Ten

THE FOLLOWING WEEK AT STONELEA SCHOOL WAS THE last before the mid-year break. As was their usual arrangement, George was going to stay with the Fitzwilliams for the first part of the mid-year holidays, but Aubrey saw little of him in that hectic final week of term. George was busy with cornet practice for the mid-year concert, and study, for once, had also kept his head down.

Aubrey was again in the thick of everything, trying to devote his energies to a thousand different commitments. He found himself rehearsing lines for his part as the defence barrister in the school play while trying to memorise formulae for his Advanced Magic exam at the same time as he was practising his googly in the nets with the First XI. On top of this, his batting had dropped off and he had to spend some hours refining his late cut.

Aubrey had always been at the top of his class. It wasn't simply because of native intelligence, but because he approached his studies in a rigorously organised way, almost as if study was a military campaign. He mapped out his work, broke subjects down into sections and segments, organised his attack on each one, took notes that were concise but included everything important.

Cricket was different. While he had natural wiry strength and quickness, he knew he wasn't the world's most gifted athlete. So he watched and studied sports, choosing things that would yield to his intellectual approach. In cricket, that was leg spin. The art appealed to him as a combination of guile and misdirection. The complex variety of deliveries was perfect for the way he approached the world in general.

Acting was something he found relaxing. With his good memory, he had no trouble remembering lines and he wasn't at all afraid of the limelight. In fact, walking out on stage allowed him to be someone else for a time – someone who wasn't Sir Darius Fitzwilliam's son.

The teachers and the boys at the school saw Aubrey involved in all these things and wondered how he managed to keep up such a high standard. What they didn't see was the extra burden of struggling to stay alive.

During that last week of term, Aubrey felt the strain. He forced himself to rest, to spend time attending to the needs of his body. Where once he would simply have driven himself to achieve, going without sleep if required, he now imposed a regime of relaxation periods to ensure his physical integrity. With care, he spent evenings researching arcane texts for possible approaches to a permanent solution to his plight.

With all this going on, Aubrey didn't have much time to discuss the events of the shooting weekend with George. They swapped a few thoughts and theories in passing, but too many school commitments got in the way for any detailed analysis.

It wasn't until the Friday afternoon, after the last examination – mathematics – that they were able to turn their minds to matters other than school.

They were sitting on a bench near the cricket nets. No-one was practising, most having already left for the holidays. A broken stump lay against the fence. The grass needed cutting and swallows were swooping low over it, snapping up insects.

Sitting there, basking in the sun, knowing that George was happy reading his newspaper, Aubrey was able to address matters he'd put to one side.

During his preparation for the examinations, he'd stumbled on some decades-old research in an obscure branch of magic concerned with bonding and unification. Apparently the researchers had been convinced that their work was proving barren, but Aubrey wasn't so sure. He felt that this could be a useful avenue to explore for stabilising his condition.

Time, he thought, and rubbed his temples. That's all I need. About three lives' worth.

He'd need to spend some of it at one of the big university libraries, perhaps talk to some academics . . .

That made him think of Professor Hepworth and this made him think of Caroline.

She was one of the thousand things on his mind since leaving Penhurst after the shooting weekend. He hadn't had a chance to say goodbye to her. Or to arrange to meet again. And that was something he desired. Very much.

Hanging over the memories of that weekend was the great, unresolved question. Who was behind the golem assassin? No-one had questioned Aubrey or George since they'd left Penhurst, but it hadn't prevented Aubrey's mind from circling around this question like a wasp around fallen fruit. He had to admit, though, that he had had no insights.

Intelligence, he thought. I need more intelligence.

'George,' he said suddenly, 'fancy a visit to Penhurst?'

George lowered the newspaper. 'Penhurst?'

'Bertie isn't there – he's in the city – but I thought it might be a nice place for a few days' camping in the woods.'

The clock over the library sounded four o'clock and Aubrey absently thought that there was nothing as empty as an empty school. The bell echoed around the buildings and quadrangles as if looking for company.

'Penhurst,' George said. 'Would we take the train?'

'Cycling, George. Haven't you ever been on a cycling holiday?'

'Not really.'

'Jolly fun. Healthy exercise, life in the outdoors, a chance to see the countryside.'

'Nothing to do with a chance to investigate the scene of the crime?'

Aubrey grinned. 'Intelligence, George. That's what we need.'

