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Victorian copy.’
    ‘Why didn’t you enlighten him?’
    Nicholas gazed at me in wonder. ‘ Enlighten him, dear boy? Whatever for?’
    ‘Well … might have made his day I suppose – learning that he’d got the real thing which everyone else is clamouring for.’
    ‘My dear Francis, it is not exactly his day that I am interested in.’ And he slowly raised his eyes to the ceiling and sighed.
    I cleared my throat and lit a cigarette, not quite grasping the implication but sensing something dubious. However, he made no further comment and went on munching his toast.
    After a while I said curiously, ‘So, where did you see it then? I mean … who exactly is this lucky owner?’
    He crumpled his napkin, and then pushing back his chair replied casually, ‘Blenkinsop’s brother.’
    I gaped. ‘You don’t mean Archdeacon Blenkinsop, here in Guildford – surely not! Didn’t even know he’d got a brother, certainly never mentions him!’
    ‘From what I remember of the archdeacon, he never mentions anyone except himself. Besides, I doubt whether they’ve much in common: brother far too arty-farty for old Vernon’s prosaic liking.’ And he smiled wryly, adding, ‘But they share one thing all right – both windbags. I met a sister years ago – crashing bore she was too! Runs in the family, I imagine.’
    ‘So where does he live, this other Blenkinsop? Your neck of the woods, Brighton?’
    ‘No, London. Behind Wigmore Street – just off Manchester Square. Very salubrious. Wouldn’t mind having a little pad there myself one day, a handy pied-à-terre tucked away in some secluded nook and far from the hurly-burly of the south coast … just the job.’ He looked thoughtful. And then leaning across the table, he said quietly, ‘In fact, Francis, that’s where you come in.’
    ‘Me!’ I exclaimed. ‘What do you mean? How on earth do I “come in”? Don’t know what you’re talking about!’
    ‘Well, you’re a colleague of the archdeacon, you know him. As did I once, of course – Oxford before the war. He was on the periphery of Clinker’s mob. But that was ages ago, and in any case, ever since that little contretemps at St Bede’s I’ve never been exactly persona grata with our clerical brethren.’ He gave a mocking smile.
    I said nothing. And then with tightening throat, I asked slowly, ‘But how does my being a colleague of Vernon Blenkinsop have anything to do with your aspirations to owning a pied-à-terre in Manchester Square?’
    ‘Possibly quite a lot, old chum – if things go right, that is.’
    ‘What things?’ I asked suspiciously.
    ‘To do with the pig.’
    I splashed the dregs of the now very cold coffee into my cup, took a gulp, and said as distantly as I could: ‘Nicholas, I do not know what you have in mind, but whatever it is I can assure you that in no respect do I intend becoming involved with your domestic arrangements, let alone with that rampant pig! So please put any such ideas out of your head.’
    Ignoring both my tone and words, he went on: ‘What is in my mind , Francis, is that you should persuade Archdeacon Blenkinsop to give you an introduction to his brother – under some pretext or other which we can work out later; gain access to the flat, and whilst there engaging in gay social chit-chat, liberate the pig and substitute a copy. Blenkinsop the younger will continue in blissful ignorance, I can flog said article for a whopping packet, you’ll get a neat cut (never let it be said that Old Nick isn’t fair) – and we shall all be as happy as sandboys!’
    ‘Like hell we will!’ I cried. ‘Have you lost your scheming wits? This is preposterous!’
    ‘Oh no,’ he said smoothly. ‘Not preposterous at all – perfectly feasible. Should be quite a simple little operation. Needs attention to the finer details of course, but actually the whole thing could be done in a trice and nobody would be any the wiser – least of all Blenkinsop Minor.’
    ‘It’s hardly