He dangled at the side of the house, hanging on to the sill. As with most houses of the type, there was a single-storey scullery out the back, invitingly below his feet. Will dropped to the roof with a thud that would be all too audible to anyone below, took two strides along, and went over the wall to the next yard. Above him he heard a cry. “Hey, you! Stop! Police!”

He was already evading the law; he might as well carry on. He sprinted to the end of the yard, went over the wall, and ran like hell, hearing the heavy thump of police feet behind him.

There was a useful tangle of small streets, alleys, and mews behind Goodge Street, which Will knew reasonably well since the area housed a couple of specialist book dealers. He sprinted up Goodge Place, onto Tottenham Mews, forced himself to a walk across Charlotte Street so as not to attract attention, legged it again down the nameless passage off Chitty Street, and came out on Tottenham Street at a casual stroll.

He was breathing too hard. He forced himself to keep to a shallow, calm, steady rhythm, even if his lungs were demanding air and his face was reddened with heat and exertion. He needed not to be noticeable. They hadn’t got a good look at him; they’d be after a running man. He’d lost the pursuit, so he just needed not to run and he’d be fine. He told himself that with force.

His coat was the same fawn colour as that of every second man on the street, and his hat was pretty standard too, but he bought a cap from a market stall anyway, taking the time to try it on even if his instincts were shouting at him to snatch one and run. Be ordinary. He made himself round another corner before replacing hat with cap, and stuffing the hat in a rubbish bin. It felt like doing something.

He strolled on until he found a public telephone, and asked the operator to put him through to the familiar number. After a few seconds he had an answer. “Lord Arthur Secretan’s residence.”

“Is he in? It’s urgent.”

“I’m afraid not, Mr. Darling.”

Hell’s teeth. “Where is he? I’m in trouble, Mr. Peacock.”

“May I be of assistance?”

The last thing he should do was drag Peacock into this. He could manage, probably. “Tell him, when you get hold of him, I’ve been set up and it’s bad. I need to stay out of sight, and I’m going to need help, and if I don’t call again he should check with the police because I’ll have been arrested for murder. I didn’t do it,” he added hastily. “Got to go.”