9

As often happened when he had drunk too much, Michael awoke very early next day. That also had something to do with the fact that, in his stupor the night before, he had fallen asleep in front of the video, woken, stumbled upstairs and flopped on to the bed without closing the curtains. From soon after 6.30 sunshine streamed into the bedroom.

He dressed, ate a fairly ancient grapefruit, cooked himself some eggs and settled down to read the paper. At a quarter to eight, itching to do something, he washed up, found his jacket and went out into the King’s Road in search of a taxi. Only one person in the entire art world was awake and at work at such an hour: Julius Samuels.

As Michael walked up Dover Street, the pavements glittered with the previous day’s rain. The pools of water reminded him of his happy Sunday on the Broads. He’d like to drown Molyneux! He climbed the steps to Samuels’s studio. It was just after eight o’clock. The old man was already there, his palette, white coat and cigar in place.

‘Come for breakfast, have you?’ Julius was just pouring the first whisky of the day.

Michael winced but he knew he couldn’t refuse. ‘Actually, I came to visit a lady,’ he said, taking the proffered glass.

‘Behind you,’ said the old man. ‘And she’s a cracker, if you ask me.’

Michael turned. She was indeed beautiful. The mane of red hair, which was now revealed in its entirety, was rich, vivid as a vixen’s and reached down to the woman’s breasts. These too had been lovingly painted, in cream with a hint of honey. Her cleavage was now a scoop of blue glaze, so wispy you wanted to touch it with the tips of your fingers. The bodice of her dress, crimson with a fine gold line running through it, suggested watered silk. The way the dress fought what could be seen of the woman’s flesh suggested a frank sensuality. However, the expression in the face was reserved but with an ironic twist in the mouth, suggesting that the woman was well aware of her charms, her powers to disturb men. This series of paradoxes Michael found very erotic and he immediately liked the woman. That was important. It meant he would devote whatever energy it took to research who she was. And Julius’s work showed that she was somebody. The face showed more than character; it showed a sexual presence. No wonder the Victorians had wanted to cover her up.

Michael turned and lifted his glass in a toast to the old restorer. ‘She was no saint, Jules. Thank God you spotted her underneath everything else. It will be fun finding out who she is.’

Samuels replaced his whisky glass on the shelf. ‘There was no coat of arms, so it won’t be easy. But look at what she is holding between her finger and thumb. That might help.’

Michael studied the object in the woman’s hand. It looked to him like a small turret. ‘What is it?’ he asked.

‘It looks to me like a chesspiece,’ said Julius. ‘A castle or a rook.’

‘She was a chess player?’

‘Maybe. Odd, eh? And no wedding ring but a big bracelet with emeralds.’

Michael examined the bracelet. It was gold, embedded with what appeared to be six emeralds, the size of olives. Samuels might be right. Some old families were identified with stones. He’d have to check it out at the College of Arms.

Michael moved near to Julius, to look at the new painting the old man had on the easel. It was a large Canaletto, on its side. Few people saw pictures this way up but for a restorer it often made sense to turn a painting on its side, or even upside-down, if in that way it was easier to treat a piece of sky or the top of a building.

‘Nice,’ said Michael, sipping his whisky and looking down. Protocol dictated that he could not ask whose painting it was. But he could make an educated guess as to which dealer had sent it to be restored. It sometimes helped to know who had what. Canaletto had worked a lot in England and so Michael needed to know something about him.

He stood for a while, watching the old man at work. Every so often, Julius stopped and wrote down what he was doing in his notebook, or made a tiny drawing. Michael watched as Julius made a little sketch of some chimneys.

‘These were painted over,’ said the old man. ‘Someone in the nineteenth century didn’t like the skyline of this picture, and had it changed. I’ve put them back by removing the sky that was painted over them, and then I touched them up. This drawing shows anyone exactly what I did.’

‘Who do you like restoring best?’ said Michael, as always full of admiration for Julius’s casual demonstration of superb skill.

