A Prisoner of Birth

CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

AS NICK MONCRIEFF crossed the road, one or two passersby glanced at him in mild surprise. It wasn't that they were unaccustomed to seeing prisoners coming out of that gate, but not someone carrying a leather suitcase and dressed like a country gentleman.

Danny never once looked back as he walked to the nearest station. After he'd bought a ticket-his first handling of cash for over two years-he boarded the train. He stared out of the window, feeling strangely insecure. No walls, no razor wire, no barred gates and no screws-prison officers. Look like Nick, talk like Nick, think like Danny.

At Cannon Street, Danny switched to the tube. The commuters were moving at a different pace from the one he had become accustomed to in prison. Several of them were dressed in smart suits, speaking in smart accents and dealing in smart money, but Nick had shown him that they were no smarter than he was; they had just started life in a different cot.

At King's Cross, Nick disembarked, lugging his heavy suitcase. He passed a policeman who didn't even glance at him. He checked the departures board. The next train to Edinburgh was scheduled to leave at eleven, arriving at Waverley station at 3:20 that afternoon. He still had time for breakfast. He grabbed a copy of The Times from a stand outside W.H. Smith. He'd walked a few paces before he realized he hadn't paid for the paper. Sweating profusely, Danny ran back and quickly joined the queue at the till. He remembered being told about a prisoner who had just been released and while he was on his way home to Bristol had taken a Mars Bar from a display cabinet on Reading station. He was arrested for shoplifting and was back in Belmarsh seven hours later; he'd ended up serving another three years.

Danny paid for the paper and walked into the nearest café, where he joined another queue. When he reached the hotplate he passed his tray across to the girl behind the counter. "What would you like?" she asked, ignoring the proffered tray.

Danny wasn't sure how to respond. For over two years he had just taken whatever ended up on his plate. "Eggs, bacon, mushrooms and…"

"You may as well have the full English breakfast while you're at it," she suggested.

"Fine, the full English breakfast," said Danny. "And, and…"

"Tea or coffee?"

"Yes, coffee would be great," he said, aware that it was going to take him a little time to become used to being given whatever he asked for. He found a seat at a table in the corner. He picked up the bottle of HP sauce and shook an amount onto the side of the plate that Nick would have approved of. He then opened his paper and turned to the business pages. Look like Nick, talk like Nick, think like Danny.

Internet companies were still falling by the wayside as their owners discovered that the meek rarely inherit the earth. By the time Danny had reached the front pages, he'd finished his meal and was enjoying a second cup of coffee. Someone had not only walked over to his table and refilled his cup, but also smiled when he said thank you. Danny began to read the lead article on the front page. The leader of the Conservative Party, Iain Duncan Smith, was under attack again. If the Prime Minister called an election, Danny would have voted for Tony Blair. He suspected that Nick would have supported Iain Duncan Smith; after all, he was another old soldier. Perhaps he would abstain. No, he must stay in character if he hoped to fool the voters, let alone remain in office.

Danny finished his coffee, but didn't move for some time. He needed Mr. Pascoe to tell him he could return to his cell. He smiled to himself, rose from his seat and strolled out of the café. He knew the time had come to face his first test. When he spotted a row of phone booths, he took a deep breath. He took out his wallet-Nick's wallet-extracted a card, and dialed the number embossed in the bottom right-hand corner.

"Munro, Munro and Carmichael," announced a voice.

"Mr. Munro, please," said Nick.

"Which Mr. Munro?"

Danny checked the card. "Mr. Fraser Munro."

"Who shall I say is calling?"

"Nicholas Moncrieff."

"I'll put you straight through, sir."

"Thank you."

"Good morning, Sir Nicholas," said the next lilting voice Danny heard. "How nice to hear from you."

"Good morning, Mr. Munro." Danny spoke slowly. "I'm thinking of traveling up to Scotland later today and I wondered if you might be free to see me sometime tomorrow."

"Of course, Sir Nicholas. Would ten o'clock suit you?"

"Admirably," said Danny, recalling one of Nick's favorite words.

"Then I'll look forward to seeing you here in my office at ten o'clock tomorrow morning."

"Goodbye, Mr. Munro," said Danny, just stopping himself from asking where his office was. Danny put the phone down. He was covered in sweat. Big Al had been right. Munro was expecting a call from Nick. Why would he have thought for a moment that he might be speaking to someone else?

Danny was among the first to board the train. While he waited for it to depart he turned his attention to the sports pages. The football season was still a month away, but he had high hopes for West Ham, who had finished seventh in the Premier League the previous season. He felt a tinge of sadness at the thought that he would never be able to risk visiting Upton Park again for fear of being recognized. No more "I'm forever blowing bubbles." Try to remember, Danny Cartwright is dead-and buried.

The train pulled slowly out of the station, and Danny watched London pass by giving way to the countryside. He was surprised how quickly they reached full speed. He had never been to Scotland before-the farthest north he had ever been was Vicarage Road, Watford.

Danny felt exhausted, and he'd only been out of prison for a few hours. The pace of everything was so much quicker and, hardest of all, you had to make decisions. He checked Nick's watch-his watch-a quarter past eleven. He tried to go on reading the paper, but his head fell back.

"Tickets please."

Danny woke with a start, rubbed his eyes and handed his rail warrant to the ticket collector. "I'm sorry, sir, but this ticket isn't valid for the express train. You'll have to pay a supplement."

"But I was-" began Danny. "I do apologize, how much will that be?" asked Nick.

"Eighty-four pounds."

Danny couldn't believe he'd made such a stupid mistake. He took out his wallet and handed over the cash. The ticket collector printed out a receipt.

"Thank you, sir," he said after he'd issued Danny with his ticket. Danny noticed that he called him sir without thinking about it, not mate, as an East End bus driver would have addressed him.

"Will you be having lunch today, sir?"

Once again, simply because of his dress and accent. "Yes," said Danny.

"The dining car is a couple of carriages forward. They'll begin serving in about half an hour."

"I'm grateful." Another of Nick's expressions.

Danny looked out of the window and watched the countryside flying by. After they passed through Grantham he returned to the financial pages, but was interrupted by a voice over the loudspeaker announcing that the dining car was now open. He made his way forward and took a seat at a small table hoping that no one would join him. He studied the menu carefully, wondering which dishes Nick would have chosen. A waiter appeared by his side.

"The pâté," Danny said. He knew how to pronounce it, although he had no idea what it would taste like. In the past his golden rule had been never to order anything that had a foreign name. "Followed by the steak and kidney pie."

"And for pudding?"

Nick had taught him that you should never order all three courses at once. "I'll think about it," said Danny.

"Of course, sir."

By the time Danny had finished his meal, he had read everything The Times had to offer, including the theater reviews, which only made him think about Lawrence Davenport. But for now, Davenport would have to wait. Danny had other things on his mind. He had enjoyed the meal, until the waiter gave him a bill for twenty-seven pounds. He handed over three ten-pound notes, aware that his wallet was becoming lighter by the minute.

According to Nick's diary, Mr. Munro believed that if the estate in Scotland and the London house were placed on the market, they would fetch handsome sums, although he had cautioned that it could be several months before a sale was completed. Danny knew that he couldn't survive for several months on less than two hundred pounds.

He returned to his seat, and began to give some thought to his meeting with Munro the following morning. When the train stopped at Newcastle upon Tyne, Danny unbuckled the leather straps around the suitcase, opened it and found Mr. Munro's file. He extracted the letters. Although they contained all of Munro's replies to Nick's questions, Danny had no way of knowing what Nick had written in his original letters. He had to try to second-guess what questions Nick must have asked after reading Munro's answers, with only the dates and the diary entries as reference points. After reading the correspondence again, he wasn't in any doubt that Uncle Hugo had taken advantage of the fact that Nick had been locked up for the past four years.

Danny had come across customers like Hugo when he worked at the garage-loan sharks, property dealers and barrow boys who thought they could get the better of him, but they never did, and none of them ever discovered that he couldn't read a contract. He found his mind drifting to the A levels he'd taken only days before being released. He wondered if Nick had passed with flying colors-another Nick expression. He had promised his cellmate that if he won his appeal, the first thing he would do was study for a degree. He intended to keep that promise and take the degree in Nick's name. Think like Nick, forget Danny, he reminded himself. You are Nick, you are Nick. He went over the letters once again as if he was revising for an exam; an exam he couldn't afford to fail.

The train arrived at Waverley station at three-thirty, ten minutes late. Danny joined the crowd as they walked along the platform. He checked the departure board for the time of the next train to Dunbroath. Another twenty minutes. He bought a copy of the Edinburgh Evening News and satisfied himself with a bacon baguette from Upper Crust. Would Mr. Munro realize that he wasn't upper crust? He went in search of his platform, then sat down on a bench. The paper was full of names and places he had never heard of: problems with the planning committee in Duddlingston, the cost of the unfinished Scottish Parliament building and a supplement giving details of something called the Edinburgh Festival, which was taking place the following month. Hearts' and Hibs's prospects in the forthcoming season dominated the back pages, rudely replacing Arsenal and West Ham.

Ten minutes later Danny climbed on board the cross-country train to Dunbroath, a journey that took forty minutes, stopping at several stations whose names he couldn't even pronounce. At four-forty, the little train trundled into Dunbroath station. Danny lugged his case along the platform and out onto the pavement, relieved to see a single taxi waiting on the stand. Nick climbed into the front seat while the driver put his case in the boot.

"Where to?" asked the driver once he was back behind the wheel.

"Perhaps you can recommend a hotel?"

"There is only one," said the taxi driver.

"Well, that solves the problem," said Danny, as the car moved off.

Three pounds fifty later, plus a tip, and Danny was dropped outside the Moncrieff Arms. He walked up the steps, through the swing doors and dumped his suitcase by the reception desk.

"I need a room for the night," he told the woman behind the counter.

"Just a single?"

"Yes, thank you."

"Would you please sign the booking form, sir?" Danny could now sign Nick's name almost without thinking. "And can I take an imprint of your credit card?"

"But I don't…" began Danny. "I'll be paying cash," said Nick.

"Of course, sir." She swiveled the form around, checked the name and tried to hide her surprise. She then disappeared into a back room without another word. A few moments later a middle-aged man wearing a plaid sweater and brown corduroys emerged from the office.

"Welcome home, Sir Nicholas. I'm Robert Kilbride, the hotel manager, and I do apologize, but we weren't expecting you. I'll transfer you to the Walter Scott suite."

Transfer is a word every prisoner dreads. "But-" began Danny, recalling how little cash was left in his wallet.

"At no extra cost," added the manager.

"Thank you," said Nick.

"Will you be joining us for dinner?"

Yes, said Nick. "No," said Danny, remembering his diminishing reserves. "I've already eaten."

"Of course, Sir Nicholas. I'll have a porter take your case up to the room."

A young man accompanied Danny to the Walter Scott suite.

"My name's Andrew," he said as he unlocked the door. "If you need anything, just pick up the phone and let me know."

"I need a suit pressed and a shirt washed in time for a ten o'clock meeting tomorrow morning," said Danny.

"Of course, sir. You'll have them back well in time for your meeting."

"Thank you," said Danny. Another tip.

Danny sat on the end of the bed and turned on the television. He watched the local news, delivered in an accent that reminded him of Big Al. It wasn't until he switched channels to BBC2 that he was able to follow every word, but within a few minutes he had fallen asleep.

CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

DANNY WOKE TO find he was fully dressed and the credits were running at the end of a black and white film starring someone called Jack Hawkins. He switched it off, undressed and decided to take a shower before going to bed.

He stepped into a shower which sent down a steady stream of warm water that didn't turn itself off every few seconds. He washed himself with a bar of soap the size of a bread roll, and dried himself with a large fluffy towel. He felt clean for the first time in years.

He climbed into a bed with a thick comfortable mattress, clean sheets and more than one blanket before resting his head on a feather pillow. He fell into a deep sleep. He woke. The bed was too comfortable. It even changed shape when he moved. He peeled off one of the blankets and dumped it on the floor. He turned over and fell asleep again. He woke. The pillow was too soft, so it joined the blanket on the floor. He fell asleep again, and when the sun rose accompanied by a cacophony of unrecognizable bird tunes, he woke again. He looked around, expecting to see Mr. Pascoe standing in the doorway, but this door was different: it was wooden, not steel, and it had a handle on the inside that he could open whenever he pleased.

Danny climbed out of bed and walked across the soft carpet to the bathroom-a separate room-to take another shower. This time he washed his hair, and shaved with the aid of a circular glass mirror that magnified his image.

There was a polite tap on the door, which remained closed, instead of being heaved open. Danny put on a hotel dressing gown and opened the door to find the porter standing there holding a neat package.

"Your clothes, sir."

"Thank you," said Danny.

"Breakfast will be served until ten o'clock in the dining room."

Danny put on a clean shirt and a striped tie before trying on his freshly pressed suit. He looked at himself in the mirror. Surely no one would doubt that he was Sir Nicholas Moncrieff. Never again would he have to wear the same shirt for six days in a row, the same jeans for a month, the same shoes for a year-that was assuming Mr. Munro was about to solve all his financial problems. That was also assuming Mr. Munro…

Danny checked the wallet that had felt so thick only yesterday. He cursed; he wouldn't have much left once he had settled the hotel bill. He opened the door, and once he'd closed it he immediately realized that he'd left the key inside. He would have to ask Pascoe to open the door for him. Would he end up on report? He cursed again. Damn. A Nick curse. He went off in search of the dining room.

A large table in the center of the room was brimming over with a choice of cereals and juices, and the hotplate offered porridge, eggs, bacon, black pudding and even kippers to order. Danny was shown to a table by the window and offered a morning paper, The Scotsman. He turned to the financial pages to find that the Royal Bank of Scotland was expanding its property portfolio. While he was in prison, Danny had watched with admiration the RBS's takeover of the NatWest Bank; a minnow swallowing a whale, and not even burping.

He looked around, suddenly fearful that the staff might be commenting on the fact that he didn't have a Scottish accent. But Big Al had once told him that officers never do. Nick certainly didn't. A pair of kippers was placed in front of him. His father would have considered them a right treat. First thoughts of his father since he had been released.

"Would you care for anything else, sir?"

"No, thank you," said Danny. "But would you be kind enough to have my bill ready?"

"Of course, sir," came back the immediate reply.

He was just about to leave the dining room when he remembered he had no idea where Mr. Munro's office was. According to his business card it was 12 Argyll Street, but he couldn't ask the receptionist for directions, because everyone thought he'd been brought up in Dunbroath. Danny picked up another key from reception and returned to his room. It was nine-thirty. He still had thirty minutes to find out where Argyll Street was.

There was a knock on the door. It was still going to be a little time before he didn't leap up and stand at the end of the bed and wait for the door to be opened.

"Can I take your luggage, sir?" asked the porter. "And will you need a taxi?"

"No, I'm only going to Argyll Street," Danny risked.

"Then I'll put your case in reception and you can pick it up later."

"Is there still a chemist shop on the way to Argyll Street?" Danny asked.

"No, it closed a couple of years ago. What do you need?"

"Just some razor blades and shaving cream."

"You'll be able to get those at Leith 's, a few doors down from where Johnson's used to be."

"Many thanks," said Danny, parting with another pound, although he had no idea where Johnson's used to be.

Danny checked Nick's watch: 9:36 A.M. He walked quickly downstairs and headed for reception, where he tried a different ploy.

"Do you have a copy of The Times?"

"No, Sir Nicholas, but we could pick one up for you."

"Don't trouble yourself. I could do with the exercise."

"They'll have one at Menzies," said the receptionist. "Turn left as you go out of the hotel, about a hundred yards…" She paused. "But of course you know where Menzies is."

Danny slipped out of the hotel and turned left, and soon spotted the Menzies sign. He strolled inside. No one recognized him. He bought a copy of The Times, and the girl behind the counter, much to his relief, addressed him as neither "sir" nor "Sir Nicholas."

"Am I far from Argyll Street?" he asked her.

"A couple of hundred yards. Turn right out of the shop, go past the Moncrieff Arms…"

Danny walked quickly back past the hotel, checking every intersection until he finally saw the name Argyll Street carved in large letters on a stone slab above him. He checked his watch as he turned into the street: 9:54. He still had a few minutes to spare, but he couldn't afford to be late. Nick was always on time. He recalled one of Big Al's favorite lines: "Battles are lost by armies who turn up late. Ask Napoleon."

As he passed numbers 2, 4, 6, 8, his pace became slower and slower; number 10, and then he came to a halt outside 12. A brass plate on the wall that looked as if it had been polished that morning, and on ten thousand mornings before, displayed the faded imprint of Munro, Munro and Carmichael.

Danny took a deep breath, opened the door and marched in. The girl behind the reception desk looked up. He hoped she couldn't hear his heart pounding. He was about to give his name when she said, "Good morning, Sir Nicholas. Mr. Munro is expecting you." She rose from her seat and said, "Please follow me."

Danny had passed the first test, but he hadn't opened his mouth yet.

"Following the death of your partner," said a woman officer standing behind the counter, "I'm authorized to pass over all of Mr. Cartwright's personal belongings to you. But first I need to see some form of identification."

Beth opened her bag and pulled out her driving license.

"Thank you," said the officer, who checked the details carefully before passing it back. "If I read out the description of each item, Miss Wilson, perhaps you'd be kind enough to identify them." The officer opened a large cardboard box and removed a pair of designer jeans. "One pair of jeans, light blue," she said. When Beth saw the jagged tear where the knife had entered Danny's leg, she burst into tears. The officer waited until she had composed herself, before she continued. "One West Ham shirt; one belt, brown leather; one ring, gold; one pair of socks, gray; one pair of boxer shorts, red; one pair of shoes, black; one wallet containing thirty-five pounds and a membership card for the Bow Street Boxing Club. If you'd be kind enough to sign here, Miss Wilson," she said finally, placing a finger on a dotted line.

Once Beth had signed her name she put all Danny's possessions neatly back in the box. "Thank you," she said. As she turned to leave she came face to face with another prison officer.

"Good afternoon, Miss Wilson," he said. "My name is Ray Pascoe."

Beth smiled. "Danny liked you," she said.

"And I admired him," said Pascoe, "but that's not why I'm here. Allow me to carry that for you," he said, taking the box from her as they started to walk down the corridor. "I wanted to find out if you still intend to try to have the appeal verdict overturned."

"What's the point," said Beth, "now that Danny's dead."

"Would that be your attitude if he was still alive?" asked Pascoe.

"No, of course it wouldn't," said Beth sharply. "I'd go on fighting to prove his innocence for the rest of my life."

When they reached the front gate Pascoe handed the box back to her and said, "I have a feeling Danny would like to see his name cleared."

