MacFarlane considered this. “Clout, certainly. Not so sure about the cash.” He shrugged. “The going rate for a topping rises and falls faster than Mae West’s bosom in midshimmy. Five years ago, we were just coming out of the war. There was a surplus of unemployed young men—trained killers, the lot of ’em, many with a souvenir German Luger hidden away in their kitbags being turned loose into the newly civilised world. Except that it wasn’t. It was the same hard, grudging place it always had been. Some men—Londoners, mainly—hired out their skills. Surplus of gunmen, so lower fees charged. If he knew where to look, his lordship could have gotten a keen price. He’d have needed that. To my beady eye, the estate was looking as dilapidated as its owner. The housekeeper was moaning to DC Beck that they were understaffed. All the signs of an aristocratic family struggling with death duties and the other swingeing taxes the government put on them to help pay for the war. I’d say the earl couldn’t afford the sum of money Chiqui usually demanded when he threatened elopement with some unfortunate girl.”

“So this wasn’t a one-off, doomed-from-the-outset affair?”

“Lord, no! Chiqui had form. A series of successful calculated extortion attempts. As long as he remained alive and fit to tango and the lady was still smitten, our Earl figured—quite rightly—that there must be the possibility of further demands or the ruining of the family name to consider. On the whole, a professional assassination was much cheaper and more certain of outcome for his lordship. He made sure that he and his household were well away from the scene and all accounted for at the moment the dirty deed was done.”

“And that this information was duly passed on to your charming constable?”

“Constable Beck is bright as well as smarmy! He played along, don’t worry! Certainly got more out of them than they got out of him.”

Redfyre stirred uneasily. “But it’s odd, sir. Your average professional killer doesn’t go about laying his victims out in a very conspicuous position. He’s in and out and back down his rat hole in the shortest possible time. He doesn’t hang around rolling up his sleeves, flexing his muscles and hauling his handiwork into an eye-catching pose It’s macabre!”

“Right! Cocking a snook, I’d call that. Taking the Mickey! And in Cambridge? Nah! Assassins operate in London. And their ‘clients’ tend to be foreign governments, business enterprises or criminal organisations clearing out spies, rivals, traitors . . . other professionals who understand the risks and play the game. They don’t bother with a tuppenny-halfpenny dancing instructor, however annoying he was. And what sort of an assassin treats his target to a three-course dinner immediately before doing him in?”

He passed a sheet of paper with a short handwritten message to Redfyre.