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The service was well-attended, and Booth Watson recognized several leading politicians, including a former Prime Minister, who sat bolt upright in the third row.

The last mourners to make an appearance were the family. They were led by an old lady who walked behind the coffinwith a younger woman, accompanied by two teenage boys. Booth Watson assumed they had to be her daughter-in-law and her two sons. Everyone was painfully aware who, like Banquo’s ghost, wasn’t there to accompany his mother. Booth Watson hoped to take advantage of Simon Hartley’s absence.

The uninvited guest sat through another funeral service, the only difference being who was resting in the coffin. When the blessing was finally delivered, Booth Watson was ready for the second part of his deception. The organ struck up the funeral march and the widow and her family made their way slowly back down the centre aisle, towards the west door, where they stopped and turned and waited to greet the assembled gathering.

The widow shook hands with all those who had come to honour the former Home Secretary, several of whom had been asked to join the family for a reception at Hartley Hall. Booth Watson was not among them, although he had plans to receive a last-minute invitation. Gatecrashing a funeral is one thing, but gatecrashing a private wake is quite another. However, he had a well-prepared line, which almost always elicited the same response.

He stood dutifully in line, and when he reached the front of the queue, was greeted with a puzzled look that rather suggested the widow was unsure who he was. He bowed low and whispered in the old lady’s ear, ‘Booth Watson. I had the honour of working with your husband when he was at the Home Office. One of the finest ministers I’ve ever served. Of course, like the rest of my countrymen, I have protested about the disgraceful treatment of your son and will continue to do so.’

‘How kind of you to say so, Mr Booth Watson,’ said the old lady, ‘and if you can spare the time, perhaps you couldjoin us at Hartley Hall, where I feel sure you’ll come across several old friends and acquaintances.’

Booth Watson felt sure he wouldn’t, but then his main purpose was to be an eavesdropper, gathering information from any idle, unguarded snippets of conversation that might add to his knowledge.

When he left St Mary’s, he followed a group of mourners who were clearly making their way to Hartley Hall. While other guests chatted among themselves during the reception, Booth Watson took a tour of the drawing room, and was quickly able to confirm the Hartleys’ large collection of English watercolours was worthy of its trumpeted reputation. However, when he first saw the Constable ofThe Old Mill at Buckleburythat hung above the mantelpiece, even he was moved.

‘Quite magnificent, isn’t it?’ said a voice from behind him.

‘It most certainly is,’ said Booth Watson, who turned to find the vicar standing by his side.

‘And been in the family for generations,’ he lowered his voice conspiratorially, ‘But it’s not the pride of the collection, in my opinion.’

Booth Watson didn’t have to ask.

‘The Declaration of Independence, handwritten by Thomas Jefferson – which hangs in the great man’s study – is, by any standards, unique.’

‘How interesting,’ said Booth Watson, who’d already decided the trip to Bucklebury had been worthwhile.

‘Vicar, what a beautiful service,’ said a lady who joined them, allowing Booth Watson to slip quietly away. He glanced around the room to see several mourners deep in conversation, which allowed the chance to leave the room and go in search of the Jefferson.

He walked slowly down the corridor and when he reached a closed door, he looked up and down to check that no one was watching. He tentatively opened the door, peered inside, and immediately spotted what he’d come in search of: The Declaration of Independence. He remembered from his research that one of Lord Hartley’s ancestors had been a friend of both Franklin and Jefferson. Which would explain how the document had ended up in Hartley Hall.

He was about to leave when the door suddenly swung open and a young man, whom Booth Watson immediately recognized, stepped in, unable to hide his surprise when he saw the stranger.

‘The vicar,’ said Booth Watson, without missing a beat, ‘mentioned that there was this copy of the Declaration of Independence in your late grandfather’s study. I couldn’t resist taking a look. I hope you’ll forgive me.’

‘It’s not a copy,’ said the young man with the certainty of the young. ‘It was written by Thomas Jefferson himself. He sent it to David Hartley MP in 1787, and it’s been in the family ever since.’

‘How interesting,’ said Booth Watson, not giving it a second look. ‘But if you’ll excuse me, I ought to go and pay my respects to your grandmother before I leave.’

Booth Watson left the young man without another word, and quickly returned to the drawing room, where he sought out the widow.

‘Thank you for allowing me to join you for the reception, Lady Hartley,’ he said, offering the same low bow, only to receive the same uncertain look as to who the stranger could possibly be.

‘Booth Watson,’ he reminded her, which caused a flicker of recognition to return.

‘If I can ever be of any assistance in the future, dear lady, please don’t hesitate to call on me,’ Booth Watson said, handing her his card.

‘How kind of you,’ she said, checking the card, ‘Mr Booth Watson.’ She placed it in her bag.

‘And be assured, as a mark of my respect for your late husband, I would be only too happy to waive my fee.’ Another bow followed before the uninvited guest made a discreet exit.

Booth Watson headed back to the station feeling he had cast a fly on the water, and he would now have to wait and see if the salmon would bite.

•••

When the cell door opened, Simon had no idea if it was the middle of the day or the middle of the night.

They yanked him off the thin, urine-stained mattress, and dragged him out into a dimly lit corridor. He assumed his life was about to end.