NINETEEN

Langham was in his study the following morning, looking over the first draft of a short story, when the phone bell rang.

‘Donald?’ It was Maria, and she sounded breathless.

‘Maria, are you all right?’

‘Good news!’

His heart kicked. ‘Charles?’

‘Yes, I’ve just called the hospital and talked to the ward sister. Charles regained consciousness earlier this morning. She stressed that he wasn’t yet “out of the woods”, and has a long way to go, but she said that this was an encouraging sign.’

Langham felt himself grinning inanely. ‘That’s wonderful. I don’t suppose he recalls anything …?’

Maria interrupted. ‘No. The sister said that he has no memory at all of the incident.’

‘Well, I’m just delighted that he’s back in the land of the living.’

‘And Donald, the sister said that we might – just might – be able to visit him this evening, depending on how he is then.’

‘Capital! Shall we do that, then?’

‘Visiting hours from six till seven. Could you pick me up?’

‘I’ll do that,’ he said. ‘What are you doing now?’

She groaned. ‘Working. Everything has piled up here over the past few days. And just when I am getting down to work, some well-meaning writer or editor phones up about Charles. Anyway, what are you doing?’

He told her about the short story and added, ‘But to be honest I can’t concentrate on the thing.’

‘Take my advice and go for a long walk, Donald.’

He smiled. ‘Might just do that.’

They chatted for a few minutes, then Maria said that she really must get a manuscript read and said goodbye.

Langham was wondering whether to persevere with the story or take Maria’s advice and go for a walk, when the phone bell rang again.

‘Donald Langham here.’

‘Don.’ Ralph Ryland’s piercing Cockney tones sounded down the line. ‘I said I’d get back to you if I came up with anything.’

‘Good man,’ Langham said. ‘What have you got?’

‘Not that much, to be honest. A name and address—’

‘Excellent.’

‘Before you get excited, I’d better tell you that I think the name’s a nom-de-plume, as they say in France, and as for the address …’

Langham’s spirits sank. ‘What about it?’

‘Well, come over and take a look. You busy at the moment?’

‘I’m not doing anything that can’t wait. Where are you?’

‘Streatham. I’ll meet you on the corner of Wavertree Road, near the bus station.’

‘I’m on my way.’

He drove across the river to Streatham, recalling the same journey he’d made last week to drop off the money at the bombed-out mill. He hoped this trip would prove more fruitful.

Ryland had had little to go on, and he supposed it was a miracle he’d come up with anything at all, even if it were just a fictitious name and an address. Langham wondered why the private investigator had sounded so negative about the address he’d discovered. Any lead at this stage, no matter how seemingly insignificant, might prove valuable.

He parked on the corner and crossed the busy road. Ryland was standing next to his battered Morris Minor, stoat-thin in his grey raincoat, a tab end stuck to his bottom lip and his collar turned up, even though the sun was out.

Ryland nodded across the road to Langham’s Austin Healey. ‘Nice machine. The books must be selling like hot cakes.’

Langham laughed. ‘An extravagance I can barely afford. I see you’re still driving the Camel.’

Ryland kicked the Morris Minor’s front tyre. ‘The old girl’ll see me out,’ he said. ‘Anyway, talking about Camels …’

He indicated along the street. Beyond the bus station a long row of red-brick terrace houses receded into the distance. They began walking.

‘You’ve done well, Ralph. How did you find the address?’

‘Hard slog,’ Ryland grunted. ‘Hours and hours of bloody footwork. All I had to go on were the Camels, the bullets, and the fact our friend rode a Triumph.’

‘A needle in a haystack comes to mind.’

‘Yeah, well, I don’t like blowin’ me own trumpet. But I’m like a bleedin’ terrier when I get the bit between me teeth, to mix metaphysics as you writer chappies say.’

Ryland nipped the fag end from his thin lips, flicked it into the gutter and lit another cigarette, all without slowing his pace. ‘I know this geezer down Bermondsey. What he doesn’t know about stolen shooters isn’t worth knowing. He owes me a trick or two, so I ask him if anyone’s been asking around for a .38 recent like. A day later he comes back to me with a couple of likely suspects: a toff – who I discounted straight away – and a small ginger bloke riding a Triumph. Ginger bought a pistol off a mate of his, and this mate is canny, right? Didn’t want to do the swap on his own territory, so he said to Ginger that he’d deliver. Ginger agreed and said meet him in the Crown and Sceptre, Streatham.’

