He hurried home. He wanted to share everything that had happened since he’d left the flat that morning with Samantha. She always saw things from a different angle, often coming out of left field, to use one of her favorite American expressions.

While Sam prepared supper, Seb told her who’d attended the funeral that morning and, more important, who hadn’t, and what Sloane and his cronies had been up to while he was in Huddersfield … and why he was now looking for a job.

When he finally stopped pacing around the kitchen and sat down, Sam said, “But you’ve always known Sloane was a crook, so it shouldn’t have come as a surprise that he’d call a board meeting when everyone who would have opposed him was out of town. I bet your mother would have worked that one out.”

“She did, but by then it was too late. But I still think we can beat Sloane at his own game.”

“Not at his own game,” said Sam. “Try to think what Cedric would have done in the circumstances, not Sloane.”

“But if I’m ever going to beat him, I’ll have to think like him.”

“Possibly, but that doesn’t mean you have to act like him.”

“Shifnal Farm is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity.”

“That’s not a good enough reason to crawl around in the same gutter as Sloane.”

“But, Sam, I might never get another chance like this again.”

“Of course you will, Seb. Think long-term, and you’ll understand the difference between Adrian Sloane and Cedric Hardcastle. Because I’m absolutely sure of one thing, very few people will be attending Sloane’s funeral.”

*   *   *

Friday turned out to be the longest day of Sebastian’s life. He’d hardly slept the previous night as he tried to work out what Kaufman was up to.

When Sam left to attend a lecture at King’s, he pottered around the flat, pretended to read a morning paper, spent an inordinate amount of time washing up the few breakfast dishes, even went for a run in the park, but by the time he got back, it was still only just after eleven.

He took a shower, shaved, and opened a tin of baked beans. He continually glanced at his watch, but the second hand still only circled the dial every sixty seconds.

After what passed for a fork lunch, he went upstairs to the bedroom, took his smartest suit out of the wardrobe, and put on a freshly ironed white shirt and his old school tie. He finally polished a pair of shoes until a sergeant major would have been proud of them.