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Chris Quinton

Fox Hunt

Published by Manifold Press

Text: © Chris Quinton 2012
E-book format © Manifold Press 2012

For further details of titles

both in print and forthcoming see:

http://www.manifoldpress.co.uk

ISBN: ISBN: 978-1-908312-05-1

Dedication:

Thank you as always to my friends

for your support, your nagging

and your whip-cracking.

Proof-reading and line editing:

W. S. Pugh

Any remaining errors are the sole

responsibility of the author

Editor: Fiona Pickles

Characters and situations descr ibed

in this book are f ictional

and not intended to por tray real persons

or situations whatsoever;

any resemblances to living individuals

are entirely coincidental.

Chapter One

Falling off a ladder is not a good idea. For 

someone of my dad’s age, pushing seventy, it was 
an extremely bad one. He ended up in hospital with 
concussion, cracked ribs, a broken hip, and very 
lucky that a reasonably sober Uncle Joe had chosen 
that particular time to drop in for a chat.

“What,” I asked him as I gave him a careful 

hug,“do you do for your next trick?” Going for 
flippancy meant I could hide how upset I was. Dad 
had come late to marriage and fatherhood and he 
was of a generation that hated emotional displays. 
My brother and I had long ago learned not to indulge 
in them. My cousin Lisa was the only exception to 
that unwritten rule. She’d come to live with us as a 
child and Mum and Dad had cosseted her as if she 
was a fairy princess.

“Fire walking,” he wheezed. “Don’t make me 

laugh, Rob, it hurts. What are you doing here? You 
should be at work.”

“When I get a phone call from Lisa saying you’re 

at death’s door, what else am I supposed to do? Tell 
her to call back after library hours, or drop everything 
and hotfoot it from London to Salisbury?”

He tried to give one of his disparaging snorts.“She 

always exaggerates. You know that.”

“Yes, which is why I assumed you were in no 

danger of popping your clogs, but were badly hurt.
How far wrong am I?”

“We-ell…”

“Exactly.” I peered at his bandaged forehead and 

wondered uneasily about concussions, haematoma, 
other trauma. I’d already been briefed by his doctor, 
of course, and he’d assured me there were no signs 
he’d suffered a mini-stroke or anything else that 
might have caused him to lose his balance, but even 
so ... “You old fool. What were you doing up the 
damned ladder in the first place?”

“Can’t remember,” he muttered. “Blast it, Robert, 

stop fussing over me! I’m not made of glass.”

“No, and you’re not immortal, either,” I reminded 

him. “You happen to be the only father I’ve got, and 
I’d just as soon you stayed around for a few more 
years yet.”

“I fully intend to, my lad.”
“Good. Which means you’ll be doing what the 

doctors and nurses tell you without argument?”

“Of course! I never argue!”
Somehow I managed not to laugh. “Sorry, wrong 

word. How stupid of me.” I gave him an affectionate 
smile. “Discuss? Debate?”

“Huh. Any sharper and you’ll cut yourself.”
Something like his old twinkle showed in his 

hazel eyes. “Did they tell you how long I’m likely to 
be in here? I asked Lisa and Mike, but couldn’t get 
any sense out of either of them.”

“Probably because your doctor won’t commit 

himself to a date yet,” I pointed out. “He says it 
depends on how you respond to treatment. But it’s 
going to be weeks rather than days, Dad, so don’t 
build your hopes up.”

“Damn!” The anger and frustration in that one 

word spoke volumes.

“What have you started that can’t wait?” I sighed.
“Who have you promised delivery dates?”
“Baverstock. Remember the van Dyck you helped 

with? He brought me a couple of Sixteenth Century 
panels. I’ve almost finished Ann, but I’ve only 
done the preliminary work on Adam.” He fixed a 
thoughtful gaze on me, and a slow smile lightened 
that carved-in-oak face of his. “Robbie-lad…”

“Dad,” I warned, “don’t start. I’ve only taken a 

week’s leave - “

“That’ll be enough to finish Ann.”
“I’m a librarian, not a fine art restorer.” Oh, but 

I wanted to be… The hard realities of life meant it 
could be no more than a pipe-dream. For Dad, it 
was a beloved hobby. For me to make it a career, 
I’d need official qualifications, degrees, letters after 
my name, and they don’t come cheap. My monthly 
salary from the library gave me money to live on 
with a bit to spare, nowhere near enough to fund 
university courses.

