I had proven myself, Druscilla told me. That one of our number had lost their life in the doing of it did not, she insisted, constitute a failure. I am the rightful Head Witch. My doubters cannot argue against that anymore. I must put my personal feelings aside, for the good of the coven.

*   *   *

As Nicholas Stricklend sits by the window of his top-floor apartment in Admiralty Arch he observes how the twilight suffuses the palace at the top of Pall Mall with a rosy glow, altering it slowly from white to palest pink. Within an hour the late summer sun will have dipped beyond the horizon to the west of the city, and a flat, colorless tone will descend, to be quickly chased away by the many lamps which line the Mall, and the cheerful gleam of modern electric lights that will shine out from the windows of the Georgian facade. Prettiness rarely catches Stricklend’s attention. What interests him more is the transformation. The fleeting change in character Buckingham Palace undergoes, whether it wants to or not, the whole process controlled by celestial movements and atmospheric conditions, and influenced very little by man, be he king or commoner. For Stricklend’s whole purpose in life is control. Either fighting it, or imposing it, on his own behalf, or that of others. Behind him Westminster is being put to bed, and a peacetime government will snooze the night away safely. In front of him the glittering world of royalty will continue to exert its influence, its privileges and favors, its snubs and slights, throughout the evening.

There comes a tentative tap at the door, which is then cautiously opened by Fordingbridge.

“So sorry to disturb you, sir, but you have a visitor,” says the clerk, who is no more comfortable in the presence of his employer in the secretary’s private rooms than he is in his offices one floor below.

Stricklend shifts minutely on the leather Chesterfield. He knows who the caller will be. He also knows he will refuse to reveal his identity to Fordingbridge. It is hard to pass up the opportunity to make the little worm work for his supper.

“And who, pray, might this visitor be?” he asks.

“Forgive me, sir, but he refuses to give a name.” The clerk squirms and clasps his hands in front of him.

“Tell me, Fordingbridge, am I in the habit of admitting anonymous callers?”

“Why no, sir. But, well, the gentleman is quite insistent that you will want to see him. I did not want to refuse him, and risk causing offense…” Here his voice peters out.

For form’s sake, Stricklend asks, “And what does this mysterious stranger look like?”

“It is very hard to say, sir, for he is wearing dark glasses and, well, what I believe to be false whiskers.”

“Whiskers, you say?”

“Indeed, sir. A full set.”