Evadne poured.

The glass cupola of the Thames Foyer alternated between brightness and gloom as clouds and blue sky exchanged places. Kipling had chosen an alcove with window seats and red cushions, with plenty of room for Dr Ward’s wheelchair. A violinist played, waiters wafted about, and Kingsley enjoyed the absence of being chased, beaten, sold, exchanged or abducted.

‘Muffins!’ Dr Ward exclaimed as a waiter uncovered a silver dish. ‘Just the thing!’

Evadne finished pouring. ‘I couldn’t agree more. Hot buttered muffins and tea is a wonderful way to remind one that one is alive.’

Kingsley had a high regard for Evadne’s aplomb. She chatted, made a quip or two, and charmed both Kipling and Dr Ward with her wit and steady cheerfulness.

Kingsley ate half of his excellent muffin and admired Evadne’s light blue dress. She’d pointed out, when she joined them at the Savoy, that it was chiffon and the lace jacket thing was a bolero. All by himself, he could tell that the hat had roses all over it, but she emphasised that it was a broad-leafed chip hat.

Just so, Kingsley thought. He’d come out in a blazer and flannel trousers, topped with a boater, all well kept and hardly smelling of mothballs, despite having been stored away at Porchester Terrace since he’d left the place to pursue a life on the stage.

When Kipling found them at the Savoy, he had been overjoyed. Kingsley’s telephone invitation had reassured the writer that they were alive and well, but it was a different thing, seeing them in the flesh.

The first half an hour of their reunion had been devoted to informing Kipling of the events since they had parted. It was a measure of the writer’s imagination and patience that he remained silent while Kingsley and Evadne bounced the story between them, with a few solemn interjections from Dr Ward – and he expressed no incredulity.

‘And so we’re staying at the hotel, here,’ Kingsley finished.

‘We couldn’t stay at Porchester Terrace,’ Dr Ward murmured. ‘Not after what happened there.’

‘And I’m simply enjoying the luxury,’ Evadne said. ‘My refuge is comfortable enough, but I wasn’t about to pass up a room at the Savoy.’

‘That’s a major disadvantage of the subterranean life,’ Kingsley said, ‘the lack of view.’

Evadne and he shared a look. She challenged him with a smile that he returned.

‘We’re grateful to you, Kipling,’ Dr Ward said. His colour was better, and if it weren’t for his still-recovering ankles, Kingsley was sure he’d be up and about under his own locomotion. ‘Your efforts at the Yard have smoothed the way.’

‘I did what I could, Dr Ward, but it was your reappearance and the testimony of Miss Stephens that convinced the authorities that Kingsley here couldn’t be responsible for the death of Mrs Walters.’

‘And who do they think is?’ Kingsley asked.

‘“Investigations are continuing,” I think the phrase is. At least, that’s what I was told, but I have the impression that a few of my more senior sources know more than they’re letting on.’

‘The PM, Kipling?’ Dr Ward asked. ‘Did you inform him?’

‘Not the PM, Dr Ward, not yet. Once I was sure Evadne and Kingsley were safe, I did have a meeting with the Agency.’

‘The Agency? Of course. Should have thought of that. And do they think the Immortals could still be out there?’

Kipling cast a rueful look at Evadne. ‘I’m sorry, my dear, but we must consider the possibility that the torrent you unleashed didn’t finish them off.’

‘I had,’ Evadne said softly. ‘The world would be better off without them, but I fear that may be easier said than done.’

Kingsley couldn’t help himself. He reached up and touched the back of his head. He preferred his brain intact, and was determined to keep it so, immortal sorcerers or not.

Evadne caught his eye and nodded, emphatically, just the once.

It was enough.

‘It’s remarkable, you know,’ Kipling said. ‘I thought I knew a thing or two about the shadowy fringes of the world, but you’ve certainly opened my eyes. I’ll never look at a manhole the same way again.’

‘The Demimonde is vaster and more mysterious than a few manholes,’ Dr Ward said.

‘And how long exactly have you known of it, Father?’ Kingsley asked.