George snorted. 'Steady on, old man. You're heading for the Snainton Prize as dux of the school. If you get any more intelligence your head will explode.'

'Intelligence in the military sense, George. Information. News. The stuff one needs to make decisions.'

George considered this. 'What about your parents?'

'Mother is away. She's gone up north to gather some specimens. Father is always pleased when I get more exercise. He'll be convinced once he sees you're going along. He thinks well of you.'

'Does he?'

'Of course. You seem to make a good impression on people. The Crown Prince. My father. Who knows where it will end?' He rubbed his hands together. 'Now, what do you say?'

George stood. 'I don't have a bicycle.'

'The least of our problems. Plenty of spare bicycles at Maidstone.'

THEY SET OFF THE NEXT MORNING.

Aubrey had some difficulty extricating himself from the clutches of the staff. Cook insisted on thrusting bottles of ginger beer on him. Stubbs wouldn't let them leave without taking one last look at the chains and gears of both bicycles. Eventually, Aubrey was able to point out that they couldn't carry any more without the bicycles collapsing. Reluctantly, the staff withdrew and waved them off.

They cycled out of the front gates of Maidstone, down the Talavera Road, ready to leave Fielding Cross. George swooped close to Aubrey. 'Sir Darius didn't see us off?'

'He was called to Parliament last night, after dinner.'

George nodded. 'Party business?'

'Party business.'

With the election only a month and a half away, Sir Darius was neck deep in campaigning. Aubrey had grown up with this and knew that politics wasn't just standing up in Parliament and arguing. It was meetings – endless meetings – negotiations, compromises, handshaking, alliances, promises, paybacks, favours, disappointments and finding out more about your fellow humans than you really wanted to know. The hugger-mugger of politics was where people were naked with their wants, desires, needs and fears on display, if one only knew where to look.

Aubrey revelled in it. He loved it because it was subtle and delicate at one moment, and blindingly explicit the next. He loved it because he loved all games; he loved the competition, the cut and thrust, the thrill that came from risk and success, from besting one's opponent, from planning, strategies and tactics.

The difference was that politics was the only real game. It was the game that could change things, could alter the very way people lived. With the right outlook, with determination and clear sight, the game of politics could change the world for the better.

Which was what Aubrey wanted to do.

As soon as he could, he turned off the main road and into less busy side streets.

'You know the way?' George said as they cruised past rows of elegant townhouses. A police officer on his rounds gave them a nod as they went by.

'I have a map,' Aubrey said. 'I studied it last night. If we leave the city on the Harnsby road, that should be best.'

They swept around a corner, skirting a pocket-sized park. At this hour it was free of the nannies and children who'd be gathering later in the day. The morning was sunny, with few clouds in the sky. Aubrey was grateful for the lack of wind. He knew wind was the enemy of the cyclist, never seeming to be at one's back but always in one's face.

After an hour they were out of the city and into the hedgerows and fields of the countryside. They made steady progress and Aubrey called a stop mid-morning.

'Ginger beer?' he offered as they sat with their backs to the stump of an old poplar tree, the last in a once proud avenue. Behind them, a solitary sheep stood in the middle of a field, complaining. Aubrey thought it sounded peevish, as if it had suddenly remembered that it hadn't been invited to the party all the other sheep had gone to.

George shuddered. 'No, thank you. Ghastly stuff.' A crow sat on a hedge nearby and eyed them. George broke a corner off the shortbread biscuit he was eating and flung it to him. The crow lurched into the air and flapped off, cawing.

'George,' Aubrey said, 'there's something distinctly odd about the affair last weekend.'

'A golem trying to assassinate the heir to the throne? What's so odd about that?'

'I was thinking more of the people involved. A rather strange bunch, wouldn't you say?'

'Well, I've never been to such a thing. You'd be more of an expert than I would.'

Aubrey nodded. 'I've been at Penhurst a number of times when weekend gatherings have been held. Some of them were shoots.'

'You didn't go on the shoots?'

'Too young, the same as Bertie. I seemed to be there to give him a companion. Chess, draughts, things like that. And exploring the house, too. Fascinating stuff stored there.'

'And this weekend was different?'

'Indeed. The researchers? The Holmlanders? Members of the government?'

'People like the Chancellor of the Exchequer and the Home Secretary?'