“But you’re damn good at it, all the same,” he 

countered. “Taught you all I know, didn’t I? And you 
have a talent for it, more than Mike does, but he 
could help you. Between the two of you, you could 
finish Adam in a couple of weeks, and I’d be able to 
rest easy in here knowing you’ll be taking care of 
them.”

“That is blackmail!” I snapped. “You should be 

ashamed.”

“No, it’s not! It’s a matter of the family honouring 

commitments. Come on, son. I know you can do it.”

“I’ll think about it,” I said reluctantly, a part of me 

turning happy cartwheels. It had been too long since 
I’d done any restoration. “But it isn’t entirely down 
to me, you know. There are the people I work with 
who’ll have to cover my job for longer if I extend 
my leave.” Knowing how difficult he could be about 
obeying doctors and staying put, and that my brother 
and cousin were simply not capable of controlling 
the old tyrant, I’d already arranged another two 
week option. But he didn’t have to know that or 
I’d be accused of fussing again. “And talking about 
family, where is Mike?”

“I sent him back to the workshop. I’d made a 

bit of a mess landing on things, and the bench was 
knocked over. There’s a fair amount of cleaning up 
to be done, Joe said. Luckily I wasn’t working on 
Ann, just an eighteenth century Orkney spinning-
wheel for Beau. Didn’t you go there?”

“No,” I said with an indulgent smile. “Oddly 

enough I came straight to the hospital. How about 
Uncle Joe?” Who was also conspicuous by his 
absence.

“Mike took him away with him. He doesn’t get 

any better, you know.”

“I know. And Lisa?”
“Had to collect Beth from the playgroup and 

couldn’t get hold of Simon or a neighbour to do it 
for her.” His voice sounded strained, and there were 
frown-lines of pain as well as worry on what I could 
see of his forehead. “Rob, the paintings … And keep 
an eye on Mike. He’s - drifting.”

“Dad, he’s twenty-two, not twelve,” I said gently.

Dad had never played favourites between us, 

taking my homosexuality in his stride, but he always 
worried more about my brother. God knows Mike 
gave him enough cause.

Dad didn’t say a word, just looked at me as if he 

really believed the four years’ difference between 
Mike and me actually gave me some kind of authority 
over him. So I nodded and smiled, and patted his 
hand instead of hugging him. “Yes,” I said. “I’ll do 
what I can about all of them. I promise.”

Something knotted in my stomach. Here we go 

again - Robert the Ever-Sensible is expected to take 
charge. Again. Mum had died eleven years ago of a 
totally unexpected aneurysm, and Dad took it very 
hard. Because I was the eldest - fifteen years old - 
it had fallen on me to hold the fort until he came 
out of his grief-induced isolation. It took him nearly 
three years. Just for once, I reflected wistfully, I’d 
like to be able to say no, indulge myself in a stupidly 
frivolous and irresponsible piece of nonsense, just 
for the hell of it. I flattened the thought guiltily and 
concentrated on Dad. I wanted to ask him about the 
paintings, but didn’t. He always kept detailed notes 
and I could find out all I needed to know from them. 
Or ask him tomorrow.

I didn’t stay long after that. He was looking very 

tired - old and frail - and if I let him see how it upset 
me, it would make him even more uncomfortable. So 
I meekly accepted the inevitable words of wisdom, 
discussed finances briefly, then put on my brightest 
smile and trotted out a few teasing remarks before 
retreating. According to the doctor, Dad was in no 

real danger, his heart was as sound as a bell and 
he had the constitution of an Army tank. There was 
no reason why he shouldn’t make a full recovery, it 
would just take time.

