“What are they supposed to do if they get into trouble?”

Armitage grinned. “They have to find a phone and ring for backup from an armed unit. Unbelievable!”

“Kingstone doesn’t need a pistol if he’s got you, Bill,” she said comfortably. “Are you escorting him straight back here? I need to talk to him. I’ve got some news for him.”

Armitage looked at her speculatively. “Oh, yes. You were down at the lawyer’s, weren’t you? Has the little madam done the decent thing and left her ill-gotten goodies back where they came from—to Kingstone?”

“I think he should be the first to hear, Bill.”

“Sure … The boss has decided that since he’s going home early, he’s at least going to get a look at some pretty part of London while he can. He’s going to take a breather walking back from the conference hall. He plans to cross the road into the park, taking in a bit of statuary: the Albert Memorial, Peter Pan and the Achilles statue, topped off with a visit to the park tea rooms and a sing-along with the band, sitting in a deck chair. Itinerary suggested to him by—you’ll never guess—Joe Sandilands, the Kensington Boulevardier. There’s an arrogant bugger who assumes bullets will bounce off him. I had to save his bloody skin more than once in the war. And he hasn’t learned.”

“Why would they be taking a walk? Aren’t there taxis down there?”

“ ’Course there are. Walking in parks is what English gents do when they’ve got secret stuff to exchange. No one overhearing or hiding a microphone in a wall or a lamp. More business gets done out there than in the conference hall—or in Parliament. They read newspapers then leave them on a bench with a message in code.” Armitage rolled his eyes in exasperation. “Bloody boy scouts! They look at a park full of trees and bushes and they see a bird sanctuary, haunt of wagtails and willow-warblers. I see perfect ambush country. Three Irish blokes damned nearly got Winston Churchill in Hyde Park. I nipped out to do a recce this afternoon. It’s not good. You could stash ten assassins with machine guns away in there and never see them. And they’d all get away. Because there is no Plod. They only patrol after dark, would you believe! Protecting unsuspecting Members of Parliament who’ve taken a wrong turning from falling into the clutches of lipsticked ladies with short skirts and big handbags.”

“I know that park,” Julia said. “It is a lovely place on a June afternoon.”

“Now they’ve stopped using the Serpentine as a sewer. Little boys sailing their boats on the Round Pond, nannies out walking with prams …”

“Perhaps they’re right. I expect the two gents want to say their goodbyes. They seem to have hit it off.”

“Well I’d better not keep them waiting. Ta-ta, Julia, love. See you later.”

“Enjoy the statuary! The Achilles looks a bit like you, without your clothes on, Bill! Best sculpted fig leaf in London! I’ll stay and have my tea at the hotel. Sorry to hear you’ll not be staying much longer … Bill, I was wondering …?”

He gave her a radiant smile as he eased into his jacket. “I thought you’d never get round to it. We’ll talk about that, shall we? And not in a draughty old park. We’ll take a table to ourselves, this evening. At the Ritz? Go easy on the cream buns, gel!”

KINGSTON EMERGED FROM the Geological Museum Hall at five o’clock as arranged, looking tired and anxious. Joe hardly liked to ask him: “Did all go well?”

“Fine. Just fine. Your King George was kingly, your Prime Minister was magisterial. A gold-plated microphone transmitted the messages of good will and resolve to millions all over the world. You can read the text in the papers tomorrow. The World Economic Conference is off to a good start, I think we can say.” And, in an undertone as he settled his homburg on his head, “Where can we talk?”

Joe led the way down Exhibition Road towards the park. “We’ll give the statues and the architecture a miss and go straight for the café if you like. Did you have any lunch?”

“No. No lunch. I spent the hour talking. Moving my counters around. Playing for my life.” Kingston rallied and made an effort, as they walked along, to take an interest in his surroundings. “Knightsbridge, you say this is called? I see no bridge.”

“Long gone. But it must have been right here where we’re crossing into Kensington Gardens, spanning the Westbourne Stream, which ran here in ancient times when the village was well outside the London boundary.” He spoke in the confident voice of a gentleman showing a friend around London but Joe recognised that Kingstone’s attention was scarcely on what he was saying. The man’s eyes were moving from side to side. Hunting for something or someone, grunting a response the moment Joe stopped talking.

“The place has a very ancient legend attached to it. Two knights leaving London to go to war—as far back as the Crusades possibly—had a quarrel. They fought on the bridge while their companions watched the struggle from the banks. Both of them fell dead and the bridge has been called after the knights ever after. They made a terrific duelling ground, of course, these open spaces. And were a haunt of highwaymen and footpads until a hundred years ago.”

“No law and order, then, in the early days?” Kingston roused himself to ask.

“Strangely enough,” Joe battled on, determined to entertain and amuse, “the concealing thickets of this park have been the setting for some strange conceptions over the years, no offspring so misbegotten perhaps as the Metropolitan Police Force! Right here. An armed troop was formed to protect the public crossing the park into the city from the thieves that infested it. There’s still a manned police station in Hyde Park about a quarter of a mile away, in the middle of a thousand acres of wilderness. Many men have died here over the years fighting each other with sword and bullet.”

“Sounds like a blood-soaked killing field to me. What are you leading me into?”

“Ah! That’s in the past. When you’ve seen it for yourself, all green and peaceful on a summer’s afternoon, you’ll agree with your countryman Henry James, who lived just round the corner, that this is Paradise.”

Joe pointed out the Broad Walk and its stately elm trees, the Round Pond busy with juvenile yachtsmen and the thickets of the Bird Sanctuary where, seven years ago, he and Armiger had arrested a would-be rapist. “Speaking of whom,” Joe said, “I don’t see your aide. I thought you’d asked him to be in attendance?” In some unease, he warned, “I have to declare I carry no gun myself. You?”

“Me neither. My Pocket Special’s with your police in Surrey. But Armiger is about the place somewhere. This is his style. He never walks with me. That just enlarges the target, he says and, when it comes to protection, you don’t argue with Armiger. Don’t worry, he always steps forward at exactly the right moment and he usually carries a spare. He’s a marvel at keeping himself hidden.”

“A quality I remember well,” Joe confirmed, not without irony. “How do you fancy a calming cup of tea in the café?”

“Order what you like,” said Kingstone when they had settled at a table as far as possible from the others. He straightened the rickety wooden table and banged a leg into place with his fist. When he’d tugged the white linen cloth into place he added, “Anything but Earl Grey for me.”

Joe placed a double order for ham sandwiches, Chelsea buns and Typhoo tea with the waitress and while they waited for the tray to arrive, looked about him, automatically scanning the other customers. Young mothers chatted happily together over the heads of jam-smeared infants or called unheeded warnings to older children playing games between the tables. A poorly dressed young couple were sharing a toasted tea-cake. Two Foreign Office mandarins, heads together, were plotting some skulduggery over their cucumber sandwiches. Joe searched beyond them, peering into the depths of the surrounding foliage and he recognised that the American had made him nervous. “Twitchy, Cornelius? You must have a reason. You said you were playing for your life. How did that game come out?”