Under a Victorian gaslamp now housing an organic diode bulb, Dr. Oliver Smith stands waiting in a raincoat by Ede & Ravenscroft and a charcoal suit. There’s even a watch chain, the fob tucked into his waistcoat pocket. He wants to belong in the setting, the Inspector considers, or to it. Smith could be standing on the other side of a hole in time, a man from 1950 or 1890. He wears the sartorial markers of establishment and education without irony. He is not satirising the trace elements of the twentieth century and the public school system’s military caste, he simply is their inheritor in a better time—white, arrogant, brilliant—and doesn’t propose to pretend otherwise. Brown hair blows in the breeze coming in off the river. Age indeterminate, and she suspects made so by quite expensive cosmetic surgery. He is clean-shaven, but if he uses cologne—she had assumed, because of Tubman, that he used too much—the wind is snatching it away.