Marcel Tower. He never really elaborated on his sudden decision, but it is widely believed that the introduction of fitness regimes offended his sense of proportion. Cricket, to his mind, was meant to be played in flannel, not in cardiovascular distress.

He remains a refined officer in retirement. He stands at square leg with the posture of a man awaiting testimony. He studies the batsman the way others study suspects — noting stance irregularities, nervous tics, the faint tremor of premeditated aggression. He never sledges.  A man who could file a warrant for over-enthusiastic sledging. He observes. Occasionally he murmurs, “Interesting,” which is somehow far more unsettling.

Tea, however, is where his authority becomes unmistakable. He once attempted to convert the entire team to oolong by force — not physical force, but procedural insistence. There were tastings. There were pamphlets. There was a compulsory seminar titled Oxidation and Moral Character. He speaks about oxidation like a guru who has glimpsed the interior architecture of the leaf. “It is not decay,” he explains, eyes narrowing, “it is transformation.” The younger players nod, fearing both enlightenment and paperwork.

He also drinks Lapsang Souchong with the composure of a man accustomed to smoke, though he has never tasted a cigarette. Claims Lapsang Souchong reminds him of certain stakeouts, though never specifies which. When asked whether he prefers first flush or second, he replies, “Context is everything.”

Through connections never fully detailed, he acquires free tickets to nearly every remarkable event in London. Opening nights in the West End. Test matches at Lord’s. A discreet invitation to something orchestral and slightly secretive in Mayfair. He arrives punctually, applauds correctly, and leaves without attracting attention — except that he always seems to know more than he should.

His elegance is formidable. "Captain Cool" once stopped a bowler mid-run-up — gently raised a gloved hand — in order to blow his nose with impeccable discretion. The bowler apologised. No one knows why.

As for his cricketing equipment, a question lingers. Does he bat armed? Does he field with a small, regulation sidearm concealed somewhere among the whites? No one has seen it. No one has asked. There is simply a faint sense that, were a situation to escalate beyond tea preference, he would handle it calmly, efficiently, and within the law.

He does not bowl. He does not hurry. He does not perspire noticeably. He watches. He sips. He transforms oxidation into doctrine. And if cricket has indeed become too athletic, he remains determined that it shall never become uncivilised.