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‘Another?’ she said.

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‘Tom, have you ever heard of Frederick J. Klaeber?’

Sophie had returned from the bar with a round of drinks. I’d been staring out of the window, watching the river, lost in thought.

‘What? Sorry – who?’

‘Frederick J. Klaeber,’ she said, passing me a glass and sitting down. ‘Great academic. Early translator of Beowulf.’

‘Sorry. I don’t know much about Beowulf.’

This was true. For whatever reason, my parents had never owned a copy of Beowulf and I’d never felt the need to track one down.

Sophie looked surprised. ‘Really?’

‘I mean, I know the story, but nothing about the business end.’

‘Would you like to?’

‘Sure.’

‘All right then. So, the problems with Mr Klaeber’s translation of Beowulf,’ Sophie said, ‘begin with the Old English word aglæca’.

‘What does—’ My mouth lost its nerve, like a horse at Becher’s Brook.

‘Aglæca.’

‘Yeah, what does it mean?’

‘Well, that’s the thing. Nobody knows. The meaning of the word is lost, so we can only make an educated guess based on the way it’s used in the story. But Klaeber’s educated guess back in 1922 was a little . . . suspect.’