‘So that narrowed it down a bit,’ Langham laughed.

‘Just a bit,’ Ryland agreed. ‘All I had to do then was a bit of door to door calling in the Streatham area.’

‘And?’

‘I asked if the householders knew anyone with a motorbike, specifically a Triumph. Took me two bleedin’ days, it did. Talk about shoe leather. Anyway, this old biddy in her nineties bent me ear about the noise this bloke made with his motorbike – said he lived just across the road. A short, fat, ginger bloke, never without a cig in his cake ’ole …’

Ryland stopped dramatically and, with a flourish of his right hand, indicated the terrace house they were standing outside.

Langham stared at the house. ‘Right … now I see what you were driving at.’

The house was burned-out, its windows missing and half of its roof collapsed. Langham thought that there was nothing as sad as a fire-damaged house with its pathetic reminders – in this case singed lace curtains and a hat stand just inside the door – of the former home it had been.

‘Any idea when this happened?’

‘The old biddy said about a month ago. One night she was woken up in the early hours by a right commotion across the street.’

Langham glanced at Ryland. ‘Been inside?’

The investigator shook his head. ‘There was a fire officer inspecting the place when I came round yesterday. I thought I’d leave off till I contacted you.’

Langham nodded and looked up and down the street. The place was deserted. He nipped up the short garden path and slipped in past the remains of the incinerated door, askew on its hinges. Ryland followed.

He looked up a flight of stairs, abbreviated halfway by the fire. To the left was a gutted kitchen and to the right a front room occupied by blackened chunks of furniture, a three-piece suite and what might have been a Welsh dresser.

Langham crunched over debris and stood in the middle of the room. The charcoal reek was matched only by the fuggy aroma of waterlogged plasterboard.

Ryland was saying, ‘I looked into who owned the place, of course. Some slumlord down Greenwich way, he says he rented it for a couple of months to a geezer called Smith, who matched my description in every department – viz, short, fat and ginger. Smith paid on time and the landlord never had any complaints. The rent was paid right up to last month.’

Langham turned, taking in the blackened bricks, charred carpet and sagging ceiling. ‘What do you think happened?’

‘You want my opinion? I think Mr Effing Smith, before he starts killing, he decides to cover his trail. Just to be on the safe side, he thinks he’ll torch the place so no one sniffing around can find any incriminatory evidence.’ He shrugged. ‘Makes sense, if you ask me.’

Langham nodded in agreement. ‘Burns the place down, covering all traces of who lived here, takes off and goes to earth. He might be anywhere now.’

‘I asked the biddy if she ever talked to this geezer, Mr Smith. Said she complained about him revving his bike at midnight a few weeks back, and all she got for her trouble was a mouthful. The other neighbours didn’t have anything to do with him. Said he kept himself to himself, never had anyone round. I tried the Crown and Sceptre and a few other boozers in the area, but if anyone recognized Smith’s description they weren’t saying nothing.’

Langham said, ‘You did well, Ralph.’

Ryland grunted. ‘Not as well as I wanted to, mind.’

Langham noticed the crocodile-skin remains of a small bookcase in the corner of the room. He crossed to it, stepping over a hole in the floorboards, and squatted beside the case.

A row of a dozen damp-fattened paperbacks occupied the top shelf. There was something about the arrangement of the titles that struck Langham as odd, as if the books had been placed there after the immolation of the house. Surely, if in situ at the time of the fire, they would have been incinerated beyond recognition?

He pulled out the books and stacked them on the floor, his stomach turning.

There were seven titles in all, by Nigel Lassiter, Gerry Carter, Frank L. Pearson, Justin Fellowes, Dan Greeley and Amelia Hampstead, and the last one – Murder in Malapur – by none other than Donald Langham.

‘Found something?’ Ryland asked.

‘What do you make of these?’

Ryland squatted beside him. ‘Mr Smith was a reader with good taste?’

Langham grunted a laugh without humour. ‘These weren’t here when the fire was started, Ralph. They’re not fire-damaged, just damp. My guess is they were left here afterwards.’

The weaselly investigator gave him a sceptical look. ‘OK – but why?’

