I looked at him. His talk of dark and light had reminded me of something. ‘Are you any good at crosswords, sir?’

‘Try me.’

‘“Short Richard’s offspring divides nation with friendly underground railroad.” Three words. Five letters, five letters, and four.’

‘Where’s the crossword from?’

‘The New York Sunday Times.’

He thought for about three seconds. ‘It’s from the civil war days, the division between the northern and southern States; Mason Dixon Line.’

‘Of course, staring me in the face,’ I said.

‘Any other clues you’re stuck with?’

‘No, but there’s one puzzle we haven’t yet solved: Sir Isaac Quoit.’

Fifeshire nodded. ‘You know what I think? I think the whole damned business with him was a red herring. Like the fuel; it was to distract us from what was really going on.’

‘I’m sure you’re right, sir. But what the hell do we do with his body?’

‘Smuggle it into Russia, Flynn. Unless you can think of a better idea?’

I sat in silence for a long time, trying to think of a better idea.