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‘Madam Speaker, I’m bound to ask if we now live in a country where our opinions carry no weight beyond our own shores, as it’s clear my Honourable Friend’s constituent is being denied legal rights that by any standards are taken for granted in a law-abiding country. Perhaps the time has come for the Foreign Secretary to call for the Saudi Ambassador and explain to him the meaning of the words “habeas corpus”.’

The Foreign Secretary returned to the dispatch box, drowned out by ‘Hear, hear’ now emanating from all sides of the House. Had he looked up at the press gallery, Cook would have seen pens furiously scratching across paper as journalists began to realize this was a story that could run and run.

‘I can assure the Right Honourable Gentleman,’ began Cook, ‘that Her Majesty’s government has made our position abundantly clear when it comes to their treatment of Mr Hartley. But following these exchanges on the floor of the House, I have no doubt the Saudi Arabian Ambassador will have been made well aware of our colleagues’ strong feelings on the subject.’ Robin Cook looked up to see the Saudi Ambassador peering down at him from the Distinguished Strangers’ Gallery, not that he showed any sign of remorse.

The Foreign Secretary sat down, clearly embarrassed, and was relieved when the Speaker moved on. ‘Question number two,’ she declared, ‘Mr Jack Ashley.’

Mr Trevelyan, who was seated on the benches behind the Speaker’s Chair, reserved for civil servants representing the minister taking questions, was penning a note for his master to let him know that Lady Hartley had been present for the exchange and was now leaving the Strangers’ Gallery.

•••

When Lady Hartley arrived back in Bucklebury, dejected and weary, the first thing she did was take a card from her purse and dial the phone number below the name.

‘I’m sorry to bother you, Mr Booth Watson,’ she said, once she’d been put through, ‘but there still seems to be no sign of my son being released,’ she tried to remain calm, ‘while the bills continue to come in.’

‘I’m sorry to hear that,’ said Booth Watson, who was absolutely delighted.

‘So, I’ve made up my mind,’ she announced. She took a deep breath, before she added, ‘Please tell your client that I am ready to sell my Constable, and if he wishes to visit my home and consider any of the other watercolours left to me by my late husband, it can’t be soon enough.’

‘I’ll get in touch with my client immediately.’

Booth Watson was as good as his word, because no sooner had he put down the phone than he picked it back up and dialled Miles’s number.

•••

They agreed to meet outside the Cabinet War Rooms at two o’clock. Booth Watson arrived a few minutes before Big Ben chimed twice. Miles came strolling down Birdcage Walk some fifteen minutes later.

The two men began a routine they had regularly carried out over the years when they didn’t want to be overheard, except by squirrels, ducks and the occasional pigeon. They crossed the road, entered St James’s Park and continued to walk beside the lake, passing tourists, who rarely spoke English.

‘So what was so urgent it couldn’t wait?’ said Miles.

‘A call from an elderly widow who has bills to pay and, while her son is locked up in prison, has no immediate source of income so is unable to do so. However, she has inherited a Constable.’

‘Half the art world will also be aware if that’s the case,’ said Miles, ‘including Sotheby’s and Christie’s.’

‘Possibly,’ said Booth Watson, ‘but then again, possibly not.’

Miles walked for a few more yards before he said, ‘I’m still listening.’

‘The Constable is nothing more than a sprat,’ said Booth Watson.

‘So what’s the mackerel?’ asked Miles.

‘A unique example of the Declaration of Independence, known as the Fair Copy, the value of which she might not be aware.’

‘Why should that be of any interest to me?’ asked Miles, as a duck waddled up to him and opened its mouth, but was not rewarded. Miles didn’t deal in breadcrumbs, the only currency acceptable among the residents of St James’s Park.

‘A printed copy of the Declaration, published in Philadelphia by Benjamin Franklin around the same time, of which there are several still in circulation, recently fetched over a million dollars at auction,’ said Booth Watson, ‘and although I only saw this particular version for a few moments, I can assure you it was not a printed copy, but handwritten.’

‘By whom?’ asked Miles.

‘None other than Thomas Jefferson.’

Miles stopped in his tracks. ‘How can that be possible?’ he said.

‘It seems that Jefferson often visited London around that time. He was a friend of an MP called David Hartley, which would explain why it’s still in the family.’

‘Then you can be sure one of the family will be well aware of its value.’