CHAPTER FORTY

"GOOD MORNING, MR. Munro," said Danny, thrusting out his hand. "How nice to see you again."

"And you, Sir Nicholas," Munro replied. "I trust you had a pleasant journey."

Nick had described Fraser Munro so well that Danny almost felt he knew him. "Yes, thank you. The train journey allowed me to go over our correspondence once again, and reconsider your recommendations," said Danny as Munro ushered him into a comfortable chair by the side of his desk.

"I fear my latest letter may not have reached you in time," said Munro. "I would have telephoned, but of course…"

"That wasn't possible," said Danny, only interested in what the latest letter contained.

"I fear it's not good news," said Munro, tapping his fingers on the desk-a habit Nick hadn't mentioned. "A writ has been issued against you"-Danny gripped the arms of his chair. Were the police waiting for him outside?-"by your uncle Hugo." Danny breathed an audible sigh of relief. "I should have seen it coming," said Munro, "and therefore I blame myself."

Get on with it, Danny wanted to say. Nick said nothing.

"The writ claims that your father left the estate in Scotland and the house in London to your uncle and that you have no legal claim over either of them."

"But that's nonsense," said Danny.

"I entirely agree with you, and with your permission I will reply that we intend to defend the action vigorously." Danny accepted Munro's judgment, although he realized that Nick would have been more cautious. "To add insult to injury," Munro continued, "your uncle's lawyers have come up with what they describe as a compromise." Danny nodded, still unwilling to offer an opinion. "If you were to accept your uncle's original offer, namely that he retains possession of both properties along with responsibility for the mortgage payments, he will give instructions to withdraw the writ."

"He's bluffing," said Danny. "If I recall correctly, Mr. Munro, your original advice was to take my uncle to court and make a claim for the money my father borrowed against both houses, a matter of two million, one hundred thousand pounds."

"That was indeed my advice," continued Munro. "But if I recall your response at the time, Sir Nicholas"-he placed his half-moon spectacles back on the end of his nose and opened a file-"yes, here it is. Your exact words were, 'If those were my father's wishes, I will not go against them.' "

"That was how I felt at the time, Munro," said Danny, "but circumstances have changed since then. I do not believe my father would have approved of Uncle Hugo issuing a writ against his nephew."

"I agree with you," said Munro, unable to hide his surprise at his client's change of heart. "So can I suggest, Sir Nicholas, that we call his bluff?"

"And how would we go about that?"

"We could issue a counter-writ," replied Munro, "asking the court to make a judgment on whether your father had the right to borrow money against the two properties without consulting you in the first place. Although I am by nature a cautious man, Sir Nicholas, I would go as far as to suggest that the law is on our side. However, I'm sure that you read Bleak House in your youth."

"Quite recently," admitted Danny.

"Then you will be acquainted with the risks of becoming embroiled in such an action."

"But unlike Jarndyce and Jarndyce," said Danny, "I suspect Uncle Hugo will agree to settle out of court."

"What makes you think that?"

"He won't want to see his picture on the front page of The Scotsman and the Edinburgh Evening News, both of which would be only too happy to remind their readers where his nephew had been residing for the past four years."

"A point I had not taken into consideration," said Munro. "But on reflection, I have to agree with you." He coughed. "When we last met, you did not seem to be of the opinion that…"

"When we last met, Mr. Munro, I was preoccupied with other matters, and was therefore unable to fully grasp the significance of what you were telling me. Since then I have had time to consider your advice, and…" Danny had rehearsed these sentences again and again in his cell, with Big Al playing the role of Mr. Munro.

"Quite so," said Munro, removing his spectacles and looking more carefully at his client. "Then with your permission, I will take up the cudgels on your behalf. However, I must warn you that the matter may not be resolved quickly."

"How long?" asked Danny.

"It could be a year, even a little longer, before the case comes to court."

"That might be a problem," said Danny. "I'm not sure there's enough money in my account at Coutts to cover…"

"No doubt you will advise me once you have been in touch with your bankers."

"Certainly," said Danny.

Munro coughed again. "There are one or two other matters I feel we ought to discuss, Sir Nicholas." Danny simply nodded, as Munro put his half-moon spectacles back on and rummaged among the papers on his desk once again. "You recently executed a will while you were in prison," said Munro, extracting a document from the bottom of the pile.

"Remind me of the details," said Danny, recognizing Nick's familiar hand on the lined prison paper.

"You have left the bulk of your estate to one Daniel Cartwright."

"Oh, my God," said Danny.

"From that, am I to assume that you wish to reconsider your position, Sir Nicholas?"

"No," said Danny, recovering quickly. "It's just that Danny Cartwright died recently."

"Then you will need to make a new will at some time in the future. But frankly, there are far more pressing matters for us to consider at this moment in time."

"Like what?" asked Danny.

"There is a key that your uncle seems most anxious to get his hands on."

"A key?"

"Yes," said Munro. "It seems that he is willing to offer you one thousand pounds for a silver chain and key that he believes are in your possession. He realizes that they have little intrinsic value, but he would like them to remain in the family."

"And so they will," responded Danny. "I wonder if I might ask you in confidence, Mr. Munro, if you have any idea what the key opens?"

"No, I do not," admitted Munro. "On that particular subject your grandfather did not confide in me. Though I might make so bold as to suggest that if your uncle is so keen to lay his hands on it, I think we can assume that the contents of whatever the key opens will be worth far more than a thousand pounds."

"Quite so," said Danny, mimicking Munro.

"How do wish me to respond to this offer?" Munro asked.

"Tell him that you are not aware of the existence of such a key."

"As you wish, Sir Nicholas. But I have no doubt that he'll not be that easily dissuaded, and will come back with a higher offer."

"My reply will be the same whatever he offers," said Danny firmly.

"So be it," said Munro. "May I inquire if it is your intention to settle in Scotland?"

"No, Mr. Munro. I shall be returning to London shortly to sort out my financial affairs, but be assured I will stay in touch."

"Then you will require the keys to your London residence," said Munro, "which have been in my safekeeping since your father's death." He rose from his chair and walked across to a large safe in the corner of the room. He entered a code and pulled open the heavy door to reveal several shelves stacked with documents. He took two envelopes from the top shelf. "I am in possession of the keys to both the house in The Boltons and your estate here in Scotland, Sir Nicholas. Would you care to take charge of them?"

"No, thank you," said Danny. "For the time being I only require the keys for my home in London. I would be obliged if you retained the keys to the estate. After all, I can't be in two places at once."

"Quite so," said Munro, handing over one of the bulky envelopes.

"Thank you," said Danny. "You have served our family loyally over many years." Munro smiled. "My grandfather-"

"Ah," said Munro with a sigh. Danny wondered if he'd gone too far. "I apologize for interrupting you, but the mention of your grandfather reminds me that there is a further matter that I should bring to your attention." He returned to the safe, and after rummaging around for a few moments, extracted a small envelope. "Ah, here it is," he declared, a look of triumph on his face. "Your grandfather instructed me to hand this to you in person, but not until after your father had died. I should have carried out his wishes at our previous meeting, but with all the, er, constraints you were under at that time, I confess it quite slipped my mind." He passed the envelope to Danny who looked inside, but found nothing.

"Does this mean anything to you?" Danny asked.

"No, it doesn't," confessed Munro. "But recalling your grandfather's lifelong hobby, perhaps the stamp might be of some significance."

Danny placed the envelope in an inside pocket without further comment.

Munro rose from his chair. "I hope, Sir Nicholas, that it will not be too long before we see you in Scotland again. In the meantime, should you require my assistance, do not hesitate to call."

"I don't know how to repay your kindness," said Danny.

"I'm sure that after we have dealt with the problem of your uncle Hugo, I shall be more than adequately compensated." He smiled drily, then accompanied Sir Nicholas to the door, shook him warmly by the hand and bade him farewell.

As Munro watched his client stride back in the direction of the hotel, he couldn't help thinking how like his grandfather Sir Nicholas had turned out to be, although he wondered if it had been wise of him to wear the regimental tie-given the circumstances.

"He's done what?" said Hugo, shouting down the phone.

"He's issued a counter-writ against you, making a claim for the two million one hundred thousand you raised on the two properties."

"Fraser Munro must be behind this," said Hugo. "Nick wouldn't have the nerve to oppose his father's wishes. What do we do now?"

"Accept service of the writ and tell them we'll see them in court."

"But we can't afford to do that," said Hugo. "You've always said that if this case were to end up in court, we'd lose-and the press would have a field day."

"True, but it will never come to court."

"How can you be so sure?"

"Because I'll make certain that the case drags on for at least a couple of years, and your nephew will have run out of money long before then. Don't forget, we know how much is in his bank account. You'll just need to be patient while I bleed him dry."

"What about the key?"

"Munro is claiming that he doesn't know anything about a key."

"Offer him more money," said Hugo. "If Nick ever discovers what that key opens, he'll be able to watch me bleed to death."

CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

ON THE TRAIN back to London, Danny took a closer look at the envelope Nick's grandfather must have wanted him to have without his father knowing. But why?

Danny turned his attention to the stamp. It was French, value five francs, and showed the five circles of the Olympic emblem. The envelope was postmarked Paris and dated 1896. Danny knew from Nick's diaries that his grandfather, Sir Alexander Moncrieff, had been a keen collector, so the stamp might possibly be rare and valuable, but he had no idea who to turn to for advice. He found it hard to believe that the name and address could be of any significance: Baron de Coubertin, 25 rue de la Croix-Rouge, Genève, La Suisse. The baron must have been dead for years.

From King's Cross, Danny took the tube to South Kensington-not a part of London in which he felt at home. With the aid of an A to Z bought from a station kiosk, he walked down Old Brompton Road in the direction of The Boltons. Although Nick's suitcase was becoming heavier by the minute, he didn't feel he could waste any more of his rapidly dwindling reserves on a taxi.

When he finally reached The Boltons, Danny came to a halt outside number 12. He couldn't believe that only one family had lived there; the double garage alone was larger than his home in Bow. He opened a squeaky iron gate and walked up a long path covered in weeds to the front door. He pressed the bell. He couldn't think why, except that he didn't want to put the key in the lock until he was certain the house was unoccupied. No one answered.

Danny made several attempts at turning the key in the lock before the door reluctantly opened. He switched on the hall light. Inside, the house was exactly as Nick had described it in his diary. A thick green carpet, faded; red-patterned wallpaper, faded; and long antique lace curtains that hung from ceiling to floor, and had been allowed to attract moths over the years. There were no pictures on the walls, just less faded squares and rectangles to show where they had once hung. Danny wasn't in much doubt who had removed them, and in whose home they were now hanging.

He walked slowly around the rooms trying to get his bearings. It felt like a museum rather than someone's home. Once he'd explored the ground floor, he climbed the stairs to the landing and walked down another corridor before entering a large double bedroom. In a wardrobe hung a row of dark suits that could have been hired out for a period drama, along with shirts with wing collars, and on a rail at the bottom were several pairs of heavy black brogues. Danny assumed that this must have been Nick's grandfather's room, and clearly his father had preferred to stay in Scotland. Once Sir Alexander had died, Uncle Hugo must have removed the pictures and anything else of value that wasn't nailed down, before committing Nick's father to a million-pound mortgage on the house while Nick was safely locked up in prison. Danny was beginning to think that he might have to settle with Hugo before he could turn his attention to the Musketeers.

Having checked all the bedrooms-seven in all-Danny selected one of the smaller rooms in which to spend his first night. After he'd looked through the wardrobe and the chest of drawers, he concluded that it had to be Nick's old room, because there was a rack of suits, a drawer full of shirts and a row of shoes that fitted him perfectly, but looked as if they had been worn by a soldier who spent most of his time in uniform and had little interest in fashion.

Once Danny had unpacked, he decided to venture higher and find out what was on the top floor. He came across a children's room that looked as if it had never been slept in, next door to a nursery full of toys that no child had ever played with. His thoughts turned to Beth and Christy. He looked out of the nursery window onto a large garden. Even in the fading light of dusk he could see that the lawn was overgrown from years of neglect.

Danny returned to Nick's room, undressed and ran himself a bath. He sat in it, deep in thought, and didn't move until the water had turned cold. Once he'd dried himself, he decided against wearing Nick's silk pajamas and climbed straight into bed. Within minutes he was fast asleep. The mattress was more like the one he had become accustomed to in prison.

Danny leaped out of bed the following morning, pulled on a pair of pants, grabbed a silk dressing gown that was hanging on the back of the door, and went in search of the kitchen.

He descended a small uncarpeted staircase to a dark basement, where he discovered a large kitchen with an Aga and shelves full of glass bottles containing he knew not what. He was amused by a line of little bells attached to the wall, marked "Drawing Room," "Master Bedroom," "Study," "Nursery" and "Front Door." He began to search for some food, but couldn't find anything that hadn't passed its sell-by date years before. He now realized what the smell was that pervaded the whole house. If there was any money in Nick's bank account, the first thing he needed to do was employ a cleaner. He pulled open one of the large windows to allow a gust of fresh air to enter the room, into which it hadn't been invited for some time.

Having failed to find anything to eat, Danny returned to the bedroom to get dressed. He chose the least conservative garments he could find from Nick's wardrobe, but still ended up looking like a Guards captain on furlough.

As eight o'clock struck on the church clock in the square, Danny picked up the wallet from the bedside table and put it in his jacket pocket. He looked at the envelope Nick's grandfather had left him, and decided the stamp had to be the secret. He sat down at the desk by the window and wrote out a check to Nicholas Moncrieff for five hundred pounds. Was there five hundred pounds in Nick's account? There was only one way he was going to find out.

When he left the house a few minutes later he pulled the door closed, but this time he remembered to take the keys with him. He strolled to the top of the road, turned right and walked in the direction of South Kensington tube station, only stopping to drop into a newsagent and pick up a copy of The Times. As he was leaving the shop, he spotted a noticeboard offering various services. "Massage, Sylvia will come to your home, £100." "Lawnmower for sale, only used twice, £250 o.n.o." He would have bought it if he had been confident there was £250 in Nick's bank account. "Cleaner, five pounds an hour, references supplied. Call Mrs. Murphy on…" Danny wondered if Mrs. Murphy had a thousand hours to spare. He made a note of her mobile number, which reminded him of something else he needed to put on his shopping list, but that would also have to wait until he had discovered how much money there was in Nick's account.

By the time he got off the tube at Charing Cross, Danny had settled on two plans of action, depending on whether the manager of Coutts knew Sir Nicholas well, or had never come across him before.

He walked along the Strand looking for the bank. On its gray cover Nick's checkbook simply stated Coutts amp; Co, The Strand, London ; clearly it was too grand an establishment to admit it had a number. He had not gone far before he spotted a large glass-fronted bronze building on the other side of the road, discreetly displaying two crowns above the name Coutts. He crossed the road, nipping in and out of the traffic. He was about to find out the extent of his wealth.

He entered the bank through the revolving doors, and quickly tried to get his bearings. Ahead of him, an escalator led up to the banking hall. He made his way up to a large, glass-roofed room with a long counter running the length of one wall. Several tellers, dressed in black frock coats, were serving customers. Danny selected a young man who looked as if he had only just started shaving. He walked up to his window. "I would like to make a withdrawal."

"How much do you require, sir?" the teller asked.

"Five hundred pounds," said Danny, handing over the check he had written out earlier that morning.

The teller checked the name and number on his computer, and hesitated. "Would you be kind enough to wait for one moment, Sir Nicholas?" he asked. Danny's mind started racing. Was Nick's account overdrawn? Had the account been closed? Were they unwilling to deal with an ex-con? A few moments later an older man appeared, and gave him a warm smile. Had Nick known him?

"Sir Nicholas?" he ventured.

"Yes," said Danny, one of his questions answered.

"My name is Mr. Watson. I'm the manager. It's a pleasure to meet you after all this time." Danny shook him warmly by the hand before the manager said, "Perhaps we could have a word in my office?"

"Certainly, Mr. Watson," said Danny, trying to appear confident. He followed the manager across the banking floor and through a door that led into a small wood-paneled office. There was a single oil painting of a gentleman in a long black frock coat hanging on the wall behind his desk. Under the portrait was the legend John Campbell, Founder, 1692.

Mr. Watson began speaking even before Danny had sat down. "I see that you haven't made a withdrawal for the past four years, Sir Nicholas," he said, looking at his computer screen.

"That's correct," said Danny.

"Perhaps you have been abroad?"

"No, but in future I will be a more regular customer. That is, if you have been handling my account with care while I've been away."

"I hope you will think so, Sir Nicholas," responded the manager. "We have been paying interest at three percent per annum into your current account year on year."

Danny wasn't impressed, but only asked, "And how much is in my current account?"

The manager glanced at the screen. "Seven thousand, two hundred and twelve pounds." Danny breathed a sigh of relief, then asked, "Are there any other accounts, documents or valuables in my name which you are holding at the present time?" The manager looked a little surprised. "It's just that my father died recently."

The manager nodded. "I'll just check, sir," he said, before pressing some keys on his computer. He shook his head. "It seems that your father's account was closed two months ago, and all his assets were transferred to the Clydesdale Bank in Edinburgh."

"Ah, yes," said Danny. "My uncle Hugo."

"Hugo Moncrieff was indeed the recipient," confirmed the manager.

"Just as I thought," said Danny.

"Is there anything else I can do for you, Sir Nicholas?"

"Yes, I'll need a credit card."

"Of course," said Watson. "If you fill in this form," he added, pushing a questionnaire across the table, "we'll send one to your home address in the next few days."

Danny tried to remember Nick's date and place of birth and his middle name; he wasn't sure what to put under "occupation" or "annual earnings."

"There's one other thing," said Danny once he'd completed the form. "Would you have any idea where I can get this valued?" He took out the little envelope from an inside pocket and slid it across the desk.

The manager looked at the envelope carefully. "Stanley Gibbons," he replied without hesitation. "They are leaders in the field, and they have an international reputation."

"Where would I find them?"

"They have a branch just up the road. I would recommend that you have a word with Mr. Prendergast."

"I'm lucky that you're so well informed," said Danny suspiciously.

"Well, they have banked with us for almost a hundred and fifty years."

Danny walked out of the bank with an extra £500 in his wallet, and set off in search of Stanley Gibbons. On the way he passed a mobile phone shop, which allowed him to tick another item off his shopping list. After he'd selected the latest model, he asked the young assistant if he knew where Stanley Gibbons was.

"Another fifty yards on your left," he replied.

Danny continued down the road until he saw the sign over the door. Inside, a tall thin man was leaning on the counter turning the pages of a catalog. He stood up straight the moment Danny came in.

