“Knowle. The Secretary, the man at the heart of the Symposium Club. Who knew all about the bequest of Aveston’s books, Will, because it would have gone through him; who commanded Quiller’s absolute obedience. Just say we were together the whole time. Don’t confuse the police. The reputation of the Club. And Quiller, so pathetically loyal, so desperate for his fifty years’ service and his pension, aware Knowle could sack him with a snap of his fingers, went along with it.”

“Knowle wanted Chingford to kill Fairfax for him,” Will said. “But that didn’t happen so he did it himself. Got Chingford nicely set up—”

“Promised him he’d be looked after if he just kept his mouth shut. And Chingford, so used to being pandered to at every turn, believed him, and made himself look even guiltier. Did you think he’d killed Fairfax for you, brother? Did you consider that all part of the service?”

No answer. The Marquess had a hand to his mouth.

“But then you started asking questions,” Will said. “You sent Peacock after Quiller.”

“Peacock asked him about Waring and Cheveley and Fairfax. Quiller smelled trouble and went running to Knowle. Now Knowle was aware I had put those names together. Now I was a problem, and Quiller was a loose end who was starting to panic. So Knowle got rid of him, and because he’s a clever man, he did it in a way that incriminated you and Chingford together, thus causing me a major problem. Well played, Knowle.”

“And we came here to hide, and he sent a gunman after us. How did he know we were here?”

“Yes, Chingford,” Kim said. “How?”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

Kim looked at his brother with contempt. “Go back to the murder. What did you and Knowle talk about when you were alone together? When he very carefully sent off Harry Mitra and Quiller and went to find you on his own, of course. Christ, I’m a fool. What did he say then?”

“He told me to sit tight and it would be sorted out. He said Fairfax was a blight and the Club would deal with everything. And he did! I’m on bail, aren’t I?”

“I obtained your bail,” Flitby said.

“Knowle was behind it,” Chingford said obstinately. “He told me so. They pull strings there, they know how. Of course he’s looking out for me. I’m the Marquess of Flitby, near as dammit!”

Kim shut his eyes. Will knew how he felt: he was fairly inclined to bang his own head against a wall. Or Chingford’s head, come to that.

“So, in his effort to protect you, he advised you to—what, keep your mouth shut and wait for rescue?”