The assassin was becoming restive. Instead of being in France and enjoying the large amount of money he’d earned, he was stuck in England still being sought by the Bow Street Runners and by those excited by the size of the reward offered for his capture. Sooner or later, somebody would catch up with him. He realised that he simply couldn’t go on killing people indefinitely. Three had already been shot dead and a fourth had been dispatched with his dagger. The last of his autographed bullets had been intended for the person who had concocted the plot to assassinate Sir Roger Mellanby. The problem was that he couldn’t decipher the signature on the letter he’d stolen. Also, the letter bore no address. He’d come up against a blank wall.

In the safety of the room he’d rented, he counted out all the money he’d so far acquired. The haul from Robert Vane was supplemented by the takings from the man who’d hired the assassin then – when Mellanby was dead – engaged Vane to shoot him in St James’s Park. Though there was a substantial amount of money, the assassin felt that he deserved more. The only way he could get it was by confronting the person whose name he’d found after breaking into that study. So far, his luck had held but he couldn’t count on it doing so for ever. After his next strike, he’d have to flee the country. London was becoming too uncomfortable a city in which to stay. Paris would be far safer and allow him the freedom for which he yearned.

Taking out his pistol, he used a cloth to clean it. Then he selected a bullet.

On his own initiative, Peter Skillen decided to call on one of their suspects. His brother had given him the home address of Oswald Ferriday and Peter was pleased to learn that the President of the Board of Trade was there that morning. Getting to speak to him was another matter. When the servant answered the door, he said that his master was not receiving any visitors.

‘He might receive me,’ said Peter. ‘At least, give him my card.’

‘I’m sorry, Mr Skillen,’ said the servant, refusing the card offered to him. ‘I have my orders. You are to be turned away.’

‘There must be some mistake.’

‘The decision was made after your first visit here.’

‘Ah,’ said Peter, ‘I see what’s happened. You’re confusing me with my brother, Paul, who did ruffle Mr Ferriday’s feathers somewhat. That’s the last thing I intend to do.’ He flashed a smile. ‘I’m a much more agreeable individual.’

‘The answer remains the same, sir.’

‘Your master might change his name if he realises I am a friend of the Home Secretary.’ The servant dithered. ‘Go and tell him, man. Turn me away and you might come in for reproach.’