Will indicated that he wouldn’t prefer, so Kim went off, leaving him alone. He read to the end of the paper without taking much in, checked the cricket scores, stared out of the window a bit, and then took a turn round the room, out of a vague sense that he ought to try and appreciate the place. He had nothing to say to porcelain vases; the furniture was good work in the old style but not particularly interesting, being mostly straight lines on spindly legs. There was a very nice walnut-wood cabinet though, beautifully carved, which repaid attention as a stunning bit of joinery and art combined. He ran a hand over the smooth grain of the wood, wondering how much it had cost, who’d bought it, how often anyone actually looked at it.

“Seeing what you can steal?”

Will didn’t move for a second. Then he straightened and turned to Chingford, scowling in the doorway. “Just admiring the furniture.”

Chingford’s lip curled. “I suppose we can all guess what that skulking little wretch brought you for. Pocket the teaspoons and I’ll kick you out myself.”

He was absolutely not going to react to this, Will told himself. “We’re here because you’ve been charged with murder. Your brother’s trying to help you, since you won’t help yourself.”

Chingford swelled like an inflating balloon. “You insolent lackey. You? That? Help me?”

“Kim’s your best chance of avoiding the gallows right now. He’s about the only person in England who doesn’t want you to hang. And to be honest, that’s touch and go,” Will couldn’t help but add.

Lord Chingford’s face went bright red. It was almost impressive, the instant switch to rage: his eyes bulged, and his fists were up and clenched. He took a menacing step towards Will, who forced himself against every instinct to take one away. “I’m not here to fight you, Lord Chingford. I don’t want a fight. But if you lay a hand on me, I’ll break every finger you’ve got.”

“Mother of God,” Kim said from the corridor. “Do not brawl in there, the furniture’s early Sheraton.”

Chingford turned on him. Will saw his arm go up, fist clenching, and he took two strides, but Kim had already skipped back, dancing out of the way. Chingford snarled an obscenity, but clearly decided pursuit was beneath his dignity. He swung round, narrowly missing Will with his shoulder, and stormed off. Will watched him go, feeling his blood thump.

“Need I ask?” Kim said.

“He told me not to pinch the spoons. And a lot else.”

“Mmm. How about a very long walk? Another one?”

They went off in the other direction this time, across the lawns. After five minutes in the sun, Will was able to let out his breath. “Damn. Sorry. I said I’d keep my temper.”