"I don't think so. Not where Oliver was concerned. Father thought Olly should be giving his attention to the Morborne Trust, building it back up, instead of involving himself in clubs and raves. I don't know why Father was so disappointed because ... John?"

"Yes?"

"Do you recall what Father used to say about the family Aunt Chris married into?"

"Ah, yes."

" 'The fforde-Becketts,' " the brothers intoned, " 'are a bad lot.' "

"Of course," Jamie continued, "Father would say this at breakfast from behind The Times, which had printed something in a diary column that met his disapproval, forgetting that Olly was at the table working his way through his muesli. Mummy would have a fit. But Father was right, in his way, wasn't he? Oliver is a bad lot. Was, rather."

"But Oliver did well enough for himself on his own," Jane pointed out. "Opening Icarus, carving out an impresario role-managing pop groups, arranging concerts-"

"You're not defending him, darling?"

"No, no. I'm only pointing out that he wasn't as profligate as his father and grandfather had been. He had some business sense, I think."

"I have no issue with how Olly got his money."

"Then perhaps you should." John raised an eyebrow. "Because I would more than wager that money lies at the heart of Boysie's murder. Do you remember, Jamie, about the time you and Jane were to be married, that Oliver was manoeuvring to buy that old theatre club on Villiers Street and turn it into that enormous nightclub?"

"Icarus. We were talking about it yesterday, oddly enough, Jane and I-Tom was with us. Boysie and Kamran were to be his partners in the venture, weren't they? I know Father didn't approve of it. I'm sure he got Boysie to renege. Boysie came into this money about that time, but you know Father-he wasn't going to have Boysie throw good money away or use the family name to raise capital all for some foolish scheme."

"But Icarus is a great success," Jane demurred. "It's one of the most consistently popular clubs in London. And Oliver was going to expand, with similar clubs on the Continent and the United States."

"But how did Oliver finance Icarus in the beginning? Uncle Fred's hotel scheme on Baisse drained much of what was left liquid in the Morborne Trust, didn't it?" John looked to his brother.

"Yes," Jamie replied. "The Morborne name was manure in capital markets in those days. How would Oliver have financed his share of the scheme, you ask? I expect much depended on the soundness of his two partners. The Arouzis are enormously rich-but quite conservative socially. I can't imagine Kamran's father wearing the notion of his son owning a nightclub, but it didn't matter in the end anyway, did it? Kamran took his own life, and that killed that goose and his golden egg."

"So where did Olly turn next, Jamie?"

"Boysie, I should imagine."

"I've had time to think about this at Hexham Priory. I'm sure you may be right, Jamie. Either Father got Boysie to renege on the scheme or Boysie had already forwarded moneys that he wished returned or Oliver wanted Boysie to loan him more money-or some financial doodah that made Oliver desperate. Perhaps Oliver owed money to criminals."

"But he wouldn't have got it from Boysie, would he? Father would have noticed any funny business in Boysie's estate after he died." Jamie paused to take a sip of his drink. "How, then, did Olly get Icarus off the ground?"

Tom held up a hand, as if he had been called upon in school. "I think I know."

Both brothers looked at him. "Really?" Jamie said.

"Dominic accused Oliver of selling works from the collection at Morborne House. I understand that their great-great-grandfather was an early collector of Impressionist paintings."

Jamie frowned. "But surely word would get about. Those paintings are treasures."

"Apparently, under the guise of cleaning and restoration and new framing, Oliver had the paintings sent out and copied, returning the copies to Morborne House and selling the originals on a black market."

The Allan brothers were silent a beat. "The devil!" Jamie finally exploded.

"I gather he's done it again over the years whenever he's needed an infusion of cash. And if he was having trouble getting financing from the usual sources for this new business venture of his, the Icarii ..."

"Probably one of the reasons he's wanted Lucy and her mother out of Morborne House," Jane said. "Someone among their friends and allies might begin to notice. But," she continued impatiently, "surely Oliver alit on that scheme after things went pear-shaped with Boysie."