'The Chancellor was at Penhurst to discipline some backbenchers who had let their private lives become scandalous, shall we say. Not good just before an election. The Chancellor's job was to get them to step aside without a fuss, in favour of some new blood. He took the Home Secretary for support.'

'How do you know this?'

'It's not too difficult to work out. When the Chancellor of the Exchequer takes three long-time MPs aside, it's not because he wants to wish them well. After getting back last weekend, I made some enquiries about what's been happening in Parliament. It was a matter of putting two and two together.'

'And what about Boothby, the Foreign Secretary?' George asked. 'What was he doing there?'

'Interesting, that. I happened to see him talking earnestly with the Holmland Ambassador.'

'You didn't overhear?'

'No.' Aubrey scratched his chin. 'I wonder how talking with the Holmland Ambassador furthers Sir Guy's aim to become next Prime Minister.'

George started. 'Do you think that Sir Guy wants to be Prime Minister?'

'I'm not alone. He's an ambitious one, that Sir Guy.'

'Rather like you?'

Aubrey grinned. 'But unlike Sir Guy, I have the advantage of being on the side of righteousness and honour.'

'And modesty,' George pointed out.

Aubrey stood and started pacing. 'Come, George, tell me what you thought of the researchers.'

'Those scruffy chaps? They didn't seem to fit in with the others.'

'You've hit the nail on the head, George. They weren't part of the usual crowd at all. That's what intrigues me.'

'The Prince feels sorry for them. That's what he said.'

'Yes, that's all well enough. He's a kind-hearted chap and he most certainly does feel sorry for them. But remember that Dr Tremaine told us he was in charge of a top secret research facility and then we found out that he was heading this Banford Park. He couldn't be supremo of two research facilities.'

'You thought that he was in charge of something to do with the military.'

'Exactly. Banford Park is highly secret and highly important to the military. Important enough that they tolerate such eccentrics as we saw. You don't hobble genius with rules like a dress code or grooming requirements.'

'Is Professor Hepworth a genius?'

'Undoubtedly.' Aubrey rubbed his hands together. 'Let's get to Penhurst. I want to see what we can find.'

George strapped his bags back on to his bicycle. 'I didn't think you proposed this trip solely as a nature ramble.'

'I could never pull the wool over your eyes, could I, George?'

THEY REACHED PENHURST ESTATE LATE IN THE AFTERNOON.

A grey-haired groundskeeper greeted them, recognised Aubrey, and opened the gates. He waved them through and assured them he'd inform the Big House of their presence.

Aubrey led the way through the gardens. The place looked strangely deserted after the omnipresent watchers of the shooting weekend. He saw a gardener in the distance, raking weeds from a pond, but he didn't look anything like the Special Services agents who had swarmed over the estate last weekend.

A gate, and then they were into less tamed regions, an expanse of fenced-in grass bordered by woodlands. A wagon track ran alongside the fence. It was rough, but usable enough for the bicycles, even if they did have to dismount and walk over some of the more broken patches leading to the shooting ground.

Aubrey found the situation idyllic. The air was full of the smell of green and growing things; the countryside had the composite richness that reminded him that the world was an intricate and mysterious thing.

Aubrey called a halt. George pulled up beside him.

Aubrey could see the Big House in the distance. Smoke rose from its chimneys. From this distance, it looked like a battleship, an enormous bulk on the landscape, reassuring and permanent, much like the Empire itself.

They struck across the fields, pushing their bicycles, heading for the woods and the shooting ground beyond. Aubrey stopped when a horse and rider appeared at a gate to their left. 'Hullo, it's Hoskins.'

Hoskins waved and urged his horse towards them. He was dressed in sensible woollen trousers and jacket. He wore a hat that looked as if a badly made flowerpot had been squashed on his head. A pipe grew from the side of his mouth.

'Fitzwilliam,' he said, without removing the pipe from his mouth. He gestured with his head. 'Who's your friend?'

Aubrey grinned. 'George Doyle. George, meet Hoskins, the farm manager.'

George raised his cap. 'Hoskins.'

'Doyle.' He ran his eye over George, much as if he was a horse. 'You don't look like a cyclist.'

'No, sir. I'd rather a fine horse like you're riding.'

Hoskins smiled at that. 'Bess is a good 'un, right enough.' He ruffled her mane and she snorted. 'Now, young Fitzwilliam, what're you up to in these parts?'

'Camping, Hoskins. George and I have just finished exams and are looking for some peace in the countryside.'

