“I lost a bet,” Wildsmith said, sounding as though he had explained himself as often as he was going to. “Hello again, Mr. Thurloe, and by that of course I mean Detective Sergeant Fowler. I saw you in the papers. Aren’t you glam.”

“May I come in?”

“Have you a warrant?”

“This isn’t an official visit. I’m calling as a private citizen.”

“You did that last time. I’m not a great admirer of policemen who pretend to be private citizens. It tends to end badly for the people they lie to.”

Wildsmith leaned against the doorway as he said that, and crossed his arms in a belligerent manner. A split hook protruded from his left sleeve. He had a pencil clamped between the two halves of the hook.

“Are you busy?” Aaron said. “Shall I make an appointment?”

“No, you should go away.”

“This is a private call. A pound an hour, wasn’t it?”

“Are you going to leave or do I have to call a constable? Not that a mere constable would dare enforce the actual law against a detective sergeant,” Wildsmith added sourly. “But he’ll have to find some fumbling excuse not to carry out his duty by removing an importunate nuisance, and at least that will be funny.”

“I don’t think I’m being importunate, although you’re certainly being obdurate,” Aaron said. “For the third time, I’m not calling in an official capacity. I’d like to consult you on a graphological matter, and I’m happy to pay for your time.”

Wildsmith looked at him. The fingers of his right hand drummed rapidly on his other sleeve. “Tell you what. You can come in if you tell me something.”

“What?”

“The pieces of writing you gave me. Whose hands were they?”

“None of your affair,” Aaron said, instinctively defensive.

“Fine,” Wildsmith said, stepped back, and closed the door.

Or tried to. Aaron had been a police officer too long to have doors shut on him, and his foot was firmly in the way. “Hold on there.”

“No. If you’re acting as a police officer, I’ll see your warrant. If you aren’t, you come into my home on my conditions, which are, I want to know who wrote those papers.”

Aaron weighed it up rapidly. He wanted answers, and he had nothing else to do, and Wildsmith had shaved.

“All right,” he said. “But let me come in first.”

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER THREE

“TEA?” JOEL SAID GRUDGINGLY.

He didn’t want to give Detective Sergeant Fowler tea. He wanted to have told him to sod off and shut the door. But he’d let the man in now, and that meant some things had to be done. He hadn’t served in a war for people to go around not offering other people tea.