“I didn’t get any pleasure from that success, if success you choose to call it,” said Lindsay. “Usually when I monster people like that in the course of getting a story, I know they’re villains. It’s not too hard to get heavy and put on the pressure when you know your victim is no stranger to putting the screws on somebody else. There’s no satisfaction in hammering somebody like Margaret Macdonald, believe me. At least Cartwright should be sufficiently tough for me not to have any qualms about turning nasty if I have to.”

“I feel sorry for the poor bloke,” Cordelia mocked. “Almost as sorry as I feel for you, sweetheart. What a way to make a living!”

11

By any standards, James Cartwright’s was an impressive house. Rather than choosing something he had built himself, he had opted to live in the dramatic flowering of another man’s imagination. It was three stories tall, built in extravagant Victorian Gothic in the local gray stone with twin turrets and superb views across open fields to the distant White Peak. In front, a Mercedes sports car and a Ford Sierra were parked. Even fortified by whisky and coffee, Lindsay felt daunted as she parked her car at the end of the semi-circular sweep of gravel. She switched off the engine and said, “Suddenly I feel I’m driving a matchbox. Just look at that garden! He must employ a battalion of gardeners. Have you got the letter from God?”

“It’s right here,” said Cordelia. “Now, let me check . . . have I got the thumbscrews, or have you?”

Lindsay scowled. “Very funny.

“Only teasing,” Cordelia replied sweetly.

Lindsay opened the car door. “Sometimes I wish I’d become a bloody fashion writer on a women’s magazine,” she muttered.

They walked up the drive to the front door. Lindsay looked at Cordelia, pulled a face at her, then pressed the doorbell. Its sharp peal was loud enough to make them both start. Cordelia stood almost to attention facing the door while Lindsay turned away, pulled up the collar of her leather jacket, and tried to force a profoundly casual aspect on her appearance. As the door opened, she turned to face the young man who stood in the doorway. He was smartly dressed in a well-cut, pin-stripe suit and his hair was beautifully groomed. When he spoke it was with a strong Derbyshire accent.

“What can I do for you,” he demanded sharply.

Lindsay spoke. “We’d like to see Mr. James Cartwright.”

“Have you an appointment?”

“If we had, you’d be expecting us, wouldn’t you?” she responded sweetly.

“I’m afraid Mr. Cartwright is a very busy man. He doesn’t see anyone without an appointment,” said the young man brusquely. “Are you from the papers?”