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Miles listened carefully as Booth Watson outlined his plan.

‘I think you’re going to have to pay another visit to Ms Bates,’ was Miles’s immediate response. ‘It’s already in my diary,’ saidBooth Watson as they passed Bucklebury parish church, before turning left and proceeding down a long drive to see Hartley Hall looming up in front of them. Collins brought the car to a halt outside the handsome Elizabethan mansion.

Miles was the first to get out of the car, and the front door was opened even before he’d reached it. Lady Hartley’s first mistake.

She greeted both her guests with a warm smile, before saying, ‘How kind of you to take the trouble to come all this way, Mr Faulkner.’

‘It’s not a trouble, Lady Hartley, but a pleasure,’ declared Miles with the sincerity of a canvassing politician.

‘Please come in,’ she said. ‘I’ve made you both a cup of tea.’

‘How kind of you,’ said Miles as he followed her into the house. ‘Of course, I’ve been following your son’s disgraceful treatment at the hands of the Saudis with considerable interest. Not least because I was educated at the same alma mater as your late husband.’

Lady Hartley seemed to relax when she heard this news and led her guests into the drawing room.

‘Mr Booth Watson, my distinguished advocate,’ continued Miles, ‘has briefed me on your present situation, and I wanted you to know that if there is anything I can do to help, I am at your service.’

‘How considerate of you,’ said Lady Hartley. ‘And if only Simon were here …’

‘But sadly, he is not, so we must try to do what he would have considered to be in your best interests,’ said Booth Watson, as Miles’s eyes settled on Constable’sThe Old Mill at Buckleburythat was hanging above the mantelpiece. He had to admit it appeared to be a fine example of the master’s work.

‘Of course, I will be sad to have to part with the Hartley Constable,’ said her ladyship as she sat down, ‘as it’s been in our family for seven generations, but as my dear mother used to say, needs must when the devil is driving, and I think that particular devil is about to enter our gates.’

‘And should you decide you would reluctantly have to part with the painting,’ said Miles, ‘I wondered if you had a price in mind?’

‘The vicar told me that a Constable had recently changed hands at auction for five hundred thousand pounds,’ she replied, ‘so he felt that would be a reasonable price.’

‘If you were to sell the picture on the open market, Lady Hartley, I think you will find the auction houses add twenty-five per cent to the hammer price, while a dealer would expect an even larger share, so I suspect four hundred thousand is in fact a more realistic price.’

‘And the rest of the collection?’ asked Lady Hartley, looking hopeful.

Miles’s trained eye swept slowly around the room. A decent enough William Russell Flint of two ladies sitting by a swimming pool, a Brabazon Brabazon of Marrakesh, and a Bernard Dunstan of Hartley Hall. But nothing that would cause an auctioneer to delay proceedings for any length of time.

‘I have to admit, Lady Hartley, it’s a fine collection, but I am not an art dealer, just an enthusiastic collector whose walls are already full, so my only interest would be in the Constable.’

‘Then I fear, Mr Faulkner, you’ve had a wasted journey, because I couldn’t let the Constable go for less than five hundred thousand pounds.’

Booth Watson came in bang on cue, ‘When I last visited you, Lady Hartley, I spotted a copy’ – he emphasized theword ‘copy’ – ‘of the Declaration of Independence hanging in your husband’s study.’

‘That’s correct,’ said Lady Hartley, after a moment’s consideration. ‘Something else that has been passed down from generation to generation, but I confess it’s nothing more than a family heirloom of little value.’

Words that sang in Miles’s ear.

‘But … if you’d like to see it?’

‘May as well while we’re here,’ said Miles, trying to look less than enthusiastic.

Lady Hartley rose from her chair, led them back out of the room and along the corridor to her husband’s study.

While Booth Watson continued to chat to Lady Hartley about her husband’s distinguished career, Miles took a closer look at the framed Declaration that was hanging on the wall in the late Lord Hartley’s study. One glance and he was fairly certain it wasn’t a printed copy, but handwritten, but written by whom? A scribe, a secretary, or might it possibly be Jefferson himself? He stared at the signature and wondered if it could be genuine. There was only going to be one way of finding out, and that would mean taking a punt.

‘How interesting,’ said Miles, ‘and although I have no idea of its value, I would be happy to take it off your hands. In fact, if you felt able to part with both the Constable and the Declaration, I would be willing to pay the five hundred thousand you need, to solve your financial difficulties. I hope your husband would approve.’

‘He would have been overwhelmed by your generosity, Mr Faulkner,’ said Lady Hartley. She hesitated, before adding, ‘Please allow me to return that generosity in kind.’ She walked across to her husband’s desk, pulled open the bottom drawerand extracted a number of handwritten letters, which she handed over to Miles. ‘These letters were written by Thomas Jefferson to his friend David Hartley MP over two hundred years ago and I should like you to have them.’

‘How kind of you.’ Miles passed the letters over to Booth Watson, as if he were a lady-in-waiting receiving a bunch of flowers from a member of the Royal Family. Booth Watson checked Thomas Jefferson’s signature on the bottom of each of the letters, while Miles stood by Lord Hartley’s desk and said, ‘May I?’ He then took out his cheque book.

‘Of course,’ said Lady Hartley, who glanced at a framed photograph of her late husband being knighted by the Queen. Miles took a seat at Lord Hartley’s desk, before he wrote out a cheque for £500,000, signed it and handed it over to a willing seller.