Harry Scattergood had made a conscious effort to move up in the world. As his income had swelled, so did his social aspirations. Having habitually lived amongst the dregs of society, he spurned the rat-infested accommodation in which he’d often been forced to hide and instead acquired a comfortable lodging in a respectable area of the city. He now ate better food, slept in cleaner sheets and wore smarter clothing. To pass himself off as a gentleman, he behaved with the necessary airs and graces, carefully rehearsed in front of a mirror. Most of the work was spent on his voice, altering its timbre, perfecting educated vowels and learning ease of speech. His appearance had also changed. Gone were the straggly hair and the pinched cheeks. A well-trimmed beard transformed his face enough to fool someone as eagle-eyed as one of the Skillen brothers. Emboldened by that success, Scattergood felt that his mask gave him total anonymity.

It was time to go in pursuit of the reward money.

Seeing his friend’s palpable discomfort, Peter Skillen took pity on Hooper and suggested that he should return home and go back to work. Peter promised to report any findings to him later in the day. Relieved to escape, Hooper drove off in the trap. Peter was the only person who noticed that he’d gone. As far as Oxley was concerned, Hooper was never really there in the first place. Notwithstanding his hostility to Peter, Oxley talked freely about Sir Roger’s political career and how the man’s ideas had evolved over the years. David Mellanby supplied an occasional rider but, once started, Oxley was difficult to interrupt.

It fell to Edmund, the elder brother, to bring him to an abrupt halt. Flinging open the door, he strode into the drawing room with a whip in one hand and his hat in the other, his riding boots shedding mud with every step he took. His voice was harsh, his eyes aglow and his manner unfriendly. After nodding to his brother and to Oxley, he switched his gaze to Peter.

‘And who might you be, pray?’

‘This is Mr Skillen,’ replied David, ‘and he’s taking part in the search for those involved in the murder of our father.’

‘Have any arrests been made yet?’

‘I very much doubt it,’ said Peter.

‘Why is there such a delay?’

‘Before we can apprehend those responsible, we have to identify them.’

‘Then why aren’t you in London doing just that?’

‘Mr Skillen has this absurd idea,’ said Oxley, rolling his eyes, ‘that the person behind the outrage might live here in Nottinghamshire.’

‘Stuff and nonsense!’ growled Edmund.

‘That was my view.’

‘We can’t rule anything out,’ suggested Peter, reasonably.

‘Someone killed my father. Go back to London and find him.’