“A fiver says the person who took your knife stopped to place a call to Quiller while he was at it. Again, I would. Piling up the evidence against you.”

“About that,” Will said. “They took the book. White Stains. The one you wrote in.”

There was a brief silence.

“Damn,” Kim said. “Damnation. All right. Leo has that. The Met has a handy pile of circumstantial evidence, plus you resisting arrest. The Private Bureau has you doing the same with violence, plus knowing the Messer, and is well aware of the connection between us. Not that the Met will be far behind on that.”

“Hell’s teeth. Any more good news?”

“The police found a bloodstained handkerchief in Quiller’s room, bearing Chingford’s embroidered crest.”

Will turned to stare at him. “You’re bloody joking.”

“If only. One damn thing after another, isn’t it? Still, you did say there’d be a handkerchief, and it’s nice to be right.”

“I could have lived with being wrong. How did Quiller have that?”

“The obvious inference is that he found it when he was left alone in the billiard room to guard the body. It was discovered in a drawer with a pile of cash, so we may assume that he used it to blackmail Chingford, who had him killed.”

“Shitting hell,” Will said wholeheartedly.

“Well, yes,” Kim said. “Except it’s been set up to look like he had him killed by you, and the only reason you’d do it is because I asked you to, and the only reason I’d do that is on Chingford’s behalf, and even he isn’t stupid enough to set up a killing where the false evidence points directly at himself. So what’s actually happened is that Zodiac decided we’re a threat, and set this up to strike at you, me, and Chingford together. I imagine Leo’s been keeping that handkerchief for a rainy day. I’d like to think this is a show of panic that indicates I’m getting close to him.”

“Are you?”

“No. Don’t have a clue.”

“Pity,” Will said. “What do we do now?”

Kim flicked a glance over. “I admire your faith. It seems to me the priority is to get you right out of the way while we unpick this mess. Somewhere the Press can’t go, and people won’t talk even if they were to recognise your face when it inevitably appears in the papers.”

“Sounds marvellous. Where might that be?”

“We’re on our way.”

“Where?”

Kim kept his eyes fixed on the road. “My father’s house.”

“Your— What, the big one?”

“The big one. It’s about eighty miles.”

Holmclere, seat of the Marquess of Flitby, and Kim’s family home. “Are we expected?”

“I telephoned my father and informed him we would be coming.”

He didn’t sound overjoyed. “I thought you weren’t allowed to set foot in the place.”