Langham went through the books one by one. ‘Nigel Lassiter – dead. Gervaise Cartwright – writing here as Gerry Carter – dead. Frank Pearson – dead. That leaves Fellowes, Greeley, Hampstead and … myself.’

Ryland squinted at him. ‘Coincidence?’

‘Bloody strange coincidence, I’d say. I think Mr Smith is having a little fun at our expense.’

Ryland nodded, slowly. ‘OK, so … Look, you don’t need me to tell you this, but you take care, Don. Lie low. Want my opinion, you get yourself out of London.’

Langham nodded. ‘I intend to do just that.’ He decided to take the books with him as evidence.

Ryland took Langham’s elbow and helped him to his feet. ‘Seen enough? Let’s get out of here.’

As they left the house and made their way back down the long street, Ryland said, ‘What now?’

‘I think I’ll contact the writers.’ Langham held up the books. ‘Tell them about what’s happened and suggest they take precautions.’

‘Good idea. You want me to keep looking for the bastard?’

Langham stopped by Ryland’s Morris Minor. ‘It can’t do any harm to have an independent on the case.’

They shook hands. Langham thanked him again and crossed the road to his car.

He drove on automatic pilot, the damp paperbacks on the passenger seat beside him. Why did he have the distinct impression that, to the murderer, this was little more than a macabre game?

Once back at his flat he sat at his desk and rang Jeff Mallory at Scotland Yard. He’d tell Jeff what he’d found at the burned-out house and say that he intended to contact the writers in person to explain the situation.

The phone was answered after a minute by a receptionist who informed him that Detective Inspector Mallory was not available. Langham said he’d ring back later.

He stared at the pile of sad-looking paperbacks on his desk. He picked up the Nigel Lassiter, the Frank Pearson and the Gerry Carter and set them aside. The next on the pile was the title by Dan Greeley, which he was pretty sure was a pseudonym. The publisher was Digit Books, and he knew an editor there. He got through to the editorial office and asked to speak to Bill Riley.

A minute later Riley’s County Clare brogue boomed down the line. ‘Donald! It’s been a long time. How’s life treating you?’

Langham said he was fine, then went on: ‘I’m actually trying to get in touch with “Dan Greeley”, but I’m right in thinking it’s a pseudonym, aren’t I?’

A silence, then, ‘That’s right. Greeley was the pen name of Alexander Southern. But you obviously haven’t heard.’

Something turned to ice in his stomach. ‘Heard?’

‘Poor Alex died last week in a road traffic accident in Canterbury. Knocked down by a hit-and-run driver. Didn’t stand a chance. Killed instantly. He was such a gentleman. We’re all devastated here.’

Langham murmured his shock and commiserations, and said something about having wanted to do an interview with ‘Greeley’. He chatted with Riley for another minute, said they’d have to meet up again for old time’s sake, then rang off.

He sat back in his seat and picked up the Greeley title. He’d never heard of the writer Alexander Southern – but clearly he was another scribbler who had in some way earned the ire of the killer. ‘Dan Greeley,’ he pronounced, ‘aka Alexander Southern – dead.’ He placed the book in the discard pile.

He picked up the next book – Murder in Confidence by Justin Fellowes – and riffled through his address book until he found Fellowes’s number.

The call was answered by a housekeeper, who informed Langham that Fellowes had just gone into town and wouldn’t be back until at least six that evening. Langham thanked her and said he’d call back later.

That left one writer to contact – Amelia Hampstead.

If Justin Fellowes was the Grand Old Man of British crime fiction, then Dame Amelia Hampstead was the Grand Old Lady. In her seventies now, she had fifty titles behind her, a trophy cupboard full of awards and sales in their tens of millions. Despite all that, she was as personable now as she had been twenty years ago when Langham had first met her. The youngest of Lord Pastonbury’s three daughters, Dame Amelia wrote whodunits in the Agatha Christie mould which, while not to Langham’s taste, of their kind were excellent.

She had a townhouse in Chelsea and kept a country retreat in Berkshire. Langham tried her London number and got through to her secretary, who informed him that Dame Amelia had left that very morning for Castle Melacorum – the rather highfalutin name she gave her country pile.

Langham thanked her and rang off. He dialled the castle and a minute later Amelia Hampstead herself answered the phone. ‘Why, Donald Langham,’ she declared in her rather plummy contralto. ‘I was thinking about you just the other day.’

