'Good God, no. What do you take me for? My professional pride's been dented. I need to hammer it back into shape. Starting with the question of who – deliberately or not – tipped off these people we're dealing with. Hardly anyone knew I was even thinking of going to see Radd.'

'Your friend Rawlings knew.'

'He promised to keep it under his hat. He wouldn't break a promise to an old mate.'

'Are you sure about that, George?'

'A lot surer than I am about Jane Questred. She knew.'

'Not until yesterday morning.'

'No. But she said emphatically she was going to do whatever she could to stop us. So, let's find out what she did. And who she contacted.'

'If anyone.'

'Like you say. If anyone. But everything we try is a long shot. It's bound to be. Take Donald Collingwood for example. I stopped in Swindon on the way back and checked his old address.'

'Dead and gone?'

Sharp nodded. 'More than ten years.' He mulled over that for a moment, then said, 'A drop in the bucket compared with two hundred and fifty odd, though. What was in your Junius box that made it worth stealing?'

'I don't know. My Ph.D research notes aren't exactly state secrets.'

'No? Well, somebody wanted them, Umber. Badly. And since they were your notes, you're the only one likely to know why.'

'There's no reason that makes any sense.'

'What were they about?'

'Well…' Umber shrugged. 'Junius.'

'Can't you be a bit more specific?'

'All right.' Umber rubbed his face. 'Let's see. I'd started going through the list of candidates – all the people who'd ever been accused, even semi-seriously, of being Junius. There were fifty or sixty of them all told. My idea was to disprove each one conclusively before proceeding to the next. That involved checking their whereabouts at times when we could be sure where Junius was, based on the content of his letters, comparing their known political opinions with Junius's expressed views, examining examples of their handwriting and prose style for similarities to -'

'Hold on. What about that War Office clerk you mentioned as odds-on favourite? Did his handwriting match Junius's?'

'No. But then it's generally assumed Junius wrote in a disguised hand. There's also the possibility he employed an amanuensis.'

'A what?'

'Someone to copy the letters for him before they were sent. There's a separate list of candidates for that role.'

'Can you remember all the names on these lists?'

'Not after more than twenty years, no. But I could reassemble the lists. If I had to.'

'And your notes too, I suppose.'

'That would take months. I'd have to reapply for membership of several libraries for a start. You're not serious, are you?'

'No. But I was just thinking. Maybe the thief stole them to stop you looking at them rather than to look at them himself.'

'Does it make any difference?'

'Not sure. But we should be grateful to him in one way.'

'What way's that?'

'Well, Radd could have been killed because of a straightforward grudge between him and another prisoner. It's possible. Or it would be, but for your run-in with a double-glazing salesman impersonator the same day. We're on to something, Umber. We're definitely on to something.' Sharp grinned ruefully. 'It's just a pity we don't have the first bloody idea what.'

It was agreed they would set off for Swanpool Cottage at nine o'clock the following morning. It was also agreed they would both benefit from an early night, though Umber for one did not anticipate a restful one. He watched the Ten O'Clock News report on Radd's murder. It told him nothing he did not already know. Then he switched his mobile on and checked for messages. There was one. And it was not from Percy Nevinson.

'This is Edmund Questred, Mr Umber.' He had spoken very softly, almost whispering into the receiver. 'We need to speak. Don't phone me. Come to the back door of the shop at eight thirty tomorrow morning. Please don't contact Jane in the meantime.'

Umber thought about phoning Sharp, then thought better of it. He might already be asleep. If so, it was a kindness to let him sleep on.

There was to be little sleep for Umber himself. He tossed and turned, counting Junius suspects like sheep, but to no avail. He made it to twenty or so, a long way short of the total. And then he thought about Sally. He had schooled himself for so long not to think about her death and the manner of it that it almost felt as if he was doing so for the first time. It was difficult to remember how weary he had been of her inability to put the past behind her; and how relieved he had felt in the months following their separation. The guilt that had swept over him the minute he heard she was dead – that was clear in his mind, however. He pictured her, lying lifeless in the bath, as Alice had found her. He had loved her. He had abandoned her. There had been no excuse. But maybe now there could be the next best thing to reconciliation – reparation.

There was no sign of Sharp in the breakfast room when Umber left the hotel next morning. He walked up past Marlborough Library and followed the lane round to the rear of the High Street shops. There was a small delivery yard at the back of the Kennet Valley Wine Company. The double doors leading to the storeroom behind the shop were ajar. He stepped through.

Questred was waiting for him inside. He was sitting on a wine box, smoking a cigarette and staring listlessly at a newspaper, folded open at an inside page. CHILD MURDERER SLAIN IN PRISON KNIFING ran the headline above the article he appeared to be reading. He did not rise at Umber's approach, merely looked up and nodded to him.

'You got my message, then.'

'As you see.'

'Jane reckons you and Sharp will be in touch with her today.'

'Very likely.'

'She reckons you'll have taken it into your heads that something she did led to this.' Questred held up the newspaper.

'Well, it's quite some coincidence, isn't it?'

'The only person she told about your visit was Oliver. She phoned him straight after you left the cottage. But he wasn't at home. She left a message, asking him to phone back as soon as possible. She didn't say why. And he didn't call until last night, so…'

'It really was a coincidence.'

'You obviously don't think so.'

'Do you?'

'No.' Questred smiled grimly. 'Does that surprise you?'

'Yes.' Umber sat down on the nearest box. 'It does.'

'There's something I have to tell you. In confidence. I don't want it to reach Jane's ears. I'd deny saying it if it did, anyway, and she'd believe me over you every time. It's, er, about… your wife.'

'Sally?'

'Yes. I… This Radd business has shaken me, I don't mind admitting. I don't know what to make of it. I -'

'What about Sally?'

'Yes. OK. Sally. Well, the day she died…' Questred rubbed his forehead. 'That is, I realized later it was the day she died.'

'What happened?'

'She phoned here… that afternoon.'

'She phoned here?'

'Yes. She, er, wanted to speak to Jane, but she didn't have the number for the cottage and, er, well… I wasn't about to give it to her.' Questred dropped the butt of his cigarette onto the concrete floor and ground it out with the toe of his shoe. 'Anyway, she asked me to get Jane to phone her. She didn't give a reason. I didn't ask for one. To be honest, I, er, thought she sounded… overwrought. I told her I'd pass the message on. But, er…'

'You didn't.'