‘The Venetians are the most difficult. They actually mixed their paints on the canvas, unlike the Florentines, who did it on the palette and then put the mixture on with a brush. So it’s hard to get the colour and the texture right with the Venetians. My own first love is for Reynolds. He prepared some of his colours so badly that a lot of them, especially the flesh tones, have faded.’ He looked up at Michael and winked. ‘I’ve put more carmine into more Reynolds portraits than I’ve had whiskies. Want another?’

Michael patted the old man’s shoulder. ‘No thanks, Jules. I’ll take the picture now, if I may. You’ll send the bill?’

Samuels nodded. There was no haggling. He was the best there was and dealers either paid his price or Julius didn’t do the work. He knocked a little bit off for Michael because he paid in whisky and because he was a regular customer. But not much.

Out on the street Michael once more found himself smiling. Every encounter with Julius was a joy. He carried the picture easily but didn’t walk too fast. It was still only 8.30 and he didn’t—want to collide with anything or anyone while he had the portrait under his arm: it would damage all too easily.

Turning from Jermyn Street into Duke Street, he stopped to look in Myer’s Gallery. They specialised in Italian pictures and there was a Bellotto in the window. Michael admired it. In some ways, he thought, Belloto—Canaletto’s nephew—was better than the master. He reflected that the Canaletto old Julius was treating could have come from this gallery.

He turned into Mason’s Yard, let himself into the gallery and took the woman with the cleavage up to his office. Amazingly, Julius’s whisky had revived him. Michael lit a cigar and stared at the picture. It was important to look at pictures. Too many dealers were too busy to spend time looking at the objects in their charge. There was something about this picture that didn’t add up …

He had got nowhere in his thinking by nine o’clock, when, feeling suddenly very hungry, he took himself up the road to Fortnum and Mason for another breakfast. The kipper lasted him until nearly ten, when he strolled up Piccadilly and across Leicester Square to the National Portrait Gallery. He wanted the main gallery, not the archive. Conveniently for his purposes, it was laid out chronologically, with the earlier portraits on the top floor and the more recent ones lower down.

He found what he was looking for—the Regency pictures from the late eighteenth and early nineteenth centuries—and stared at the portraits, one by one. There was Nelson’s mistress, Emma Hamilton, the various Georges, the poets and writers of the time. And there were some of the great women—Maria Edgeworth, the Gunning sisters, the Countess of Sutherland. Michael concentrated on their jewellery and anything they held in their hands. He was looking for any similarities with the woman old Julius had uncovered, but for his purposes the portraits were inconclusive.

Michael left the gallery and took a taxi to Portman Square. There he entered a building on the north side. This was the Witt Library, room upon room stacked with photographs stored in green box-files. The files contained reproductions of paintings and were arranged alphabetically by schools. Each painter had a box to himself and famous painters had several. Michael climbed to the first floor where the English schools were located. He wasn’t sure what he was looking for but that was often the way. He had to start somewhere, so he took down a box which was marked: ‘Sir Thomas Lawrence: Portraits, Women, Single’.

Michael spent all morning in the Witt. He looked at box upon box, at works by Hudson and Reynolds, Ramsay and Gainsborough, Cotes and Romney, Fuseli and Etty. By 12.30, when he had to leave for his lunch with Isobel, he was weary and in need of a cigar. But he was beginning to have some idea who had painted the woman with a cleavage. He still had to find out who she was.

Isobel was already in his office when he arrived. She looked spectacular, in a mustard-coloured sweater and dark green pants. As Michael planted a kiss on her cheek he noticed her suitcase by the door. ‘Back to the farm?’

She brushed the hair off her face. ‘Yes, but I don’t give up without a fight. I went to Sotheby’s this morning, to try to find out who bought the documents.’

Michael stepped back and stared at her. ‘That took some pluck.’

Isobel grinned but grimly. ‘No luck, though. They wouldn’t play ball. Isn’t there anyone there you could bribe?’