"Mr. Prendergast?" asked Danny.

"Yes," he said. "How may I help you?"

Danny took out the envelope and put it on the counter. "Mr. Watson at Coutts suggested that you might be able to value this for me."

"I'll do my best," said Mr. Prendergast, picking up a magnifying glass from under the counter. He studied the envelope for some time before he ventured an opinion. "The stamp is a first-edition five-franc imperial, issued to mark the founding of the modern Olympic Games. The stamp itself is of little value, no more than a few hundred pounds. But there are two other factors that could possibly add to its importance."

"And what are they?" asked Danny.

"The postmark is dated April sixth 1896."

"And why is that of any significance?" asked Danny, trying not to sound impatient.

"That was the date of the opening ceremony of the first modern Olympic Games."

"And the second factor?" asked Danny, not waiting this time.

"The person the envelope is addressed to," said Prendergast, sounding rather pleased with himself.

"Baron de Coubertin," said Danny, not needing to be reminded.

"Correct," said the dealer. "It was the baron who founded the modern Olympics, and that is what makes your envelope a collector's item."

"Are you able to place a value on it?" asked Danny.

"That's not easy, sir, as the item is unique. But I would be willing to offer you two thousand pounds for it."

"Thank you, but I'd like a little time to think about it," replied Danny, and turned to leave.

"Two thousand two hundred?" said the dealer as Danny closed the door quietly behind him.

CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

DANNY SPENT THE next few days settling into The Boltons, not that he thought he'd ever really feel at home in Kensington. That was until he met Molly.

Molly Murphy hailed from County Cork and it was some time before Danny could understand a word she was saying. She must have been about a foot shorter than Danny, and was so thin that he wondered if she had the strength to manage more than a couple of hours' work a day. He had no idea of her age, although she looked younger than his mother and older than Beth. Her first words to him were, "I charge five pounds an hour, cash. I won't be paying any tax to those English bastards," she had added firmly after learning that Sir Nicholas hailed from north of the border, "and if you don't think I'm up to it, I'll leave at the end of the week."

Danny kept an eye on Molly for the first couple of days, but it soon became clear that she had been forged in the same furnace as his mother. By the end of the week he was able to sit down anywhere in the house without a cloud of dust rising, climb into a bath that didn't have a water mark, and open the fridge to grab something without fearing he'd be poisoned.

By the end of the second week, Molly had started making his supper as well as washing and ironing his clothes. By the third week he wondered how he had ever survived without her.

Molly's enterprise allowed Danny to concentrate on other things. Mr. Munro had written to let him know that he had served a writ on his uncle. Hugo's solicitor had allowed the full twenty-one days to pass before acknowledging service.

Mr. Munro warned Sir Nicholas that Galbraith had a reputation for taking his time, but assured him that he would keep snapping at his ankles whenever the opportunity arose. Danny wondered how much this snapping would cost. He found out when he turned the page. Attached to Munro's letter was a bill for four thousand pounds, which covered all the work he had done since the funeral, including the serving of the writ.

Danny checked his bank statement, which had arrived, along with a credit card, in the morning post. Four thousand pounds would make a very large dent on the bottom line and Danny wondered how long he could survive before he would have to throw in the towel; it might have been a cliché but the expression did remind him of happier times in Bow.

During the past week, Danny had bought a laptop and a printer, a silver photo frame, several files, assorted pens, pencils and erasers, as well as reams of paper. He had already begun to build a database on the three men who had been responsible for Bernie's death, and he spent most of the first month entering everything he knew about Spencer Craig, Gerald Payne and Lawrence Davenport. That didn't amount to a great deal, but Nick had taught him that it's easier to pass exams if you've put in the research. He had just been about to begin that research when he received Munro's invoice, which reminded him how quickly his funds were drying up. Then he remembered the envelope. The time had come to seek a second opinion.

He picked up The Times-brought in by Molly every morning-and turned to an article he'd spotted on the Arts pages. An American collector had bought a Klimt for fifty-one million pounds in an auction at somewhere called Sotheby's.

Danny opened his laptop and googled Klimt to discover that he was an Austrian Symbolist painter, 1862-1918. He next turned his attention to Sotheby's, which turned out to be an auction house that specialized in fine art, antiques, books, jewelry and other collectible items. After a few clicks of the mouse, he discovered that collectible items included stamps. Those wishing to seek advice could do so by calling Sotheby's or by visiting their offices in New Bond Street.

Danny thought he'd take them by surprise, but not today, because he was going to the theater, and not to see the play. The play was not the thing.

Danny had never been to a West End theater before, unless he counted a trip on Beth's twenty-first to see Les Misérables at the Palace Theatre. He hadn't enjoyed it that much, and didn't think he'd bother with another musical.

He had phoned the Garrick the previous day and booked a seat for a matinee performance of The Importance of Being Earnest. They had told him to pick up his ticket from the box office fifteen minutes before the curtain rose. Danny arrived a little early, to find that the theater was almost deserted. He collected his ticket, bought a program and with the assistance of an usher made his way to the stalls, where he found his seat at the end of row H. Just a handful of people were dotted around.

He opened his program and read for the first time about how Oscar Wilde's play had been an instant hit in 1895 when it was first performed at the St. James's Theatre in London. He had to keep standing up to allow other people to take their seats in row H as a steady stream of ticket holders made their way into the theater.

By the time the lights went down, the Garrick was almost full and the majority of seats seemed to be occupied by young girls. When the curtain rose, Lawrence Davenport was nowhere to be seen, but Danny didn't have to wait long, because he made his entrance a few moments later. A face he would never forget. One or two of the audience immediately began clapping. Davenport paused before delivering his first line, as though he expected nothing less.

Danny was tempted to charge up onto the stage and tell the assembled gathering what sort of a man Davenport really was, and what had taken place at the Dunlop Arms the night their hero had stood and watched Spencer Craig stab his best friend to death. How differently he had acted in the alley from the swaggering, confident man he now portrayed. On that occasion he had given a far more convincing performance as a coward.

Like the young girls in the audience, Danny's eyes never left Davenport. As the performance continued, it became clear that if there was a mirror to gaze in, Davenport would find it. By the time the curtain fell for the interval, Danny felt he had seen quite enough of Lawrence Davenport to know just how much he'd appreciate a few matinees in jail. Danny would have returned to The Boltons and brought his file up to date if he hadn't found to his surprise how much he was enjoying the play.

He followed the jostling crowd into a packed bar and waited in a long queue while one barman tried manfully to serve all his would-be customers. Finally Danny gave up, and decided to use the time to read his program and learn more about Oscar Wilde, who he wished had been featured on the A-level syllabus. He became distracted by a high-pitched conversation that was taking place between two girls standing at the corner of the bar.

"What did you think of Larry?" asked the first.

"He's wonderful," came back the reply. "Pity he's gay."

"But are you enjoying the play?"

"Oh, yes. I'm coming again on closing night."

"How did you manage to get tickets?"

"One of the stagehands lives in our street."

"Does that mean you'll be going to the party afterwards?"

"Only if I agree to be his date for the night."

"Do you think you'll get to meet Larry?"

"It's the only reason I said I'd go out with him."

A bell sounded three times and several customers quickly downed their drinks before drifting back into the auditorium to take their seats. Danny followed in their wake.

When the curtain rose again, Danny became so engrossed in the play that he almost forgot his real purpose for being there. While the girls' attention remained firmly focused on Dr. Beresford, Danny sat back waiting to find out which one of two men would turn out to be Earnest.

When the curtain fell and the cast took their bows, the audience rose to their feet, shouting and screaming, just as Beth had done that night, but a different kind of scream. It only made Danny more determined that they should find out the truth about their flawed idol.

After the final curtain call, the chattering crowd spilled out of the theater onto the pavement. Some headed straight for the stage door, but Danny made his way back to the box office.

The box office manager smiled. "Enjoy the show?"

"Yes, thank you. Do you by any chance have a ticket for the closing night?"

"Afraid not, sir. Sold out."

"Just a single?" said Danny hopefully. "I don't mind where I sit."

The box office manager checked his screen and studied the seating plan for the last performance. "I do have a single seat in row W."

"I'll take it," said Danny, passing over his credit card. "Does that allow me to attend the party afterwards?"

"No, I'm afraid not," said the manager with a smile. "That's by invitation only." He swiped Danny's card, "Sir Nicholas Moncrieff," he said, looking at him more closely.

"Yes, that's right," said Danny.

The manager printed out a single ticket, took an envelope from below the counter and slipped the ticket inside.

Danny continued to read the program on the tube journey back to South Kensington, and after he'd devoured every word on Oscar Wilde and read about the other plays he'd written, he opened the envelope to check his ticket. C9. They must have made a mistake. He looked inside the envelope and pulled out a card which read:

THE GARRICK THEATRE

invites you to the closing-night party of

The Importance of Being Earnest

at the Dorchester

Saturday 14th September 2002

Admittance by ticket only 11:00 p.m. till heaven knows when

Danny suddenly realized the importance of being Sir Nicholas.

CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

"HOW INTERESTING. HOW very interesting," said Mr. Blundell as he placed his magnifying glass back on the table and smiled at his potential customer.

"How much is it worth?" asked Danny.

"I have no idea," Blundell admitted.

"But I was told you were one of the leading experts in the field."

"And I like to think I am," replied Blundell, "but in thirty years in the business I've never come across anything quite like this." He picked up his magnifying glass again, bent down and studied the envelope more closely. "The stamp itself is not all that uncommon, but one franked on the day of the opening ceremony is far more rare. And for the envelope to be addressed to Baron de Coubertin…"

"The founder of the modern Olympics," said Danny. "Must be even rarer."

"If not unique," suggested Blundell. He ran the magnifying glass over the envelope once again. "It's extremely difficult to put a value on it."

"Could you give me a rough estimate, perhaps?" asked Danny hopefully.

"If the envelope was purchased by a dealer, two thousand two hundred to two thousand five hundred would be my guess; by a keen collector, perhaps as much as three thousand. But should two collectors want it badly enough, who can say? Allow me to give you an example, Sir Nicholas. Last year an oil painting entitled A Vision of Fiammetta by Dante Gabriel Rossetti came under the hammer here at Sotheby's. We put an estimate on it of two and a half to three million pounds, which was certainly at the high end of the market, and, indeed, all the well-known dealers had fallen out some time before it reached the high estimate. However, because Andrew Lloyd Webber and Elizabeth Rothschild both wanted to add the picture to their collections, the hammer came down for the final time at nine million pounds, more than double the previous record for a Rossetti."

"Are you suggesting that my envelope might sell for more than double its valuation?"

"No, Sir Nicholas, I am simply saying that I have no idea how much it might sell for."

"But can you make sure that Andrew Lloyd Webber and Elizabeth Rothschild turn up for the sale?" asked Danny.

Blundell lowered his head, fearing Sir Nicholas might see that he was amused by such a suggestion. "No," he said, "I have no reason to believe that either Lord Lloyd Webber or Elizabeth Rothschild has any interest in stamps. However, if you decide to put your envelope into our next sale, it would be featured in the catalog, and sent to all the leading collectors in the world."

"And when will your next stamp sale be?" asked Danny.

"September the sixteenth," replied Blundell. "Just over six weeks' time."

"That long?" said Danny, who had assumed that they would be able to sell his envelope within a few days.

"We are still preparing the catalog, and will be mailing it to all our clients at least two weeks prior to the sale."

Danny thought back to his meeting with Mr. Prendergast at Stanley Gibbons, who had offered him £2,200 for the envelope, and probably would have gone as high as £2,500. If he accepted his offer he wouldn't have to wait for another six weeks. Nick's latest bank statement showed that he only had £1,918, so he might well be overdrawn by September 16th with still no prospect of any income.

Blundell did not hurry Sir Nicholas, who was clearly giving the matter his serious consideration, and if he was the grandson of… this could be the beginning of a long and fruitful relationship.

Danny knew which of the two options Nick would have settled for. He would have accepted the original offer of £2,000 from Mr. Prendergast, walked back to Coutts and banked the money immediately. That helped Danny come to a decision. He picked up the envelope, handed it to Mr. Blundell and said, "I'll leave you to find the two people who want my envelope."

"I'll do my best," said Blundell. "Nearer the time, Sir Nicholas, I'll see that you are sent a catalog, along with an invitation to the sale. And may I add how much I always enjoyed assisting your grandfather in the building of his magnificent collection."

"His magnificent collection?" repeated Danny.

"Should you wish to add to that collection, or indeed to sell any part of it, I would be only too happy to offer my services."

"Thank you," said Danny. "I may well be in touch." He left Sotheby's without another word-he couldn't risk asking Mr. Blundell questions to which he himself would be expected to know the answers. But how else was he going to find out about Sir Alexander's magnificent collection?

No sooner was Danny back out on Bond Street than he wished he had accepted Prendergast's original offer, because even if the envelope raised as much as six thousand, it still wouldn't be nearly enough to cover the costs of a prolonged legal battle with Hugo Moncrieff, and if he were to settle the writ before the expenses ran out of control, he'd still have enough money to survive on for a few more weeks while he looked for a job. But unfortunately, Sir Nicholas Moncrieff was not qualified to work as an East End garage mechanic; in fact, Danny was beginning to wonder what he was qualified to do.

Danny strolled on up Bond Street and into Piccadilly. He thought about the significance, if any, of Blundell's words "your grandfather's magnificent collection." He didn't notice that someone was following him. But then, the man was a professional.

Hugo picked up the phone.

"He's just left Sotheby's and he's standing at a bus stop in Piccadilly."

"So he must be running out of funds," said Hugo. "Why did he go to Sotheby's?"

"He left an envelope with a Mr. Blundell, the head of the philatelic department. It will come up for auction in six weeks' time."

"What was on the envelope?" asked Hugo.

"A stamp issued to mark the first modern Olympics, which Blundell estimated to be worth between two and two and a half thousand."

"When's the sale?"

"September sixteenth."

"Then I'll have to be there," said Hugo, putting down the phone.

"How unlike your father to allow one of his stamps to be put up for sale. Unless…" said Margaret as she folded her napkin.

"I'm not following you, old gal. Unless what?" said Hugo.

"Your father devotes his life to putting together one of the world's finest stamp collections, which not only disappears on the day he dies, but isn't even mentioned in his will. But what is mentioned are a key and an envelope, which he leaves to Nick."

"I'm still not sure what you're getting at, old gal?"

"The key and the envelope are clearly connected in some way," said Margaret.

"What makes you think that?"

"Because I don't believe the stamp is of any importance."

"But two thousand pounds would be a great deal of money to Nick at the present time."

"But not to your father. I suspect that the name and address on the envelope are far more important, because they will lead us to the collection."

"But we still won't have the key," said Hugo.

"The key will be of little importance if you can prove that you are the rightful heir to the Moncrieff fortune."

Danny jumped on a bus for Notting Hill Gate, hoping he'd be in time for the monthly meeting with his probation officer. Another ten minutes and he would have had to take a cab. Ms. Bennett had written to say that something of importance had come up. Those words made him nervous, though Danny knew that if they had found out who he really was, he wouldn't have been informed by a letter from his probation officer, but would have woken in the middle of the night to find the house surrounded by police.

Although he was becoming more and more confident with his new persona, not a day passed when he wasn't reminded that he was an escaped prisoner. Anything could give him away: a second glance, a misunderstood remark, a casual question to which he didn't know the answer. Who was your housemaster at Loretto? Which college were you in at Sandhurst? Which rugby team do you support?

Two men stepped off the bus when it came to a halt in Notting Hill Gate. One of them began to jog toward the local probation office; the other followed close behind, but didn't enter the building. Although Danny checked in at reception with a couple of minutes to spare, he still had to wait for another twenty minutes before Ms. Bennett was free to see him.

Danny entered a small, sparse office that contained only one table and two chairs, no curtains, and a threadbare carpet that would have been left orphaned at a car-boot sale. It wasn't much of an improvement on his cell at Belmarsh.

"How are you, Moncrieff?" asked Ms. Bennett as he sat down in the plastic chair opposite her. No "Sir Nicholas," no "sir," just "Moncrieff."

Behave like Nick, think like Danny. "I'm well, thank you, Ms. Bennett. And you?" She didn't reply, simply opened a file in front of her that revealed a list of questions that had to be answered by all former prisoners once a month while they are on probation. "I just want to bring myself up to date," she began. "Have you had any success finding a job as a teacher?"

Danny had forgotten that Nick intended to return to Scotland and teach once he was released from prison.

"No," Danny replied. "Sorting out my family problems is taking a little longer than I had originally anticipated."

"Family problems?" repeated Ms. Bennett sharply. That wasn't the reply she had expected. Family problems spelled trouble. "Do you wish to discuss these problems?"

"No, thank you, Ms. Bennett," said Danny. "I'm just trying to sort out my grandfather's will. There's nothing for you to worry about."

"I will be the judge of that," responded Ms Bennett. "Does this mean you are facing financial difficulties?"

"No, Ms. Bennett."

"Have you found any employment yet?" she asked, returning to her list of questions.

"No, but I expect to be looking for a job in the near future."

"Presumably as a teacher."

"Let's hope so," said Danny.

"Well, if that proves difficult, perhaps you should consider other employment."

"Like what?"

"Well, I see that you were a librarian in prison."

"I'd certainly be willing to consider that," said Danny, confident that would achieve another tick in another box.

"Do you have somewhere to live at the present time, or are you staying in a prison hostel?"

"I have somewhere to live."

"With your family?"

"No, I have no family."

One tick, one cross and one question mark. She continued. "Are you in rented accommodation, or staying with a friend?"

"I live in my own house."

Ms. Bennett looked perplexed. No one had ever given that reply to the question before. She decided on a tick. "I have just one more question for you. Have you, during the past month, been tempted to commit the same crime as the one you were sent to prison for?"

Yes, I've been tempted to kill Lawrence Davenport, Danny wanted to tell her, but Nick replied, "No, Ms. Bennett, I have not."

"That will be all for now, Moncrieff. I'll see you again in a month's time. Don't hesitate to get in touch if you feel I can be of any assistance in the meantime."

"Thank you," said Danny, "but you mentioned in your letter that there was something of importance…"

"Did I?" said Ms. Bennett as she closed the file on her desk to reveal an envelope. "Ah, yes, you're quite right." She handed him a letter addressed to N.A. Moncrieff, Education Department, HMP Belmarsh. Danny began to read a letter to Nick from the UK Matriculation Board to discover what Ms. Bennett considered important.

