I fumbled round for the bedside light, very aware of Myriam shifting and groaning on the mattress beside me. She was seven months pregnant with our child, and no longer appreciated the calls which I received at strange hours. I found the little chain dangling from the light, tugged it, and picked up the black bakelite handset. I wasn’t surprised to have the rich vowels of Francis Haughton Raleigh rolling down the crackly line at me. The family’s old missus dominicus is my immediate superior. Few others would risk my displeasure with a call at night. ‘Edward, my boy,’ he growled. ‘So sorry to wake you at this ungodly hour.’ I glanced at the brass clock on the chest of drawers; its luminous hands were showing quarter past midnight. ‘That’s all right, sir. I wasn’t sleeping.’ Myriam turned over and gave me a derisory look. ‘Please, no need to call me, sir. The thing is, Edward, we have a bit of a problem.’ ‘Where?’ ‘Here in the city, would you believe. It’s really the most damnable news.
