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‘You must get one of those a couple of times a day, if not more.’
    ‘Well, this one’s from a cousin of mine, not a first cousin, a second cousin, I think. Anyway, he wants to come and see you at eleven o’clock this morning.’
    ‘Never mind, Lucy. All kinds of people come and see me, even now.’ Powerscourt regretted those last two words as soon as he said them. He saw the look of pain cross Lucy’s
face. ‘Didn’t mean that last bit, so sorry, my love. I suppose I have to meet this person if he’s a relation. What is his business?’
    Lady Lucy looked sadly at her husband. ‘He’s a politician, Francis, member for some constituency in Sussex, I believe.’
    ‘Name?’
    ‘Edmund Fitzroy.’
    ‘You’re keeping something back from me, Lucy, I can tell from the look on your face.’
    ‘He was in the army, Household Cavalry or one of those. Now he’s a junior minister in the government, Francis.’ Even before she finished the sentence Powerscourt knew what was
coming. ‘In the Foreign Office.’
    ‘Is he, by God?’ said Powerscourt. ‘Never mind, Lucy.’ He smiled at her. ‘I’ll just have to see him off like that other fellow.’
    Edmund Fitzroy was a plump young man in his middle thirties with sandy hair and dark brown eyes. He looked older than his age, always a useful asset for a politician.
Powerscourt thought when they met in the drawing room that he would go down well with old ladies. Fitzroy had one main objective from Sir Jeremiah. He was to find out why Powerscourt had given up
detection. Once he knew that, Reddaway felt, he might be closer to success.
    ‘You would think,’ Powerscourt said to Lady Lucy and Johnny Fitzgerald later that day, ‘that even a politician would try to be polite to his host in his host’s own
drawing room.’ But it was not to be. Fitzroy was rude from the beginning and grew progressively ruder as the conversation continued.
    ‘I’ve heard from Sir Jeremiah Reddaway about your disgraceful attitude over this Russian business, Powerscourt, and I think you should be ashamed of yourself,’ was his opening
gambit.
    ‘Really?’ said Powerscourt, resolutely avoiding all eye contact with the man.
    ‘You’re a disgrace, Powerscourt,’ Fitzroy went on, ‘refusing to serve your country when we ask you. Just remember the oaths you swore when you accepted Her
Majesty’s commission all those years ago. Now you seem to think they mean nothing, nothing at all. I too have sworn the same oaths and regard myself as bound by them today as I was twelve
years ago. You seem to have decided that patriotism is something you can put on and off like a coat on a rainy day. Others may have to endure much in the service of their country while you indulge
your conscience or your reluctance for the fray in the luxury of your drawing room.’
    ‘I think you’ll discover,’ said Powerscourt, in the most patronizing tone he could muster, ‘if you take the trouble to find out about these things, forgive me for
sounding arrogant, that my service to this country is considerably more distinguished than yours, which consisted, as far as I know, of remarkable courage shown on the parade ground at Aldershot,
and bravery under fire while in charge of Royal Salutes at Windsor Castle.’ Lady Lucy had passed on this last piece of information just as Fitzroy was ringing the doorbell.
    ‘That’s not the point, Powerscourt, and you know it.’ Fitzroy had attended too many political meetings to be deterred, even by such a direct hit. ‘I am still prepared to
serve my country. You are not.’
    ‘I served my country for many years in a variety of dangerous situations. This, thank God, is still a free country. A man may retire from the military with full honours without being
bullied by politicians who never saw a shot fired in anger.’
    ‘You’ve lost your nerve, Powerscourt, and you know it. Why did you stop investigating, for God’s sake? Was one bullet in the chest enough