The results of your A level exams are listed below:

Business Studies A*

Maths A

Danny leaped up and punched his fist in the air as if he was at Upton Park and West Ham had scored the winning goal against Arsenal. Ms. Bennett wasn't sure if she should congratulate Moncrieff or press the button under her desk to summon security. When his feet touched the ground, she asked, "If it's still your intention to take a degree, Moncrieff, I'll be happy to assist you with your application for a grant."

Hugo Moncrieff studied the Sotheby's catalog for some considerable time. He had to agree with Margaret, it could only be Lot 37: A rare envelope displaying a first-edition stamp celebrating the opening of the modern Olympics addressed to the founder of the Games, Baron Pierre de Coubertin, estimate £2,200-£2,500.

"Perhaps I should attend one of the viewing days and take a closer look?" he suggested.

"You will do nothing of the sort," said Margaret firmly. "That would only alert Nick, and he might even work out that it's not the stamp we're interested in."

"But if I went down to London the day before the sale and found out the address on the envelope, we'd know where the collection is, without having to waste any money buying it."

"But then we wouldn't have a calling card."

"I'm not sure I'm following you, old gal."

"We may not be in possession of the key, but if your father's only surviving son turns up with the envelope as well as the new will, we must have a chance of convincing whoever is holding the collection on his behalf that you are the rightful heir."

"But Nick might be at the sale."

"If he hasn't worked out by then that it's the address that matters, not the stamp, it will be too late for him to do anything about it. Just be thankful of one thing, Hugo."

"And what's that, old gal?"

"Nick doesn't think like his grandfather."

Danny opened the catalog once again. He turned to Lot 37 and studied the entry more carefully. He was pleased to find such a full description of his envelope, if not a little disappointed that, unlike several of the other items, there was no photograph accompanying it.

He started to read the conditions of sale and was horrified to discover that Sotheby's deduct 10 percent of the hammer price from the seller as well as loading a further 20 percent premium on the buyer. If he ended up with only £1,800, he would have been better off selling the envelope to Stanley Gibbons-which was exactly what Nick would have done.

Danny closed the catalog and turned his attention to the only other letter he had received that morning: a booklet and an application form from London University to apply for one of its degree courses. He spent some time considering the various options. He finally turned to the section marked grant applications, aware that if he did honor his promise to Nick and Beth, it was going to mean a considerable change in lifestyle.

Nick's current account was down to £716, with not a single addition to the entry column since he had been released from prison. He feared his first sacrifice would have to be Molly, in which case the house would soon return to the state he'd found it in when he had first opened the front door.

Danny had avoided calling Mr. Munro for a progress report on his battle with Uncle Hugo for fear it would only prompt another bill. He sat back and thought about the reason he had been willing to take Nick's place. Big Al had convinced him that if he were able to escape, anything was possible. He was, in fact, quickly discovering that a penniless man working on his own was in no position to take on three highly successful professionals, even if they did think he was dead and long forgotten. He thought of the plans he had begun to put in place, starting with tonight's visit to the final performance of The Importance of Being Earnest. Its real purpose would come after the curtain had fallen, when he attended the closing-night party and came face to face with Lawrence Davenport for the first time.

CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

DANNY ROSE FROM his place and joined the standing ovation, not least because if he hadn't, he would have been one of the few people in the theater who was still sitting. He had enjoyed the play even more a second time, but that was possibly because he'd now had a chance to read the script.

Sitting in the third row among the family and friends of the cast had only added to his enjoyment. The set designer sat on one side of him, and the wife of the producer on the other. They invited him to join them for a drink in the extended interval. He listened to theater talk, rarely feeling confident enough to offer an opinion. It didn't seem to matter, as they all had unshakable views on everything from Davenport 's performance to why the West End was full of musicals. Danny appeared to have only one thing in common with theater folk: none of them seemed to know what their next job would be.

After Davenport had taken countless curtain calls, the audience slowly made their way out of the theater. As it was a clear night, Danny decided he would walk to the Dorchester. The exercise would do him good, and in any case, he couldn't afford the expense of a cab.

He began to stroll toward Piccadilly Circus, when a voice behind him said, "Sir Nicholas?" He looked around to see the box office manager hailing him with one hand, while holding a taxi door open with the other. "If you're going to the party, why don't you join us?"

"Thank you," said Danny, and climbed in to find two young women sitting on the back seat.

"This is Sir Nicholas Moncrieff," said the box office manager as he unfolded one of the seats and sat down to face them.

"Nick," insisted Danny as he sat on the other folding seat.

"Nick, this is my girlfriend Charlotte. She works in props. And this is Katie, who's an understudy. I'm Paul."

"Which part do you understudy?" Nick asked.

"I stand in for Eve Best, who's been playing Gwendolen."

"But not tonight," said Danny.

"No," admitted Katie, as she crossed her legs. "In fact, I've only done one performance during the entire run. A matinee when Eve had to fulfill a commitment for the BBC."

"Isn't that a little frustrating?" asked Danny.

"It sure is, but it beats being out of work."

"Every understudy lives in hope that they'll be discovered while the lead is indisposed," said Paul. "Albert Finney took over from Larry Olivier when he was playing Coriolanus at Stratford, and became a star overnight."

"Well, it didn't happen the one afternoon I was on stage," said Katie with feeling. "What about you, Nick, what do you do?"

Danny didn't reply immediately, partly because no one except his probation officer had ever asked him that question. "I used to be a soldier," he said.

"My brother's a soldier," said Charlotte. "I'm worried that he might be sent to Iraq. Have you ever served there?"

Danny tried to recall the relevant entries in Nick's diary. "Twice," he replied. "But not recently," he added.

Katie smiled at Danny as the cab drew up outside the Dorchester. He remembered so well the last young woman who had looked at him that way.

Danny was the last to climb out of the taxi. He heard himself saying, "Let me get this one," quite expecting Paul's reply to be certainly not.

"Thanks, Nick," said Paul, as he and Charlotte strolled into the hotel. Danny took out his wallet and parted with another ten pounds he could ill afford-one thing was certain, he would be walking home tonight.

Katie hung back and waited for Nick to join her. "Paul tells me this is the second time you've seen the show," she said as they made their way into the hotel.

"I came on the off-chance you'd be playing Gwendolen," said Danny with a grin.

She smiled and kissed his cheek. Something else Danny hadn't experienced for a long time. "You're sweet, Nick," she said as she took his hand and led him into the ballroom.

"So what are you hoping to do next?" asked Danny, almost having to shout above the noise of the crowd.

"Three months of rep with the English Touring Company."

"Understudying again?"

"No, they can't afford understudies on tour. If anyone falls out, the program seller takes your place. So this is going to be my chance to be on stage, and your chance to come and see me."

"Where will you be performing?" asked Danny.

"Take your choice- Newcastle, Sheffield, Birmingham, Cambridge or Bromley."

"I think it will have to be Bromley," said Danny as a waiter offered them champagne.

He looked around the overcrowded room. Everyone seemed to be talking at once. Those that weren't were drinking champagne, while others continually moved from person to person, hoping to impress directors, producers and casting agents in an endless quest to land their next job.

Danny let go of Katie's hand, recalling that, not unlike the out-of-work actors, he had a purpose for being there. He slowly scanned the room in search of Lawrence Davenport, but there was no sign of him. Danny assumed that he would make an entrance later.

"Bored with me already?" asked Katie, grabbing another glass of champagne from a passing waiter.

"No," said Danny unconvincingly, as a young man joined them.

"Hi, Katie," he said, kissing her on the cheek. "Have you got another job lined up or are you resting?"

Danny took a sausage from a passing tray, remembering that he wouldn't be having anything else to eat that night. Once again he looked around the room in search of Davenport. His eyes rested on another man he should have realized might be there that evening. He was standing in the center of the room chatting to a couple of girls who were hanging on his every word. He wasn't as tall as Danny remembered from their last encounter, but then, it had been in an unlit alley, and his only interest had been in saving Bernie's life.

Danny decided to take a closer look. He took a pace toward him, and then another, until he was just a few feet away. Spencer Craig looked straight at him. Danny froze, then realized Craig was looking over his shoulder, probably at another girl.

Danny stared at the man who had killed his best friend and thought he'd got away with it. "Not while I'm still alive," said Danny, almost loud enough for Craig to hear. He took another pace forward, emboldened by Craig's lack of interest. Another pace, and a man in Craig's group, who had his back to Danny, instinctively turned around to see who was invading his territory. Danny came face to face with Gerald Payne. He'd put on so much weight since the trial that it was a few seconds before Danny recognized him. Payne turned back, uninterested. Even when he had appeared in the witness box, he hadn't given Danny a second look-no doubt part of the tactics Craig had advised him to adopt.

Danny helped himself to a smoked salmon blini while listening to Craig's conversation with the two girls. He was delivering an obviously well-rehearsed line about the courtroom being rather like the theater, except that you never know when the curtain will fall. Both girls dutifully laughed.

"Very true," said Danny in a loud voice. Craig and Payne both looked at him, but without a flicker of recognition, despite the fact that they had seen him in the dock only two years before, but at that time his hair had been a lot shorter, he had been unshaven and wearing prison clothes. In any case, why should they give Danny Cartwright a thought? After all, he was dead and buried.

"How are you getting on, Nick?" Danny turned to find Paul standing by his side.

"Very well, thank you," said Danny. "Better than I expected," he added without explanation. Danny took a pace closer to Craig and Payne so that they could hear his voice, but nothing seemed to distract them from their conversation with the two girls.

A burst of applause erupted around the room, and all heads turned to watch Lawrence Davenport as he made his entrance. He smiled and waved as if he were visiting royalty. He made his way slowly across the floor, receiving plaudits and praise with every step he took. Danny remembered F. Scott Fitzgerald's haunting line: While the actor danced, he could find no mirrors, so he leant back to admire his image in the chandeliers.

"Would you like to meet him?" asked Paul, who had noticed that Danny couldn't take his eyes off Davenport.

"Yes, I would," said Danny, curious to discover if the actor would treat him with the same indifference as his fellow Musketeers.

"Then follow me." They began to make slow progress across the crowded ballroom, but before they reached Davenport, Danny came to a sudden halt. He stared at the woman the actor was addressing, with whom it was clear that he was on intimate terms.

"So good-looking," said Danny.

"Yes, he is, isn't he," agreed Paul, but before Danny could correct him, he said, "Larry, I want you to meet a friend of mine, Nick Moncrieff."

Davenport didn't bother to shake hands with Danny; he was just another face in the crowd hoping for an audience. Danny smiled at Davenport 's girlfriend.

"Hello," she said. "I'm Sarah."

"Nick. Nick Moncrieff," he replied. "You must be an actress."

"No, far less glamorous. I'm a solicitor."

"You don't look like a solicitor," said Danny. Sarah didn't respond. She had clearly heard that dull response before.

"And are you an actor?" she asked.

"I'll be whatever you want me to be," Danny replied, and this time she did smile.

"Hi, Sarah," said another young man, putting an arm around her waist. "You are without question the most gorgeous woman in the room," he said before kissing her on both cheeks. Sarah laughed. "I'd be flattered, Charlie, if I didn't know that it's my brother you really fancy, not me."

"Are you Lawrence Davenport's sister?" said Danny in disbelief.

"Someone has to be," said Sarah. "But I've learned to live with it."

"What about your friend?" said Charlie, smiling at Danny.

"I don't think so," said Sarah. "Nick, this is Charlie Duncan, the play's producer."

"Pity," said Charlie, and turned his attention to the young men who were surrounding Davenport.

"I think he fancies you," said Sarah.

"But I'm not…"

"I'd just about worked that out," said Sarah with a grin.

Danny continued to flirt with Sarah, aware that he no longer needed to bother with Davenport when his sister could undoubtedly tell him everything he needed to know.

"Perhaps we might-" began Danny, when another voice said, "Hi, Sarah, I was wondering if…"

"Hello, Spencer," she said coldly. "Do you know Nick Moncrieff?"

"No," he replied, and after a cursory handshake, he continued his conversation with Sarah. "I was just coming across to tell Larry how brilliant he was when I spotted you."

"Well, now's your chance," said Sarah.

"But I was also hoping to have a word with you."

"I was just about to leave," said Sarah, checking her watch.

"But the party's only just begun, can't you hang around a little longer?"

"I'm afraid not, Spencer. I need to go over some papers before briefing counsel."

"It's just that I was hoping…"

"Just as you were on the last occasion we met."

"I think we got off on the wrong foot."

"I seem to remember it being the wrong hand," said Sarah, turning her back on him.

"Sorry about that, Nick," said Sarah. "Some men don't know when to take no for an answer, while others…" She gave him a gentle smile. "I hope we'll meet again."

"How do I-" began Danny, but Sarah was already halfway across the ballroom; the kind of woman who assumes that if you want to find her, you will. Danny turned back to see Craig looking more closely at him.

"Spencer, good of you to come," said Davenport. "Was I all right tonight?"

"Never better," said Craig.

Danny thought it was time to leave. He no longer needed to talk to Davenport, and like Sarah, he also had a meeting he had to prepare for. He intended to be wide awake when the auctioneer called for an opening bid for Lot 37.

"Hi, stranger. Where did you disappear to?"

"Ran into an old enemy," said Danny. "And you?"

"The usual bunch. So boring," said Katie. "I've had enough of this party. How about you?"

"I was just leaving."

"Good idea," said Katie, taking him by the hand. "Why don't we jump ship together?"

They walked across the ballroom and headed toward the swing doors. Once Katie had stepped out onto the pavement, she hailed a taxi.

"Where to, miss?" asked the driver.

"Where are we going?" Katie asked Nick.

"Twelve The Boltons."

"Right you are, guv," said the cabbie, which brought back unhappy memories for Danny.

Danny hadn't even sat down before he felt a hand on his thigh. Katie's other arm draped around his neck, and she pulled him toward her.

"I'm sick of being the understudy," she said. "I'm going to take the lead for a change." She leaned across and kissed him.

By the time the taxi drew up outside Nick's home, there were very few buttons left to undo. Katie jumped out of the cab and ran up the drive as Danny paid for a second taxi that night.

"I wish I was your age," remarked the cabbie.

Danny laughed and joined Katie at the front door. It took him some time to get the key in the lock, and as they stumbled into the hall she pulled off his jacket. They left a trail of clothes all the way from the front door to the bedroom. She dragged him onto the bed and pulled him on top of her. Something else Danny hadn't experienced for a long time.

CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

DANNY JUMPED OFF the bus and began walking up Bond Street. He could see a blue flag fluttering in the breeze, boldly displaying in gold the legend Sotheby's.

Danny had never attended an auction before, and was beginning to wish he'd sat in on one or two other sales before he lost his virginity. The uniformed officer on the door saluted him as he walked in, as if he were a regular who thought nothing of spending a few million on a minor Impressionist.

"Where is the stamp sale being held?" Danny asked the woman behind the reception desk.

"Up the stairs," she said pointing to her right, "on the first floor. You can't miss it. Do you want a paddle?" she asked. Danny wasn't sure what she meant. "Will you be bidding?"

"No," said Danny. "Collecting, I hope."

Danny climbed the stairs and walked into a large, brightly lit room, to find half a dozen people milling around. He wasn't certain if he was in the right place until he spotted Mr. Blundell talking to a man in smart green overalls. The room was filled with rows and rows of chairs, although only a few were occupied. At the front, where Blundell was standing, was a highly polished circular podium, from which Danny assumed the auction would be conducted. On the wall behind it was a large screen giving the conversion rates of several different currencies, so that any bidders from abroad would know how much they were expected to pay, while on the right-hand side of the room a row of white telephones were evenly spaced on a long table.

Danny hung around at the back of the room as more people began to stroll in and take their places. He decided to sit at the far end of the back row so that he could keep his eye on all those who were bidding, as well as the auctioneer. He felt like an observer rather than a participant. Danny leafed through the pages of the catalog, although he had already read it several times. His only real interest was Lot 37, but he noticed that Lot 36, an 1861 Cape of Good Hope four-penny red, had a low estimate of £40,000 and a high of £60,000, making it the most expensive item in the sale.

He looked up to see Mr. Prendergast from Stanley Gibbons enter the room and join a small group of dealers who were whispering among themselves at the back of the room.

Danny began to relax as more and more people carrying paddles strolled in and took their seats. He checked his watch-the one Nick's grandfather had given him for his twenty-first birthday-it was ten to ten. He couldn't help noticing when a man who must have weighed over twenty-five stone waddled into the room, carrying a large unlit cigar in his right hand. He made his way slowly down the aisle before taking a seat on the end of the fifth row that appeared to have been reserved for him.

When Blundell spotted the man-not that he could have missed him-he left the group he was with and walked across to greet him. To Danny's surprise they both turned and looked in his direction. Blundell raised his catalog in acknowledgment, and Danny nodded. The man with the cigar smiled as if he recognized Danny, and then continued his conversation with the auctioneer.

The seats were quickly beginning to fill as seasoned customers appeared only moments before Blundell returned to the front of the sale room. He mounted the half-dozen steps of the podium, smiled down at his potential customers, and then filled a glass with water before checking the clock on the wall. He tapped his microphone and said, "Good morning, ladies and gentlemen, and welcome to our biannual auction of rare stamps. Lot number one." An enlarged image of the stamp displayed in the catalog appeared on the screen by his side.

"We begin today with a penny black, dated 1841, in near mint condition. Do I see an opening bid of one thousand pounds?" A dealer standing in Prendergast's small group at the back raised his paddle. "One thousand two hundred?" This was met by an immediate response from a bidder in the third row who, six bids later, ended up purchasing the stamp for £1,800.

Danny was delighted that the penny black had sold for a far higher price than its estimate, but as each new lot came under the hammer, the prices achieved were inconsistent. There seemed no reason to Danny why some of them exceeded the high estimate, while others failed to reach the low, after which the auctioneer said quietly, "No sale." Danny didn't want to think about the consequences of "no sale" when it came to Lot 37.

Danny occasionally glanced at the man with the cigar, but there was no sign that he was bidding for any of the early lots. He hoped his interest was in the de Coubertin envelope, otherwise why would Blundell have pointed him out?

By the time the auctioneer had reached Lot 35, an assortment of Commonwealth stamps, which was disposed of in less than thirty seconds for £1,000, Danny was becoming increasingly nervous. Lot No. 36 caused an outbreak of chatter, which made Danny check his catalog once again: the 1861 Cape of Good Hope four-penny red, one of only six known in the world.

Blundell opened the bidding at £30,000, and after some dealers and a few minor collectors had dropped out, the only two bidders left appeared to be the man with the cigar and an anonymous telephone bidder. Danny watched the man with the cigar very closely. He didn't seem to give any sign that he was bidding, but when Mr. Blundell finally received a shake of the head from the woman on the phone, he turned back to him and said, "Sold to Mr. Hunsacker for seventy-five thousand pounds." The man smiled and removed the cigar from his mouth.

