“I believe this is how it’s done,” Redfyre said. He stripped the wrapper from the chocolate bar and sliced it from north to south down the long side. It fell apart, revealing an interesting filling. “Ah. Not nutty crunch, I believe.”

“Now read the note.”

With a sigh, Redfyre began to read the dying man’s last words to his only son.

“‘Just off now, son. Look after your mother, though Grace will get through. She’s a tough woman and far too good for both of us! You needn’t bother about that mad old bat of a granny—she’s provided for. The businesses are yours. Ditch them if you like—it might not be what you’d want to add lustre to a political career. I only did it to give you a leg up. And I’ve always taken steps to smooth your path.

“‘Just in case, I’m leaving you these reminders of my early army days. I told you the man I hated, Dickie Dunne, had done the dirty on us. Well, not quite true—I got the better of him! Thought he was so clever! But I was the one who got away with the diamonds. Hid them in a neat place, picked them up a year later when things had calmed down. I used the bugger’s own crafty idea of a hiding place to get the stones back home in my kitbag. Who but Dickie Dunne would ever think of disembowelling a bloke’s chocolate bars? Not that it did me that much good—if you ever have to shift rough diamonds, you’ll find they’re not worth a quarter of what people think. If needs be, go to your mother’s cousin in Hatton Gardens in the Smoke. He’ll do the best for you, but don’t expect much. Farewell, Digby, and God bless you, my lad.’”

Redfyre sighed. “Well, as a confession it’s not very specific, but it will have to do.”

Digby Gisbourne bent his head to the list again and passed it back to Redfyre. “There. I think we’re up to date. The first, the dancer, I’ve crossed out—nothing to do with me, Guv. The second, Ernest Jessup. The zealous accountant who started it all—I’ve ticked for him. I’d give him two ticks if I could. The general in the punt? I had no idea what had happened to that old fart! He crossed my father in a business deal, I remember. He was an obstacle to a land purchase. I’d better tick for him. Royston Chilvers? He was the Winter Icarus, wasn’t he? I thought I’d heard the last of him. Didn’t he fall off a tower?”

“No. Chilvers was cracked on the head whilst on the ground, then arranged to look interesting for the photographic record.”