In a private club tucked away in central London three gentlemen sat savouring their brandies. The oldest, a plump figure bald, lived-in face, his eyes bird-like darting everywhere.

”The memorial service was pukka, don’t you think?”

His colleagues nodded their agreement. The man with a military bearing leaned forward, glancing around.

”Just thank the lord he did the honourable thing after his traitorous behaviour.”