* * *

Reassured to an extent, I drove through a dismal 

November afternoon to Wilsford. On the outskirts 
of the village I turned into the un-surfaced lane 
leading to Dad’s cottage. Mike’s beloved Kawasaki 
was parked outside the converted stable-block that 
did duty as Dad’s main workshop, and a tarpaulin 
had been thrown over it to give some protection 
against the weather. I left my car beside the bike, 
and splashed through the puddles to the workshop 
door.

“Mike?” I called as I entered. And stopped in my 

tracks. “Holy shit!” The barn-like room had once been 
three loose-boxes with stalls opposite. The partitions 
had been taken out years ago, work benches set up, 
floor-to-ceiling shelving put in against the walls, 
and a proper staircase replaced the ladder to the 
hayloft. Now the reasonably ordered place looked 
as if a whirlwind had gone through it. The chemical 
reek was amazing. “I thought you were supposed to 
be clearing up this mess!”

“I am!” That came from above me. The hayloft 

had become a storeroom mostly filled with Dad’s 
magpie collection of interesting things or items to 
be mended, and were either too large to get into the 
cottage or had overflowed from the shelves below.

Mike loped down the stairs, wiping cobwebs 

from his shoulders and dark hair. Even unshaven, 
dust-streaked and dishevelled, he was too damned 
handsome for his own good. He took after Mum’s 
side of the family. Me, I looked like Dad, rather 
angular in face and build, a brown-haired, brown-
eyed Mr Average. “I’ve rescued Beau’s spinning-
wheel, mopped up most of the spillages, and hauled 
all I could upstairs. Rob, how the hell can one old 
man and a ladder create this kind of devastation?”

“Natural talent,” I sighed. “What actually 

happened? Does anyone know?”

“Nope.” He shrugged. “And Dad doesn’t 

remember a thing about it. Uncle Joe found him 
with the ladder on top of him and the bench on its 
side. Looked as if he’d fallen on one end of it and 
a leg had collapsed, throwing it over. That glop of 
his was everywhere. Just as well he’s stripping the 
wheel - half his work’s done for him now.”

“For us,” I corrected. There was no sense in 

prolonging the bad news. “He wants us to finish off 
his projects.”

“What? No way!” Mike’s reaction was predictable. 

“Rob, he can’t! I can’t! I’m no good at this sort of 
thing, you know that and so does he!”

“Look at it this way,” I said. “It’s going to be a 

while before he can do it himself, and he needs us to 
honour his commitments for him.”

Mike groaned and sat on the edge of the 

overturned bench. “When you put it like that…” 
he said gloomily, “but there isn’t a lot I can do 
without risk. Beau’s wheel is about my limit. At 
least it’s vaguely mechanical.” Mike had a talent 

with anything involving moving parts, and Dad had 
called upon it more than once. Last year Mike had 
done a wonderful job on a late Victorian music-box 
Beau had brought in. Beau, otherwise known as 
Cecil Hedges Antiques, owned and ran a small but 
select shop in Amesbury, and had subsequently sold 
the music-box for a tidy profit. He professed himself 
eternally grateful to the Rees family in general 
and to Mike in particular, which made Mike very 
nervous in his presence. Beau had a fondness for 
fine-looking young men.

“Don’t sell yourself short.” I smiled. “Dad has 

every faith in us both. As far as I can gather, it’s just 
the spinning-wheel and a couple of portraits he’s 
cleaning for George Baverstock. They weren’t in 
here, were they?” I asked, suddenly horror-struck.

Before I’d left the hospital, Dad had told me he 

was relying on the fee for the two cleanups to go 
towards the desperately needed rethatching of the 
cottage next summer.

“No. They were in the tack room, wrapped up in 

sacking inside the mash-copper.” That was a large 
copper barrel inside a brick-built container with a 
small hearth inset beneath it. Many years ago, the 
groom who lived in the cottage had cooked up the 
porridge-like mash for his charges in winter. Now 
it was Dad’s safe, anonymous beneath stacks of old 
picture frames and assorted paraphernalia. “The 
one of Ann is a stunner,” Mike continued. “Dad 
fell for her in a major way, and I can see why. My 
kind of girl, right down to the fortune in jewels she’s 
wearing. She and her old man are way out of my 

league, though. Dad says they are almost certainly 
by Hilliard. They’ll be for you to deal with.”