‘You were?’

‘Indeed. I was reading your column in the Herald, and it occurred to me that you hadn’t covered one of my titles for a positive aeon. Remiss of you, my dear boy. Most remiss.’

‘My apologies, Amelia. I promise I’ll rectify that at the earliest opportunity.’

‘I should jolly well think so, Donald. Now, you’re interrupting the first day of my holiday. How can I help you? Out with it, boy.’

Langham smiled to himself and said, ‘This is a rather delicate matter, Amelia. You’ve no doubt heard about the recent deaths of Nigel Lassiter, Gervaise Cartwright and—’

She interrupted. ‘If you think for a minute I’m going to write their obituaries …’

Taking a deep breath, Langham assured her that this was the last thing he was ringing about and went on to explain the situation. Four dead writers, a dead editor and an agent shot and left for dead … ‘And far be it for me to be sensationalist, but I think you and I are on the hit list, too.’

‘What is this?’ Amelia exclaimed. ‘Are you running the plot of your latest thriller past me, young man?’

‘I wish I were, Dame Amelia. No, this is serious.’ He explained the other deaths and what he’d found in the shell of the house in Streatham.

A lengthy silence was followed by, ‘And just what do you expect me to do about it, Donald? Hire a bodyguard?’

‘Dame Amelia, don’t think this melodramatic, but I advise getting away for a while. That’s what I intend to do – leave London and lie low.’

Amelia harrumphed. ‘But Donald, that is exactly what I have just done. I am – I was, until you called – enjoying my first country break in months.’

Langham pulled a pained face. ‘If I may say so, the killer probably knows about Castle Melacorum.’ He stopped, then said, ‘You haven’t noticed anyone strange lurking in the vicinity of the castle since your arrival, have you? He rides a motorbike—’

A silence greeted his words.

‘Dame Amelia?’

‘A motorbike, you say? Why, Harker – my driver – mentioned on the way up that a motorcyclist had been following us all the way from Ealing.’

Oh, Christ … Langham thought. ‘Right,’ he said, suddenly businesslike. ‘Get Harker to drive you to a hotel somewhere well away from where you are now. And stay there until I say so. I’ll give you my number.’

‘But I’ve dismissed Harker an hour ago,’ Amelia said. ‘I told him to have a few days off.’

‘Very well. Ring for a taxi.’

‘A taxi. Do you realize how isolated I am out here, Donald?’ To give the old girl her due, she sounded to be taking the situation in her stride.

‘Very well, I’m on my way.’

‘What? Donald, don’t you think you’re being a trifle sensationalist about all this? The motorcyclist was probably just a coincidence.’

‘I’m not taking any chances. Lock the doors to the castle and don’t let anyone in. I’m on my way. And Dame Amelia, ring the local police and explain the situation, understood?’

‘Well, if you say so,’ Amelia said dubiously.

Langham thanked her and rang off.

He tried to get through to Mallory again, but the receptionist said he was still out on a case. Langham swore to himself and said he’d be in touch.

Next he rang Ralph Ryland.

‘Don,’ Ryland quipped, ‘twice in one day. You must really like me …’

‘Fancy a spin in the country?’ Langham asked.

‘If it’s business and I can put it on expenses …’ Ryland said.

Langham explained the situation and Ryland said, ‘I’ll bring the shooter. Be faster if I pick you up. Be there in … say twenty minutes, tops.’

‘Good man,’ Langham said, and put the phone down.

He paced up and down in considerable agitation for fifteen minutes, tried phoning Mallory twice – each time to no avail – then hurried from his flat and spent an anxious few minutes looking up and down the street for Ryland’s decrepit Morris Minor.

Eighteen minutes after their telephone conversation Ryland – as good as his word – braked before the kerb and Langham jumped into the passenger seat. Ryland took off, burning rubber and exceeding the speed limit. They headed west through light traffic. Langham looked at his watch. It had just turned two.

Ryland said, ‘I reckon we’ll be in Berkshire by three. Where’s the old bird live?’

Langham gave the name of the village. ‘About five miles north of Bracknell.’

Ryland glanced at him. ‘You say a motorbike trailed her all the way from Ealing?’

‘Apparently. But, God willing, it might have been a coincidence, as Amelia said.’

