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Agreed?”
    “If you say so.”
    “Do not worry,” Embries reassured him. “You are doing the right thing. Good-bye, James.”
    Before James could ask about the photo, there came a click and the receiver went dead. He thought of dialing again but decided against it. Clearly, Embries was working some sort of angle, and was not likely to give away anything important over the phone. James busied himself with making coffee, and while the stout dark liquid brewed, he went to the bathroom for a shower and a shave.
    He emerged somewhat refreshed, dressed quickly, and headed back to the kitchen for breakfast. While waiting for the antique toaster to spit out two thick pieces of toast, he decided to see if he could catch Calum before he left for the day’s shooting. James dialed the number and let it ring, but there was no answer. He hung up, thinking he’d left it too long, and Cal was already out on the moors with his high-tipping lawyers from London.
    The toast popped up, and he ate leaning against the counter. Then, pouring another mug of coffee, he sat down at the table for a final perusal of the odds and ends before returning the box to the solicitors. Reaching for the shooting diary, he slipped the photo from between the pages and gazed into the face of M. Embries. How old must he be now? he wondered. Perhaps it was a trick of the light, but he didn’t appear to have aged a day since the photo was taken; in fact, he didn’t seem to have changed at all: tall, regally slender, his white hair brushed back, pale eyes gazing out with intensity and intelligence. James’ father was standing beside him — how young he looked.
    He walked into the living room and took the portrait of his parents from the mantel. It was a good photo — taken on the day James had received his officer’s commission. It was May. His father was wearing the same dark suit he always wore at anything requiring formality; his mother, on the other hand, was absolutely radiant in a pale pink dress she had bought especially for the occasion; she wore white gloves and had his dress tunic over her arm, casually displaying the new gold rank insignia on the sleeve. It had been a warm day, he recalled, and he had just taken off his tunic; she had chided him for crumpling it, and took it from him while he snapped the picture. The smile she wore had much of a mother’s pride in it, mingled with joy at seeing her son honored.
    His father, in contrast, appeared almost sorrowful. There was something diffident and wistful about his expression — as if he were intruding, and knew it, but trying to make the best of an uncomfortable situation. But then, as James recalled, Jack Stuart had never been much for social gatherings of any kind; he found the inanity and superficiality maddening, and endured rather than enjoyed any function he was forced to attend. This, James had always considered, explained his father’s woebegone smile.
    The phone’s chirp broke into his reverie just then. He walked back to the kitchen and picked it up. “Hello?”
    “James, man, you’re there —”
    “Cal?”
    “Did you ring me just now?”
    “As a matter of fact, I did. How’d you know?”
    “You’re the only one who ever rings me before seven, actually.”
    “I figured you were out for the day with your clients.”
    “They left,” Cal told him. “Got a call last night. Urgent business in London, apparently. They paid up for the week and hightailed it back to the city. So I’m free as a bird. I thought we could take the ponies out. It’s been a while since I hunted on horseback. What do you say?”
    “Funny you should ask. I was going to try to persuade
you
to come with
me
.”
    “Where to?”
    “London. Your legal friends aren’t the only ones with urgent business in the city.”
    “Is this anything to do with the estate?”
    “As it happens, yes.”
    “Good news or bad?”
    “Too early to tell. But I’m going.”
    Cal hesitated. “Umm… I don’t know. I