“Not our best escape route,” observed Mrs. Bainbridge.

There was a large stone mansion to their right, but the driver took them to the rear of the building, where a garage had been fashioned from what had once been a carriage house. They pulled in, and a door lowered behind them. A man stepped forwards and opened the car door.

“This way,” he said.

“Do you mind if I leave the dress bags in the car?” asked Mrs. Bainbridge. “I’d rather not lug them around.”

“Fine,” he said.

“You keep an eye on them,” said Mrs. Bainbridge to the driver. “And don’t go trying anything on.”

Sparks snickered.

The man led them to a rear door, which opened onto a stairwell going up.

“He’s at the top,” he said.

“Naturally,” said Sparks, leading the way. “Ever been in a chauffeur’s digs before?”

“I’m sure I haven’t,” said Mrs. Bainbridge. “You?”

“Mmm. Tell you all about it sometime. Ah, there’s the old man now.”

The Brigadier was sitting behind a small card table, leaning back in his chair, his hands steepled on his chest.

“Sit,” he commanded, nodding to a pair of folding chairs in front of the table.

The two dutifully sat down, folding their hands on their laps.

“Do you have any idea what—” he began, then he stopped as the two women broke into laughter. “What on earth?”

“It’s the face,” Sparks giggled. “You’re doing the face.”

“Sorry,” said Mrs. Bainbridge. “You’re exactly how I expected you to be.”

“This is not a laughing matter!” he shouted.

“No, it isn’t,” agreed Sparks, regaining control. “Apologies, sir. You know how it is when women stumble into a man’s world, don’t you? Everything looks so, so—”

“Pathetic and ridiculous?” suggested Mrs. Bainbridge.

“I was going for exaggerated and melodramatic, but those will do nicely. Well, sir, how may we be of assistance to you?”

“You can start by telling me about him,” he said, tossing a photograph onto the table.

They leaned forwards to look. It was the man they had subdued at The Right Sort two nights previous. The photographer had captured him walking on some unidentifiable London street, wearing a tweed coat and a leather cap.

“Oh, look,” said Mrs. Bainbridge. “Someone dressed up a weasel in men’s clothing.”

“Who is he?” asked Sparks.

“Don’t play games with me, Sparks,” said the Brigadier. “You know damned well who he is.”

“Sorry, the face doesn’t ring a bell,” said Sparks. “What does he do?”

“We believe him to be a blackmailer,” said the Brigadier. “We also believe that he’s been in contact with you.”

“Since when does your office concern itself with blackmailers?” asked Sparks.

“After our last meeting, we did some poking around,” he said. “We heard some chatter about someone holding a set of letters that could prove an embarrassment to certain people in whom we have an interest, or a benefit to other people in whom we also have an interest.”

“Who was doing the chattering?”