'Nothing to do with the ruction at the shoot last weekend?' Hoskins said. He took out his pipe and studied it. 'Or the Black Beast?'

Aubrey grinned. 'Has the Black Beast of Penhurst been seen again?'

The Black Beast of Penhurst had been a local legend for as long as Aubrey had been visiting the estate. He'd heard many a tale of its nightmarish appearances, of how it had haunted the owners for centuries, the bringer of death and doom. He remembered how both Bertie and he had been deliciously terrified when first told about the apparition.

Hoskins replaced his pipe in the corner of his mouth. He cleared his throat and looked into the distance. From somewhere not too far away came the sound of a woodcutter and his axe. 'The Beast's been around for a few months, off and on,' he said in his gravelly voice.

'Since before the golem?' George said.

'Aye. Well before the golem.' He was silent for a time after that, seeming to consider this. 'You know what it means.'

'They say that once the Black Beast of Penhurst appears, it doesn't leave until it's taken three lives,' Aubrey explained to George.

'Dr Tremaine from Banford Park, he was the first,' Hoskins said. 'And then that Professor Hepworth. He died too, he did.'

'Professor Hepworth? Dead?' Aubrey gripped the handlebars of his bicycle. 'When did this happen?'

'A few days after the shoot. The Black Beast was howling all night, it was. Next morning, they found the professor, dead, in the woods up that way.' He pointed with his pipe.

'What was he doing up there?' George asked.

'That's the direction of Banford Park. The professor and his chums were always traipsing backwards and forwards between there and the Big House, this last year or so.' Hoskins sucked on his pipe for a moment. 'They've closed the place down, now. All those researchers have been sent back to where they came from.'

Poor Caroline, Aubrey thought. He rubbed his temple. Professor Hepworth gone. Coming on top of the death of Dr Tremaine, this was going to set back magical theory for decades.

Another mystery to add to the puzzle of the golem assassin. Aubrey wasn't inclined to believe that it was the Black Beast of Penhurst who had killed the professor. He'd heard that story too often when he was young to place much credence in it. But what did happen to the professor? And what had he been up to at the secretive Banford Park?

'What sort of creature is this Black Beast?' George asked.

'That'd be hard to say,' Hoskins replied. 'It's hard to get a good look at the creature. Mostly it's the eyes you see. Red, burning eyes.'

George glanced at Aubrey. 'And we plan to camp in the woods.'

Aubrey's curiosity was well and truly roused. He couldn't turn away now. 'We'll be safe.'

Hoskins leaned forward. 'Maybe you would be, at that.' He sighed. 'But I don't think I can allow you to stay out, in all good conscience. If anything happened to you I don't know how I'd answer to Lady Fitzwilliam.'

Aubrey nodded. Hoskins was what the locals called 'a straight 'un'. Utterly trustworthy, reliable and honest, the burden of his responsibilities lay heavily on him. He was stubborn in carrying out what he thought were his duties and this made it difficult to get around him. Unless he was approached tactically. 'You don't want us to stay outside tonight, is that right, Hoskins?'

Hoskins adjusted his seat, then his tie. 'I'm sorry.'

'So you want to take us back to the Big House and have us stay there tonight?'

'Aye.' Hoskins looked increasingly uncomfortable. He had the attitude of a man who is tied to a railway track, hearing a train whistle in the distance.

'And you think you could stop me from slipping out? If I really wanted to, I mean.'

'Well . . .'

'The Special Services have left, now the Prince is no longer in residence, correct?'

Hoskins didn't answer.

'So you're here with the cooks, the gardeners and some household staff,' Aubrey said. 'Hard to cover all exits with them. Especially old Corrigan, with his rheumatism.'

'Ah.'

'So, all in all, I think it better that you allow us to proceed with our plans. At least you'll know exactly where we are, and you can check on us in the morning.'

Hoskins's look was partly hostility, partly admiration, partly recognition that he'd been beaten. 'Hrmph.' He sat up straight. 'You always managed to get your own way, Fitzwilliam.' He managed a chuckle. 'Be it on your own head, then.'

'Don't worry, Hoskins. We'll be safe. We'll stay by the trout stream, near the old bridge.'

Hoskins looked in that direction. 'That should be as safe as anywhere.' He sighed. 'What shall I tell your mother, though?'

He didn't wait for an answer. Bess ambled off.