Michael shook his head. ‘They’re quite tricky about that; they don’t want dealers poaching their customers. Besides, Molyneux may have paid cash and used a false name. Nice try, though. Very impressive.’

He led Isobel out of the gallery, to lunch. This time they went not to Keating’s but to Wilton’s in Jermyn Street. The service there was exquisitely slow and Michael wanted to stretch out this meeting with Isobel. He couldn’t be sure but it just might be their last.

‘I hate just giving up,’ she said after they had ordered. ‘It’s not like me at all.’

‘You didn’t have any suggestions last night. Got any today?’

She tossed her head so that the hair swung back off her face. ‘I suppose we could drive down to Dorset and just cruise around, hoping to bump into him.’

‘Dorset’s a big place … and in any case we don’t know that the rest of the trail stays there. Cross was French originally. Maybe that’s where the other clues lead.’

‘Mmm. You’re right.’

They were silent for a moment.

‘What about the Irish connection?’ Isobel said.

‘We don’t know that there is one. We can’t ring around all the dealers and ask if there’s a Molyneux on the staff.’

‘We can’t just give up!’

But, try as they might, over the fresh asparagus, over the grilled sole, over the raspberries, they could think of no way forward.

‘Maybe you were right,’ said Isobel as she finished her berries and spooned the last of the cream into her mouth. ‘Maybe we should have gone to the police. Maybe we still should.’

Michael shook his head. ‘Much too late now. Helen’s tidied up her studio, got back to a normal life. So have I, almost. It would look very odd, suspicious even, if we went to them now. We know no more about Molyneux than we did days ago and if the painting were to turn up, at an antique shop, say, it would almost certainly mean that he had no further use for it. Meaning he had found the treasures. I’m afraid,’ he said, signalling to the waiter to bring some coffee, ‘that we have been beaten. We may as well get used to it.’ He smiled.

She would not be jollied. ‘Do you think we’ll ever know, if Molyneux finds whatever is hidden?’

‘I don’t want to think about it.’

Isobel pummelled the table. ‘God, it’s galling.’

Michael didn’t reply but instead examined the bill, which the waiter had brought. He paid by cheque, turning over in his mind the topic he most wanted to discuss: when they could meet again. He sensed that right now was not the time. Isobel was keyed up. Maybe he could mention it back in the office, as he kissed her goodbye.

They left the restaurant and walked back to Mason’s Yard. On the pavements the puddles from yesterday’s rain had all but gone. Michael’s memory of his day on the Broads was evaporating too.

They entered the gallery and climbed the stairs to Michael’s office. He picked up Isobel’s suitcase, intending to give her a hand with it, but as he did so he noticed a piece of paper wedged under his phone. He plucked it from where it was lodged. ‘Look,’ he said, lowering the suitcase to the floor and handing the note to Isobel.

She took it from him. It read: ‘Ring Helen Sparrow. Urgent.’

Michael punched Helen’s number on the phone. It seemed to take ages to connect.

‘Please God, no,’ said Isobel, scarcely audible.

The call went through and, down the line, they could hear the phone ring out, once, twice, three times. It was answered on the fourth ring. ‘Helen? It’s Michael, in London. What is it?’

‘Michael—good. Look, Michael, I’ve had an idea. I still feel terribly guilty about your painting being stolen from my studio. You said something last night, when you were talking about the picture that Julius has been cleaning for you. You said you’d been hoping for a coat of arms but hadn’t found one. That rang bells in my head and today I tried out an idea. There’s a famous priory between here and Ipswich, with a marvellous gatehouse. Butley Priory it’s called. I went there again this morning—I wanted to check if my idea was feasible before I called you.’

Michael looked at Isobel and silently shook his head. He had no idea what Helen was going on about. Presumably she would get to the point soon.

