'You're a bloody maniac, Bernard. I must be mad, but okay. How do you want to do it?'

'All the servants are in the barn. We won't use the front door in case they hear us. If we go along the wooden veranda, and climb through one of the windows there, we can go up the back stairs that only the servants use. I know how to find the room.'

'But it's locked.'

'I've got something with me that should do it. It's not a real lock.' I'd had a good look round the kitchen while eating with the servants. In my pocket I now had a fruit knife with a thin pliable blade, and a couple of long skewers.

Once Dicky had agreed, he became quite keenly involved in our caper. Warily we skirted the barn, where a crowd of pitiable servants were grouped around an inadequate open fire. We then returned to the big house and went up the steps to the veranda, where we soon found a conveniently loose window. I slid it open and let Dicky climb through first, in case something went wrong. Then I followed him and pushed the window closed. Once inside the house we could hear the voices of the three men. They were in the drawing room now. The priest was talking very quietly in Polish and the man he'd brought with him was answering in monosyllabic grunts. I could neither hear clearly nor understand their words but it didn't sound like any sort of religious ceremony.

Dicky and I climbed the back stairs very slowly. We both kept to the side where the staircase supporting beams fitted into the outside wall, for the stairs were at their most secure there, and least likely to creak. Once up on the top floor we stayed away from the windows in case one of the men in the garden looked up and spotted us. Then we were at the door of the room I wanted to investigate.

The lock was easily pried back with the thin knife-blade. Once we were inside, even Dicky could see that it was worth looking into. It was a double room separated by a folding screen which was at this time open. These two rooms were obviously the best-maintained ones in the house. Together they formed a self-contained unit with a private bathroom and a fine bed with a mattress so new it still had its transparent wrapping intact. There was new wallpaper too, and some of the household's better antique furniture.

One room was furnished as a study, with extensive bookcases, a large gilt-framed mirror reflecting the whole room and a couple of landscape paintings. A lovely inlaid desk was placed diagonally so that someone seated at it, in the comer of the room, would get the light from two windows. A side table was entirely occupied by family photographs of all shapes and sizes, some of them in elaborate silver frames. A series of deep shelves held dusty cardboard models of theater sets with cut-out figures to show the effect of the costumes against the scenery.

I followed Dicky into the bedroom side of the unit.

'Look,' said Dicky, having opened a closet door. Inside there were men's clothes. One glance was enough for me to recognize George Kosinski's expensive attire. There were suits and sports jackets that I'd seen him wearing. There were new ski clothes and a sheepskin waistcoat. Some of the garments were in zipper covers and everything was arranged in that neat way that suggested a servant's hand; shoes on trees and in shoe-bags bearing exalted Italian names.

'It doesn't mean they've killed him,' Dicky said hastily.

This non sequitur seemed to be generated by the expression on my face. I said nothing. From downstairs I heard the litany of the old priest, and curious little sounds, like shrieks of pleasure, that I could not identify. I picked up a single shoe from the row of pairs, a brogue exactly like the chewed-up one we'd seen in the forest. 'Where's the other one?' I said.

'They're getting closer, Bernard. Did the priest and his man arrive in separate cars?' He was looking out of the window. 'There's another car there.'

'Calm down, Dicky. We can't cut and run now. There's too much at stake.'

'Yes, our lives,' said Dicky. 'This is becoming a personal vendetta for you, Bernard. I warned you about taking things personally, didn't I?'

'Shirts, underclothes . . .' I was pulling out each of the drawers, starting with the bottom drawer so that I didn't have to push them back. 'Socks.' It was a burglar's way of searching, and burglars didn't put anything back afterwards. It was this reckless procedure that alarmed Dicky. He followed me as I searched, trying to restore the room to its former tidy state. 'No wires, no transmitters as far as I can see . . . ' I said.

'Let's go, Bernard. Please!'

I opened the door to the bathroom. 'Jesus!' I was startled almost out of my skin. I jumped back. There was a man there. He was jammed in to the shallow space between the double doors. He was tall and thin, with long wavy gray hair. His face had skin so drawn and tight that all the muscles could be counted.

For a moment I thought it was a dead body propped there. Then he moved forward. 'I was listening,' he said in good clear English. 'My brother wasn't killed in this house.' Now I could see him more clearly I recognized him as George Kosinski's brother; I'd seen photos of him. But while George was short and active this man Stefan was tall, thin and deliberate in his movements. His clothes were Western and expensive: a thigh-length jacket of soft brown leather, a red silk roll-neck and drainpipe trousers of the sort the fashionable man was wearing in the Sixties.

'You are Stefan Kosinski?' said Dicky. There was no hint of discomfort or apology in his voice, and I admired him for the way he could control his feelings when he really wanted to.

'You abuse my hospitality,' said Stefan. He took his time putting a cigarette into a long ivory cigarette holder and lighting it with a gold lighter. 'I return home early and what do I find? I find you have invaded my home to ransack it.'

'We're looking for your brother,' said Dicky. 'If you've nothing to hide you'll let us talk to him.'

'Are you an insensitive fool?' asked Stefan in a strangled voice. 'Do you have no human feelings? My brother is dead. I have been to complete the formalities. The authorities have seen enough evidence, a death certificate has been signed. What more do you want of me?' Stefan sank down into the armchair and sighed deeply. 'I am totally desolated and I'm tired. I'm very tired.'

From along the corridor the little procession of the priest, his helper and Karol the secretary could be heard. The men were talking softly as they progressed methodically from room to room accompanied by occasional shrill musical notes.

Stefan said, 'We Kosinskis like to keep our family together. You English don't care about your dead, but for us it's different.'

'What happened here?' said Dicky. 'Why this exorcizing? Why the priest?'

Stefan, one hand under his chin, looked up at him from under lowered eyelids. Stefan was an actor; every movement, every stance was a contrived pose. No wonder the regime was so happy to have him go abroad to represent the Polish theater, he was the sort of handsome romantic Pole every foreigner might envisage. The thin body, the tragic expression, the soulful look, the burning eyes: everything about him contributed to this casting-director's dream. 'They are sweeping for hidden microphones,' said Stefan wearily. 'The apparatus sends a signal when the wand is held near to an active transmitter. The Church sent their own apparatus from Lublin. They have to have such devices: the secret police target the churches and their meetings.' Now I understood. Stefan had been examining each room for new wiring or fresh paintwork, keeping ahead of the detector team. He must have heard us talking when looking around the bathroom.

I still don't understand,' said Dicky. 'Who killed your brother?'