‘Never had you down as a believer, Don.’

Langham grinned. ‘Slip of the tongue due to stress,’ he said. ‘I like Amelia, and I hate to think …’ He trailed off, telling himself that everything would be fine; they’d get to Castle Melacorum, find Amelia in high dudgeon and willing to be moved only if they promised to chauffeur her to the very finest hotel in Cheltenham …

They were bowling through Ealing twenty minutes later. Ryland put his foot down and they left London behind them and sped into the country.

‘Just like being on ops again, Cap’n.’

Langham glanced across at his driver. ‘Do you miss Madagascar?’

Ryland pursed his lips. ‘Madagascar? No. I miss the … what d’you call it …? The camaraderie, the adrenaline rush. Tailing suspected philandering husbands isn’t quite the same. You?’

Langham stared out at the passing countryside. ‘The same. The intensity of the experience out there cemented relationships. Looking back, I realize I had a good war. Thing is, I feel guilty for admitting that.’

Ryland nodded. ‘I know what you mean.’ He glanced across at Langham, then said, ‘You’re doing it again, Don.’

‘Doing what?’ he asked, mystified.

‘This,’ Ryland said, and with his left hand he mimed fingering an imaginary scar on his forehead.

Langham quickly lowered his hand and smiled. ‘Oh … apparently it’s something I do without realizing.’

‘You recall the night that happened?’

‘Vaguely, but to be honest all the ops have merged into one, in retrospect.’ He thought about it. ‘It was the first push into Antananarivo, wasn’t it? Midnight. A recce on a coastal Vichy post.’

Ryland said, ‘I was pinned down. I’d been bloody stupid and gone ahead against orders. You found me, dragged me back, and somewhere in there we came under fire. Saved my life, Don.’

‘Rubbish. You’d have lain low until we reached you anyway.’

Ryland shook his head. ‘With that sniper picking us off? You did for him like a bleedin’ commando.’

It was not a memory Langham was comfortable with, and now he just said, ‘Water under the bridge, Ralph. Lived to fight another day. And look at us now.’

Ryland laughed. ‘Riding to the rescue of some damsel in distress.’

‘Well, I’d hardly describe Dame Amelia as a damsel.’

They bypassed Bracknell and headed north into the countryside towards the village of Bradley Hinton. Amelia Hampstead’s country pile was on the outskirts of the village. Langham had been there once, many years ago, when Amelia had thrown a fête to celebrate winning the Silver Dagger award.

Five minutes later, a little over an hour after setting off from London, they passed through Bradley Hinton and motored down the lane towards Castle Melacorum.

Ryland gave vent to a prolonged whistle when the tower rose into view over a line of ash trees to their right. ‘How the other half live, eh, Don?’

‘Certainly is impressive,’ Langham said.

All that remained of the thirteenth-century castle was a round corner tower, to which thirty years ago Amelia had added a rambling thatched cottage built from the original honey-coloured stones. The courtyard of the old castle, retained by three tumbledown walls, she had transformed into a riotous cottage garden.

Langham scanned the lane and the surrounding fields for any sign of a motorcyclist. Ryland slowed to a crawl and turned down a gravelled driveway. The countryside was still, almost silent, stunned by the heat of the day.

Ryland braked suddenly before a timber bridge that approached the castle’s tower. He leapt from the car and bent to examine the gravel. Langham joined him, his heart in his mouth. ‘What is it?’

Ryland pointed to a narrow trench in the gravel. ‘I’m no expert, Don, but I’d say that was made by a motorbike.’

Langham swore and hurried over the bridge that crossed the moat, its waters green with algae. He came to the tower’s arched doorway and stopped. The door stood ajar, the timbers around the lock shattered.

‘It’s been shot open,’ Ryland said. ‘What’s that?’

He pointed to a stone positioned to one side of the door. It was a huge sandstone block bound securely by a thick rope; a thick cord extended from the stone and ended in a noose.

‘Oh, Christ,’ Langham said.

Ryland slipped his pistol from inside his jacket and stepped forward. He eased the door open, paused on the threshold and listened. He stepped inside cautiously and Langham followed, wishing that he too was armed.

They crossed a large timbered hallway. To their right was a staircase rising up the tower, and to the left an open doorway giving on to a long sitting room that occupied the length of the cottage. At the far end of the room, French windows were flung open on to the abundant garden.

