‘They started life as Brussels sprouts,’ said Grace, ‘and over the years the B became small, and the s disappeared, until finally everyone has come to accept brussel as a word, except the more pedantic among us.’
‘Like the OED,’ suggested Marjorie, smiling at her daughter.
‘And if you have passed,’ said Sir Julian, refusing to be distracted by the etymology of the brussel sprout, ‘how long will it be before you become a detective?’
‘Six months, possibly a year. I’ll have to wait for a vacancy to arise in another patch.’
‘Perhaps you’ll go straight to Scotland Yard?’ said his father, raising an eyebrow.
‘That’s not possible. You have to prove yourself in another division before you can even apply for a job at the holy grail. Although I will be visiting the Yard tomorrow for the first time.’
Sir Julian stopped carving. ‘Why?’ he demanded.
‘I’m not sure myself,’ admitted William. ‘The super called me in on Friday and told me to report to a Commander Hawksby at nine on Monday morning, but he didn’t give any clue why.’
‘Hawksby . . . Hawksby . . .’ said Sir Julian, the lines on his forehead growing more pronounced. ‘Why do I know that name? Ah yes, we once crossed swords on a fraud case when he was a chief inspector. An impressive witness. He’d done his homework and was so well prepared I couldn’t lay a glove on him. Not a man to be underestimated.’
‘Tell me more,’ said William.
‘Unusually short for a policeman. Beware of them; they often have bigger brains. He’s known as the Hawk. Hovers over you before swooping down and carrying all before him.’
‘You included, it would seem,’ said Marjorie.
‘What makes you say that?’ asked Sir Julian, as he poured himself a glass of wine.
‘You only ever remember witnesses who get the better of you.’
‘Touché,’ said Sir Julian, raising his glass as Grace and William burst into spontaneous applause.
‘Please give Commander Hawksby my best wishes,’ added Sir Julian, ignoring the outburst.
‘That’s the last thing I’m going to do,’ said William. ‘I’m hoping to make a good impression, not an enemy for life.’
‘Is my reputation that bad?’ said Sir Julian, with an exasperated sigh worthy of a rejected lover.
‘I’m afraid your reputation is that good,’ said William. ‘The mere mention of your name in the nick evokes groans of despair, with the realization that yet another criminal who should be locked up for life will be set free.’
‘Who am I to disagree with twelve good men and true?’
‘It may have slipped your notice, Father,’ said Grace, ‘but women have been sitting on juries since 1920.’
‘More’s the pity,’ said Sir Julian. ‘I would never have given them the vote.’
‘Don’t rise, Grace,’ said her mother. ‘He’s only trying to provoke you.’
‘So what is the next hopeless cause you will be championing?’ Sir Julian asked his daughter, thrusting the knife in deeper.
‘Hereditary rights,’ said Grace, as she took a sip of wine.
‘Whose in particular, dare I ask?’
‘Mine. You may well be Sir Julian Warwick Bt, but when you die—’
‘Not for some time, I hope,’ said Marjorie.
‘William will inherit your title,’ continued Grace, ignoring the interruption, ‘despite the fact that I was the first born.’
‘A disgraceful state of affairs,’ mocked Sir Julian.