Kim’s face blanked, not for the fraction of a second he usually took to hide his reactions, but for a count of three. Will had just shifted his weight forward to stop whatever he was about to do when he said, crisply, “Fine. Absolutely fine. Talk all you like. You are clearly in control of the situation and I shall withdraw at once. Thank you for a delightful evening, Harry, it’s been a pleasure.”

“Kim—”

Kim held up a hand. “Sorry. I do appreciate your efforts. Please accept my apologies, Inspector, for”—he glanced at his brother—“everything.”

Rennick nodded, one professional to another. “I’m sorry, too, Mr. Secretan.”

Kim turned on his heel. Will followed him out. As they walked down the hall, he could hear Lord Chingford shouting.

Chapter Three

Kim set off at a fast pace. That suited Will; he could use the fresh air, or what passed for it in London. It was about a mile and a half to Holborn from here, and only twilight still.

He extended his stride to catch up. “Shall we go down by the river?”

Kim didn’t answer, but he did take the next right turn down Villiers Street, and they came onto the Embankment. It was a beautiful evening, the waters of the Thames swelling with the high tide. The scent of flowers from Embankment Gardens stole on the air, as Cleopatra’s Needle gave a severe geometrical finger to the darkness.

“So,” Will said, since someone had to begin. “Did he do it or what?”

“If he didn’t, he needs to sue himself for slander. What a fool. What a fucking fool. How am I related to such a fucking fool?”

“I was going to ask. And where did he get his manners?”

“Privilege,” Kim said succinctly. “We were talking about the deforming weight of inheritance earlier, weren’t we? If Chingford had been plain Freddie Secretan, let alone Fred Smith, he’d have had the bluster kicked out of him by now.”

“He’s going to get that kicking pretty soon.”

“Yes, this one is beyond even my father’s powers. Or it will be when Chingford has finished tying the noose for his own neck. Dear God.”

“And he’s not going to make a good impression on a jury,” Will said, understating matters considerably. “Or will he be tried as a peer?”

“He will not. It’s a courtesy title, so he’ll face a jury of twelve ordinary people, and all the prosecution will have to do is put him on the stand and let him talk.”

“I’m sure your old man can get a good lawyer.”