‘My work introduced me to it years ago.’ Dr Ward closed his mouth and frowned. Kingsley knew this was a matter for another day.

A three-tiered stand of small cakes and elaborate biscuits was placed on the table. Evadne plucked a pink concoction from the top level. ‘Superb,’ she adjudged after taking a small bite.

Her lipstick was subtle and suited her, Kingsley decided, and was very evenly applied. He wondered if she’d invented a device to do it for her.

‘And what are you going to do with my son’s story, Kipling?’ Dr Ward asked.

‘It remains a fine and private thing, Dr Ward.’ Kipling took out his notebook and started to read. His voice was low, but carried perfectly to the three listeners at the table.

Waters of the Waingunga, the Man-Pack have cast me out. I did them no harm, but they were afraid of me. Why?

Wolf Pack, ye have cast me out too. The jungle is shut to me and the village gates are shut. Why?

As Mang flies between the beasts and the birds, so fly I between the village and the jungle. Why?

I dance on the hide of Shere Khan, but my heart is very heavy. My mouth is cut and wounded with the stones from the village, but my heart is very light because I have come back to the jungle. Why?

These two things fight together in me as the snakes fight in the spring. The water comes out of my eyes; yet I laugh while it falls. Why?

I am two Mowglis, but the hide of Shere Khan is under my feet.

All the jungle knows that I have killed Shere Khan. Look––look well, O Wolves!

Ahae! My heart is heavy with the things that I do not understand.

When Kipling finished, he looked at Kingsley. ‘I don’t have to write your story, my boy, because I’ve written it already.’

‘But that’s not me. I’m not Mowgli.’

‘I know. I meant that I understand your predicament. Caught between two worlds cannot be the easiest place to be.’

‘Perhaps,’ Evadne said. ‘But being alone would make it worse.’

‘“Things that I do not understand”,’ Kingsley repeated. ‘There are so many of them, still.’

‘Such as?’ Dr Ward asked gently.

‘You told me of my parents. My real parents.’ Kingsley bit his lip, then rushed on. ‘But all you said was that my father was a mysterious man who worked for the government.’

Kingsley couldn’t fail to catch the sharp look that Kipling shot Dr Ward. ‘Mr Kipling?’

The writer grimaced. ‘A number of mysterious agents have been working in India over the years. The place is full of them.’

‘From the little I know, Greville Sanderson was a hero,’ Dr Ward said.

Kipling cocked his head. ‘Greville Sanderson was your father, my boy? Extraordinary.’

‘Dr Ward is my father,’ Kingsley said firmly. ‘This other man is someone I’ve never known.’

Dr Ward reached over and patted Kingsley’s hand. ‘Troubled and troublesome as you might be, Kingsley, you’re a good lad.’

Kingsley warmed to his foster father’s words. The old man was often preoccupied, occasionally forgetful, but he was always generous.

‘Mr Kipling,’ Kingsley said, pushing that thought away for later. ‘You obviously know something of my father. My other father. Would you tell me of him? In exchange for my telling you my story?’

‘That, young Mr Ward, is an offer a writer could never resist.’

Dr Ward leaned in the other direction. ‘And you, Miss Stephens, what are your plans?’

For an answer, Evadne held up a finger. Then she picked a small silver dragee from a cake and balanced it on the end of the handle of a teaspoon that was resting on the damask table cloth. With a tilt of her head, she tapped the bowl of the teaspoon and launched the silver sugar ball into the air. It landed, with a tiny splash, in Kingsley’s glass of lemon squash.

‘We have an audience waiting for us,’ she said when the applause died.

Kingsley had been listening. ‘We?’

‘I’ve been thinking that while juggling is all well and good, I’m looking for something new, something innovative. I thought a two-handed act might do the trick.’

‘I don’t follow you,’ Dr Ward said, on the verge of floundering.

‘Stephens and Ward: Juggling and Escapology.’

Kingsley sat back in his chair and crossed his arms. ‘What about Ward and Stephens: Escapology and Juggling?’

Kipling tapped his glass with a fork. ‘I have a suggestion.’

It was perfect.