"Well." Jamie stared into his whisky as if it yielded secrets. "David Corlett-or Phillips-identifies him at Tullochbrae shortly after our wedding." He frowned. "It's hard to think he went up with murder on his mind."

"I don't believe he did. Or perhaps that's what I want to believe."

"Why, then, didn't he want anyone to know he was travelling to Scotland? Why did he lie about being at Kamran's funeral?"

"I expect he didn't want any of the family to know why he was coming-all about grubby money. And it would have looked strange to appear after a wedding he had declined to attend. He'd been to Tullochbrae a few times when he was a teenager. He'd remember the private roads and paths. Aird Cottage is very near a public road. I don't think he travelled with stealth, I think he was simply being very discreet. Probably wanted to avoid Father."

Jamie made a dismissive grunt.

"I think whatever Olly asked for, Boysie refused," John continued. "They argued. And in a blind moment of rage, Oliver took the poker by the fireplace and struck Boysie a fatal blow. There was nothing to be gained by deliberately killing Boysie. There was more to lose, but it was done, and he thought he'd got away with it. Only he didn't realise he'd been witnessed by a mentally handicapped boy-"

"Whom you moved to protect-an astonishing act of sacrifice, John," Jane said.

"If there had been a proper investigation-" Jamie paused to drain his gla.s.s. "-then I suppose Oliver's being in Scotland would have been winkled out eventually. For example, he must have hired a car at Aberdeen. There would be a record. But as you had confessed to Boysie's murder, John, that ended that."

John didn't respond to the provocation. "What is difficult to understand is why it ended with such violence," he said instead. "What could Boysie have said or done that would have driven Oliver to ... manslaughter?"

Tom and Jane exchanged glances.

"I think Tom has an idea," Jane said regarding him speculatively. "It goes-does it not?-back to a horrifying event in Shropshire more than a quarter century ago."

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE.

"Did you know Kamran Arouzi?" Tom asked Jamie.

"Only a little. I was a fair bit younger and excluded from Boysie and Oliver's circle at school. But Kamran would come to tea sometimes at Bridgemary. He boarded. We Allans were day boys." He looked over the rim of his gla.s.s. "You say Kamran was witness to this ghastly act on The Wrekin?"

"Gaunt's certain. But only as a witness."

"It's hard to imagine Kamran any way involved. I think of him as a sensitive boy. I wondered even then that he was such fast friends with the likes of Boysie and Olly. They bullied him a bit, I recall-perhaps teased is the word-they were champion at it-but maybe he was glad of the friendship. I'm not sure how kind people were to him at school, because he wasn't, you know, English-I mean, by birth. I remember Mummy once giving the two of them, Boysie and Olly, stick for calling him a Paki, which was ridiculous since he was Iranian-Parsi, actually."

Jane said, "Tom thinks Boysie was involved."

"But Gaunt saw only two boys, darling-Oliver and Kamran."

"Something Gaunt said to me, as we waited for help this afternoon, which suggests Oliver had taken your older brother"-Tom addressed Jamie and John-"into his confidence."

"All boys together, sharing secrets, that sort of thing," Jane added.

"What an appalling idea. And Boysie keeping such a dreadful secret?"

"If he kept it."

"What do you mean?"

"Something you could hold over someone, don't you think?"

"I expect so," Jamie replied after a moment's thought, adding, "Surely Oliver must have been ... shaken in some fashion by the monstrous thing he had done. I would have been too young-you even younger, John. Did no one take notice?"

"Oliver's always seemed the height of lordly self-a.s.surance to me, Jamie," Jane responded. "He probably was then, too. But for Kamran, perhaps it wasn't water off a duck's back. It was the beginning of a life of-"

"Inspector." Jamie interrupted his wife as Bliss lumbered into the room followed by his sergeant. "Any more news of Gaunt?"

