"They're inside a bronze casting by Marini."

"How do you know this?"

"Fairly obvious deduction. Maximilian Strange has engaged me to help him sell a Marini Horse at auction for five million pounds-more than a hundred times its market value. It's obvious that the Marini is not the item for sale. The Horse is only the envelope."

"I see. Yes. Where does this auction take place?"

"At Sotheby's, three days from now. The Horse will be on display at the National Gallery the day before the auction, and that's when I get the films."

"You are going to steal from the National Gallery?"

"Yes. I have a friend who is a regular nocturnal visitor there."

"And you are quite sure you can manage this?"

"I have great faith in my friend's ability to get in and out of the National Gallery at will. I shall be going with him on this occasion."

"He knows about the films?"

"No."

"Good. Good." The Vicar mulled over the information for a time, winking to himself. "Tell me. How did the films get inside the statue in the first place?"

"This particular Marini is known as the Dallas Horse. It was broken by a careless Texan, then brazed together. The story is widely known in art circles. It was a simple matter to cut it open along the braze, deposit the films, then braze it over again."

"I see. And you are absolutely sure the films are there?"

"I'm satisfied they are. Maximilian Strange detests England. It's his only passion. If he were only selling a bronze statue, there would be no reason to do so from London. In fact, the statue was brought over here from the States. Clearly it's the films that are the homegrown product."

The Vicar returned to his reading chair and mused for several minutes, slight noddings of his head accompanying his location of each piece in its place. "Yes, I'm sure you're right," he said at last. "It's so like Strange. An open auction at Sotheby's!" He chuckled. "Brazen and amazing man. A worthy foe."

"You told me earlier that you considered Strange to be the cleverest man in Britain... which might be considered damning with faint praise."

The Vicar looked up. "Did I? Well, now I am sure I was right." He turned to Yank, who had been looking on without participating, still heavy with the wine he had been drinking to excess. "Fill the doctor's glass. It appears we have reason to celebrate."

"I'll take the wine, but you shouldn't delude yourself that we're home and dry. I still have to go back into The Cloisters and deal with Strange. You see, he doesn't know that his Horse is going on display in the National Gallery. He won't know that until he reads the newspapers. And I'm not sure how he will react. He's been keeping the Horse somewhere deep, and he won't be pleased to have it in the open, its gut full of films, for twenty-four hours before the auction."

"What might he do?"

"He might smell a rat. If he does, he'll probably go to ground with the films."

"What then?"

"We lose."

"I shouldn't say that so fliply, if I were you, Dr. Hemlock. Remember the dire consequences to your freedom should you fail at this."

Jonathan closed his eyes wearily and shook his head. "I don't think you see the picture. If Strange doesn't buy my story about putting the Horse on display to allay governmental curiosity over the selling price, then his response to me will be vigorous, probably total. And your threat of trial for murder won't matter much."

"You seem to take that rather calmly."

"Cite my alternatives!"

"Yes, I see. My, you arein a tight spot, aren't you?"

Jonathan's desire to punch that fat face was great, but he tightened his jaw and held on. "I am going to make one demand of you," he said.

"What would that be?" the Vicar asked civilly.

"Miss Coyne's out of this from here on. In fact, she is out of your organization altogether."

The Vicar looked from him to Maggie. "I see. I had been given to understand that you two were romantically involved-well, physically involved at least. So I suppose this request is to be expected. Are you sure this is what the young lady wants? Perhaps she would prefer to see you through this. Lend some support, if need be. Eh?"

"It's not her choice. I want her out."

The Vicar blew out an oral breath, his heavy cheeks fluttering. "Why not? She has served her purpose. Certainly, my dear. You are free to go. And have no fears about your little flap in Belfast. It will be taken care of." He enjoyed playing Lord Bountiful; it was the churchman in him. "However," he continued, turning to Jonathan, "I do think you would do well to take advantage of the Loo organization and bring a couple of our men along with you to the National Gallery."

Jonathan laughed. "The very last thing I need is the burden of your pack of bunglers. Those men from MI-5 who tailed me to the Cellar d'Or almost blew my cover."

"Yes, Yank told me about that. I was most disturbed. I assure you it won't happen again."

"I wasn't able to contact the guys in time to call them off," Yank explained from his corner.

"I don't care about that. Just keep any Loo people away from me."

"I'm afraid our Loo organization doesn't impress you much, Dr. Hemlock. Indeed, I have a feeling that you share with Strange a certain disdain for things British."

"Don't take it to heart. I arrived during an awkward period for your country. The twentieth century."

The Vicar tapped the desk with his fingertips. "You had better succeed, Hemlock," he said, winking furiously.

The split-reed cry of the wind around the corners of the Olde Worlde Inn slid with the force of the storm from a basso hum to a contralto quiver. Jonathan listened to it in the dark, his eyes wandering over the dim features of the ceiling.

They had not spoken for a long time, but he knew from the character of the current between them that she was awake.

"I have to give the papers time to carry the story about the Marini Horse. There's nothing for me to do tomorrow but keep out of sight."

She turned to him and placed her hand on his stomach in response.

"Do you want to spend the day with me?" he asked.

"Here?"

"Christ, no. We could run down to Brighton."

"Brighton?"

"That's not as mad as it seems. Brighton's interesting in the middle of winter. Desolate piers. Storm swept. The Lanes are empty, and the wind flutes through them. Amusement areas boarded up. There's a melancholy charm to resort areas in the off-season. Strumpets all dressed up with no place to go. Circus clowns standing in the snow."

"You're a perverse man."

"Sure. Do you want to come with me?"

"I don't know."

A metallic tympany of sleet rattled against the window, then the stiff wind backed around, and the room was silent.

"Last night, at The Cloisters..." She paused, then decided to press on. "Do you remember what I said?"

Of course he remembered, but he hoped she had been babbling and would forget it all later. "Oh, you were pretty much out of your head with the dope. You were just playing out fantasies."

"Is that what you want to believe?"

He didn't answer. Instead, he patted her arm.

"Don't do that! I'm not a puppy, or a child that's stubbed its toe."

"Sorry."

"I'm sorry too. Sorry the idea of being loved is such a burden to you. I think you're an emotional cripple, Jonathan Hemlock."

"Do you?"

"Yes, I do."

The downward curl of the last vowel made him smile to himself.

"I have a plan," he said after a silence. "When this thing is over, we'll get together and play it out. Gingerly. Week by week. See how it goes."

She had to laugh. "Lord love us, if you haven't found the tertium quid between proposal and proposition."

"Whichever it is, do you accept?"

"Of course I do."