Part 1, in which we learn who is brilliant at breakfast.
Friday 9th november, 1883 So, another weekend, another dinner invitation to the Higginses in Bloomsbury. Since returning from the war in Egypt, my chum Phillip has prevailed on his father to include me in these evening get-togethers. Higgins senior, mister Edward Smythe Higgins, of the Kentish Smythe Higginses, don’t you know, is a rather droll widower, but he serves servicable scran, and the tipple is top shelf. Feeling sprightly, I decided to give Bertrand and the coach the night off and ambulate over, a decision I had cause to regret. My new threads, from that french tailor down Oxford Street were just not up to the job. Sure, they’re rather fetching, but didn’t stand much of a chance faced with a proper London rain-and-smog combo. Should have known better than to trust a frog for anything outside the boudoir. At the Higginses, the company was amiable enough. There was old Higgins and his son Phillip. Thomas Beckett, a foreman or something at Higgins’ carpentry business added h...