'The Black Beast of Penhurst?' George said to Aubrey. 'You didn't tell me about that.'

'I didn't want to worry you. Come on. We can land a few trout before the light's gone.'

ONCE THE TENT WAS PITCHED, DARKNESS CLOSED IN. AUBREY cooked some sausages in place of the trout they hadn't caught, and the potatoes he'd popped into the coals were hot and tasty. Sparks flew skywards and the sound of water running over the stony bed of the stream burbled beneath all the other sounds of the woods moving from their daylight mode to their night-time mode.

Aubrey scraped his enamel plate and took a swig of ginger beer. 'In the morning we'll have a closer look at the place where the golem melted. I've brought some materials which may help me reconstruct a thing or two about the creature.'

'I see,' said George. He was stretched out on a blanket, his head propped on a log. 'And this Black Beast?'

'A puzzle.' Aubrey crossed his arms. 'And I'm not sure where it fits in.'

Before George could respond, an unearthly howl split the night air. Aubrey was on his feet in an instant, staring into the darkened woods, his heart pounding, his throat suddenly dry. The back of his neck was prickling.

George scrambled up, wide-eyed. 'Good Lord!'

Aubrey realised he was breathing rapidly and, with an effort, he slowed until he was breathing deeply and slowly. Fear, he thought. It's so thick in the air I can taste it. 'Are you all right, George?'

'I . . .' George shook his head and stumbled to form words. 'It's . . .'

'George, look at me.' George stared wildly. 'It's magic. It's making you afraid.'

George nodded.

'Deep breaths, George. Calm yourself.'

George blew out his cheeks, then rubbed his face with both hands. 'I say, took me quite by surprise, that.'

'It's some distance away.'

'I'm glad of that.' George brushed down his clothes. 'It's not so bad, now.'

'Once you know what it is, the fear isn't as disabling.'

'No.'

'Did you bring a lantern, George?'

'I thought you had.'

So much for planning. 'Well, we'll do our best without.' He pulled a burning branch from the fire.

George stared at him. 'You want us to go after the Black Beast?'

The chilling howl rose again, closer this time. Aubrey swallowed. The fear was there, but it was now a small thing, easily managed. 'Yes, I think I have to.' Or my curiosity would never forgive me.

Aubrey thrust the burning branch in George's hand and hurried to the tent. A moment later he was back with a small bag on a string. He hooked it around his neck. 'Quickly, now.'

Before they had gone more than twenty yards, the comforting light of the campfire was left behind and they were in a world of darkness. The only light came from George's blazing torch.

Aubrey peered into the dark. He knew that night in the countryside was rarely totally black. In his escapades over the years, he'd learned that given time to adjust, the eye can make do with surprisingly little light, picking out objects from among shadows, making sense of blackness. But this night was different. With the erratic, sobbing howls of the Black Beast of Penhurst floating through the night, suddenly shadows were thick and confusing. He found it hard to judge distances between trees and the terrain underfoot was treacherous. Brambles caught his feet and trouser legs, stones conspired to appear underfoot, stumps hid themselves until too late.

'Wait, George.' Aubrey fumbled in the bag around his neck and found a pair of shell-like shapes. He placed one over his right eye and it attached itself there.

Immediately, through his right eye, darkness vanished. He could see no colour; all was in shades of silver and grey, but he could see the trees, bushes, a fence in the distance, the ground beneath his feet. The scene in front of him was ghostly, without colour, but no more than a photograph. Every detail of the night was sharp and clear.

He fitted the other object over his left eye, then found two more in his bag. He handed them to George. 'Here. Cat's eyes.'

'What?'

'Not real cat's eyes. They're something I prepared for our expedition.'

George held up the shells. 'I put them over my eyes, do I?'

'They don't hurt.'

Without much enthusiasm, George placed one of the cat's eyes over his. Instantly, he grinned. 'Very clever, Aubrey.' He fitted the other shell to his eye and looked around.

'Thank you.'

George wrinkled his brow. He sniffed. 'I smell fish.'

Aubrey shrugged. 'The cook at home has a cat. I made a coat for it with pockets for this specially prepared glass. It wore the coat and the glass for a week, not very happily.'

'The cook feeds the cat fish?'

'Salmon. It's a very spoiled cat.'

'I see.'

