“He’s a highly intelligent man. First from Cambridge, I believe. A rich one, too, and of course a marquess’s son. And with respect, Mr. Darling, this isn’t the most glamorous establishment. What is it about this shop that attracts Lord Arthur?”

Will gave it a long moment’s consideration. “Well...”

“Yes?”

“He likes books.”

They went round that one a couple more times, then Welwyn changed direction abruptly. “You were with Lord Arthur at Etchil Manor when Lord Waring and John Cheveley were killed. I read the inquest report. How did you come to be there?”

“By car.”

The reporter was beginning to develop a twitch around the eye. “How is it that you were invited to a stately home, Mr. Darling? Did Lord Arthur know there would be trouble before he went? Is that why he brought you?”

“It’s all in the report.”

“It doesn’t say how a Bolshevik lord who refused to fight comes to be so close to an enlisted man who holds the Military Cross. How did you get to know Lord Arthur in the first place?”

“Now, let me think.” Will did some lengthy musing. “I reckon... Aye, I reckon he came in here to buy a book. He likes books.”

Welwyn bit back an expletive. “What was it like for you? In a stately home, with Lord Waring dying and John Cheveley holding a gun on you? How did you feel?”

Will just shrugged. Welwyn sighed, then perched on the edge of the desk, leaning in with a confiding expression. Will looked fixedly at his intruding arse until he got up again. “Look, Mr. Darling, our readers want to know about this. There’s a man dead. Word is Lord Chingford’s going to be arrested for murder any time now, and if he hangs, Lord Arthur will become his father’s heir. There’s a lot of public interest in the sort of man he is. Some people look at his past and don’t think much of him. They say he’s a coward and a Red. Would you agree with that?”

Will wondered if he could rethink the decision not to resort to violence. Left to himself, he’d throw this man out by the scruff of his neck, and he wasn’t sure he’d open the door first. “Not my business.”

“Would you say they’re wrong?”

He was going to be quoted in some form, he knew it. He stood. “You asked for my time and you’ve had plenty. Are you here to buy books? This is a bookshop, and I’ve work to do.”

“I’d be very pleased to. Perhaps I could put down a deposit?” Welwyn fished in his pocket and brought out a pound note, which he fingered in a casual sort of manner.