Alleyn’s face turned a brilliant red. “You’ve been reading the lower type of newspapers, young Lamprey.”
“I say, you are! Gosh! I read all about the Gospell murder in the True Detective! A person in my form at school knew a person whose father is a friend of — Gosh, of yours. He bucked about it for weeks. He won’t buck much longer, ha-ha. I say, sir, I’m sorry I mentioned that name. You know — H.A.”
“That’s all right.”
“I suppose you think it’s a pretty feeble sort of nickname to have. At school,” said Mike lowering his voice, “some people call me Potty. Potty Lamprey.”
“One lives down these things.”
“I know. Ackshully, I suppose you wouldn’t remember a person called N. Bathgate. He’s a reporter.”
“Nigel Bathgate? I know him very well indeed.”
Mike achieved an admirable expression of detachment. “So,” he said off-handedly, “as a matter of fac’ do we. He told me he called you Hand — you know — as a sort of joke. In the paper. To make you waxy.”
“He did.”
Mike giggled and gave Alleyn a sidelong glance.