kill someone behind me. Though I had not known that at the time. See my journal A Death in the Highlands for the full story.) ‘Richenda,’ he said in astonished accents.
