'Not the policy of the paper,' he said gruffly when I looked upset.

'The paper supports public drunkenness?'

'It assumes that people are sensible enough to look after their own interests. You, although an advocate of the working classes, seem to think they are too stupid to run their own lives. Write me the same opinion without being condescending to the entire population and I will print it. Otherwise you will maintain the supremacy of free choice . . .'

'But you don't like choice when it comes to trade.'

He scowled at me. 'That is a matter of the Empire,' he replied.

And it was. This was the paper's Pole Star, the one consideration to which all other matters referred, which determined all the newspaper's policies. McEwen was an Imperialist, a man for whom the defence of Empire was the first, only and greatest duty. He held strongly that we faced two great challenges, the envy of Germany and the greed of America. Both would bring the world to ruin rather than permit the continued supremacy of Britain across the globe. Piece by piece his editorials had constructed a coherent policy with which to educate the public and berate the politicians. Imperial preference in trade, to construct a trading block around the world which would develop the dominions – Canada, Australia, New Zealand, South Africa – into equal partners. A naval policy which would construct fleets of battleships able to take on Germany and any other nation simultaneously. A policy to encourage the production of children. Outright opposition to all welfare for the British population on the grounds that it would diminish the appeal of emigration, and divert money from imperial defence. This, of course, brought him into collision with the current government.

But central to all was Germany, and particularly Kaiser Wilhelm, whom McEwen saw as a madman, determined to foment a war. Once restrained by loyalty to his great-aunt, Queen Victoria, since her death this had been replaced by bitter rivalry with King Edward. Great Britain must prepare for war, and hope we would not be too weakened by the contest to meet the subsequent challenge from the United States.

The last election had been a severe disappointment – all the firepower of the Chronicle had been brought to bear on the task of ensuring that the Empire was handed over to the wise guidance of the Conservatives. To no avail. They had been decimated in 1906, and three years on they had been outmanoeuvred again. The Liberals had announced a ship-building programme for the Royal Navy, without actually placing any orders, announced a rise in the old-age pension without actually increasing it, announced education reform and so many measures costing so much that no one knew how they would be paid for. They had even put up income tax, to 5 per cent. The Prime Minister, Asquith, and his chancellor, Lloyd George, could reduce the editorial pages of the Chronicle to virtual incoherence as McEwen contemplated the full range of their folly. In my opinion the newspaper had become so obsessed that it risked boring its readership to death. Not that anyone consulted me on the matter.

Curiously, my failure to please on the subject of public drunkenness did not mean I was sent back to the reporting room; I kept on writing my opinions, and McEwen kept on changing them, although less and less as I learned how to sneak a radical opinion into an orthodox mould. My finest moment, perhaps, was to convert the paper into a supporter of votes for women, which McEwen held to be against the will of the God he no longer believed in. In sheer irritation I wrote an intemperate, and somewhat frivolous, editorial pointing out that it was contradictory to suppose women were going to produce the next generation of imperialists without their having an interest in the Empire itself. It appeared the next day, word for word, not so much a comma changed.

I was certain that some terrible error had occurred, that my piece of paper had somehow been accidentally taken down to the printers and published by mistake. People had lost their jobs for much less than that. But no; the next evening, he nodded at me. And almost smiled.

'Why did you run that?' I asked.

'Because you were right,' he replied. 'And I thank you for correcting me on the matter.' He never mentioned the subject again. Except that any trial or demonstration by the suffragists I was now sent to deal with, and after a few weeks I realised I would rather spend my time with murderers, who were very much more interesting conversationalists. Besides, many of the women had read my editorial, considered my arguments unsound, and liked to explain, at length, where I had gone wrong. Moreover, their reputation for moral laxity and free love was entirely undeserved.

I bought myself a drink and a pie and waited for McEwen to show up, largely unable to concentrate on the papers Wilf had lent me. I was halfway through both when my editor walked in. He was the sort of person who was not noticed in a crowd, except when he wished to be. And yet he was invited everywhere, had an entrée into the houses of the great. How was this so? He never struck me as a fine talker, was not notably handsome, not well connected through his family. It took me years to grasp that McEwen listened. When someone talked to him, whoever they were, they felt he was giving them his full attention. It is a rare gift, and one I do not possess myself; I have a tendency to judge others before they have even opened their mouths. McEwen could ferret out the good and the interesting amongst dowagers and dockers alike, and persuade them to take him into their confidence.

And there he was, propped up against the bar, looking not at all like a man able to exchange witticisms with debutantes or discuss tariff reform with cabinet ministers. Rather, he looked like a newspaperman about to go into battle once again. Slightly wary, preoccupied, preparing for the struggle that attended the daily rebirth of a newspaper as it began its great cycle from formless idea to wrapping for fish and chips.

'Good evening, sir,' I said. He was always referred to in this manner; in the world of the newspaper he was lord of us all. The fact that he was a mere employee himself, answerable to the owners, never occurred to any of us. In fact, no one either knew – or particularly cared – who the owners were, as their presence was never felt.

'Braddock.' It was a greeting, no more or less friendly than his usual salutation.

'I was wondering if I could have a word with you, sir . . .'

He took the watch out of his waistcoat and looked at it, then nodded.

'I was asked to go and meet a Lady Ravenscliff today, sir . . .'

'Taking it?'

'I beg your pardon?'

'The job. Commission, whatever. Are you taking it?'

'It's a very good offer she has made. Extraordinary. I think I have to thank you . . .'

'Yes, you do. Good. I thought you'd go for it.'

'Might I ask why you suggested me?'

'Because it is a bit of a waste having you do crime stories. Good though they are, no doubt. But I think you need to spread your wings. You need to spend some time in the company of those people you dislike so much.'

'Why do you say that?' I tried to keep the hurt out of my voice, but did not succeed very well.

'You sympathise far too much with the people and lose sight of the facts. You write about a murder trial and are so caught up in the circumstances that you are quite capable of omitting the verdict.'

'I didn't realise I was so inadequate,' I said stiffly.

'Yes, you did,' he replied simply. 'You know it perfectly well. And please don't think I have a low opinion of you. You'd be a good leader writer. Will be, once you lose the rough edges.'

'You mean I didn't go to the right school, like those people you do give jobs to,' I said, more loudly than I intended.