Danny had become so engrossed in the bidding war that had just taken place that he was taken by surprise when Mr. Blundell announced, "Lot number thirty-seven, a unique envelope showing an eighteen ninety-six first edition of a stamp issued by the French government to celebrate the opening ceremony of the modern Olympic Games. The envelope is addressed to the founder of the Games, Baron Pierre de Coubertin. Do I have an opening bid of a thousand pounds?" Danny was disappointed that Blundell had started the bidding at such a low figure, until he saw several paddles being raised around the room.

"Fifteen hundred?" Almost as many.

"Two thousand?" Not quite as many.

"Two thousand five hundred?" Mr. Hunsacker kept the unlit cigar in his mouth.

"Three thousand?" Danny craned his neck and peered around the room, but couldn't see where the bidding was coming from.

"Three thousand five hundred?" The cigar remained in the mouth.

"Four thousand. Four thousand five hundred. Five thousand. Five thousand five hundred. Six thousand." Hunsacker removed his cigar and frowned.

"Sold, to the gentleman in the front row, for six thousand pounds," said the auctioneer as he brought the hammer down. " Lot thirty-eight, a rare example of…"

Danny tried to see who was seated in the front row, but he couldn't work out which one of them had bought his envelope. He wanted to thank them for bidding three times the high estimate. He felt a tap on his shoulder, and looked around to see the man with the cigar towering over him.

"My name is Gene Hunsacker," he said in a voice almost as loud as the auctioneer's. "If you'd care to join me for a coffee, Sir Nicholas, it's possible that we may have something of mutual interest to discuss. I'm a Texan," he said, shaking Danny by the hand, "which may not come as a big surprise, as we met in Washington. I had the honor of knowing your grand-daddy," he added as they left the room and walked down the stairs together. Danny didn't say a word. Never offer hostages, he had learned since he had begun playing the role of Nick. When they reached the ground floor, Hunsacker led him into the restaurant and headed for another seat that appeared to be his by right.

"Two black coffees," he said to a passing waiter, without giving Danny any choice. "Now, Sir Nicholas. I'm puzzled."

"Puzzled?" said Danny, speaking for the first time.

"I can't work out why you let the de Coubertin come up for auction, and then allowed your uncle to outbid me for it. Unless you and he were working together, and hoped you could force me to go even higher."

"My uncle and I are not on speaking terms," said Danny, selecting his words carefully.

"That's something you have in common with your late grand-daddy," said Hunsacker.

"You were a friend of my grandfather's?" asked Danny.

"Friend would be presumptuous," said the Texan. "Pupil and follower would be nearer the mark. He once outfoxed me for a rare two-penny blue way back in 1977 when I was still a rookie collector, but I learned quickly from him and, to be fair, he was a generous teacher. I keep reading in the press that I have the finest stamp collection on earth, but it just ain't true. That honor goes to your late grand-daddy." Hunsacker sipped his coffee before adding, "Many years ago he tipped me off that he'd be leaving the collection to his grandson, and not to either of his sons."

"My father is dead," Danny said.

Hunsacker looked surprised. "I know-I was at his funeral. I thought you saw me."

"I did," said Danny, recalling Nick's description of the vast American in his diary. "But they would only allow me to speak to my solicitor," he added quickly.

"Yes, I know," said Hunsacker. "But I managed to have a word with your uncle and let him know that I was in the market should you ever want to dispose of the collection. He promised to keep in touch. That's when I realized that he hadn't inherited it, and that your grand-daddy must have kept his word and left the collection to you. So when Mr. Blundell phoned to tell me that you'd put the de Coubertin up for sale, I flew back across the pond in the hope that we might meet."

"I don't even know where the collection is," admitted Danny.

"Maybe that explains why Hugo was willing to pay so much for your envelope," said the Texan, "because he has absolutely no interest in stamps. There he is now." Hunsacker pointed his cigar at a man standing at the reception desk. So that's Uncle Hugo, Danny thought, taking a closer look at him. He could only wonder why he wanted the envelope so badly that he'd been willing to pay three times its estimated value. Danny watched as Hugo passed a check to Mr. Blundell, who in return handed over the envelope.

"You're an idiot," muttered Danny, rising from his place.

"What did you say?" asked Hunsacker, the cigar falling out of his mouth.

"Me, not you," said Danny quickly. "It's been staring me in the face for the past two months. It's the address he's after, not the envelope, because that's where Sir Alexander's collection has to be."

Gene looked even more puzzled. Why would Nick describe his grandfather as Sir Alexander?

"I have to go, Mr. Hunsacker, I apologize. I should never have sold the envelope in the first place."

"I wish I knew what in hell's name you were talking about," said Hunsacker, taking a wallet from an inside pocket. He passed a card across to Danny. "If you ever decide to sell the collection, at least give me first option. I'd offer you a fair price with no ten percent deduction."

"And no twenty percent premium either," said Danny with a grin.

"A chip off the older block," said Gene. "Your grand-daddy was a brilliant and resourceful gentleman, unlike your uncle Hugo, as I'm sure you realize."

"Goodbye, Mr. Hunsacker," said Danny as he tucked the card into Nick's wallet. His eyes never left Hugo Moncrieff, who had just put the envelope into a briefcase. He walked across the lobby to join a woman Danny hadn't noticed until that moment. She linked her arm in his and the two of them left the building quickly.

Danny waited for a few seconds before following them. Once he was back on Bond Street, he looked left and then right, and when he spotted them he was surprised by how much ground they'd already covered. It was clear they were in a hurry. They turned right as they passed the statue of Churchill and Roosevelt sitting on a bench, and then left when they reached Albemarle Street, where they crossed the road and walked for a few more yards before disappearing into Brown's Hotel.

Danny hung around outside the hotel for a few moments while he considered his options. He knew that if they spotted him they would think it was Nick. He entered the building cautiously, but there was no sign of either of them in the lobby. Danny took a seat that was half concealed by a pillar, but still allowed him a clear view of the lifts as well as reception. He didn't pay any attention to a man who had just sat down on the other side of the lobby.

Danny waited for another thirty minutes, and began to wonder if he'd missed them. He was about to get up and check with reception when the lift doors opened, and out stepped Hugo and the woman pulling two suitcases. They walked across to the reception desk, where the woman settled the bill before they quickly left the hotel by a different door. Danny rushed out onto the pavement to see them climbing into the back of a black cab. He hailed the next one on the rank, and even before he had closed the door shouted, "Follow that cab."

"I've waited all my life to hear someone say that," the cabbie responded as he pulled away from the curb.

The taxi in front turned right at the end of the road and made its way toward Hyde Park Corner, through the underpass, along Brompton Road and on to the Westway.

"Looks like they're heading for the airport," said the cabbie. Twenty minutes later he was proved right.

When the two cabs emerged from the Heathrow underpass, Danny's driver said, "Terminal two. So they must be flying to somewhere in Europe." They both came to a halt outside the entrance. The meter read £34.50, and Danny handed over forty pounds but remained in the cab until Hugo and the woman had disappeared inside the terminal.

He followed them in, and watched as they joined a queue of businessclass passengers. The screen above the check-in desk read BA0732, Geneva, 13:55.

"Idiot," Danny muttered again, recalling the address on the envelope. But where exactly in Geneva had it been? He looked at his watch. He still had enough time to buy a ticket and catch the plane. He ran across to the British Airways sales counter, and had to wait some time before he reached the front of the queue.

"Can you get me on the 13:55 to Geneva?" he asked, trying not to sound desperate.

"Do you have any luggage, sir?" asked the assistant behind the sales counter.

"None," said Danny.

She checked her computer. "They haven't closed the gate yet, so you should still be able to make it. Business or economy?"

"Economy," said Danny, wanting to avoid the section where Hugo and the woman would be seated.

"Window or aisle?"

"Window."

"That will be £217, sir."

"Thank you," said Danny as he passed over his credit card.

"May I see your passport please?"

Danny had never had a passport in his life. "My passport?"

"Yes, sir, your passport."

"Oh, no, I must have left it at home."

"Then I'm afraid you won't be in time to catch the plane, sir."

"Idiot, idiot," said Danny.

"I beg your pardon?"

"I'm so sorry," said Danny. "Me, not you," he repeated. She smiled.

Danny turned around and walked slowly back across the concourse, feeling helpless. He didn't notice Hugo and the woman leave through the gate marked Departures, Passengers only, but someone else did, who had been watching both them and Danny closely.

Hugo pressed the green button on his mobile just as the loudspeaker announced, "Final call for all passengers traveling to Geneva on flight BA0732. Please make your way to gate nineteen."

"He followed you from Sotheby's to the hotel, and then from the hotel to Heathrow."

"Is he on the same flight as us?" asked Hugo.

"No, he didn't have his passport with him."

"Typical Nick. Where is he now?"

"On his way back to London, so you should have at least a twenty-four-hour start on him."

"Let's hope that's enough, but don't let him out of your sight for a moment." Hugo turned off his phone, as he and Margaret left their seats to board the aircraft.

"Have you come across another heirloom, Sir Nicholas?" asked Mr. Blundell hopefully.

"No, but I do need to know if you have a copy of the envelope from this morning's sale," said Danny.

"Yes, of course," replied Blundell. "We retain a photograph of every item sold at auction, in case a dispute should arise at some later date."

"Would it be possible to see it?" asked Danny.

"Is there a problem?" asked Blundell.

"No," Danny replied. "I just need to check the address on the envelope."

"Of course," repeated Blundell. He tapped some keys on his computer, and a moment later an image of the letter appeared on the screen. He swiveled the screen around so that Danny could see it.

Baron de Coubertin

25 rue de la Croix-Rouge

Genéve

La Suisse

Danny copied down the name and address. "Do you by any chance know if Baron de Coubertin was a serious stamp collector?" asked Danny.

"Not to my knowledge," said Blundell. "But of course his son was the founder of one of the most successful banks in Europe."

"Idiot," said Danny. "Idiot," he repeated as he turned to leave.

"I do hope, Sir Nicholas, that you are not dissatisfied with the result of this morning's sale?"

Danny turned back. "No, of course not, Mr. Blundell, I do apologize. Yes, thank you." Another of those moments when he should have behaved like Nick, and only thought like Danny.

The first thing Danny did when he arrived back at The Boltons was to search for Nick's passport. Molly knew exactly where it was. "And by the way," she added, "a Mr. Fraser Munro called, and asked you to phone him."

Danny retreated to the study, called Munro and told him everything that had happened that morning. The old solicitor listened to all his client had to say, but didn't comment.

"I'm glad you phoned back," he eventually said, "because I have some news for you, although it might be unwise to discuss it over the phone. I was wondering when you next expected to be in Scotland."

"I could catch the sleeper train tonight," said Danny.

"Good, and perhaps it might be wise for you to bring your passport with you this time."

"For Scotland?" said Danny.

"No, Sir Nicholas. For Geneva."

CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

MR. AND MRS. Moncrieff were ushered into the boardroom by the chairman's secretary.

"The chairman will be with you in a moment," she said. "Would you care for coffee or tea while you're waiting?"

"No, thank you," said Margaret, as her husband began pacing around the room. She took a seat in one of the sixteen Charles Rennie Mackintosh chairs placed around the long oak table, and that should have made her feel at home. The walls were painted in a pale Wedgwood blue with full-length oil portraits of past chairmen hanging on every available space, giving an impression of stability and wealth. Margaret said nothing until the secretary had left the room and closed the door behind her.

"Calm down, Hugo. The last thing we need is for the chairman to think we're unsure about your claim. Now come and sit down."

"It's all very well, old gal," said Hugo, continuing his perambulations, "but don't forget that our whole future rests on the outcome of this meeting."

"All the more reason for you to behave in a calm and rational manner. You must appear as if you've come to claim what is rightfully yours," she said as the door at the far end of the room opened.

An elderly gentleman entered the room. Although he stooped and carried a silver cane, such was his air of authority that no one would have doubted he was the bank's chairman.

"Good morning. Mr. and Mrs. Moncrieff," he said, and shook hands with both of them. "My name is Pierre de Coubertin, and it's a pleasure to meet you," he added. His English revealed no trace of an accent. He took a seat at the head of the table, below a portrait of an elderly gentleman who, but for a large gray mustache, was a reflection of himself. "How may I assist you?"

"Rather simple, really," responded Hugo. "I have come to claim the inheritance left to me by my father."

Not a flicker of recognition passed across the chairman's face. "May I ask what your father's name was?" he said.

"Sir Alexander Moncrieff."

"And what makes you think that your father conducted any business with this bank?"

"It was no secret within the family," said Hugo. "He told both my brother Angus and myself on several occasions about his long-standing relationship with this bank, which, among other things, was the guardian of his unique stamp collection."

"Do you have any evidence to support such a claim?"

"No, I do not," said Hugo. "My father considered it unwise to commit such matters to paper, given our country's tax laws, but he assured me that you were well aware of his wishes."

"I see," said de Coubertin. "Perhaps he furnished you with an account number?"

"No, he did not," said Hugo, beginning to show a little impatience. "But I have been briefed on my legal position by the family's solicitor, and he assures me that as I am my father's sole heir following my brother's death, you have no choice but to release what is rightfully mine."

"That may well be the case," confirmed de Coubertin, "but I must inquire if you are in possession of any documents that would substantiate your claim."

"Yes," said Hugo, placing his briefcase on the table. He flicked it open and produced the envelope he had bought from Sotheby's the previous day. He pushed it across to the other side of the table. "This was left to me by my father."

De Coubertin spent some time studying the envelope addressed to his grandfather.

"Fascinating," he said, "but it does not prove that your father held an account with this bank. It may be wise at this juncture for me to ascertain if that was indeed the case. Perhaps you'd be kind enough to excuse me for a moment?" The old man rose slowly from his place, bowed low and left the room without another word.

"He knows perfectly well that your father did business with this bank," said Margaret, "but for some reason he's playing for time."

"Good morning, Sir Nicholas," said Fraser Munro as he rose from behind his desk. "I trust you had a comfortable journey?"

"It might have been more comfortable if I hadn't been painfully aware that my uncle is at this moment in Geneva trying to relieve me of my inheritance."

"Rest assured," responded Munro, "that in my experience Swiss bankers do not make hasty decisions. No, we will come to Geneva in good time. But for the moment, we must deal with more pressing matters that have arisen on our own doorstep."

"Is this the problem you felt unable to discuss over the phone?" asked Danny.

"Precisely," said Munro, "and I fear that I am not the bearer of glad tidings. Your uncle is now claiming that your grandfather made a second will, only weeks before his death, in which he disinherited you and left his entire estate to your father."

"Do you have a copy of this will?" asked Danny.

"I do," replied Munro, "but as I was not satisfied with a facsimile I traveled to Edinburgh to attend Mr. Desmond Galbraith in his chambers in order that I could inspect the original."

"And what conclusion did you come to?" asked Danny.

"The first thing I did was to compare your grandfather's signature with the one on the original will."

"And?" said Danny, trying not to sound anxious.

"I was not convinced, but if it is a fake, it's a damned good one," replied Munro. "On a brief inspection, I could also find no fault with the paper or the ribbon, which appeared to be of the same vintage as those of the original will he executed on your behalf."

"Can it get any worse?"

"I'm afraid so," said Munro. "Mr. Galbraith also mentioned a letter purportedly sent to your father by your grandfather a short time before he died."

"Did they allow you to see it?"

"Yes. It was typewritten, which surprised me, because your grandfather always wrote his letters by hand; he distrusted machinery. He described the typewriter as a new-fangled invention that would be the death of fine writing."

"What did the letter say?" asked Danny.

"That your grandfather had decided to disinherit you, and that he had accordingly written a new will, leaving everything to your father. Particularly clever."

"Clever?"

"Yes. If the estate had been divided between both of his sons, it would have looked suspicious, because too many people were aware that he and your uncle hadn't been on speaking terms for years."

"But this way," said Danny, "Uncle Hugo still ends up with everything, because my father left his entire estate to him. But you used the word 'clever.' Does that mean that you have your doubts about whether my grandfather actually wrote the letter?"

"I most certainly do," said Munro, "and not simply because it was typed. It was on two sheets of your grandfather's personal stationery, which I recognized immediately, but for some inexplicable reason the first page was typed, while the second was handwritten and bore only the words, These are my personal wishes and I rely on you both to see they are carried out to the letter, your loving father, Alexander Moncrieff. The first page, the typewritten one, detailed those personal wishes, while the second was not only handwritten, but was identical in every word to the one that was attached to the original will. Quite a coincidence."

"But surely that alone must be enough proof…?"

"I fear not," said Munro. "Although we may have every reason to believe that the letter is a fake, the facts are that it was written on your grandfather's personal stationery, the typewriter used is of the correct vintage, and the writing on the second page is unquestionably in your grandfather's hand. I doubt if there's a court in the land that would uphold our claim. And if that weren't enough," continued Munro, "your uncle served a trespass order on us yesterday."

"A trespass order?" said Danny.

"Not satisfied that the new will claims he is now the rightful heir to both the estate in Scotland and the house in The Boltons, he is also demanding that you vacate the latter within thirty days, or he will serve you with a court order demanding rent that is commensurate with that of similar properties in the area, backdated to the day you took over occupation."

"So I've lost everything," said Danny.

"Not quite," said Munro. "Although I admit that matters do look a little bleak on the home front, but when it comes to Geneva, you still have the key. I suspect that the bank will be loath to hand over anything that belonged to your grandfather to someone who is unable to produce that key." He paused for a moment before he delivered the next sentence. "And of one thing I am certain. If your grandfather had been placed in this position, he would not have taken it lying down."

"And neither would I," said Danny, "if I had the finances to take Hugo on. But despite yesterday's sale of the envelope, it will only be a matter of weeks before my uncle can add a writ for bankruptcy to the long list of actions we are already defending."

Mr. Munro smiled for the first time that morning. "I had anticipated this problem, Sir Nicholas, and yesterday afternoon my partners and I discussed what we should do about your current dilemma." He coughed. "They were of the unanimous opinion that we should break with one of our long-held customs, and not present any further bills until this action has reached a satisfactory conclusion."

"But should the case fail when it comes to court-and let me assure you, Mr. Munro, that I have some experience in these matters-I would end up being perpetually in your debt."

"Should we fail," replied Munro, "no bills will be presented, because this firm remains perpetually in your grandfather's debt."

The chairman returned after a few minutes, and resumed the place opposite his would-be customers. He smiled. "Mr. Moncrieff," he began. "I have been able to confirm that Sir Alexander did indeed conduct some business with this bank. We must now attempt to establish your claim to be the sole heir to his estate."