I was both elated and panic-stricken. Their 

probable price ticket didn’t bear thinking about.

“You can help,” I suggested, but he shook his 

head.

“Wouldn’t dare. They are worth a fortune, Rob. I’d 

be scared to breathe on them, let alone start cleaning 
them.”

“Okay.” I ruffled his rather over-long hair. It 

flopped over his forehead, making him look even 
more like the archetypal gypsy charmer. Mum’s side 
of our family, the Wells, had links with the Romani 
as well as local itinerant tinker communities, and it 
showed up in Mike’s rather spectacular features.

“How much of Hepple’s jungle-juice is left, or did 

it all end up on the floor?”

“No, it’s safe. Tucked away with the portraits in 

the usual place, but there’s only half a bottle.

Enough to finish Ann, probably. Most of this is 

Dad’s patent wood stripper and various dyes, glues 
and solvents. Don’t strike a match whatever you do.”

He paused, hands shoved into the pockets of his 

leather motorcycle jacket, all humour gone. “Rob, 
the doc said Dad would be okay, it’s just going to 
take a lot of time and common sense on his part. Is 
that what he told you?”

“Yes.” Against all conditioning, I leaned forward 

awkwardly and put my arms around him. He 
freed his hands and wrapped his arms around my 
shoulders in an answering clumsy embrace. “Don’t 
worry. Dad will be back to his old impossible self 

before we know it.” I believed it, I swear I did, but 
all the might-have-beens came crowding into my 
thoughts and by the tension in him, Mike shared the 
same waking nightmares.

“Of course he will,” he said gruffly. “Go and have 

a look at Ann while I put the kettle on. I’ll finish in 
here later.”

“Okay.” We broke apart and gave each other 

mutually reassuring slaps on the back, and I went to 
inspect Dad’s latest miracle in the making.

The tack room was across the yard from the 

workshop, and the extra windows he’d fitted were 
adding a lot of natural light. Here was the only place 
where Dad kept a steady ambient temperature. 
Special bulbs hung from the ceiling and were fitted 
in the two Anglepoise lamps, combining with the 
north-facing double-glazed windows to give all the 
illumination a restorer could need. This workroom 
was solely for the cleaning of paintings, though at 
first glance it looked more like a miniature version 
of a cross between a library and a mad scientist’s 
laboratory. Apart from the easel, and the large 
magnifying glass on an extendable arm clamped to 
it.

Carefully I extracted the paintings from their safe 

place, and once again I discovered Dad had excelled 
himself. The portraits had been painted on wooden 
panels about thirty centimetres by twenty, and while 
one was dull and all but featureless, on the other 
most of the paint was as firm and the colours as clean 
and glowing as the day they were first laid down.

Ann was an Elizabethan, a young woman in a 

russet and gold gown sewn with braids and lots of 
bows, and hung about with ropes of pearls and what 
might be topaz. A supported white lace collar rose 
up from her creamy shoulders, framing her face and 
showing off the lovely column of her neck and the 
tilt of her chin. Neat brown hair showed under her 
head-dress and the laugh-lines at the corners of her 
brown eyes had been lovingly painted in. So had a 
dimple in one cheek and the hint of a smile on her 
full mouth.

The artist, and okay, it wasn’t signed but the 

meticulous detail of the lace was a pretty strong clue, 
had captured more than a likeness. You could see her 
vivacity, the joy in her, the twinkle of humour. She 
and her husband were larger than Hilliard’s usual 
work, but I was sure Dad was right in assigning 
it. There wasn’t much left to do on her, the layers 
of grime and muck and old varnishes had all been 
lifted away, except for her left cheek and eye, and 
part of her lace collar. My fingers practically tingled 
with anticipation.

No matter who had painted her, Ann was a 

sweetheart. I could understand how she’d made 
such an impression on two of my family. I have to 
admit, she could hang on my wall any time. But soon 
she would be displayed for the private delight of a 
cultural miser, and no one else would see her again 
for a very long time.

