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In the taxi on the way back to his chambers, Booth Watson read through his notes and wondered if Miles would ever give up. The only compensation was that if he didn’t, he wouldn’t need another client. He put the notes back in his briefcase and took outThe Times. Some readers read the front page first, others turned to the sports pages. Booth Watson always began with the obituaries.

He didn’t waste a lot of time on a major who had won the DSO in Burma, or an academic who had ended her days as head of the natural sciences department at Bristol University. However, the death of the Rt Hon. Lord Hartley PC KBE MC did bring a smile to his face.

The former Home Secretary lived at Hartley Hall, near Bucklebury, which the paper assured him housed the family’s renowned art collection, including Constable’sThe Old Mill at Bucklebury.The only other thing he’d left of any interest to Booth Watson was a wife of fifty-three years’ standing and an only son, Simon. Booth Watson tried to recall where he’d come across the name of Simon Hartley before, but he was none the wiser by the time the train pulled into Waterloo.

On arriving at chambers, he instructed his secretary to make – not for the first time – discreet enquiries concerningthe day of a funeral, which he would attend even though he had never once come across the deceased.

•••

‘You’ve arrived just in time to join the celebration,’ said Beth, as William strolled into the kitchen.

‘What are we celebrating?’ he asked as she handed him a glass of champagne.

‘The Fitz has succeeded in raising the million needed to secure the Rembrandt drawing, only weeks before it would have been put up for auction on the open market, and that would have been the last we’d have seen of it.’

‘But I thought you needed another quarter of a million, and had almost given up hope of raising the full amount?’

‘I did, and I had,’ admitted Beth. ‘Then, out of the blue, we received a cheque for quarter of a million from an anonymous donor. He’s evidently been an admirer of the Fitz for many years and had already bequeathed that amount to the museum in his will. But given the circumstances, he decided there wasn’t any point in waiting.’

‘Any idea who it might be?’ asked William, as he sipped his champagne.

‘No, but I don’t consider it a coincidence that there’s a new man in Christina’s life.’

William didn’t look convinced. ‘Then you’d better cash the cheque fairly quickly, as Christina’s affairs don’t usually last too long.’

‘I think you could be wrong for a change, Chief Superintendent, because this time he’s older than she is.’

‘Then let’s hope he knows what he’s taking on,’ said William, raising a glass, having accepted it wasn’t a coincidence.

‘The board will be making an official announcement in the next few days,’ said Beth, ‘and they have invited our patron, the Countess of Wessex, to unveil the drawing in July, so that will be one date you can’t afford to miss.’

William raised his glass a second time.

‘And if that wasn’t enough,’ continued Beth, unable to contain her excitement, ‘the chairman of Tate phoned me this afternoon to ask if I’d be interested in applying for the position as their next director.’

‘And when they learn about your triumph with the Rembrandt, it won’t do your prospects any harm.’

‘Possibly, but don’t forget I’d be up against a strong field and I’m not altogether sure I want the job. I love the Fitz, and I mustn’t forget how good they’ve been to me over the years.’

‘Understood, but you can be sure they’ll all be proud of you were you to end up as director of Tate … Where are the twins?’ he added, suddenly aware the house was unusually quiet.

‘Upstairs, plotting something they don’t want us to know about,’ she whispered conspiratorially.

‘Who’s in the firing line this time?’ asked William.

‘No idea, but the name Hartley keeps coming up. Mean anything to you?’

‘What are we having for supper?’ he asked, as the twins burst into the room.

CHAPTER 4

SOME UNSCRUPULOUS LAWYERS GAIN Areputation for being ambulance chasers, but not Mr Booth Watson QC. He was of a higher calling, and fell into a category of a ‘funeral-attending QC’.

The taxi driver picked up his customer when he emerged from Thatcham station, and drove him to St Mary’s parish church.

Booth Watson joined the family, friends and colleagues as they made their way into the Norman church. He slipped into a pew near the back, as he wasn’t any of the above. But then funerals are like weddings: at least half the congregation doesn’t know the other half, so no one questions who you are or why you’re there.