When he got to the warehouse, the assassin had the reassuring sensation that he’d found the man at last. He took out the letter again and looked at the signature. Of the four guesses he’d made at deciphering it, it was the first – Denley. The name was painted on the doors ahead of him in large letters. From inside the warehouse, he could hear the sounds of crates being loaded and bottles rattling. Judging by the size of the premises, the wine dealer was a very successful businessman. The assassin resolved to deprive him of more than his wealth. One last hurdle faced him. He had to find a way to get close to Hugh Denley.

Losing the man they’d chased so hard was a painful experience, but having to admit their failure to Yeomans was even more agonising. As they dribbled back to the hotel in disgrace, he gave each and every one of them a roasting. The moment Yeomans finished, Hale took over to add more scorn and humiliation. One man had somehow managed to elude all eight of them. They’d never be allowed to forget it.

For his part, Harry Scattergood was mystified. He’d given strict instructions to Kinnaird to be taken prisoner after a scuffle with the posse. What had happened to him? Had he lost his nerve and bolted? Had he betrayed his friend and gone into hiding? One conclusion was unavoidable. The well-rehearsed plan had been summarily abandoned. There’d be no reward for the capture of the false assassin.

Having chastised his men, Yeomans now turned his fire on Scattergood, accusing him of calling them too late to arrest the man in his hotel room.

‘This is your fault,’ he bellowed.

‘It’s the fault of your useless men,’ retorted Scattergood. ‘They let the rogue slip through their fingers. You should train them properly.’

‘Don’t you tell me how to do my job.’

‘Somebody needs to, Mr Yeomans.’

The row quickly accelerated with insults galore from both parties. It was not only entertaining for Yeomans’ men, it was a salve for their wounded pride. They were so absorbed in watching the fiery debate that they didn’t notice the two people approaching. One was Paul Skillen, leading his horse with one hand and pulling a blood-covered Alan Kinnaird with the other. The prisoner’s wrists were tied securely behind his back.

It was Chevy Ruddock who finally spotted them.

‘He’s been caught,’ he yelled. ‘Mr Skillen has apprehended him.’

‘What was he doing here?’ cried Yeomans, breaking away from his argument. ‘The assassin was ours until we let him escape.’

‘That was your second mistake, Micah,’ teased Paul. ‘The first one was in assuming that this man I caught had anything whatsoever to do with Sir Roger’s murder. He’s no assassin,’ he went on. ‘He’s a confederate of Mr Giles Clearwater.’

‘I’ve never laid eyes on this fellow before,’ said Scattergood, indignantly.