Stepping carefully and looking right and left as he went, Ryland led the way into the room. A small bookcase and a coffee table had been overturned, and Langham stared with mounting dread at the books spilled across the parquet flooring.

Ryland hurried to the open French windows just as Langham heard a faint cry. ‘Donald? Donald, is that you?’

Langham felt a surge of relief. ‘Amelia has her study in the tower,’ he said, turning back into the hall.

‘I’ll check out here,’ Ryland said, stepping tentatively into the garden.

‘Dame Amelia?’ Langham called up the stairs.

‘Donald! I’m in the tower. The wretch tried to abduct me!’

Langham took the stairs two at a time, more than a little amazed that Amelia had survived the encounter. He rapped on the massive timber door to the study, which Amelia unlocked. He slipped inside.

Dame Amelia was almost six feet tall, but looked all the more imposing for having a silver-grey bouffant beehive hairdo that added another twelve inches to her height. She grasped his hand and said, ‘Never in my life have I been as grateful to see a friendly face.’

‘What happened?’ He hurried across to a mullioned window and peered out at the garden.

‘The miscreant shot his way into my castle!’ Amelia cried. ‘I was downstairs, in the process of calling the police when I heard the shots. I nearly succumbed on the spot, Donald!’

In the garden Langham caught sight of Ryland, pistol poised, as he moved around a stand of topiary in the shape of a cockerel.

He turned and stared at Amelia. She had scooped a small dog from the floor and was hugging it to her considerable chest.

‘I was frozen to the spot, Donald. Frozen! A man entered the hallway, saw me and raised a pistol! I don’t know what came over me but I let out a bellow and threw the first thing that came to hand. Luckily it was a marble statuette – and with beginner’s luck I hit the devil in the chest. By this time Poirot joined in the attack.’

Langham blinked. ‘Poirot?’

Amelia held up the dog, a jet black ball of fur with a pointed muzzle. ‘My little Belgian Schipperke, Poirot.’

On cue, the dog yapped at him.

He laughed. ‘Does Agatha know that you’ve named him after her detective?’

‘Of course she does, and she thinks it a positive hoot. Anyway, Poirot launched himself at the intruder, latched on to his hand and wouldn’t let go. Drew blood, I’m proud to report. And I took the opportunity to attack him with my walking stick!’

‘He met his match when he tried to mess with you, Amelia.’

‘While he was on the floor, Poirot and I made a beeline for the study and locked ourselves in here.’ She drew a deep breath and smiled at him. ‘And minutes later I heard the sound of your car in the drive. Oh, the relief, Donald, the relief!’

‘I think you’ve done jolly well on your own,’ he said.

‘But what I don’t understand is why, if this awful little man is so intent on bumping off us scribblers, he didn’t take the opportunity to shoot me when he had the chance.’

Langham shook his head. ‘I don’t know, Amelia.’ He recalled the bound stone on the threshold of the castle, obviously pre-prepared and brought here for a reason …

‘Can you describe him?’ he asked.

Amelia’s vast, powdered visage pulled a pained expression. ‘The appalling little man wore a balaclava, goggles, and a scarf concealing the lower half of his face. All I can say about him was that he was short and rather dumpy.’

He heard the dull report of a gunshot, followed closely by another. He whirled towards the window and stared out. He saw Ryland and his heart leapt. His friend was flat on his belly, and at first Langham thought he’d taken a hit. Then, as quick as lightning, the detective sprang to his feet and ran into the insubstantial cover of a rose-covered pergola. He took aim and fired.

At the far end of the garden Langham made out the small figure of the interloper. He ducked as Ryland fired, climbed a tumbledown section of wall and vanished from sight. Seconds later he heard the catarrhal cough of a motorcycle engine being kicked into life.

Down below, Ryland lost no time in giving chase. He sprinted back into the house and seconds later Langham heard the detective clatter across the wooden bridge. The car engine sounded, gravel crunched, and Ryland’s ancient Morris Minor sped off in pursuit of the motorcyclist.

Dame Amelia flopped into an armchair still clutching her dog. ‘If it were not for you and your brave friend …’ she began.

‘Don’t underestimate your own contribution,’ Langham said, ‘or Poirot’s.’