"I can supply you with any documentation you require," said Hugo with confidence.

"First, I must ask you if you are in possession of a passport, Mr. Moncrieff?"

"Yes, I am," replied Hugo, who opened his briefcase, extracted his passport and handed it across the table.

De Coubertin turned to the back page and studied the photograph for a moment before returning the passport to Hugo. "Do you have your father's death certificate?" he asked.

"Yes," replied Hugo, taking a second document from his briefcase and pushing it across the table.

This time the chairman studied the document a little more carefully before nodding and handing it back. "And do you also have your brother's death certificate?" he asked. Hugo passed over a third document. Once again de Coubertin took his time before handing it back. "I will also need to see your brother's will, to confirm that he left the bulk of the estate to you." Hugo handed over the will and put another tick against the long list Galbraith had prepared for him.

De Coubertin did not speak for some time while he studied Angus Moncrieff's will. "That all seems to be in order," he said eventually. "But most important of all, are you in possession of your father's will?"

"Not only am I able to supply you with his last Will and Testament," said Hugo, "signed and dated six weeks before his death, but I am also in possession of a letter he wrote to my brother Angus and myself that was attached to that will." Hugo slid both documents across the table, but de Coubertin made no attempt to study either of them.

"And finally, Mr. Moncrieff, I must ask if there was a key among your father's bequests?"

Hugo hesitated.

"There most certainly was," said Margaret, speaking for the first time, "but unfortunately it has been mislaid, although I have seen it many times over the years. It's quite small, silver, and, if I remember correctly, it has a number stamped on it."

"And do you recall that number by any chance, Mrs. Moncrieff?" asked the chairman.

"Unfortunately I do not," Margaret finally admitted.

"In that case, I'm sure you will appreciate the bank's dilemma," said de Coubertin. "As you can imagine, without the key, we are placed in an invidious position. However," he added before Margaret could interrupt, "I will ask one of our experts to study the will, which as I'm sure you are aware is common practice in such circumstances. Should they consider it to be authentic, we will hand over any possessions we are holding in Sir Alexander's name."

"But how long will that take?" asked Hugo, aware that it would not take Nick long to work out where they were, and what they were up to.

"A day, a day and a half at the most," said the chairman.

"When should we return?" asked Margaret.

"To be on the safe side, let us say three o'clock tomorrow afternoon."

"Thank you," said Margaret. "We look forward to seeing you then."

De Coubertin accompanied Mr. and Mrs. Moncrieff to the bank's front door without discussing anything more significant than the weather.

"I've booked you on a BA business-class flight to Barcelona," said Beth. "You fly from Heathrow on Sunday evening, and you'll be staying at the Arts Hotel." She handed her boss a folder which contained all the documents he would need for the trip, including the names of several recommended restaurants and a guide to the city. "The conference opens at nine o'clock with a speech from the International President, Dick Sherwood. You'll be sitting on the platform along with the other seven VPs. The organizers have asked you to be in your place by eight forty-five."

"How far away from the conference center is the hotel?" asked Mr. Thomas.

"It's just across the road," said Beth. "Is there anything else you need to know?"

"Just one thing," Thomas replied. "How would you like to join me for the trip?"

Beth was taken by surprise, something Thomas didn't manage that often, and admitted, "I've always wanted to visit Barcelona."

"Well, now's your chance," said Thomas, giving her a warm smile.

"But would there be enough for me to do while I was there?" asked Beth.

"For a start, you could make sure I'm sitting in my place on time next Monday morning." Beth didn't respond. "I was rather hoping you might relax for a change," added Thomas. "We could go to the opera, take in the Thyssen Collection, study Picasso's early work, see Miró's birthplace, and they tell me that the food…"

You do realize that Mr. Thomas fancies you. Danny's words came flooding back, and caused Beth to smile. "It's very kind of you, Mr. Thomas, but I think it might be wiser if I were to stay behind and make sure that everything runs smoothly while you're away."

"Beth," said Thomas, sitting back and folding his arms. "You're a bright, beautiful young woman. Don't you think Danny would have wanted you to enjoy yourself occasionally? God knows you've earned it."

"It's very thoughtful of you, Mr. Thomas, but I'm not quite ready to consider…"

"I understand," said Thomas, "of course I do. In any case, I'm quite content to wait until you're ready. Whatever it was that Danny possessed, I haven't yet calculated the premium that's required to insure against it."

Beth laughed. "He's like the opera, the art galleries and the finest wine all wrapped up in one," she replied, "and even then you won't have captured Danny Cartwright."

"Well, I don't intend to give up," said Thomas. "Maybe I'll be able to tempt you next year, when the annual conference is in Rome and it will be my turn to be president."

"Caravaggio," sighed Beth.

"Caravaggio?" repeated Thomas, looking puzzled.

"Danny and I had planned to spend our honeymoon in Saint Tropez-that was until he was introduced to Caravaggio by his cellmate Nick Moncrieff. In fact, one of the last things Danny promised me before he died"-Beth could never get herself to utter the words committed suicide-"was that he would take me to Rome, so I could also meet Signor Caravaggio."

"I don't have a chance, do I?" said Thomas.

Beth didn't reply.

Danny and Mr. Munro touched down at Geneva airport later that evening. Once they had cleared customs, Danny went in search of a taxi. The short journey into the city ended when the driver pulled up outside the Hôtel Les Armeurs, situated in the old town near the cathedral-his personal recommendation.

Munro had called de Coubertin before leaving his office. The chairman of the bank had agreed to see them at ten o'clock the following morning. Danny was beginning to think that the old man was rather enjoying himself.

Over dinner, Mr. Munro-Danny didn't consider, even for a moment, calling him Fraser-took Sir Nicholas through the list of documents he anticipated would be required for their meeting in the morning.

"Are we missing anything?" asked Danny.

"Certainly not," said Munro. "That is, assuming you've remembered to bring the key."

Hugo picked up the phone on his bedside table. "Yes?"

"He took the overnight train to Edinburgh, and then traveled on to Dunbroath," said a voice.

"In order to see Munro no doubt."

"In his office at ten o'clock this morning."

"Did he then return to London?"

"No, he and Munro left the office together, drove to the airport and caught a BA flight. They should have landed an hour ago."

"Were you on the same flight?"

"No," said the voice.

"Why not?" asked Hugo sharply.

"I didn't have my passport with me."

Hugo put the phone down and looked across at his wife, who was fast asleep. He decided not to wake her.

CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

DANNY LAY AWAKE, considering the precarious position he was in. Far from vanquishing his foes, he seemed only to have created new ones who were bent on bringing him to his knees.

He rose early, showered and dressed, and went down to the breakfast room to find Munro seated at a corner table, a pile of documents by his side. They spent the next forty minutes going over any questions Munro thought de Coubertin might ask. Danny stopped listening to his lawyer when a fellow guest entered the room and went straight to a table by the window that overlooked the cathedral. Another seat that he evidently assumed would be reserved for him.

"Should de Coubertin ask you that question, Sir Nicholas, how will you respond?" asked Munro.

"I think the world's leading stamp collector has decided to join us for breakfast," whispered Danny.

"From that I assume your friend Mr. Gene Hunsacker is among us?"

"No less. I can't believe it's a coincidence that he's in Geneva at the same time as we are."

"Certainly not," said Munro. "And he'll also be aware that your uncle is in Geneva."

"What can I do about it?" asked Danny.

"Not a lot for the moment," said Munro. "Hunsacker will circle like a vulture until he discovers which of you has been anointed as the legitimate heir to the collection, and only then will he swoop."

"He's a little overweight for a vulture," suggested Danny, "but I take your point. What do I tell him if he starts asking me questions?"

"You say nothing until after we've had our meeting with de Coubertin."

"But Hunsacker was so helpful and friendly the last time we met, and it was obvious that he doesn't care for Hugo, and would prefer to deal with me."

"Don't deceive yourself. Hunsacker will be happy to do business with whoever de Coubertin decides is the rightful heir to your grandfather's collection. He's probably already made your uncle an offer." Munro rose from the table and left the dining room without even glancing in Hunsacker's direction. Danny followed him into the lobby.

"How long will it take for us to get to the Banque de Coubertin by taxi?" Munro asked the concierge.

"Three, possibly four minutes, depending on the traffic," came back the reply.

"And if we walk?"

"Three minutes."

A waiter tapped softly on the door. "Room service," he announced before entering. He set up a breakfast table in the center of the room and placed a copy of the Telegraph on a side plate; the only newspaper Margaret Moncrieff would consider reading if The Scotsman wasn't available. Hugo signed for the breakfast as Margaret took her place and poured them both coffee.

"Do you think we'll get away with it, old gal, without the key?" asked Hugo.

"If they're convinced the will is genuine," said Margaret, "they'll have no choice, unless they're prepared to involve themselves in a lengthy court battle. And as anonymity is a Swiss banker's mantra, they'll avoid that at all costs."

"They're not going to find anything wrong with the will," said Hugo.

"Then my bet is that we'll be in possession of your father's collection by this evening, in which case all you'll have to do is agree a price with Hunsacker. As he offered you forty million dollars when he came up to Scotland for your father's funeral, I feel sure he'd be willing to go to fifty," said Margaret. "In fact, I have already instructed Galbraith to draw up a contract to that effect."

"With whichever one of us secures the collection," said Hugo, "because by now Nick will have worked out why we're here."

"But he can't do anything about it," said Margaret. "Not while he's stranded in England."

"There's nothing to stop him jumping on the next plane. I wouldn't be surprised if he's here already," added Hugo, not wanting to admit that he knew Nick was in Geneva.

"You've obviously forgotten, Hugo, that he's not allowed to travel abroad while he's on probation."

"If it was me, I'd be willing to take that risk," said Hugo, "for fifty million dollars."

"You might," said Margaret, "but Nick would never disobey an order. And even if he did, it would only take one phone call to help de Coubertin decide which branch of the Moncrieff family he wants to do business with-the one threatening to take him to court, or the one who will be spending another four years in jail."

Although Danny and Fraser Munro arrived at the bank a few minutes early, the chairman's secretary was waiting in reception to accompany them to the boardroom. Once they were seated, she offered them both a cup of English tea.

"I won't be having any of your English tea, thank you," said Munro, giving her a warm smile. Danny could only wonder if she had understood a word the Scotsman had said, let alone comprehended his particular brand of humor.

"Two coffees, please," said Danny. She smiled and left the room.

Danny was admiring a portrait of the founder of the modern Olympic Games when the door opened and the present holder of the title entered the room.

"Good morning, Sir Nicholas," he said, walking up to Munro, offering his hand.

"No, no, my name is Fraser Munro, I am Sir Nicholas's legal representative."

"I apologize," said the old man, trying to hide his embarrassment. He smiled shyly as he shook hands with Danny. "I apologize," he repeated.

"Not at all, Baron," said Danny. "An understandable mistake."

De Coubertin gave him a slight bow. "Like me, you are the grandson of a great man." He invited Sir Nicholas and Mr. Munro to join him at the boardroom table. "What can I do for you?" he asked.

"I had the great honor of representing the late Sir Alexander Moncrieff," began Munro, "and I now have the privilege of advising Sir Nicholas." De Coubertin nodded. "We have come to claim my client's rightful inheritance," said Munro, opening his briefcase and placing on the table one passport, one death certificate and Sir Alexander's will.

"Thank you," said de Coubertin, not giving any of the documents even a cursory glance.

"Sir Nicholas, may I ask if you are in possession of the key that your grandfather left you?"

"Yes, I am," Danny replied. He undid the chain that hung around his neck and handed the key across to de Coubertin, who studied it for a moment before returning it to Danny. He then rose from his place and said, "Please follow me, gentlemen."

"Don't say a word," whispered Munro as they followed the chairman out of the room. "It's clear that he's carrying out your grandfather's instructions." They walked down a long corridor, passing even more oil paintings of partners of the bank, until they came to a small elevator. When the doors slid open, de Coubertin stood to one side to allow his guests to step in, then joined them and pressed a button marked -2. He didn't speak until the doors opened again, when he stepped out and repeated, "Please follow me, gentlemen."

The soft Wedgwood blue of the boardroom walls had been replaced by a dull ocher as they walked on down a brick corridor that displayed no pictures of the bank's past officeholders. At the end of the corridor was a large steel barred gate which brought back unhappy memories for Danny. A guard unlocked the gate the moment he spotted the chairman. He accompanied the three of them until they came to a halt outside massive steel door with two locks. De Coubertin took a key from his pocket, placed it in the top lock and turned it slowly. He nodded to Danny, who put his key in the lock below and also turned it. The guard pulled open the heavy steel door.

A two-inch-wide yellow strip had been painted on the ground just inside the doorway. Danny crossed it and walked into a small square room whose walls were covered from floor to ceiling with shelves, crammed with thick leather-bound books. On each shelf were printed cards, indicating the years 1840 to 1992.

"Please join me," said Danny, as he removed one of the thick leather books from the top shelf and began to leaf through the pages. Munro walked in, but de Coubertin did not follow.

"I apologize," he said, "but I am not allowed to cross the yellow line-one of the bank's many regulations. Perhaps you would be kind enough to inform the guard when you wish to leave, and then do come and join me back in the boardroom."

Danny and Munro spent the next half hour turning the pages of album after album, and began to understand why Gene Hunsacker had flown all the way from Texas to Geneva.

"I'm none the wiser," said Munro as he looked at an unperforated sheet of forty-eight penny blacks.

"You will be after you've had a look at this one," said Danny, passing him the only leatherbound book in the entire collection that was not dated.

Munro turned the pages slowly, to be reacquainted with the neat, calligraphic hand he remembered so well: column after column listing when, where and from whom Sir Alexander had acquired each new acquisition and the price he'd paid. He handed the meticulous record of the collector's life back to Danny and suggested, "You're going to have to study each entry most carefully before you next bump into Mr. Hunsacker."

Mr. and Mrs. Moncrieff were shown into the boardroom at 3:00 P.M. Baron de Coubertin was seated at the far end of the table, with three colleagues on each side of him. All seven men rose from their chairs as the Moncrieffs entered the room, and didn't resume their places until Mrs. Moncrieff had sat down.

"Thank you for allowing us to inspect your late father's will," said de Coubertin, "as well as the attached letter." Hugo smiled. "However, I must inform you that in the considered opinion of one of our experts, the will is invalid."

"Are you suggesting that it's a fake?" said Hugo, angrily rising from his place.

"We are not suggesting for a moment, Mr. Moncrieff, that you were aware of this. However, we have decided that these documents do not stand up to the scrutiny required by this bank." He passed the will and the letter across the table.

"But…" began Hugo.

"Are you able to tell us what in particular prompted you to reject my husband's claim?" asked Margaret quietly.

"No, madam, we are not."

"Then you can expect to hear from our lawyers later today," said Margaret as she gathered up the documents, placed them back in her husband's briefcase and rose to leave.

All seven members of the board stood as Mr. and Mrs. Moncrieff were escorted from the room by the chairman's secretary.

CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

WHEN FRASER MUNRO joined Danny in his room the following morning, he found his client sitting cross-legged on the floor in his dressing gown, surrounded by sheets of paper, a laptop and a calculator.

"I apologize for disturbing you, Sir Nicholas. Shall I come back later?"

"No, no," said Danny as he leaped up, "come in."

"I trust you slept well?" said Munro as he looked down at the mass of paperwork littering the floor.

"I haven't been to bed," admitted Danny. "I was up all night checking over the figures again and again."

"And are you any the wiser?" asked Munro.

"I hope so," said Danny, "because I have a feeling that Gene Hunsacker didn't lose any sleep wondering what this lot is worth."

"Do you have any idea…?"

"Well," said Danny, "the collection consists of twenty-three thousand, one hundred and eleven stamps, purchased over a period of more than seventy years. My grandfather bought his first stamp in 1920 at the age of thirteen, and he continued collecting until 1998, only a few months before he died. In total, he spent £13,729,412."

"No wonder Hunsacker thinks it's the finest collection on earth," said Munro.

Danny nodded. "Some of the stamps are incredibly rare. There is, for example, a 1901 U.S. one-cent 'inverted center,' a Hawaiian two-cent blue from 1851, and a Newfoundland 1857 two-penny scarlet, which he paid $150,000 for in 1978. But the pride of the collection has to be an 1856 British Guiana one-cent black on magenta, which he bought at auction in April 1980 for $800,000. That's the good news," said Danny. "The not so good news is that it would take a year, possibly even longer, to have every stamp valued. Hunsacker knows that, of course, but in our favor is that he won't want to hang around waiting for a year, because among other things I've picked up from the odd article my grandfather kept is that Hunsacker has a rival, a Mr. Tomoji Watanabe, a commodities dealer from Tokyo. It appears," Danny said as he bent down to pick up an old cutting from Time magazine, "to be a matter of opinion which one of their collections was second only to my grandfather's. That argument would be settled the moment one of them gets his hands on this," said Danny, holding up the inventory.

"That piece of knowledge, may I suggest," said Munro, "places you in a very strong position."

"Possibly," said Danny, "but when you get into amounts of this size-and on a quick calculation the collection must be worth around fifty million dollars-there are very few people on earth, and I suspect in this case only two, who could even consider joining in the bidding, so I can't afford to overplay my hand."

"I'm lost," said Munro.

"Let's hope I'm not once the game of poker begins, because I suspect that if the next person to knock on that door isn't the waiter wanting to set up breakfast, it will be Mr. Gene Hunsacker hoping to buy a stamp collection he's been after for the past fifteen years. So I'd better take a shower and get dressed. I wouldn't want him to think I've been up all night trying to work out how much I ought to be asking for."

"Mr. Galbraith, please.

"Who shall I say is calling?"

"Hugo Moncrieff."

"I'll put you straight through, sir."

"How did you get on in Geneva?" were Galbraith's first words.

"We left empty-handed."

"What? How can that be possible? You had every document you needed to validate your claim, including your father's will."

"De Coubertin said the will was a fake, and virtually threw us out of his office."

"But I don't understand," said Galbraith, sounding genuinely surprised. "I had it examined by the leading authority in the field, and it passed every known test."

"Well, de Coubertin clearly doesn't agree with your leading authority, so I'm phoning to ask what our next move should be."

"I'll call de Coubertin immediately, and advise him to expect service of a writ both in London and Geneva. That will make him think twice about doing business with anyone else until the authenticity of the will has been resolved in the courts."

"Perhaps the time has come for us to set in motion the other matter we discussed before I flew to Geneva."

"All I'll need if I'm to do that," said Galbraith, "is your nephew's flight number."

"You were right," said Munro when Danny emerged from the bathroom twenty minutes later.