"We've despatched Mrs. Gaunt to Torbay Hospital, which should give you an indication of the seriousness of his condition." Bliss wore a harried frown. His eyes landed on John. "I've had an interview with Miss Phillips-"

"May I see Anna?" John interrupted.

"All in good time." Bliss gestured impatiently to his partner, who pulled a notebook and biro from his jacket pocket. "You were last seen in Abbotswick on Sat.u.r.day evening around ten, having words with Lord Morborne. And then, Mr. Allan or Phillips or whatever you call yourself, you disappear for the best part of two days."

"I thought Gaunt was the-" Jamie protested, but Bliss cut him off: "I'm leaving no stone unturned, sir. Mr. Allan, can you account for your-"

"Inspector," Tom interrupted, turning from contemplating the fireplace overmantel, the Triumph of Death, which had drawn his attention two nights before. "It doesn't matter."

"What?"

"It doesn't b.l.o.o.d.y matter where John's been the last two days."

"Would you care to lead this investigation, Vicar?"

"I would not."

"Then-"

"Look, if this were some sort of Jacobean drama, John here would do nicely on the playbill as the peer's son seeking to avenge a murder. He spent years in prison, sacrificing his youth to protect a vulnerable, mentally challenged young man and the woman he loved, when all along he was protecting a scoundrel. Who hearing his story mightn't imagine the outrage, the anger, the betrayal he might experience when he learned the truth? Who mightn't suspect him of murdering his cousin? Some, I expect, would hardly blame him.

"But he's innocent-of Oliver's murder and Roberto Sica's, too. A year and a half ago, when I was new in Thornford, I thought for a time that he might have had a hand in some violent deaths in the village. You know the ones I mean, Inspector.

"Then, too, it seemed he might have a motive, along with the opportunity. But I came to understand that he wasn't capable. Time spent in prison, I think, is thoroughly destructive for many people, but I think somehow John was ... burnished by the experience, his Christian faith, which he seems to have had strongly from childhood"-Tom looked to both brothers for confirmation-"strengthened by the reversals of his life. He's had a cross to bear, and he's borne it well. However provoked-and he has been sorely provoked-I'm certain he would turn the other cheek."

"Bravo, Vicar!" Jamie raised his gla.s.s.

"Fine words, Mr. Christmas, but I don't share your certainty. With enough provocation-"

"Possibly, Inspector. I'm not going to debate with you. Yes, John has a strong motive. But he hadn't the opportunity, for one thing." He glanced at John, who remained unmoving. "I think you'll find, if you check, that he has a solid alibi with the good Benedictines at Hexham Priory.

"However, there's something more vital."

"And what would that be?"

"Means, Inspector. John hadn't the means to kill Oliver."

CHAPTER THIRTY.

Priesthood was Tom's second vocation. Before he read theology at Cambridge, he had been, for a time as a young man, a professional magician, which one of his mothers (Dosh) didn't consider a proper job at all but a youthful enthusiasm gone riot. Whatever Dosh's misgivings, magicianship had focused his youthful energies, built his confidence, given him pleasure-and attracted not a few girls along the way. He maintained a sentimental attachment to it still. Illusory magic could awaken people to deeper aspects of their lives, he believed, though some in the Church treated his avocation with scepticism. He could slip in a moral lesson, too, and in this instance, in Egges...o...b.. Hall's drawing room, for his first time, he was about to do something more.

He glanced at DI Bliss who had removed himself to the pale of the drawing room, ceding pride of place before the mantelpiece, a scowl on his face. He had been incredulous in his resistance to Tom's request. "And turn my investigation into a fairground sideshow?" he'd snapped, though Tom's intent was not at all to amuse and distract. Indeed, he had never before approached a performance of magic with such a freighted heart and, in this peculiar instance, with such uncertainty as to its effect. He found himself in the invidious position of reminding the DI of his contributions to their past investigative successes. Only then was permission grudgingly given.

