William was already stiff and needed to stretch, but he didn’t dare move for fear of making the slightest sound. A few moments later a gong echoed in the distance, and shortly afterwards he heard a small group of people entering the dining room, chatting amicably.

‘This is where Fishers of Men has hung for the past two hundred years,’ said an aristocratic voice that could only have been Lord McLaren’s.

Purrs of ‘Magnificent’, ‘Superb’, ‘A masterpiece’ followed.

‘Why don’t we take our seats for lunch,’ William heard Lord McLaren suggest. ‘I thought you would like to sit facing the painting, so you have a better view of it,’ he said, addressing one of his guests, who didn’t comment.

William heard chairs being pulled back while the waitresses scurried in and out of the room. Two of the diners’ voices were quite clear, but one, who must have had his back to him, was almost indecipherable. Then a woman spoke, and William recognized her voice immediately. It certainly wasn’t Lady McLaren.

• • •

Ross remained hidden in the copse, trying to imagine what they might be having for lunch on the other side of the castle’s impenetrable walls. Smoked salmon and grouse from the estate, he guessed, considering the time of year. He licked his lips and resigned himself to a long wait before an unlikely minstrel would appear at the window. If William gave him a thumbs-up sign, he was to radio the waiting officers, who would immediately head for the castle, flashing lights not on, sirens not blaring. By the time they reached the front door William would have arrested Faulkner. A thumbs-down sign would mean Faulkner wasn’t among the guests, and he would attempt to make a discreet exit.

• • •

William listened carefully to the conversation around the dining room table. He couldn’t make out every word, and one member of the group hadn’t yet spoken.

‘Shall we get down to business?’ said Lord McLaren once the main course had been cleared away.

‘What figure did you have in mind?’ said a voice, having dispensed with platitudes.

‘I consider thirty million pounds would be a fair price.’

‘Twenty million would be nearer the mark, in my opinion.’

‘It’s worth far more than that,’ said McLaren.

‘I’d agree with you, if it wasn’t a fire sale.’

William would have liked to have seen the expression on his Lordship’s face.

‘While you have an inheritance problem, it’s a buyer’s market.’ The voice paused. ‘However, I would be willing to offer you twenty-two million, with an added incentive,’ said the same voice.

‘And what might that be?’ asked McLaren, sounding flustered.

‘My offer will remain on the table for one week. In the second week it will fall to twenty-one million, and twenty in the third.’

William realized that Faulkner knew the exact figure Lord McLaren needed to clear his death duties, and presumably also the date on which the full amount was due, after which he’d have to start paying interest to Her Majesty’s collector of taxes.