“No, perhaps not. But the newspapers are out there either way, and there’s no point me whining about what can’t be changed. We can just get private dining rooms at the Savoy till it dies down.”

Kim snorted. “For a dyed-in-the-wool proletarian, you’ve developed a powerful taste for luxury.”

“Shame you’re not going to be a marquess, isn’t it?” Will said, and they walked on.

They walked as they waited to hear from DS, in small circles around the gardens because Will wasn’t going too far afield with Leo’s hired killer still out there. When that palled, they took advantage of the stupidly large grounds for Will to try his hand at the Daimler. Kim proved a rather good driving instructor, and Will managed to forget about everything for a while in the pleasure of learning a new skill and mastering the powerful machine. They returned to the house to wash and smarten up for cocktails at six—beer for Will—at which point Kim’s control finally frayed.

“What the blazes are the Bureau doing?” he demanded, as if the first swig of gin had allowed him to speak. “Why hasn’t DS called? How the hell long does it take to arrest a man?”

“You could telephone him and ask.”

“I would, but I value my life. Is that a motor outside?”

They were in the Sheraton Room, which looked over the drive. Will turned just in time to see a car go past. “Who’s that?”

“God knows. I’d have thought the police might go round the back. Did it look like a police car?”

“I didn’t see. Would they be here for Chingford?”

Kim winced. “More likely for you. I will resist as best I can, but—”

“Don’t worry about it.” Will would strongly prefer Quiller’s murder to be solved without him having to sit in a cell at any point, but needs must, as long as he knew it would be sorted out. He’d had worse.

They waited as footsteps came along the corridor. Kim said, “That doesn’t sound like the fairy tread of the law,” and the door opened.

“Lord Arthur,” Hastings said, with a paternal beam. “Lady Waring and Miss Jones.”

Will nearly dropped his drink as Maisie and Phoebe hurtled in. They were both dressed in finery, but dusty and windswept; Maisie had a silk scarf tied tightly round her hair and Phoebe’s face was smudged. “Darlings!”

“Fee!” Kim embraced her as Will grabbed Maisie. “What on earth? Where did you two spring from?”

“We drove up, of course.”

“Phoebe drove,” Maisie said. “She’s had lessons. In Paris.”

“Don’t they drive on the other side over there?”

“You tell her that.”