St Augustine’s Crescent looked almost cheerful under a weak shaft of afternoon sun. Snow had retreated into dingy heaps along the gutters; the air smelled of coal smoke and something more expensive drifting from Mrs Couper’s drawing room.

Makepeace sniffed appreciatively as he and Lomas mounted the steps to Number 14.

“Perfume and coffee,” he said. “Better than incense and damp any day.”

The maid admitted them with an air of having expected this. “Mrs Couper said you’d be along, sir,” she said. “She’s in the morning–room. And Master Julien. And… the dog.”

The last word had an audible capital letter.

Bijou announced their arrival with a volley of barking from behind the morning–room door. When it op...

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