'I wanted these shells to take on the characteristics of the cat's eyes, so I used the Law of Sympathy. I was pleased with the results for a first effort, but it's not perfect. It's taken on some of the fishy smell, so I expect I'll have to work on setting some of those parameter variables rather more stringently.'

George looked at the blazing torch in his hand and then turned away. 'We won't be needing this?'

'No.'

George threw the branch on the ground and kicked earth over it until the flames were smothered. 'Done.'

The howl of the Black Beast of Penhurst split the night again, sounding like a thousand demons being tortured at once. Aubrey turned, trying to determine where it came from. 'This way,' he said and set off through the undergrowth.

Aubrey moved crouching low, turning his head from side to side. They were barely in the woods, with fields and moorland a stone's throw away.

The howling continued. It rose and fell, at times lapsing into an almost human shrieking. Aubrey could feel it as well as hear it. It made his skin crawl and set his heart pounding, affecting him at a deep, primal level, telling him to run, to flee, to hide in a hole, shiver and hope that the owner of that cry would pass him by.

Aubrey closed his eyes for a moment to steady himself. He motioned to George for silence.

A short crawl through some undergrowth brought them to a fence. On the other side was a field. At first, Aubrey thought it was empty, then he heard cattle. They were bunched in one corner of the field, lowing and trying to get away from the sound that was continuing to rend the night. He could see them tossing their heads and the whites of their eyes stood out in the darkness.

The howling began to move away. Aubrey pointed to George and they hurried on.

The undergrowth began to thin and the woods took on a more cared for aspect. Aubrey slowed. Ahead, he could see outbuildings and the Big House away to his left. It was well lit, and the light flared in his cat's eyes. He put up a hand to shield them.

The blood-chilling noise erupted again. 'It's doubled back,' George hissed.

They plunged back into the woods. Aubrey scanned the ground ahead, hands outstretched, feeling for the presence of magic. Grass, fallen leaves, rocks breaking the skin of the earth . . . Suddenly, his palms tingled. He stopped and dropped to his knees. George almost ran into him.

'What is it?' George whispered.

Aubrey concentrated and swept his hands backwards and forwards. There! 'Magic,' he breathed.

Now that he had locked his magical senses on to it, he could see it: a magical trail stretching away through the woods, glowing a sickly green. 'Magical traces,' he said.

'What sort?'

'Something large.'

George picked up a few fist-size stones and stowed them in his pockets. He saw Aubrey staring at him. 'Better than nothing,' he said.

Aubrey nodded and set off, following the trail and the echoing howls. They were being led away from the Big House and deeper into the woods. Aubrey narrowed his eyes. He attempted to remember what was bordering the estate on this side. Where did the river run? He went as fast as he could, bent nearly double to feel the magical spoor as well as see it.

George swore and Aubrey jumped as the roar of a shotgun sounded up ahead. Then night was suddenly lit by a flare of light, a vivid orange that reflected off the trees and made them look as if they were alight.

'Hurry, George, something's gone awry.'

They charged through the trees, abandoning all pretence at stealth. Aubrey's coat flapped like the wings of a bat as he flew over the rough ground, vaulting fallen branches and small bushes.

A shotgun barked again, twice, and an angry cry rose from nearby.

Aubrey leaped over a log and immediately regretted it. The ground on the other side fell away sharply. He plummeted, sliding and tumbling down the slope, picking up leaves and twigs as he went.

'Aubrey!' George cried, then he, too, was over the log and plunging down into the shallow dell.

Aubrey rolled to his feet and was immediately knocked over by a black-clad assailant. He scrambled to his feet, but the mysterious foe was on him again, grappling with wiry strength. Aubrey had time to notice, with astonishment, that his foe was wearing a loose-fitting black outfit and a balaclava, then he was struggling to avoid being thrown again. He shifted his weight and dropped to one knee, but his foe was too quick, matching his move and countering it by turning side on. An elbow caught him in the jaw and then he was slammed into the ground, all his breath driven from him.

'Aubrey!' George called again. He charged and slammed into Aubrey's attacker.

'Well done, George!' Aubrey panted, his hands on his knees. The black-clad figure had fetched up against a tree stump and was sprawled, motionless, next to a shotgun.

'Hit his head against the stump,' George said. 'Unconscious.'

Aubrey stripped the balaclava from the assailant and stared, open-mouthed.

'What is it?' George said. He came close. 'Oh. I mean, her head.'

They were looking at the unconscious face of Caroline Hepworth.