‘But why,’ she pleaded, ‘is the evil little man doing this? Why target us, Donald?’

Psychological motivation had never been the strongpoint of Amelia’s whodunits. He shook his head. ‘Someone with a grudge, a deep-seated pathological envy of those he considers more successful than himself? I don’t really know, Amelia. But I hope we find out soon.’

She stared at him. ‘Do you think it’s one of our colleagues?’

‘It’s a possibility. Or someone within the trade …’ He stopped when he heard the sound of a car’s engine approaching, and moved to the window overlooking the drive.

Seconds later Ryland’s Morris hove into view. The detective leapt out and hurried to the tower. Langham opened the door and called out, ‘Up here, Ralph.’

Ryland appeared seconds later, out of breath. ‘Bastard gave me the slip at a crossroads!’ He saw Dame Amelia and bobbed his head. ‘’Scuse me French, m’am.’

‘I have been employing the vernacular to describe the man, so no apologies needed on that score.’

‘You all right, Ralph?’ Langham asked.

‘Right as rain. The bloke’s no marksman, Don. But I’m getting rusty. He surprised me. I was a sitting duck at one point down there, but he didn’t take his chance. If that’d been the Vichy in Madagascar …’ He shrugged. ‘For my part, I could only get off a couple of shots, but he was a moving target.’

‘You did exceptionally well in chasing the blackguard away,’ Dame Amelia opined. ‘And for that you have my eternal gratitude.’

‘Right,’ Langham said. ‘There’s little we can do around here. My advice, Dame Amelia, would be come with us to London and book into an out-of-the-way hotel for a week or so.’

‘That sounds like an eminently sensible suggestion, Donald. Would you give me a minute to pack a few essentials?’

‘Quite a character,’ Ryland said as she swept from the room, Poirot lodged under her arm.

‘Wait till you hear how she beat off the gunman,’ Langham said, and recounted Dame Amelia and Poirot’s concerted attack.

Ralph looked puzzled. ‘But why didn’t the geezer just shoot her dead?’

‘Recall the stone down there? I think he brought it with him with the express purpose of drowning Dame Amelia in her own moat.’

Ten minutes later they departed Castle Melacorum. Amelia fussed about leaving the castle unlocked, but Langham said he’d call a locksmith just as soon as they reached London. Their first priority was to see Dame Amelia lodged in a hotel off the beaten track.

‘And I know just the place,’ she said. ‘A chi-chi little establishment in Belgravia I’ve used many times in the past.’

‘Which,’ Langham said, ‘is exactly why I don’t want you going there now. There’s a decent place in Highgate.’

He gave the address to Ryland, who nodded and glanced at Dame Amelia in the passenger seat. ‘Don told me all about you attacking the gunman, Dame Amelia.’

She trilled a laugh and, as they approached the capital, gave an exaggerated account of the mêlée at the castle. Langham smiled to himself and had no doubt that the episode would find its way into her next best-seller.

Langham ensured that Dame Amelia was ensconced in the Royal at Highgate. He accepted her fulsome thanks for, as she said, ‘saving her bacon’, but refused the offer of a drink.

He returned to Ryland in the hotel car park. ‘Home, Don?’ the detective enquired.

‘Could you drop me round the corner, Ralph? There’s a scribbler in the area I must see pretty sharpish.’

‘Will do.’

As they pulled out into the street, Langham said, ‘And would you mind contacting a locksmith and carpenter about the door at Castle Melacorum? Charge it to expenses. And if you could inform the boys in blue …’

‘Leave it to me, Don. Here do?’

‘This’ll be fine.’ He turned to Ryland. ‘And thanks awfully for your help, Ralph. I couldn’t have done it alone.’

Ryland grinned. ‘Don’t mention it, Don. Just like old times, eh?’

Langham laughed, thanked him again and climbed from the car. He watched the battered Morris drive off, then found a phone box and consulted his address book. A minute later he got through to Justin Fellowes.

‘Donald, Donald …’ the old man replied in fruity tones. ‘I was hoping for a longer chat at the service last week.’

‘Justin, I hope this doesn’t sound too melodramatic, but I need to see you pretty urgently.’

‘Urgently? My word, you sound like one of your novels. How urgent is urgent?’

‘Now, perhaps?’

