‘I do, Mr Skillen. Do you remember asking me if my husband has any political affiliations?’

‘You told me that he doesn’t.’

‘I was wrong. I learnt yesterday that he has a friend in Parliament.’

‘What is his name?’

‘It’s one that you mentioned during your first visit.’

‘Oswald Ferriday?’

‘No,’ she said. ‘Sir Marcus Brough.’

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Robert Vane was a short, slight, soberly dressed individual in his thirties with a nondescript appearance that never attracted a second glance. He might have been a banker, a merchant or a minor functionary in the government. Nobody would have suspected what his profession was in reality. When the cab dropped him outside his lodging, there was a muted hilarity coming from the White Lion. Vane decided that he would join the other patrons in due course. In the anonymity of a public house, he was easily accepted. No questions were ever asked about his work.

He rented two rooms on the first floor of the adjoining house. Letting himself in through the front door, he went soundlessly up the stairs. A separate key was needed to admit him to his lodging. Once inside, he pushed the bolt in place. Vane was about to remove his hat when he became aware that something was not quite right. Certain objects had been moved from the usual place. The clock on the mantelpiece had disappeared altogether. He resolved to confront his landlord. Before doing so, he wondered if anything had been shifted in the bedroom.

Opening the door, he came to an abrupt halt. Propped up on pillows, a man lay indolently on his bed. The assassin gave him a broad smile.

‘We meet again,’ he said, patting the pistol beside him. ‘Only this time, I’m the one with the weapon.’

‘I’ve never set eyes on you before,’ claimed Vane.

‘You tried to kill me in St James’s Park.’

‘I’m sorry but you must be mistaken. And what are you doing, moving my things around and lolling on my bed? Get out of here at once.’

‘I can’t do that, I’m afraid.’

‘Then I’ll have to make you.’

With a sudden burst of energy, Vane leapt towards a bedside table, yanked it open and pulled out a pistol. He pointed it at his unwanted visitor.

‘Get up!’ he ordered.

‘I’m perfectly comfortable here, Mr Vane.’

‘If you don’t do as you’re told, I’ll shoot.’

‘I very much doubt that. I took the precaution of removing the bullet. All that you will get is a disappointing click.’ He snatched up his own weapon. ‘My pistol, however, is loaded, so you might as well put yours down.’ Vane hesitated. ‘Do as you’re told or I’ll kill you. It’s the least you deserve.’ Vane put his pistol aside. ‘That’s better. Now we can talk.’

‘Look, there must be some mistake.’

‘I agree and you’re the one who made it.’