I hadn’t actually met the man, but Dad had told 

me about the type. George Baverstock wasn’t just a 
collector. He was a Hoarder. One of those compulsives 
who hugged their treasures close like secret vices, 

shut them up in their own private galleries so they 
could be gloated over in total privacy.

That sort of thing made Dad furious. He’d spent 

most of his adult life until retirement teaching Art in 
all its aspects at a good private school. In his opinion 
such things were to be shared with all and sundry. 
I didn’t like it much, either, but a commission is a 
commission, the cottage roof needed that rethatching 
and Ann and Adam were cash-in-hand.

Dad had taught me a lot, and not just about 

cleaning and restoring paintings. By the look 
of it, originally these two had been one panel. 
Someone, somewhere, had committed the sacrilege 
of cutting down the middle what was probably the 
commemoration of their betrothal, since their coats 
of arms had not been impaled, but were poised over 
their outer shoulders. The panel might even have 
been longer - a pair of lovers standing, hands linked 
in token of their bond. I sighed. I’m an incurable 
romantic at heart, though I keep it well hidden from 
everyone.

Adam Courtney and Ann Darcy. I couldn’t wait to 

see what Adam looked like under his layers.

I would have to, though. Mike was right about the 

jungle-juice; there was just enough to clean Ann’s 
last patch. A couple of hours’ careful work with 
Hepple’s secret recipe, the anchored magnifying 
glass, and a large supply of cotton buds, and I 
could lift off the remaining grime of centuries and 
the various layers of old varnish without disturbing 
the paint beneath, and reveal any damage needing 
repair. Dad had made notes on the various paints 

the artist had used and I knew I could recreate them 
if necessary. I decided to make a start on her in the 
morning, then I’d have something positive to report 
to Dad in the afternoon.

 

 Chapter Two

The kitchen was a warm haven in what had 

become a chaotic day. I half-collapsed into a chair 
and leaned my elbows on the table, while Mike 
poured out a large mug of tea and put it in front of 
me.

“Dad’s notebooks are in the living room,” he said.
“I checked them out, and there’s no problem 

with the spinning-wheel. I can finish the stripping 
tomorrow and start the staining the next day.
Someone had slapped a few coats of fake mahogany 
varnish on it and Beau wants it restored to aged 
wood and working order.”

“Great,” I sighed. “All we have to do then is get 

him to pay. Cash-on-the-nail, as usual?”

“Yeah. What about Baverstock?”
“I’ll give him a call when Ann’s finished,” I 

answered. “Is it the same deal there, do you know?”

Mike nodded. “Payment in cash for Ann on 

delivery, same for Adam when he’s done. All for 
the Thatch Fund. Y’know, it wouldn’t surprise me if 
they’re hot.”

“What?” I stared at him blankly.
“Hot. As in nicked,” my idiotic brother said 

blithely.

“Don’t be daft!” I was in no mood for his wilder 

flights of fancy. “If they’re stolen, he’s hardly likely 
to dump them here for Dad to clean.”

“Isn’t he? Everyone knows our old man’s as 

straight as a die and clear as window glass. Who’d 

suspect him of anything questionable?”

“Except for not declaring extra earned income to 

the taxman,” I reminded him. “As in those cash-only 
payments.”

“That’s different.” He shrugged. “Everyone does 

it. Are you driving back to London tonight?”

I took the conversation hop in my stride. “Of 

course not. I’m staying here. Why? Does that cramp 
your style, Stud?”

“Nope.” He gave me a jaunty grin. “Just as long 

as one of us is here. I moved in with Donna last 
week. She lives in Salisbury - “

“Spare me the details,” I interrupted, and 

sighed.“The last I heard you were with Laura.”

“I broke up with her months ago,” Mike said 

cheerfully. “Too possessive by half. Wasn’t going to 
put up with that, was I? I’m serious, Rob. I think you 
should keep your eyes open and be on your guard.
If you see anyone suspicious, let me know and I’ll 
move back in.”