‘Now? But my dear man, I was just about to dine—’

‘Justin, I assure you this is a matter of life or death.’

A silence from the other end of the line. ‘Life or death? Then you’d better come over directly. You know where I am?’

‘Still at Stable Row, Highgate?’

‘The same.’

‘I’ll be right over.’

He slipped from the phone box and hurried down the street.

Justin Fellowes, the Grand Old Man of the crime scene, the purveyor of over two dozen novels at the literary end of the mystery spectrum, owned a big three-storey Regency townhouse overlooking Hampstead Heath. Langham took the steps to the front door two at a time.

An elderly woman opened the door to his summons. ‘Ah, you must be Mr Langham. Mr Fellowes said you’d be calling. Please, come in.’

Langham stepped inside as the woman took up a basket from a side table and called out, ‘Mr Langham is here, sir! I’ll be off now.’ To Langham she said, ‘Just along the corridor to the left. You’ll find Mr Fellowes in his study.’

She slipped through the front door and shut it behind her. Langham moved along the hallway and knocked on the study door.

‘Langham, come in and explain yourself. What’s all this about? A matter of life and death?’

Fellowes was an abnormally tall, balding man, stooped and benign, with the comfortable tweedy gravitas Langham associated with Hampstead literary types. He waved Langham to an armchair in the bow window and resumed his own swivel chair before a desk bearing an ancient upright typewriter.

Utilized as paperweights on the desk, and as bookends, were the various awards he’d won in a long and distinguished career: the Golden Revolver for the Perfect Murder short story, the Blunt Instrument Lifetime Achievement Award and, taking pride of place on the wall above the desk, the Silver Stiletto for the best crime novel of 1950.

‘Now, out with it, man. What’s all this about?’

Langham leaned forward in the chair. ‘I know this might sound fantastic, Justin, but I have good reason to think that your life is in danger.’

Fellowes regarded him evenly over his half-moon reading glasses. He seemed not in the slightest put out. ‘You do?’

For the next ten minutes he told Fellowes about the deaths of Max Sidley, Nigel Lassiter, Gervaise Cartwright, Dan Greeley and Frankie Pearson, and the attempts on the lives of Charles Elder and Amelia Hampstead. He finished by describing his finding the paperbacks in the burned-out Streatham terrace house.

Fellowes listened without the slightest expression crossing his liver-spotted visage.

‘This sounds like a plot from a pre-war pulp yarn,’ he drawled. ‘Poor Nigel … and Max! I didn’t know Greeley, and hardly knew Frankie Pearson. As for Gervaise, well, the cad had it coming to him. But I’d rather I avoided the same fate.’

‘I advise you take a week or two away, until the police track the killer down.’

Fellowes looked sceptical. ‘And they’re confident of doing so?’

‘Well, they’re on the case,’ Langham said inadequately.

Fellowes nodded. ‘Thank you, Donald. I have the latest chapter to finish, but as soon as I do so I’ll take a vacation. I have a sister in Dorset …’

‘If I were you I’d get out sooner rather than later,’ he said. ‘I’ll be leaving the capital just as soon as I can.’

Fellowes nodded. ‘Point taken, Donald.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘Now, if you don’t mind …?’

Langham smiled, bid the old man bon appétit, and took his leave.

He considered ringing Maria to ensure it would be all right if he called round, but as he turned the corner into the High Street he saw a passing taxi and hailed it. On the way to Kensington he realized how tired he was. The events of the day had taken their toll, along with the stress of knowing he was on the killer’s list of victims.

He paid the driver, hurried up the steps to Maria’s flat and rang the bell. She seemed to take an age to answer, but when she pulled open the door he decided that the vision before him had been well worth the wait.

She gasped. ‘But Donald, you look absolutely done for!’

He almost staggered into her embrace. ‘I was wondering if I might stay here tonight, Maria? The settee will be fine.’

She ushered him up the steps to her apartment. ‘Of course. But Donald, what has happened?’

He found himself recounting, for the third time that day, his discovery of the paperbacks at Streatham, and went on to tell her about the incident at Castle Melacorum.

She listened, wide-eyed, but interrupted him with a graceful hand on his knee. ‘But I am a terr-ible host, Donald, and you must need a drink, oui?’

He smiled as he watched her hurry into the kitchen, and for the first time that day he began to relax.