"About what?" asked Danny.

"The next person to knock on that door was the waiter," Munro added as Danny took his place at the breakfast table. "A bright young man who was happy to give me a great deal of information."

"Then he can't have been Swiss," said Danny as he unfolded his napkin.

"It appears," continued Munro, "that Mr. Hunsacker booked into the hotel two days ago. The management sent a limousine to the airport to pick him up from his private jet. The young man was also able to tell me, in return for ten Swiss francs, that his hotel booking is open-ended."

"A sound investment," said Danny.

"Even more interesting is the fact that the same limousine drove Hunsacker to the Banque de Coubertin yesterday morning, where he had a forty-minute meeting with the chairman."

"To view the collection, no doubt," suggested Danny.

"No," said Munro. "De Coubertin would never allow anyone near that room without your authority. That would break every tenet of the bank's policy. In any case, it wouldn't have been necessary."

"Why not?" asked Danny.

"Surely you remember that when your grandfather put his entire collection on display at the Smithsonian Institution in Washington to celebrate his eightieth birthday, one of the first people to walk through the doors on the opening morning was Mr. Hunsacker."

"What else did the waiter tell you?" asked Danny without missing a beat.

"Mr. Hunsacker is at this moment having breakfast in his room on the floor above us, presumably waiting for you to knock on his door."

"Then he's going to have a long wait," said Danny, "because I don't intend to be the first to blink."

"Pity," said Munro, "I'd been looking forward to the encounter. I once had the privilege of attending a negotiation in which your grandfather was involved. By the end of the meeting, I left feeling battered and bruised-and I was on his side." Danny laughed.

There was a knock on the door.

"Sooner than I thought," said Danny.

"It might be your uncle Hugo brandishing another writ," suggested Munro.

"Or just the waiter coming to take away the breakfast things. Either way, I'll need a moment to clear up these papers. Can't have Hunsacker thinking I don't know what the collection is worth." Danny knelt down on the floor and Munro joined him as they began gathering up reams of scattered papers.

There was another knock on the door, this time a little louder. Danny disappeared into the bathroom with all the papers, while Munro went across to open the door.

"Good morning, Mr. Hunsacker, how nice to see you again. We met in Washington," he added, offering his hand, but the Texan barged past him, clearly looking for Danny. The bathroom door opened a moment later, and Danny reappeared wearing a hotel dressing gown. He yawned and stretched his arms.

"What a surprise, Mr. Hunsacker," he said. "To what do we owe this unexpected pleasure?"

"Surprise be damned, said Hunsacker. You saw me at breakfast yesterday. I'm pretty hard to miss." "And you can cut out the yawning act, I know you've already had breakfast," he said, glancing at a half-eaten piece of toast.

"At a cost of ten Swiss francs, no doubt," said Danny with a grin. "But do tell me what brings you to Geneva," he added as he sank back in the only comfortable chair in the room.

"You know damn well why I'm in Geneva," said Hunsacker, lighting his cigar.

"This is a non-smoking floor," Danny reminded him.

"Crap," said Hunsacker, flicking ash onto the carpet. "So how much do you want?"

"For what, Mr. Hunsacker?"

"Don't play games with me, Nick. How much do you want?"

"I confess I was discussing that very subject with my legal adviser only moments before you knocked on the door, and he wisely recommended that I should wait a little longer before I commit myself."

"Why wait? You don't have any interest in stamps."

"True," said Danny, "but perhaps there are others who do."

"Like who?"

"Mr. Watanabe, for example," suggested Danny.

"You're bluffing."

"That's what he said about you."

"You've already been in touch with Watanabe?"

"Not yet," admitted Danny, "but I'm expecting him to call any minute."

"Name your price."

"Sixty-five million dollars," said Danny.

"You're crazy. That's double what it's worth. And you do realize that I'm the only person on earth who can afford to buy the collection. It would only take you one phone call to discover that Watanabe's not in my league."

"Then I shall have to split the collection up," said Danny. "After all, Mr. Blundell assured me that Sotheby's could guarantee me a large income for the rest of my life, without ever having to flood the market. That would give both you and Mr. Watanabe the chance to cherry-pick any particular items you are keen to add to your collection."

"While at the same time you paid a ten percent seller's premium on everything in the collection," Hunsacker said, jabbing his cigar at him.

"And don't let's forget your twenty percent buyer's premium," Danny countered. "And let's face it, Gene, I'm thirty years younger than you, so I'm not the one who's in a hurry."

"I'd be willing to pay fifty million," said Hunsacker.

Danny was taken by surprise as he had expected Hunsacker to open the bidding at around forty million, but he didn't blink. "I'd be willing to drop to sixty."

"You'd be willing to drop to fifty-five," said Hunsacker.

"Not for a man who flew halfway round the world in his private jet simply to find out who would end up owning the Moncrieff collection."

"Fifty-five," Hunsacker repeated.

"Sixty," insisted Danny.

"No, fifty-five is my limit. And I'll wire the full amount to any bank in the world, which means it would be in your account within the next couple of hours."

"Why don't we toss for the last five million?"

"Because that way you can't lose. Fifty-five is what I said. You can take it or leave it."

"I think I'll leave it," said Danny, rising from his chair. "Have a good flight back to Texas, Gene, and do give me a call if there is a particular stamp you'd like to make an offer for before I phone Mr. Watanabe."

"OK, OK. I'll toss you for the last five million."

Danny turned back to his lawyer. "Would you be kind enough to act as referee, Mr. Munro?"

"Umpire," said Hunsacker.

"Yes, of course," Munro replied. Danny handed him a pound coin, and was surprised to see that Munro's hand was shaking as he balanced it on the end of his thumb. He tossed it high in the air.

"Heads," called Hunsacker. The coin landed in the thick rug by the fireplace. It was standing upright on its edge.

"Let's settle on $57,500,000," said Danny.

"It's a deal," said Hunsacker, who bent down, picked up the coin and put it in his pocket.

"I think you'll find that's mine," said Danny, holding out his hand.

Hunsacker handed over the coin and grinned. "Now give me the key, Nick, so I can inspect the goods."

"There's no need for that," said Danny. "After all, you saw the whole collection when it was on display in Washington. However, I will allow you to have my grandfather's ledger," he said, picking up the thick leather book from a side table and handing it to him. "As for the key," he added with a smile, "Mr. Munro will deliver it to you the moment the money is lodged in my account. I think you said it would take a couple of hours."

Hunsacker started walking toward the door.

"And, Gene." Hunsacker turned back. "Try to make it before the sun sets in Tokyo."

Desmond Galbraith picked up the private line on his desk.

"I'm reliably informed by one of the hotel staff," said Hugo Moncrieff, "that they are both booked on BA flight 737 which leaves here at 8:55 P.M. and touches down at Heathrow at 9:45 P.M."

"That's all I need to know," said Galbraith.

"We'll be flying back to Edinburgh first thing in the morning."

"Which should give de Coubertin more than enough time to reflect on which branch of the Moncrieff family he'd prefer to do business with."

"Would you care for a glass of champagne?" asked the stewardess.

"No thank you," said Munro, "just a scotch and soda."

"And for you, sir?"

"I'll have a glass of champagne, thank you," said Danny. After the stewardess had gone he turned to ask Munro, "Why do you think the bank didn't take my uncle's claim seriously? After all, he must have shown de Coubertin the new will."

"They must have spotted something I missed," said Munro.

"Why don't you call de Coubertin and ask him what it was?"

"That man wouldn't admit he'd ever met your uncle, let alone seen your grandfather's will. Still, now that you have almost sixty million dollars in the bank, I presume you'll want me to defend all the writs?"

"I wonder what Nick would have done," mumbled Danny as he fell into a deep sleep.

Munro raised an eyebrow, but didn't press his client further when he remembered that Sir Nicholas hadn't been to bed the previous night.

Danny woke with a start when the wheels touched down at Heathrow. He and Munro were among the first to disembark from the aircraft. As they walked down the steps they were surprised to see three policemen standing on the tarmac. Munro noticed that they were not carrying machine guns, so they couldn't be security. As Danny's foot touched the bottom step two of the policemen grabbed him, while the third pinned his arms behind his back and handcuffed him.

"You're under arrest, Moncrieff," said one of them as they marched him off.

"On what charge?" demanded Munro, but he didn't get a response because the police car, siren blaring, was already speeding away.

Danny had spent most days since his release wondering when they'd finally catch up with him. The only surprise was that they'd called him Moncrieff.

Beth could no longer bear to look at her father, whom she hadn't spoken to for days. Despite being forewarned by the doctor, she couldn't believe how emaciated he'd become in such a short time.

Father Michael had visited his parishioner every day since he had been bedridden, and that morning he had asked Beth's mother to gather the family and close friends around the bedside that evening, as he could no longer delay conducting the last rites.

"Beth."

Beth was taken by surprise when her father spoke. "Yes, Dad," she said, taking his hand.

"Who's running the garage?" he asked in a piping voice that was almost inaudible.

"Trevor Sutton," she replied softly.

"He's not up to it. You'll have to appoint someone else, and soon."

"I will, Dad," Beth replied dutifully. She didn't tell him that no one else wanted the job.

"Are we alone?" he asked after a long pause.

"Yes, Dad. Mum's in the front room talking to Mrs…"

"Mrs. Cartwright?"

"Yes," admitted Beth.

"Thank God for her common sense." Her father paused to take another breath before adding, "Which you've inherited."

Beth smiled. Even the effort of talking was now almost beyond him. "Tell Harry," he suddenly said, his voice even weaker, "I'd like to see them both before I die."

Beth had stopped saying "You're not going to die" some time ago, and simply whispered in his ear, "Of course I will, Dad."

Another long pause, another struggle for breath, before he whispered, "Promise me one thing."

"Anything."

He gripped his daughter's hand. "You'll fight on to clear his name." The grip suddenly weakened, and his hand went limp.

"I will," said Beth, although she knew he couldn't hear her.

CHAPTER FORTY-NINE

MR. MUNRO'S OFFICE had left several messages on his mobile asking him to call urgently. He had other things on his mind.

Sir Nicholas had been whisked off in a police car to spend the night in a cell at Paddington Green police station. When Mr. Munro left him, he made his way by taxi to the Caledonian Club in Belgravia. He blamed himself for not remembering that Sir Nicholas was still on probation and was not allowed to leave the country. Perhaps it was simply that he could never think of him as a criminal.

When Munro arrived at his club just after eleven-thirty, he found Miss Davenport waiting for him in the guest lounge. The first thing he needed to ascertain, and very quickly, was whether she was up to the job. That took him about five minutes. He had rarely come across anyone who grasped the salient points of a case so quickly. She asked all the right questions and he could only hope that Sir Nicholas had all the right answers. By the time they parted, just after midnight, Munro was in no doubt that his client was in good hands.

Sarah Davenport hadn't needed to remind Munro of the court's attitude to prisoners who broke their parole conditions, and how rarely exceptions were made, especially when it came to traveling abroad without seeking approval from their probation officer. Both she and Munro were fully aware that a judge would probably send Nick back to prison to complete the remaining four years of his sentence. Miss Davenport would of course plead "mitigating circumstances," but she wasn't at all optimistic about the outcome. Munro had never cared for lawyers who were optimistic. She promised to call him in Dunbroath the moment the judge had delivered his verdict.

As Munro was about to make his way upstairs to his room, the porter told him there was another message, to call his son as soon as possible.

"So what's so urgent?" was Munro's first question as he sat on the end of the bed.

"Galbraith has withdrawn all his pending writs," whispered Hamish Munro, not wanting to wake his wife, "as well as the trespass order demanding that Sir Nicholas vacate his home in The Boltons within thirty days. Is this total capitulation, Dad, or am I missing something?" he asked after he'd quietly closed the bathroom door.

"The latter, I fear, my boy. Galbraith's done no more than sacrifice the irrelevant in order to capture the only prize that's really worth having."

"Getting the court to legitimize Sir Alexander's second will?"

"You've got it in one," said Munro. "If he is able to prove that Sir Alexander's new will leaving everything to his brother Angus supersedes any previous wills, then it will be Hugo Moncrieff, and not Sir Nicholas, who inherits the estate, including a bank account in Switzerland that is now showing a balance of at least $57,500,000."

"Galbraith must be confident that the second will is genuine?"

"He may well be, but I know someone else who isn't quite so confident."

"By the way, Dad, Galbraith called again just as I was leaving the office. He wanted to know when you'd be returning to Scotland."

"Did he indeed?" said Munro. "Which begs the question, how did he know I wasn't in Scotland?"

"When I told you that I hoped we'd meet again," said Sarah, "an interview room at Paddington Green police station wasn't exactly what I had in mind." Danny smiled ruefully as he looked across the small wooden table at his new solicitor. Munro had explained that he could not represent him in an English court of law, however, he could recommend-"No," Danny had responded, "I know exactly who I want to represent me."

"I'm flattered," Sarah continued, "that when you found yourself in need of legal advice, I was your first choice."

"You were my only choice," admitted Danny. "I don't know any other solicitors." He regretted his words the moment he'd said them.

"And to think I've been up half the night-"

"I'm sorry," said Danny. "That's not what I meant. It's just that Mr. Munro told me-"

"I know what Mr. Munro told you," said Sarah with a smile. "Now, we don't have any time to waste. You'll be up in front of the judge at ten o'clock, and although Mr. Munro has fully briefed me on what you've been up to for the past couple of days, I still have a few questions of my own that need answering, as I don't want to be taken by surprise once we're in the court. So please be frank-and by that I mean honest. Have you at any time in the past twelve months traveled abroad, other than on this one occasion when you visited Geneva?"

"No," Danny replied.

"Have you failed to attend any meetings with your probation officer since you left prison?"

"No, never."

"Did you at any time make an attempt to contact…"

"Good morning, Mr. Galbraith," said Munro. "I apologize for not contacting you earlier, but I have a feeling that you are only too aware of what caused me to be detained."

"Indeed I am," responded Galbraith, "which is precisely the reason I needed to speak to you so urgently. You will know that my client has withdrawn all pending actions against Sir Nicholas, so I'd rather hoped, given these circumstances, that your client will wish to respond in the same magnanimous manner, and withdraw his writ disputing the validity of his grandfather's most recent will?"

"You can assume nothing of the sort," retorted Munro sharply. "That would only result in your client ending up with everything, including the kitchen sink."

"Your response comes as no surprise to me, Munro. Indeed, I have already forewarned my client that would be your attitude, and we would be left with no choice but to contest your vexatious writ. However," Galbraith added before Munro could respond, "may I suggest that as there is now only one dispute outstanding between the two parties, namely whether Sir Alexander's most recent will is valid or invalid, it might be in the best interest of both parties to expedite matters by making sure this action comes before the court at the first possible opportunity?"

"May I respectfully remind you, Mr. Galbraith, that it has not been this firm that has been responsible for holding up proceedings. Nevertheless, I welcome your change of heart, even at this late juncture."

"I am delighted that that is your attitude, Mr. Munro, and I'm sure you will be pleased to learn that Mr. Justice Sanderson's clerk rang this morning to say that his lordship has a clear day in his diary on the first Thursday of next month, and would be happy to sit in judgment on this case if that were convenient to both sides."

"But that gives me less than ten days to prepare my case," said Munro, realizing he had been ambushed.

"Frankly, Mr. Munro, you either have proof that the will is invalid, or you do not," said Galbraith. "If you do, Mr. Justice Sanderson will rule in your favor, which, to quote you, would result in your client ending up with everything, including the kitchen sink."

Danny looked down at Sarah from the dock. He had answered all her questions truthfully, and was relieved to find that she only seemed interested in his reasons for traveling abroad. But then, how could she possibly know anything about the late Danny Cartwright? She had warned him that he would probably be back at Belmarsh in time for lunch, and should anticipate having to spend the next four years in prison. She had advised him to plead guilty, as they had no defense to the charge of breaking his probation order and therefore she could do no more than plead mitigating circumstances. He'd agreed.

"My lord," began Sarah as she rose to face Mr. Justice Callaghan. "My client does not deny his breach of license, but he did so only in order to establish his rights in a major financial case which he anticipates will shortly be coming before the High Court in Scotland. I should also point out, my lord, that my client was accompanied at all times by the distinguished Scottish solicitor, Mr. Fraser Munro, who is representing him in that case." The judge made a note of the name on the pad in front of him. "You may also consider it to be relevant, my lord, that my client was out of the country for less than forty-eight hours, and returned to London of his own volition. The charge that he failed to inform his probation officer is not entirely accurate, because he rang Ms. Bennett, and when he received ceived no reply, left a message on her answerphone. That message was recorded and can be supplied to the court if your lordship pleases.

"My lord, this uncharacteristic lapse has been the only occasion on which my client has failed to abide strictly by his license conditions, and he has never missed or ever been late for a meeting with his probation officer. I would add," continued Sarah, "that since being released from prison, my client's behavior, with the exception of this one blemish, has been exemplary. Not only has he at all times abided by his license, but he has continued his efforts to further his educational qualifications. He has recently been granted a place at London University, which he hopes will lead to an honors degree in business studies.

"My client unreservedly apologizes for any inconvenience he has caused the court or the probation service, and he has assured me that this will never happen again.

"In conclusion, my lord, I would hope that after you have taken all these matters into consideration, you will agree that no purpose will be served by sending this man back to prison." Sarah closed her file, bowed and resumed her place.

The judge went on writing for some time before he put down his pen. "Thank you, Miss Davenport," he eventually said. "I would like a little time to consider your submission before I pass judgment. Perhaps we could take a short break, and convene again at noon."

The court rose. Sarah was puzzled. Why would a judge of Mr. Justice Callaghan's experience need time to come to a decision on such a mundane matter? And then she worked it out.

"Could I speak to the chairman, please?"

"Who shall I say is calling?"

"Fraser Munro."

"I'll see if he's free to take your call, Mr. Munro." Munro tapped his fingers on the desk while he waited.

"Mr. Munro, how nice to hear from you again," said de Coubertin. "How can I assist you on this occasion?"

"I thought I would let you know that the matter which concerns us both will be resolved on Thursday of next week."

"Yes, I am fully aware of the latest developments," replied de Coubertin, "as I have also had a call from Mr. Desmond Galbraith. He assured me that his client has agreed to accept whatever judgment the court reaches. I must therefore ask if your client is willing to do the same."

"Yes, he is," replied Munro. "I shall be writing to you later today confirming that is our position."

"I am most grateful," said de Coubertin, "and will inform our legal department accordingly. As soon as we learn which of the two parties has won the action, I will give instructions to deposit the $57,500,000 into the relevant account."

"Thank you for that assurance," said Munro. He coughed. "I wondered if I might have a word with you off the record?"

