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Peter carried on, listing points on his fingers. ‘Food’s dearer than ever. We’ve got the highest cost of living in decades. The landowner carries on earning the rent that keeps him in fineries, while the farmer and the common man are left to suffer. How is that fair, I ask you, in a modern society?’

There was another grumble of agreement, but this one had a slight edge to it. Servants love complaining, but they hate change. What they despise most, more than anything, is a lecture.

‘The same goes for us!’ Peter continued, holding out his arms. ‘Here we are, serving the richest in the city, and yet we find ourselves no better off for it.’ He pointed at me. ‘Reduced to the indignity of wearing livery in our spare time!’

‘It’s really no bother,’ I mumbled.

‘And yet we have no common rights!’ Peter continued. ‘We should expect a fair wage! Reasonable hours! Insurance against illness! A guaranteed pension –’

‘And we should be able to smoke indoors, too,’ added someone. ‘Rather than out the back, by the bins.’

This got the best response yet; someone clapped. Peter stumbled mid-flow. ‘This is about more than where we can smoke. Half of England, Scotland and Wales is owned by two and a half thousand people. They’ve fattened themselves on our labours and turned this country into a pleasure-ground for the rich!’ He placed his hands on the table. ‘But it doesn’t have to be that way. The British Socialist Party –’

In four words, he killed it. Every man at the table leant back at the same time. From now on, it didn’t matter what Peter said: there wasn’t a servant in the country who wanted anything to do with socialism. Not when they had jobs to maintain, references to keep and mums with bad legs.

Peter could tell the tide had turned, but he struggled manfully on. ‘The British Socialist Party is fighting for your rights, friends! The labour movement is stronger than it’s ever been! And we can all be a part of it, if we pool our resources –’

‘I’m not paying for anything,’ the man repeated.

Peter gritted his teeth. ‘That’s not what I mean by resources. I mean –’

‘Right!’ said another man at the end of the table, standing up. ‘I’m empty – who’s for another?’

Some others raised their hands and started giving drinks orders. Peter attempted to carry on, but he was quickly drowned out by a discussion about who wanted what, and, by the time it had finished, the rest of the men had used the opportunity to slip into different conversations about the murder last night.

I watched Peter’s face crumple with disappointment. His meeting had ended as quickly as it had started. I felt badly for him, truly I did, but it was to be expected. You can try to get between a servant and his gossip, but you might as well fight the force of gravity.

‘What a load of bollocks.’

I glanced up. Mr Benson was downing his drink, keen to leave as fast as possible.

‘It’s my one night off, this,’ he muttered. ‘Didn’t know it was going to be a sermon for socialist weirdos.’

Something suddenly struck me. ‘You were on duty last night, then?’

Mr Benson frowned. ‘Course.’

‘Until when?’

He gulped down the last of his drink and looked away. ‘Until the normal time.’

He was trying to shake me like a horse flicking off flies. Flies keep coming back, though. ‘What’s the normal time?’ I asked.

He glared at me. ‘Why?’

‘Just interested.’

He gave up trying to avoid me. ‘Nine. Then I’m on call downstairs.’

I nodded, piecing it together. ‘So you were in your front office at half eight last night? When the murder happened?’

He huffed and slammed down his empty glass. ‘Look – I should have been there. Only I wasn’t, was I, because of all that racket out front. It’s completely against the rules of the borough, that is, setting off fireworks on the public highway. I went to complain. Turns out one of those silly bitches stuffed a load of them in a bin and then set them on fire and ran off.’

I felt the hairs rise on the backs of my hands. I’d assumed that the fireworks were part of the procession, but I was wrong. Someone had set them off as a distraction: a way to draw everyone away from the Gore, perhaps. To make them all look up. I opened my mouth to ask Mr Benson my next question, but, before I could, a foaming pint was slammed down in front of me.

‘There you go, Stuart,’ said one of the footmen. ‘It’s my round.’

I blinked. ‘I’m in a round?’