“I said they detected nothing in the initial test, but then, just when someone at the morgue had produced glasses, for drinking it, someone else had the idea of giving a drop or two to a lab rat.”

“And?”

“He pronounced it a fine, full-bodied claret with an excellent nose and a clean finish. Then he rolled over and died.”

“Of what?”

“Of poisoning, but we still have no idea what poison. The Soviets—pardon, the Russians—have skills in that department that, momentarily anyway, exceed our ability to detect them.”

“You didn’t answer my question about Fife-Simpson; is he in custody?”

Holmes frowned. “Not exactly. He was taken to our local shop and when his pockets were emptied, one of them produced a Russian diplomatic passport with his photograph affixed, and the name Sergei Ivanovich Ostrovsky on it. After consultation with Foreign Office officials, two Russian gentlemen appeared and walked him out of the building, not to be seen again, so far. We believe him to be at the Russian embassy, up to his arse in Beluga and Stoli.”

“That’s very disappointing.”

“Oh, I expect that MI-5 will be watching the place like hawks. If he leaves they will scoop him up.”

“What about Wilfred Thomas?”

“You have another visitor who can tell you more about that. I’ll see you when I have other news.” He patted Stone on the knee and left the room.

Lance Cabot quickly replaced Holmes. He dragged a chair up to Stone’s bed and sat down. “Congratulations on still being alive,” he said, “though not for want of the Russians trying to kill you.”

“I hear Roger skated because of the diplomatic passport we saw on your video of the party at the Russian embassy.”

“Not just Roger, but also his wife, Jennifer Sands, but I think you may regard their escape as temporary.”

“What about Wilfred Thomas, whose dictionaries are so nicely bound?”

“Vanished,” Lance replied. “Minutes, perhaps seconds, before our people reached his shop. They did find a treasure trove of bomb-making equipment, along with a fountain pen and an umbrella that shoot poison, and an unlabeled bottle of clear liquid that we suspect might be what was in the wine. It’s being tested as we speak, and the search is on for the earl. His diplomatic passport might work with the police, but not with MI-5.”

“Isn’t he at the embassy with his colleagues?”

“Oddly, no. At least, we haven’t detected his image or voice at the embassy with our equipment, which is still operating. Apparently, from what we’ve gleaned from their conversations, they are waiting for the earl, known in spy circles as Alex, to accomplish some deed or other, then shelter with them until transport out of the country has been arranged.”

“What sort of deed?”

“I’m afraid we have no clue, though we’re not ruling out another go at your person. Not to worry, measures have been taken.”