‘The gatehouse is covered in carved stones. It was once part of an Augustine priory founded by someone who travelled with Richard the Lionheart on the crusades. It has the arms of England cut in stone and the three crowns of East Anglia, the Passion and the Holy Roman Empire—’

‘Helen—’

‘But below all that, also carved in stone, are the arms of the great families around here, the Stavertons, the Suffolks, the Hadleighs. Michael, you didn’t see the cleaned painting but I did. Although the design on the stone slab was vague, I’m convinced now that it was a coat of arms. It certainly could have been. It may have been divided into quarters. I’m trying to help, Michael. The design or motif you are looking for is a coat of arms.’

Michael frowned. He was touched that Helen had gone to so much trouble to be of help but he couldn’t immediately see if it took them forward.

‘Great, Helen. Thanks.’ He tried to sound as enthusiastic as possible. ‘That might help, really. Let me try it out on Isobel. That was very thoughtful, Helen. Thank you very much.’ He hung up and relayed the conversation to Isobel.

Like him she was touched that Helen had travelled several miles and back to check out her hunch. ‘Thank God she wasn’t calling to say that Molyneux had returned. It makes sense, I suppose. A coat of arms would lead to another family, at another location.’ She bit her lip. ‘A location where, no doubt, damn Mister Molyneux is even now unearthing what should be ours.’

They were both silent for a moment. Then Isobel looked at her watch. ‘Nearly half past three. I’d better go, I suppose, if I am to catch the four-seventeen.’ She moved over to where Michael had placed her suitcase.

Michael still hadn’t raised the subject closest to his heart. It had to be now. ‘Isobel—’

‘Michael!’ Isobel suddenly shouted. She had lifted her case but now set it down again. ‘Michael, how much heraldry would Molyneux know?’

‘Search me. Why?’

‘How would he find out who the coat of arms refers to?’

‘If he didn’t recognise them, you mean? Books, I suppose, or the College of Arms.’

‘How many colleges are there?’

‘One, I think.’

‘In London?’

‘Yes, Queen Victoria Street, in the City. Why?’

Speaking quietly, Isobel said, ‘You remember when I was at the National Portrait Gallery and ordered a photocopy of the portrait of Philip Cross? And the girl asked if there was to be an exhibition about him? Because I was the second person to make that request within a few days? Our path crossed with Molyneux’s. The same might be true of the College of Arms. If there’s only one College of Arms and Molyneux is not an expert, he’s got to go there. We can cross his path, so to speak. Why don’t we go to the College right away and ask the people who work there if someone like Molyneux has been making inquiries, and, if so, what about?’

Michael stared at Isobel and grinned. ‘Brilliant. Dynabloodymite. It might take a bit of bribery.’ He tapped the wallet in his breast pocket. ‘But it’s only money. Let’s go.’

They found a taxi easily enough at the Cavendish Hotel but, to their intense frustration, got ensnared in traffic in Trafalgar Square.

‘What time does the college close?’ asked Isobel.

Michael shook his head. ‘I haven’t a clue but normally these sorts of institutions don’t stay open late. Five or five-thirty, I guess. Now what story are we going to concoct?’

Isobel was fiddling in her bag. She took out a comb and mirror and tidied her hair. She applied lipstick to her mouth and powder to her face. She doused herself in more scent. Seeing Michael watching her, she grinned. ‘We might need this warpaint.’

They arrived at Queen Victoria Street just after 4.15. They mounted the steps of the College of Arms where a board announced that it was open until 5.30. Inside was a cloakroom, where Isobel was instructed by a security guard to leave her bag. They signed in and were directed to the library, a large room with a gallery around the edges. ‘Look purposeful,’ whispered Isobel, taking command. ‘Pull a book down and pretend to read. Let’s see the lay of the land.’ All of a sudden she was as busy and as bossy as she had been on the boat.

Michael did as he was told and they sat at a polished pinewood table facing each other and pretending to dip into various books. Fifteen minutes passed. Isobel got up once or twice, ostensibly to get more books, but used the opportunity to move about the room. After a while, she came back and whispered, ‘There seem to be two librarians, a woman and a man. Give me your wallet.’ Michael looked at her but she hissed, ‘Give me your wallet!’