He noted the others as they entered the drawing room. Dowager Lady Fairhaven, changed into dark linen trousers and a striped shirt, gave the police detectives an appraising stare, in which Tom read distaste mixed with a kind of surrender to the inevitable. Anna followed a step behind, but her eyes sought John's, lighting like two tiny beacons when they met his. He responded with a repentant smile and a gesture to join him. She declined a drink. Jamie remained the barman. But Marguerite accepted a brandy. Tom watched her raise an interrogatory eyebrow at Jamie's semi-formal dress, but she said nothing, taking a seat on the Hepplewhite sofa angled to the fireplace.

She had barely done so when Lucinda seemed to glide into the room from the hall on a breath of silvery laughter, as if responding to a private joke, followed in short order by Dominic, his lips compressed into a moue of amus.e.m.e.nt. Stopped short at the sight of the detectives, Lucinda pulled the solemn face of a naughty child caught misbehaving. As she stepped to the drinks table, Tom glanced at her. For a moment, a pink balloon of nostalgia hovered over his younger self-two days younger, but a birthday younger-and he marvelled at how swiftly pa.s.sion had turned to embers. He popped the balloon. He had a confession to make, and steeling himself was the task ahead. He returned Lucinda's enigmatic smile with a tight one of his own as she took a chair. Dominic, after fetching a brandy, chose to stand behind her, as if to be on guard. Looking around, he remarked to vacant response: "How terribly Agatha Christie," adding, "h.e.l.lo, John. It's been a long time."

"Very," John responded noncommittally as Lucinda cast him and Anna a studied glance.

Of family and guests, Hector (with Bonzo) arrived last, just as the clock was striking the hour, his expression sullen, as if dinner had been a trial and he'd had more than his fill of houseguests, including the police who received his bristling, slightly truculent glance. Tom watched him slew his eyes around the unusual arrangement of bodies and land on John.

"So, you've been hiding in plain sight all these years."

"I've been living my life, Hector."

Lord Fairhaven grunted. "I'm sorry Georgina can't be here to greet you."

"Where is she?" Marguerite's tone suggested she knew very well.

"Having an early night. She suffers from migraines. Inspector"-Hector turned to Bliss-"I may have said. I trust you don't mind."

The time it took Bliss to respond-five seconds in which Madrun arrived in the room burdened with a tray of coffee things-indicated he did mind, very much, but he replied evenly: "If we have further enquiries, we'll take them up when Her Ladyship is recovered."

"In the meantime, Inspector," Hector continued in a voice rimed with new frost, taking a chair opposite his mother, "what have you planned for us this evening?"

DI Bliss replied dryly: "Mr. Christmas has prepared an entertainment, Your Lordship."

Tom watched Hector's eyebrows curl into commas of disapproval as he glanced from the inspector to Tom. "Have you really," he drawled, running his hand over Bonzo's silky head. "How interesting."

"I'm not sure entertainment is the suitable word." Tom looked past Hector's head to see Madrun's eyes behind her spectacles glittering at the sight of the Honourable John Sebastian Hamilton Allan. Apparently, downstairs, whoever was left there, hadn't been informed of his presence. "It's more of a lesson-a parable, if you will-wrapped in an entertainment."

The whisky Jamie had poured him earlier affording him Dutch courage was also scorching his empty stomach. Along with everyone else but Hector, he refused coffee, fearing it would only add to the internal sludge, but he wished the coffee had arrived with biscuits.

"As a few of you know," he began when most everyone had settled into a comfortable position, "I was, when I was younger, a professional magician. Conventions, fairs, boat cruises, a little television, that sort of thing. I'd been enchanted by magic since I was a child. But when I felt the call, I didn't turn my back utterly on magic-or perhaps illusion is the better word, as I don't want to give anyone the impression I'm doing anything supernatural." He glanced at Madrun, who frowned at him as she bent to serve Lord Fairhaven a demita.s.se of coffee from a tray.