He chose to furnish his suite in a Spartan, businesslike fashion. The broad mahogany desk, shipped in from Singapore and weighing nearly as much as the four stout men who had delivered it, reflects, in both its stature and its orderliness, the workings of its owner’s mind. It is in perfect scale with the room it occupies, and yet it projects its own special importance, gravitas, and power. Its top is covered with tooled green leather, bordered with gold leaf, on which sit, in regimented lines, a spotless blotter, a heavy crystal inkwell, three fountain pens, and two evenly sharpened pencils. There is no eraser, for Stricklend will never have need of one. He is of the opinion that a thing done properly is a thing done perfectly, and will therefore require no correction. To the left-hand side of the blotter, placed at a right angle to the edge of the desk, a plain black telephone is positioned precisely at a comfortable arm’s length from the Windsor chair upon which no one, but no one, other than Stricklend is ever permitted to sit.

The desk faces the door, to meet squarely anyone who deigns to come through it. The window behind, and the inspirational view it provides, are for contemplating only when standing up. The evening finds the permanent private secretary in pensive mood. Having satisfied himself that the sixth duke of Radnor is indeed dead, he has now to decide how, and when, he should engineer a meeting with his successor. Whether or not having a woman as head of the Lazarus Coven will prove an added complication to his plans is not yet clear. The Sentinels had been about to make their move when the late duke had fallen ill. Everything has been put on hold. The death of the Head Witch has changed things, of that there is no doubt. Precisely how, and to the advantage of whom, remains to be seen.

These solitary deliberations are interrupted by the arrival of Elias Fordingbridge. The clerk is no more than five foot four, but still feels the compunction to stoop, as if he were much taller, or as if he were simply trying to avoid appearing in any way above himself. He steps across the threshold with his customary partially sideways gait, again as if he wishes to present himself as taking up even less of the world than he actually does, however slight his place in it actually is.

“My apologies for disturbing you, Mr. Stricklend, sir,” says Fordingbridge, fixing his gaze on the floor so that there will be no chance he might look his superior in the eye, “but I thought you would want to see this.” He proffers a copy of the evening paper, folded neatly to show a report on the bottom left corner of the front page.

Stricklend takes it from him. The headline reads:

SIXTH DUKE OF RADNOR BURIED TODAY