He slid it across.

‘How much is inside?’

‘Three stamps, two opera tickets, my London Library membership card, three credit cards—oh yes, and about two hundred pounds.’

‘Good. Let’s hope we don’t need it all. Now, in a moment, the next time the male librarian leaves the issue desk to put a book back on the shelves, go and engage the woman in some sort of conversation. I don’t care what, just do it, and make it last long enough so that I can collar the man. Understand?’

Michael gave her a mock salute.

The librarians, however, did not play their part. The man and the woman sat at the central desk talking in near-whispers. For ten, fifteen, twenty minutes, Isobel had no opportunity to put into effect whatever it was she had in mind.

‘We need another plan,’ said Michael, as five o’clock approached. ‘We’ve only got half an hour.’

As Michael spoke, the male librarian rose and moved over to a section with some very big, heavy boxes, Michael pushed back his chair and got to his feet and approached the issue desk. ‘I wonder if you could help me,’ he said to the woman at the counter. ‘I’m an art dealer and I have a painting with some unusual jewels in it. Emeralds, I think. I am trying to identify the woman wearing them. I was wondering, are there any coats of arms with jewels in them? I’m very ignorant about these matters.’

As he said this he was aware that Isobel had now also risen from the table and had approached the male librarian, standing by the shelves at the far end of the room. That was all Michael had time to notice, however, as the woman to whom he had addressed his remarks now took him to another area of the shelves where there were indeed books on jewels and heraldry. He asked her to explain to him how they were organised and she seemed pleased to do so.

After that the woman moved back to the main issue desk, Michael was relieved to see that Isobel was still deep in conversation with the male librarian. Michael turned his attention to the books in front of him. He found a great deal on emeralds and, though he tried to keep an eye on Isobel, he soon discovered that the green stone was closely associated with three families in Britain: the Berners of Chester, the Duttons of Ripon and the Haskells of Henley-in-Arden. At least he was killing two birds with one stone, he told himself. Maybe the emerald bracelet in the portrait old Julius had cleaned indicated that the woman was from one of these three families. It was worth following up. He was about to turn his attention to chess and heraldry when he noticed that, across the room, Isobel was glaring at him. He moved over and sat down at the table opposite her.

Isobel looked flustered. ‘The worm wouldn’t help.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘I told him I worked for a newspaper. I asked if a tall man with grey hair had been here inquiring about a particular family. I said we thought he was trying to pretend he was a beneficiary of a will, trying to find out all he could about them. I said the paper was convinced he was a fraud.’

‘And?’

‘He wouldn’t play ball. I offered him fifty pounds. It made no difference. He loathes the press. God, what a lizard.’

‘What were his exact words?’

‘He said that no one had been here who could possibly have been a fraud. They were all faces he had seen before.’

‘Did he indeed?’ Michael looked around the library. He took out his pocket-book and tore off a piece of paper. ‘We haven’t got much time: the place is closing. Follow me out and, when you get your bag at the cloakroom, make a fuss. Spill the contents on to the floor, drop your umbrella or something—’

‘I don’t understand. I don’t have an umbrella, you donkey—’

‘Isobel! It’s nearly five-thirty, I’ll explain after. Please. Just do it.’

To forestall any more discussion Michael got to his feet again. Isobel followed him out of the library.

Along the corridor by the cloakroom the guard was already standing by the door to stop newcomers entering. When he saw Isobel he moved forward, took her ticket and went into the cloakroom to fetch her bag. Michael motioned for her to follow. He spread his hands to remind her again to tip the contents on to the floor.

