“So did Waring, to most people,” Kim said. “Leo will be just as intelligent and manipulative. Highly plausible, good at deception, with at least superficial charm—”

“Oh my God. It’s you, isn’t it?”

Kim grinned for the first time since Will had got in the car, even if it looked a bit tight. “Oh, sod off.”

“Is it likely, though? I mean, why would Yoxall have involved himself in the investigation if he was the killer? And Merton said he was an honorary nephew.”

“As recent events demonstrate, we all have unfortunate relatives,” Kim said. “Relatives— Hold on, wait a moment. Didn’t Aveston’s uncle bequeath part of his collection to his club?”

“Sporting books, including the first six volumes of Pierce Egan’s Boxiana.” Will had resented missing out on that plum, which was a lot more to his taste than madrigals. “Which club—?”

“Take a wild guess.”

“Of course. It all leads back to the Symposium, doesn’t it?”

“There’s a library committee, people will have talked about you after the Cheveley business—all right, that wouldn’t be hard to dig out. But Leo has to be a member, it’s all too close otherwise. Incestuous, even. Next question: how many people were involved in trapping you?”

“I reckon it was a two-man job at least.”

“It was timed extremely tightly. Someone gets you out of the way with that fake phone call, raids your shop for the Messer, heads up to Goodge Street and Quiller’s rooms. Someone else is watching your shop and makes a telephone call when you come back, at which point the man with Quiller rings you again and you agree to come to Goodge Street. Our murderer waits a reasonable amount of time, kills Quiller, and places the call to the police. I wonder if that call came from Quiller’s rooms, or from a telephone box where someone was watching for your arrival.”

“There’s one on the corner of Goodge Street. I passed it.”

“If I were official, we could chase up telephone operators and find out which calls were placed from where. I’m sure that’s happening now. I expect they’ve already learned that a call was made from Quiller’s number to yours shortly before the murder.”

“You think they called me from his room?”

“I would. It ties you in very neatly and easily. They might even have had him make the call himself. He would certainly not have been killed until you were well on your way.”

Will imagined the old man, bound or gagged, listening to someone croak out an imitation of his quavering, fearful voice. “Jesus.”

“There is a very familiar cruelty to it, and a cleverness. They’ve really got you, Will. Your prints on the murder weapon, your presence at the scene, calls to and from your shop—”

“From?”