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put it to the test?”
    Raeburn looked up sharply at this disclosure. “The Balmoral incident? I did wonder. Who was your subject, then?”
    “No one of consequence,” said the Master, with chilly indifference. “An underling with ideas above his station. Next time, however, we shall want someone more eminent. I hope you have found him for me.”
    Raeburn had resumed his air of silken composure. “Have I ever disappointed you?” he asked, reaching for the document case on the floor beside his chair.
    As the Head-Master looked on, Raeburn opened the case and took out a black-and-white photograph, which he tendered to his superior. The old man glanced briefly at the photo before turning it over to read the typed bio taped to the back of the print. When he had finished reading, he took a second, longer look at the photograph before placing it face-up in the open lid of the box containing the torc.
    “Excellent,” he murmured. “A most appropriate choice. Will you require any assistance?”
    “It would, perhaps, be helpful,” Raeburn said. “My own men know what is expected of them, and are prepared to assume their roles when the time comes. But this undertaking will require much more than simply putting a few rounds through the head of a no longer useful pawn. If I could count on some extra backup, I would be that much more confident of success.”
    The Head-Master’s wrinkled lips framed a cold smile.
    “Of course. Choose whichever six you wish.”

Chapter Three

    THE RECTORY for St. Paul’s Scottish Episcopal Church, Kinross, was a rambling Victorian cottage adjacent to the church, set well back from the street amid an exuberant riot of rose bushes. As Adam eased the blue Range Rover into the gravelled driveway in front of the house, avoiding a miniature pink bicycle with training wheels, Peregrine glanced ruefully at the sky, which had clouded considerably since their pleasant ride of earlier in the morning.
    “I don’t think there’s anything quite so fickle as Scottish weather,” he said. “It’s a good thing we started when we did. We’ll be lucky if it doesn’t bucket before lunch time.”
    As Adam cut the engine, an active, upright figure in a clergyman’s collar and trenchcoat emerged from behind a yellow painted door, a small briefcase clutched in one hand. He gave them a jaunty wave and bounded down off the trellised porch to meet them as they got out of the car.
    “Good morning again, Adam! So glad you could make it. Is this Mr. Lovat, then?”
    “The same,” Adam said. “Peregrine, allow me to introduce you formally to Father Christopher Houston, a friend of long standing.”
    Peregrine studied his new acquaintance over a firm handshake. Seen at close range, Christopher Houston was lean and loose-jointed, with a wide, good-natured mouth and a flyaway shock of fine brown hair that made him look artlessly dishevelled, like a schoolboy newly come from the playing fields. He wore his black clerical suit with casual ease, but the brown eyes above the long, straight nose were disconcertingly shrewd.
    Peregrine summoned what he hoped was an appropriate air of respect and said sincerely, “I’m very pleased to make your acquaintance, sir.”
    “No, Adam’s the ‘sir.’ I’m just Christopher,” the priest said amiably.
    “What my husband means is that there’s no need to be so formal,” said an amused female voice from behind Christopher’s shoulder. “The fact that he wears a collar is absolutely no reason to stand on ceremony—particularly since you’ve come to us in Adam’s company.”
    Taken slightly aback, Peregrine shifted his gaze and found himself looking into a fine pair of blue-grey eyes. The face that went with the eyes was attractive rather than pretty, with a smooth, wide brow and an agreeably determined chin. She had two little girls with her, the elder about five years old, and the other a toddler of two or so. All three were dressed to go out, in coats and