Isobel stepped into the cloakroom. ‘Yes, that’s mine,’ she said as the guard came towards her. ‘Let me just check if my pen is inside.’ She took the bag, opened it and thrust her hand inside, smiling at the guard as she did so. Deftly she swivelled the bag so that it upturned. Then she dropped it on to the floor, the contents spilling on to the guard’s feet. Make-up, coins, pieces of paper and boiled sweets scattered everywhere. They both stooped to pick them up, Isobel apologising profusely as she did so. Even after everything had been put back she made a fuss of looking for her pen. Eventually she contrived to find it in an outside compartment of the bag with its own zip. She smiled again at the guard, thanked him, and went back out. Michael was not there.

She stepped outside. He was waiting about fifty yards down Queen Victoria Street, towards Blackfriars Bridge. He had lit a cigar. He came towards her.

‘Bossy on boats, a litterbug in libraries. Very talented, Inspector Sadler—’

Before he could go any further, Isobel had snatched the cigar from his mouth. ‘You’ll get this back when you’ve told me what you were up to in there. Stop talking in jingles and get a move on.’

He smiled. ‘I was copying out the names of all the people who signed in on Monday. All the men, that is.’

She stared at him.

‘The librarian you spoke to said all the people who came here were known faces. If Molyneux did come here, and was known, that means two things. One, he is in some way mixed up in the world of heraldry, or history, someone who perhaps does research here from time to time.’

‘And? …’

‘And, two, because he was known, he had to use his real name.’ He reached out and took the cigar from Isobel’s hand. The rush hour traffic zoomed past them so that Michael had to raise his voice. ‘Nine people used the library on Monday, six of them men, possibly seven because one person signed in with his or her initials only.’ He waved the piece of paper at her. ‘The names are all here. It’s too late now, but tomorrow we can start ringing round the dealers and museum people I know to see if any of these names mean anything—if any name belongs to a tall, grey-haired man who has been seen limping lately.’ He grinned. ‘Now who’s a donkey?’

The first place Michael tried, next morning, was Who’s Who. The London Library opened at 9.30 and he and Isobel were there on the dot. None of the seven names checked out. Then he tried friends and ex-colleagues in the auction houses. No good. He rang around the dealers he knew in the fields that might be relevant—antiquarian books, arms and armour, miniatures, jewellery. One of the names, George Grainger, rang a bell with one of the dealers in stained glass but, maddeningly, he couldn’t be more specific than that.

The day wore on. Instead of lunch, they hunted through the London telephone directories. They found three of the names. None of the addresses meant much and two of the people answered when Isobel rang them. She could tell from their voices that neither man was Molyneux.

‘He’s two days ahead of us,’ hissed Michael to no one in particular. ‘Nearly three.’

‘We’re so close. Isn’t there somewhere else we can check?’

Michael called a book dealer he had already tried, and asked him to suggest colleagues in the West Country. He was recommended to a firm in Bath. But that did no good either. None of the names meant anything in Bath.

Four o’clock approached. Isobel paced around Michael’s small office, her impatience visibly growing. He tried a gallery in Lower Sloane Street which, he knew, had once held an exhibition of heraldry and naval flags. The gallery sold maps with coats of arms on them. No, none of the names meant anything there either.

Four-thirty. Isobel had sat down and now Michael was pacing the room. He stopped opposite his books on Holbein. ‘Hold on a minute,’ he said. ‘Remember how the Order of St Michael was right under our noses?’ He tapped the spine of a book. ‘Inside this very volume.’

Isobel looked across to him.

‘Come with me.’ He led the way downstairs and out of the gallery. They walked to the end of Mason’s Yard where Michael pointed across Duke Street. ‘Look.’

‘It’s a bookshop.’

‘Not just any bookshop,’ said Michael. ‘Oliver Quartermain, the art world’s bookshop. Lots of expensive books in all languages, books of which there are only forty-nine copies printed, books so academic you’d fall asleep before opening them.’

‘So?’

‘They have a section on stained glass. Remember that one name—Grainger—which rang a bell with the stained-glass dealer? Maybe he was a customer, maybe he was an authority who had written about it. Let’s see.’

