“I’ll go check the motor,” Onslow gritted to his friend, ignoring Pearson’s outstretched hand. He left Cummings listening to a burbling account of the near death in similar circumstances of her ladyship’s poodle in ’22 or was it ’23 … that long, hot summer. He climbed in, started the engine and moved off smoothly, driving the car to park in the deep shade of a tree, facing out to the open gates.

He returned and announced, “Nothing melting in the back but I wouldn’t want the upholstery to bleach in the sun. It’s the best leather.”

“Indeed!” Pearson said, approving. “Such a splendid motor deserves care.”

“You’re not wrong, mister. Now—shall we trot on?”

Judging from the quality of the steely glint in Onslow’s eye that the moment had come to stop wasting time, the butler sighed, gave a slight ironic bow and trotted on.

ONCE THEY WERE clear of the outbuildings and sheltered from the breeze, the valley drew them down into its green folds, intoxicating with its woodland scents of blossom, herbs and wild garlic. Birds of many kinds set up a cacophony of warning songs following their progress along the track. The well-drained soil was dry and resilient underfoot, the pathway drumming slightly under the heels of the men’s tough brogues. When Pearson turned to smile encouragement he noticed that the two strangers were looking about them, taking in their surroundings, assessing the steepness of the banks under the beech trees and the thickness of the leaf canopy, judging the direction of the shots in the woodland ahead. Checking their bearings. The very professional reaction of killers on unfamiliar territory. Supremely confident? Or ruthlessly uncaring? Pearson shuddered in spite of the buffets of warm air rising from the hot earth.

He was letting a tiger loose at a children’s picnic.

“I swear,” Onslow muttered to his companion, “if he waves that bloody duster over his head once more I’ll drop ’im!” He bridled at a sound he heard in the stand of trees to his right. “Someone up there?” he called to Pearson.

“Probably not … We’re still a good mile away from the scene of operations, sir. That would be a ring dove, I expect. Noisy blighters!” Pearson picked up a stone from the path and lobbed it with a cricketer’s skill at the tallest tree. To his relief a ring dove obliged him by fluttering out with an aggrieved squawk. He reminded himself that in India prowling tigers had their progress telegraphed ahead by the warning bleats and whistles of other wild creatures. Were his companions aware? He flung another glance back at the pair moving sinuously along the path in their black hats and dark city suits and decided: no, he’d got it wrong. This was a cobra he was ushering in.

“We’re approaching the smaller of the two lakes,” he announced. “The trout lake. Two more bends in the path and we’ll get a sight of it from above. It’s quite hard to see, you’ll find. Hawthorn, azaleas, rhododendrons are all low-growing over the water. Wonderful for the insects the fish feed on, of course. They say we’ve had an exceptional hatch of mayfly this season. Even an American should be able to come home with something in his creel at the end of the day.”

“And the guns—duck shooters? How much farther on?”

“Fifteen minutes’ walk. No more than that.”

The two men looked at each other for a moment. Onslow’s face twisted for a second in a grimace of satisfaction and then he nodded at his companion.

“Right then, in that case, I think we’ll say goodbye and thanks very much, Mr. Pearson. We can find our own way from here.”

“Oh, but—”

“No need for buts. Just let us do our job, will you? We’ll take good care not to show our—what was it? Topgallants?” And, finally dropping all attempt at civility: “Now you and your bloody duster—dismiss!”

Scandalised and offended, Pearson opened his mouth and closed it. Then with a touch of truculence: “Very well, sir. Have a good day at the shoot. I’ll be getting back to my pantry. Fifteen minutes walk, that’s all.” He turned and started to make his way back down the path.

The men waited until he was out of sight round the bend then they took their revolvers from their holsters—Onslow his Colt, Cummings his Luger—and, holding them discreetly at the ready by their sides, moved off towards the small lake.

Onslow caught sight of him first.

He stayed Cummings with a hand on his arm and silently pointed ahead and to the left. They stared at the figure reclining in a patch of shade under a tall tree not far from the water’s edge, checking the details. Fishing tackle lay abandoned several feet away. He was lying on his back on a tartan rug beside a wicker hamper, bottle of wine in a silver chiller, wine glass at the ready, open copy of a yellow-backed French novel spread over his chest. “Huh! Very nice for some!” Onslow’s comment was expressed silently by his eyebrows in an exchange of glances with Cummings.

They surveyed the fisherman for a while, noting how very still he lay, his feet at an odd angle, his jacket and shirt unbuttoned. His face was completely covered by a fishing hat of ancient design.

Onslow made no move. His senses were telling him there was something wrong here. For a start, this didn’t look much like the American senator. It was a dapper figure he’d had a good close look at back in London. Well dressed. This was more like a tramp. It could be anybody. He took a neat pair of racing glasses from his pocket and focussed on the sleeping figure. Right height, he would have thought, though it was always hard to judge when a bloke was lying stretched out. He tracked along the body, did a double take, and ranged the glasses back again to the feet in disbelief. Were those carpet slippers on his feet? Surely not?… Bloody were! The glasses moved on. Lumpy trousers … top half like an unmade bed. Tweed hat for a face.

He turned his attention to the wine. Rosé de Tavel apparently. One glass drunk, judging by the level in the bottle. He checked the title of the novel on the man’s chest. L’homme au masque de fer, he made out. Dumas. So far the bleedin’ butler had it spot on. Still … Onslow had once made a mis-identification early in his career with disastrous consequences. Once. In his job, no one ever fouled up a second time. They watched on.

The sharp warning call of a blackbird very close by made the men start. They shrank back into the shadows instinctively as the man they were watching pushed the hat away, grunted, sat up, moved his book aside and surveyed the tree-line—challenging, taking his time, searching for the source of the disturbance. He checked his watch and yawned. Reassured by what he saw or didn’t see, he rolled himself up in his rug, pulled the hat back down over his eyes and wriggled himself comfortable.

Onslow smirked with satisfaction and relief and slipped the glasses back into his pocket. This was Kingstone all right. No mistaking that ugly mug. He flashed a double thumbs-up to Cummings. Positive identification.

They spent some more time watching their target and his surroundings, looking, listening and sniffing the air with the quiet but tense calm of a predator. Waiting to allow any discordant notes to snag at their attention. None did. The sounds of the duck shoot—irregular crack of the guns, beaters calling—were reassuring to their ears. The idiots were providing perfect cover for their activities. One more shot ringing out would be neither here nor there and would be disregarded even if registered by the sportsmen down at the big lake. And if any nosey parker decided to follow it up—he would be … how far away had the butler said? Fifteen minutes? They’d be long gone by then. Firing up the Maybach, reporting success. Next stop the Bookie’s for a celebratory flutter.