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crossed his mind that the well-spoken, well-dressed man who had appeared at the gallery on that dreadful, never-to-be-forgotten Monday morning could be dangerous. Toby had even been pleased to see him. There weren’t usually many visitors so early in the week, and the man had bought a catalogue without even raising an eyebrow at its price, which was rare. He had also seemed flatteringly excited by the idea of being shown around the collection by its director.
    Toby had hated his own gullibility ever since, and now burned at the memory of his eagerness to tell the good-looking visitor the sad romantic story of Jean-Pierre Gregoire and his English widow. He had led the man on from canvas to canvas, revelling in his unusually intelligent questions and apparently genuine admiration of what he saw.
    Then it had started to go wrong. Looking back, Toby tried to pinpoint the moment when the first tiny shiver of fear had made him pause. He thought they’d been standing in front of the Rembrandt when the visitor had put his simple, unemotional question: ‘Have you got any Clouet drawings in the collection?’
    Toby had said no easily enough, before moving to the next canvas he wanted to show off. But the man hadn’t paid much attention. Within five minutes he’d gone back to asking questions about Clouet drawings, questions which had soon shown
him to be terrifyingly well informed. Toby had had to keep looking over his shoulder to make sure that neither Jo nor any other visitor had sneaked in to eavesdrop.
    The one thing he could still feel good about was the length of time he had resisted the man’s attempt to make him incriminate himself. Toby had stuck to his story for what felt like hours until the visitor, who later said his name was Ben Smithlock, had said:
    ‘So if the story I’ve been told about those so-called Clouet drawings you found at Cambridge is all untrue, you won’t be afraid if I go to the papers with it.’
    He had taken a mobile out of his pocket and stroked it, adding: ‘The papers and your trustees, of course. I have Sir Henry Buxford’s private number programmed into my phone, so it’ll be the work of a moment to tell him what kind of sleazy criminal he’s got running his favourite charity. You’ll be out on your ear in no time. And probably in prison soon afterwards.’
    Gaping at him, Toby hadn’t had a clue what to do or say.
    ‘Your wife’ll leave you, too.’ Ben had said. ‘There’s no way a glamorous, intelligent woman like Margaret would stay if she knew the truth about you.’
    ‘Don’t be ridiculous.’ Even now, Toby could hear the hoarseness that had made his voice rasp as he’d forced out his pathetic protest. Still more humiliatingly, he’d felt spit dripping from his lower lip and had had to fumble for a handkerchief to wipe it off his chin and his cashmere sweater. Ben Smithlock had just laughed.
    ‘Of course, if you were to do me one small favour, I’d be more than grateful enough to suppress everything I know about you. D’you want to hear about it?’
    Even then Toby hadn’t quite understood that what was happening to him was no more or less than straightforward blackmail. Nor had he realized Ben was not working alone. It had been at least a week before he mentioned his boss and even
longer before he’d hinted that they had enforcers working for them, too.
    Sitting at his desk now, Toby retched and put his hand over his mouth to control the impulse to vomit. He’d been certain all along that Peter had betrayed him. Only now did he let himself contemplate the even worse possibility that Peter might be the blackmailer-in-chief.
    Had he come to the house yesterday to bring the latest demand in person?
    Too restless to sit still, and too sick to do any work, Toby went to the window to gaze down at the small paved garden with its few bare trees and empty urns. Wouldn’t it be better just to open the window and fling himself down on to the elegant paving stones? Even