They crossed the road and entered the shop. Michael was known and they were left to browse. The books on stained glass were one of the smaller sections, at the back, high up. Michael reached up and ran his finger along the spines of the books. They were alphabetically arranged: Barbier, Broglie, Chadwick, Fleming, Fouquet, Friedrich, Goody, Grainger! He reached up quickly and took down the book. It was entitled: Northern Light: Stained Glass of the British Isles. Michael turned to the back flap.

‘It’s him!’ Isobel stared at the author’s picture, a small square in black and white. The silvery hair, a long jaw, creases in the cheeks, a sharp wariness about the eyes.

‘Odd,’ said Michael. ‘It looks to me as though he was photographed in Oxford or Cambridge—that’s an old-fashioned quadrangle behind him. Yet it says underneath that he is Reader in Medieval Studies at the Royal Institute of History, here in London.’

‘So he changed jobs. People do.’

‘An academic. We should have thought of that before. I should. You were right. I have been a donkey.’ Michael reached into his pocket for his wallet. ‘Better buy this. Maybe it will tell us something about the man.’ He paid for the book and they went out to the street. Michael flipped through the pages but the book was very academic, technical even, and revealed very little of its author.

‘We know who we are up against, at last. This still doesn’t help us with our next move.’

‘It might, Michael. Where is the Royal Institute of History?’

‘Search me. The Tower of London would be appropriate for Grainger, don’t you think?’

‘Michael! Go and look it up.’

They crossed back into Mason’s Yard. The phone books were by the secretary’s desk on the ground floor.

‘Gordon Square,’ said Michael. ‘I know that … It’s up behind the British Museum … where the Courtauld Gallery was before it moved.’

‘Come on then.’

‘Come on where? And what for?’

‘You’ll see.’

Back in Duke Street, Isobel raised her arm and waved down a taxi that had dropped someone off at the Cavendish Hotel. She got in and Michael followed. It was just after five o’clock.

They reached Gordon Square about twenty minutes later. After paying the taxi driver Michael pointed across the square. ‘There we are. But—’

‘All right, leave this to me. Grainger—as we can now call the snake—broke into my house, broke into your car and your house, and burgled Helen. It’s time he was on the other end—’

‘Isobel—’

‘You don’t have to come. In fact, it’s better if you wait here. Now you’ve got that book jacket, you know what he looks like. I’m going inside, to find his office. I don’t know what I’m going to do if he’s there but if he’s not … we’ll see. You wait here and, if by chance he comes back, detain him somehow.’

‘Isobel! This isn’t our style. This isn’t primetime TV either, you know. You can’t do it.’

She looked at him. ‘He’s got two days’ start on us—nearly three. You said it yourself. Now stay here.’

Isobel half ran across the square so that Michael couldn’t hold her back. She approached the entrance of the Royal Institute of History. A posse of students stood outside. Michael watched Isobel push her way past them, climb a few steps and disappear through the glass swing-doors.

Inside, there was plenty of bustle and so she went unnoticed as she examined a board on the wall. From this she learned that Dr George Grainger was to be found in room 216. That, she realised, meant his office was on the second floor. She found the stairs and climbed to the second landing.

She stopped when she reached the landing and tried to compose herself as best she could. She didn’t dare think of meeting Grainger. Grainger? She still thought of him as Molyneux.

It was quiet in the corridor. Isobel marvelled—and worried—at how short the interval had been between her first notion to come here, outside Quartermain’s bookshop, and this moment, when she was on the verge of doing something illegal. It was only evening the score, she said to herself over and again.

She set off down the corridor. As she passed room 212 she heard voices, but no one appeared. Room 214—silence. It was now nearly 5.45. She reached room 216. Quickly she glanced behind her; she was, for the moment, alone.

