He got out on King Charles Street and turned in to a courtyard lined by architecture of an Italianate flavour. Sir Gilbert Scott was responsible for the ornate Victorian grandeur, Joe remembered, and he paused to get his bearings and admire. There could be no doubt that he was approaching a temple to Britannia. Chilly and echoing, the building Joe entered had the feeling of a busy space suddenly deserted. Without the animation of the usual swarms of bowler-hatted men jousting about with briefcase and brolly, he was feeling more keenly conscious of the grandeur of the surroundings. And more out of place. He looked down at his feet. Gumboots had seemed the obvious choice this snowy morning, looking purposeful and proper with the ancient tweed suit he’d put on, mindful of the journey into the country. Lydia had thought to question his choice of get-up. “Is that going to be quite right for Whitehall, Joe? Will they let you in or hand you a spade and send you off to clear the pavement?”
