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takeout, and the occasional omelet, and the mere thought of such home cooking must be put behind him, or it would seriously disrupt his professional detachment. “He’s done a few white-collar fraudsters—big-city types who’ve brought their cash and their bad habits into the area in search of rural peace and quiet. Then there was that local authority corruption case—he was for the developer, got him off, too. Grayling made donations to police charities—all the right people wined and dined—lent his Spanish villa to a lucky few. You get the picture.”
    “Are you suggesting some of your colleagues could be…swayed by such things?” Bartlemy inquired gently.
    “It wouldn’t be anything overt,” Pobjoy explained. “Just a general feeling that Grayling was a good bloke, one of the lads. One of the
chaps,
I should say. Wouldn’t have thought he’d be interested in this place, though. Or that cup of yours.”
    “It isn’t actually mine,” Bartlemy murmured, but the inspector held to his train of thought.
    “Grayling isn’t much of a one for history and culture,” he said. “We’re looking for the classic movie villain, right? Sinister type with very big bucks and an art collection no one ever gets to see. I have to say, most of the super-rich around here like to show off their paintings, at least to their chums; no point in having them otherwise. They collect for status, not pleasure. The Grail’s a little obscure for them.”
    Bartlemy made an affirmative noise.
    “Myself, I’ve only come up against Purlieu-Smythe once before,” Pobjoy resumed after a pause. “Another kid. Not quite like our Ram and Ginger, though. Poor little rich boy wanted for stealing a car, even though Daddy has four and Mummy two. Beat up a girl about a year ago, but someone talked her out of going to court. The boy’s a nasty little psycho in the making. Not yet eighteen.”
    “And the father?” Bartlemy queried. “I assume it was he who employed the lawyer.”
    “Respectable,” said Pobjoy. “Squeaky-clean businessman, plenty of good works, pillar-of-the-community image.”
    “Highly suspicious, in fact,” said Bartlemy with a faint smile.
    Pobjoy read few novels, but he took the point. “Real life isn’t much like thrillers,” he said. “Pillars of the community are usually stuffy, but…”
    “Upright?”
    “Yeah. Just one point: he’s a publisher. Educational books, art, that sort of thing. He might have heard of the Grail.”
    “His name?”
    “I shouldn’t be telling you that.”
    Bartlemy offered the policeman another cookie.
    “Hackforth. Giles Hackforth. The company’s called Pentacle Publishing.”
    “A long-established firm,” Bartlemy said. “Very reputable. So…we can infer that Hackforth is a cultured man who might well have an interest in local antiquities, and the folklore that accompanies them.”
    Pobjoy nodded. “I’d say you were imagining things,” he went on, “if it wasn’t for Purlieu-Smythe. But lawyers like him don’t do charity work. There has to be a connection with
someone,
and Hackforth seems to be your best bet. I don’t see what we can do about it, though. Suspicion isn’t evidence.”
    “As you say. However, all information is valuable. Is there anything more you can tell me about him?”
    Pobjoy hesitated. “Your nephew, Nathan Ward…” There was a certain constraint in his manner. He was still uncomfortable at the mention of Nathan’s name, not least because in his view any individual, once suspected, was suspect forever, and he found it hard to change his mind-set.
    “What about him?” Bartlemy’s tone, as always, was mild.
    “I heard he was at Ffylde Abbey. Scholarship boy.”
    “Yes.”
    “So’s the problem child. Damon Hackforth. Should have thought they’d expel him, but apparently not. I expect Daddy’s buying the school a new wing or something.”
    “Ffylde Abbey is fundamentally a religious institution, remember. Perhaps they feel they