"Not an expression we Swiss have come to terms with," replied de Coubertin.

"Then perhaps in my capacity as a trustee of the late Sir Alexander Moncrieff's estate, I could seek your guidance."

"I will do my best," replied de Coubertin, "but I will not under any circumstances breach client confidentiality. And that applies whether the client is dead or alive."

"I fully understand your position," said Munro. "I have reason to believe that you had a visit from Mr. Hugo Moncrieff before you saw Sir Nicholas, and that therefore you must have considered the documents that constitute the evidence in this case." De Coubertin did not offer an opinion. "Can I assume from your silence," said Munro, "that is not in dispute." De Coubertin still did not respond. "Among those documents would have been copies of both of Sir Alexander's wills, the legitimacy of which will decide the outcome of this case." Again, de Coubertin didn't offer an opinion, making Munro wonder if the line had gone dead. "Are you still there, chairman?" he asked.

"Yes, I am," de Coubertin replied.

"As you were willing to see Sir Nicholas after your meeting with Mr. Hugo Moncrieff, I can only assume that the reason you rejected his uncle's claim was because the bank, like myself, is not convinced that the second will is valid. So that there is no misunderstanding between us," added Munro, "your bank concluded that it is a fake." Mr. Munro could now hear the chairman breathing. "Then in the name of justice, man, I must ask you what it was that convinced you that the second will was invalid, but which I have failed to identify."

"I'm afraid I am unable to assist you, Mr. Munro, as it would be a breach of client confidentiality."

"Is there anyone else that I can turn to for advice on this matter?" pressed Munro.

There was a long silence before de Coubertin eventually said, "In keeping with the bank's policy, we sought a second opinion from an outside source."

"And can you divulge the name of your source?"

"No, I cannot," replied de Coubertin. "Much as I might like to, that would also be contrary to the bank's policy on such matters."

"But-" began Munro.

"However," continued de Coubertin, ignoring the interruption, "the gentleman who advised us is unquestionably the leading authority in his field, and hasn't yet left Geneva."

"All rise," said the usher as twelve o'clock struck and Mr. Justice Callaghan walked back into the courtroom.

Sarah turned to smile encouragingly at Danny, who was standing in the dock, with a look of resignation on his face. Once the judge had settled in his chair, he peered down at defense counsel. "I have given a great deal of thought to your submission, Miss Davenport. However, you must understand that it is my responsibility to ensure that prisoners are fully aware that while they are on license, they are still serving part of their sentence, and that if they fail to keep to the conditions set down in their parole order, they are breaking the law.

"I have of course," he continued, "taken into consideration your client's overall record since his release, including his efforts to obtain further academic qualifications. This is all very commendable, but does not alter the fact that he abused his position of trust. He must therefore be punished accordingly." Danny bowed his head. "Moncrieff," said the judge, "I intend to sign an order today which will ensure that you will be locked up for a further four years should you break any of your license conditions in the future. For the period of your license you may not under any circumstances travel abroad, and you will continue to report to your probation officer once a month."

He removed his spectacles. "Moncrieff, you have been most fortunate on this occasion, and what tipped the balance in your favor was the fact that you were accompanied on your injudicious foreign excursion by a senior member of the Scottish legal profession, whose reputation on both sides of the border is beyond reproach." Sarah smiled. Mr. Justice Callaghan had needed to make one or two phone calls so that he could confirm something Sarah already knew. "You are free to leave the court," were Mr. Justice Callaghan's final words.

The judge rose from his place, bowed low and shuffled out of the courtroom. Danny remained in the dock, despite the fact that the two policemen who'd been guarding him had already disappeared downstairs. Sarah walked across as the usher opened the little gate to allow him to step out of the dock and into the well of the court.

"Can you join me for lunch?" he asked.

"No," said Sarah, switching off her mobile. "Mr. Munro has just texted to say he wants you on the next flight to Edinburgh -and please call him on the way to the airport."

CHAPTER FIFTY

"IN CHAMBERS" WAS a term Danny had not come across before. Mr. Munro explained in great detail why he and Mr. Desmond Galbraith had agreed on this approach for settling the dispute between the two parties.

Both sides had agreed that it would not be wise to air any family grievances in public. Galbraith went as far as to admit that his client had a loathing of the press, and Munro had already warned Sir Nicholas that if their grievances were to be picked over in open court, his period in prison would end up covering far more column inches than any disagreement over his grandfather's will.

Both sides also accepted that the case should be tried in front of a high court judge, and that his decision would be final: once judgment had been made, neither side would be given leave to appeal. Sir Nicholas and Mr. Hugo Moncrieff both signed a binding legal agreement to this effect before the judge would agree to consider proceeding.

Danny sat at a table next to Mr. Munro on one side of the room, while Hugo and Margaret Moncrieff sat alongside Mr. Desmond Galbraith on the other. Mr. Justice Sanderson was seated at his desk facing them. None of the participants was dressed in court garb, which allowed a far more relaxed atmosphere to prevail. The judge opened proceedings by reminding both parties that despite the case being heard privately in chambers, the outcome still carried the full weight of the law. He seemed pleased to see both counsel nodding.

Mr. Justice Sanderson had not only proved acceptable to both sides, but was, in the words of Munro, "a wise old bird."

"Gentlemen," he began. "Having acquainted myself with the background to this case, I am aware just how much is at stake for both parties. Before I begin, I am bound to ask if every attempt to reach a compromise has been made?"

Mr. Desmond Galbraith rose from his place and stated that Sir Alexander had written an uncompromising letter, making it clear that he wished to disinherit his grandson after he had been court-martialed, and his client, Mr. Hugo Moncrieff, simply wished to carry out his late father's wishes.

Mr. Munro rose to state that his client had not issued the original writ, and had never sought this quarrel in the first place, but that like Mr. Hugo Moncrieff he felt that it was imperative that his grandfather's wishes were carried out. He paused. "To the letter."

The judge shrugged his shoulders and resigned himself to not being able to achieve any form of compromise between the two parties. "Then let's get on with it," he said. "I have read all the papers put before me and I have also considered any further submissions entered by both parties as evidence. With that in mind, I intend to state from the outset what I consider to be relevant in this case, and what I consider to be irrelevant. Neither side disputes that Sir Alexander Moncrieff executed a will on January seventeenth, 1997, in which he left the bulk of his estate to his grandson Nicholas, then a serving officer in Kosovo." He looked up to seek confirmation, and both Galbraith and Munro nodded.

"However, what is being claimed by Mr. Galbraith, on behalf of his client Mr. Hugo Moncrieff, is that this document was not his last Will and Testament, and that at a later date-" the judge looked down at his notes-"November first, 1998, Sir Alexander executed a second will, leaving the entire estate to his son Angus. Sir Angus died on the twentieth of May 2002, and in his last Will and Testament he in turn left everything to his younger brother, Hugo.

"Also offered in evidence by Mr. Galbraith on behalf of his client is a letter signed by Sir Alexander stating his reasons for this change of heart. Mr. Munro does not dispute the authenticity of the signature on the second page of this letter, but suggests that the first page was in fact drawn up at a later date. He states that although he will not be putting forward any evidence to support this claim, its truth will become self-evident when the second will is proved to be invalid.

"Mr. Munro has also made it known to the court that he will not be suggesting that Sir Alexander was, to use the legal term, not of sound mind at the relevant time. On the contrary, they spent an evening together only a week before Sir Alexander died, and after dinner his host soundly beat him at a game of chess.

"So I am bound to say to both parties that in my opinion the only question to be settled in this dispute is the validity of the second will, which Mr. Galbraith claims on behalf of his client was Sir Alexander Moncrieff's last Will and Testament, while Mr. Munro states, without putting too fine a point on it, that it's a fake. I hope that both sides consider this to be a fair assessment of the present position. If so, I will ask Mr. Galbraith to present his case on behalf of Mr. Hugo Moncrieff."

Desmond Galbraith rose from his place. "My lord, my client and I for our part accept that the only disagreement between the two parties concerns the second will, which as you have stated we are in no doubt was Sir Alexander's last Will and Testament. We offer the will and the attached letter as proof of our claim, and we would also like to present a witness who we believe will put this matter to rest once and for all."

"By all means," said Mr. Justice Sanderson. "Please call your witness."

"I call Professor Nigel Fleming," said Galbraith, looking toward the door.

Danny leaned across and asked Mr. Munro if he knew the professor. "Only by reputation," Munro replied as a tall, elegant man with a full head of gray hair walked into the room. As he took the oath, Danny thought that the professor reminded him of the sort of visiting dignitary who used to come to Clement Attlee Comprehensive once a year to present the prizes-though never to him.

"Please have a seat, Professor Fleming," said Mr. Justice Sanderson.

Galbraith remained standing. "Professor, I feel it is important for the court to be made aware of the expertise and authority you bring to this case, so I hope you will forgive me if I ask you a few questions concerning your background."

The professor gave a slight bow.

"What is your present position?"

"I am the Professor of Inorganic Chemistry at Edinburgh University."

"And have you written a book on the relevance of that field to crime, which has become the standard work on the subject and is taught as part of the legal syllabus in most universities?"

"I cannot speak for most universities, Mr. Galbraith, but that is certainly the case at Edinburgh."

"Have you in the past, professor, represented several governments to advise them on disputes of this nature?"

"I would not wish to overstate my authority, Mr. Galbraith. I have on three occasions been called in by governments to advise them on the validity of documents when a disagreement has arisen between two or more nations."

"Quite so. Then let me ask you, professor, if you have ever given evidence in court when the validity of a will has been called into question?"

"Yes, sir, on seventeen separate occasions."

"And will you tell the court, professor, how many of those cases ended with a judgment that supported your findings."

"I would not for a moment suggest the verdicts given in those cases were solely determined by my evidence."

"Nicely put," said the judge with a wry smile. "However, professor, the question is, how many of the seventeen verdicts backed up your opinion?"

"Sixteen, sir," replied the professor.

"Please continue, Mr. Galbraith," said the judge.

"Professor, have you had the opportunity to study the late Sir Alexander Moncrieff's will, which is at the center of this case?"

"I have studied both wills."

"Can I ask you some questions about the second will?" The professor nodded. "Is the paper on which the will is written of a type that would have been available at that time?"

"What time is that precisely, Mr. Galbraith?" asked the judge.

"November 1998, my lord."

"Yes it is," replied the professor. "It is my belief, based on scientific evidence, that the paper is the same vintage as that used for the first will, which was executed in 1997."

The judge raised an eyebrow, but didn't interrupt. "Was the red ribbon attached to that second will also of the same vintage?" asked Galbraith.

"Yes. I carried out tests on both ribbons, and it turned out that they were produced at the same time."

"And were you, professor, able to come to any conclusion about Sir Alexander's signature as it appears on both wills?"

"Before I answer that question, Mr. Galbraith, you must understand that I am not a calligraphic expert, but I can tell you that the black ink used by the signatory was manufactured some time before 1990."

"Are you telling the court," asked the judge, "that you are able to date a bottle of ink to within a year of its production?"

"Sometimes within a month," said the professor. "In fact, I would submit that the ink used for the signature on both wills came from a bottle manufactured by Waterman's in 1985."

"And now I should like to turn to the typewriter used for the second will," said Mr. Galbraith. "What make was it, and when did it first come on to the market?"

"It is a Remington Envoy II, which came on to the market in 1965."

"So just to confirm," added Galbraith, "the paper, the ink, the ribbon and the typewriter were all in existence before November 1998."

"Without question, in my judgment," said the professor.

"Thank you, professor. If you would be kind enough to wait there, I have a feeling that Mr. Munro will have some questions for you."

Munro rose slowly from his place. "I have no questions for this witness, my lord."

The judge did not react. However, the same could not be said of Galbraith, who stared at his opposite number in disbelief. Hugo Moncrieff asked his wife to explain the significance of Munro's words, while Danny looked straight ahead, showing no emotion, just as Munro had instructed him to do.

"Will you be presenting any other witnesses, Mr. Galbraith?" asked the judge.

"No, my lord. I can only assume that my learned friend's refusal to cross-examine Professor Fleming means that he accepts his findings." He paused. "Without question."

Munro didn't rise, in any sense of the expression.

"Mr. Munro," said the judge, "do you wish to make an opening statement?"

"Briefly, if it so pleases your lordship," said Munro. "Professor Fleming has confirmed that Sir Alexander's first Will and Testament, made in favor of my client, is indisputably authentic. We accept his judgment in this matter. As you stated at the beginning of this hearing, my lord, the only question which concerns this court is the validity or otherwise of the second will, which-"

"My lord," said Galbraith, jumping up from his place. "Is Mr. Munro suggesting to the court that the expertise the professor applied to the first will can conveniently be discounted when it comes to his opinion of the second?"

"No, my lord," said Munro. "Had my learned friend shown a little more patience, he would have discovered that that is not what I am suggesting. The professor told the court that he was not an expert on the authenticity of signatures-"

"But he also testified, my lord," said Galbraith, leaping up again, "that the ink used to sign both of the wills came from the same bottle."

"But not from the same hand, I would suggest," said Munro.

"Will you be calling a calligraphy expert?" asked the judge.

"No, my lord, I will not."

"Do you have any evidence to suggest that the signature is a forgery?"

"No, my lord, I do not," repeated Munro.

This time the judge did raise an eyebrow. "Will you be calling any witnesses, Mr. Munro, in support of your case?"

"Yes, my lord. Like my esteemed colleague, I will be calling only one witness." Munro paused for a moment, aware that, with the exception of Danny, who didn't even blink, everyone in the room was curious to know who this witness could possibly be. "I call Mr. Gene Hunsacker."

The door opened, and the vast frame of the Texan ambled slowly into the room. Danny felt that something wasn't right, then realized that it was the first time he'd seen Hunsacker without his trademark cigar.

Hunsacker took the oath, his voice booming around the small room.

"Please have a seat, Mr. Hunsacker," said the judge. "As we are such a small gathering, perhaps we might address each other in more conversational tones."

"I'm sorry, your honor," said Hunsacker.

"No need to apologize," said the judge. "Please proceed, Mr. Munro."

Munro rose from his place and smiled at Hunsacker. "For the record, would you be kind enough to state your name and occupation?"

"My name is Gene Hunsacker the third, and I'm retired."

"And what did you do before you retired, Mr. Hunsacker?" asked the judge.

"Not a lot, sir. My pa, like my grand-daddy before him, was a cattle rancher, but I myself never took to it, especially after oil was discovered on my land."

"So you're an oilman," said the judge.

"Not exactly, sir, because at the age of twenty-seven I sold out to a British company, BP, and since then I've spent the rest of my life pursuing my hobby."

"How interesting. What, may I ask-" began the judge.

"We'll come to your hobby in a moment, Mr. Hunsacker," said Munro firmly. The judge sank back in his chair, an apologetic look on his face. "Mr. Hunsacker, you have stated that having made a considerable fortune following the sale of your land to BP, you are not in the oil business."

"That's correct, sir."

"I would also like to establish for the court's benefit what else you are not an expert on. For example, are you an expert on wills?"

"No, sir, I am not."

"Are you an expert on paper and ink technology?"

"No, sir."

"Are you an expert on ribbons?"

"I tried to remove a few from girls' hair when I was a younger man, but I wasn't even very good at that," said Gene.

Munro waited for the laughter to die down before he continued. "Then perhaps you are an expert on typewriters?"

"No, sir."

"Or even signatures?"

"No, sir."

"However," said Munro, "would I be right in suggesting that you are considered the world's leading authority on postage stamps?"

"I think I can safely say it's either me or Tomoji Watanabe," Hunsacker replied, "depending on who you talk to."

The judge couldn't control himself any longer. "Can you explain what you mean by that, Mr. Hunsacker?"

"Both of us have been collectors for over forty years, your honor. I have the larger collection, but to be fair to Tomoji, that's possibly because I'm a darn sight richer than he is, and keep outbidding the poor bastard." Even Margaret Moncrieff couldn't stifle a laugh. "I sit on the board of Sotheby's, and Tomoji advises Philips. My collection has been put on display at the Smithsonian Institution in Washington, D.C., his at the Imperial Museum in Tokyo. So I can't tell you who's the world's leading authority, but whichever one of us is number one, the other guy is certainly number two."

"Thank you, Mr. Hunsacker," said the judge. "I am satisfied that your witness is an expert in his chosen field, Mr. Munro."

"Thank you, my lord," said Munro. "Mr. Hunsacker, have you studied both of the wills involved in this case?"

"I have, sir."

"And what is your opinion, your professional opinion, of the second will, the one that leaves Sir Alexander's fortune to his son Angus?"

"It's a fake."

Desmond Galbraith was immediately on his feet. "Yes, yes, Mr. Galbraith," said the judge, waving him back in his place. "I do hope, Mr. Hunsacker, that you are going to supply the court with some concrete evidence for the assertion. By 'concrete evidence,' I do not mean another dose of your homespun philosophy."

Hunsacker's jovial smile disappeared. He waited for some time before saying, "I shall prove, your honor, in what I believe you describe in this country as beyond reasonable doubt, that Sir Alexander's second will is a fake. In order to do so, I will require you to be in possession of the original document." Mr. Justice Sanderson turned to Galbraith, who shrugged his shoulders, rose from his place and handed the second will across to the judge. "Now, sir," said Hunsacker, "if you would be kind enough to turn to the second page of the document, you will see Sir Alexander's signature written across a stamp."

"Are you suggesting that the stamp is a fake?" said the judge.

"No, sir, I am not."

"But as you have already stated, Mr. Hunsacker, you are not an expert on signatures. What exactly are you suggesting?"

"That is clear for all to see, sir," said Hunsacker, "as long as you know what you're looking for."

"Please enlighten me," said the judge, sounding a little exasperated.

"Her Majesty the Queen ascended the British throne on February second 1952," said Hunsacker, "and was crowned at Westminster Abbey on June second 1953. The Royal Mail produced a stamp to mark that occasion-indeed I am the proud owner of a mint sheet of first editions. That stamp shows the Queen as a young woman, but because of the remarkable length of Her Majesty's reign, the Royal Mail has had to issue a new edition every few years to reflect the fact that the monarch has grown a little older. The edition that is affixed to this will was issued in March 1999." Hunsacker swung around in his chair to look at Hugo Moncrieff, wondering if the significance of his words had sunk in. He couldn't be sure, although the same could not be said of Margaret Moncrieff, whose lips were pursed, while the blood was quickly draining from her face.

"Your honor," said Hunsacker, "Sir Alexander Moncrieff died on December seventeenth 1998-three months before the stamp was issued. So one thing is for certain: that sure can't be his signature scrawled across Her Majesty."