She gripped the door handle and squeezed it gently. Noiselessly the door swung open. Isobel followed the sweep of the door, as if she was part of it, and closed it behind her. She breathed more easily, though she knew that if she was found here, by a cleaner or—perish the thought!—Grainger himself, she would have some explaining to do. She looked about her, then moved across to the desk. As she did so, she glanced through the window, down into Gordon Square. There was no sign of Michael. She prayed that didn’t mean Grainger had been spotted.

At that moment she heard voices. Some people further up the corridor must be leaving. Surely they wouldn’t look in here? What if one of them stopped by to leave a note? What could she do? Footsteps were approaching and there was absolutely nowhere to hide!

The voices were outside the office now. Had the people stopped walking? Were they coming in? Isobel stared at the door handle, watching for any movement that would precede its opening. She held her breath.

Being near Grainger, she remembered, always made her hold her breath.

The voices stopped. They were coming in!

But then the voices started up again and the footsteps moved down the corridor. Still, Isobel didn’t dare breathe. Only when the voices started to fade, as they descended the staircase at the end of the corridor, did she began to relax.

Now she turned back to the desk and began to search around. Grainger’s desk was covered with papers. Books and academic journals stood in stacks, like models of skyscrapers. One journal had a ticket stuck between some pages and Isobel opened it. Several lines were highlighted with yellow marker: it seemed to be about horse breeding and she closed it. She tried the desk drawers, marvelling at her new-found ability as a burglar.

The drawers were all locked and she turned her attention back to the desk top. The other books were unhelpful—dry academic works, some of them in French. She tried to remember how the books were stacked before she had disturbed them. In rearranging them, she noticed that another book had a marker between the pages. The book was a university library book, about divorce in the Middle Ages. Wasn’t that the subject which Philip Cross was so concerned with? She read pages of the book at random. They were no help. Then she noticed that the marker was in fact a receipt from the National Portrait Gallery. She examined it. It was printed faintly in crimson ink. The date was illegible but the amount wasn’t: 35p. What could have cost so little? Not a book or a poster or a slide. A postcard perhaps—or, she realised with a shiver, a few sheets of photocopies.

She searched the rest of the desk for other things that might help. There was nothing. Yes, there was. By the phone a number had been scribbled. Isobel looked at it and grunted. She snatched the NPG receipt from the book, took a pen from a holder and copied the number. Then she replaced the pen and left the room, taking the receipt with her. An NPG receipt more or less equalled a Helen Sparrow invoice, she told herself.

Isobel closed Grainger’s door behind her and quickly marched down the corridor to the stairwell. Breathing more easily all the time, she descended to the ground floor and went out by the glass swing-doors.

Michael had bought an evening paper and was leaning casually against a car. She crossed to where he was. ‘Quickly, let’s get out of sight. Then I’ll explain.’

Isobel scurried off, south to Russell Square. Michael followed. When they reached the square Isobel turned left towards the Russell Hotel. She found the phones. ‘Got 50p?’

Mystified, Michael searched his pockets. A long-distance call?

Isobel inserted the money and dialled the number she had scribbled on the Portrait Gallery receipt.

‘Good evening,’ she said when someone at the other end answered. ‘Can you tell me, please, are either Dr Grainger or Dr Molyneux still with you? … Oh, I see. Tell me, where are you exactly? Yes … yes … thank you. Goodbye.’

She turned to Michael and showed him the receipt with the number on it. ‘Look at this number. I found it scribbled on Grainger’s desk. The code is the same as for Dorchester, except that one digit is different. I know because I had to phone The Yeoman, to book our rooms, remember?’

Michael nodded.

‘It’s another hotel, called Peverell Place. They just confirmed that “Dr Molyneux” left yesterday morning. We’ve done it, Michael. We’re back on the trail. Two days late, but we’re not out of the race altogether.’

Michael smiled. ‘And where is Peverell Place?’ He took out his matches to light a cigar.

‘Stoke Hembury, midway between Dorchester and Bridport on the Dorset coast. Do you have to light that filthy object?’

‘Another early start, then. Don’t be so disapproving, Inspector Sadler. Remember, you’re the burglar.’