“Of all the half-baked, lunatic, over-imaginative -
Michael, if you can’t think of anything more 

constructive to say, then you better get back to 
Donna before she finds herself a saner boyfriend!”

He gave me a cocky grin. “I’ll finish off in the 

workshop,” he said. “See you tomorrow,” and 
reached for his helmet.

* * *

The thought that Dad’s fall might not have been 

all it appeared to be, combined with worry over the 
old fool, was more than enough to give me a restless 

night. It didn’t help that I’d yet to acclimatise to the 
cottage’s lack of central heating.

When dawn arrived, grey and miserable, I 

was glad to crawl out of bed, drag my extra-thick 
towelling bath robe over the tracksuit I wore in lieu 
of pyjamas when staying there in winter, and head 
for the kitchen.

The cottage was very quiet, and briefly I missed 

my London flat with the ever-present traffic noise and 
neighbourhood kids. Then I opened the back door 
and heard a cockerel crowing somewhere, a signal 
that set off an unidentifiable chorus of birdsong from 
the small orchard that gave the cottage its name. A 
dog barked in the distance, faint and forlorn, and 
the elderly tabby cat from the house down the road 
strolled across the yard with her tail held high and 
dew glittering on her whiskers.

Country life had its advantages. I drew in a deep 

breath of cold damp air, caught the tang of ripe 
silage, and almost changed my mind.

* * *

I fell into Dad’s routine surprisingly easily.
Satisfied all fumes had safely dispersed overnight, 

I lit the old wood-burning stove that heated the 
workshop, and retired to the kitchen for a leisurely 
breakfast with Dad’s notebooks while the place 
warmed up. He raved for three pages about the 
panels and the probable artist, about the heraldry 
-Burke’s Extinct Peerages had come up with the 
goods - and about Ann herself. Both she and her 
man came from West Country families, it seemed. I 

smiled with pleasure. That made them almost locals.

* * *

By the time I finally went back to the workshop, 

it was just about up to an acceptable temperature, so 
I tidied for an hour, then retreated to the tack-room 
and made a start on Ann’s panel.

There was just enough left to do on her to sort of 

ease me back into the knack of it. Thankfully, there 
were no hiccups and no damage to repair. I finished 
her by lunchtime and, if I say so myself, I’d done a 
pretty good job. The work I’d done was up to the same 
standard as Dad’s, and I felt a lot more confident 
about tackling Adam. While I was still floating on 
the glow of success (and relief), I looked up George 
Baverstock’s phone number in Dad’s book and gave 
him a call.

After I’d got through two secretaries and a PA, I 

finally spoke to the man himself. His cool and distant 
manner changed at once as soon as I mentioned 
Dad’s name and Ann Darcy. He couldn’t wait to 
get his sticky paws on her, and told me he’d leave 
London right away, planning to be at the cottage by 
three-ish.

That suited me fine. I could then pay a visit to 

Stan Hepple in Stockbridge and collect another 
bottle of jungle juice, then loop back to the hospital 
and report a successful first stage to Dad. That 
should calm him down better than any sedative - for 
twenty-four hours, at least.

* * *

I felt a certain amount of trepidation about 

Baverstock’s possible reaction to the fact that I, an 
unknown quantity as far as he was concerned, would 
be tackling his precious Adam panel. But within 
minutes of him turning up on the doorstep, I found 
I needn’t have worried. Dad had told him a while 
ago that I’d helped out with earlier commissions, 
and apparently waxed lyrical on my talent in that 
direction. Which was embarrassing but useful. The 
man didn’t twitch a muscle when I explained about 
Dad’s accident and said I’d be finishing the contract 
on his behalf. Admittedly, most of his attention was 
riveted on Ann.

As soon as I’d handed her over he had carefully 

unwrapped the brown paper and gazed at her with 
misty-eyed adoration. He wasn’t a tall man, only 
a couple of inches shorter than my five feet nine, 
but he made up for it in bulk. Somewhere in his 
late thirties, he must have been pushing seventeen 
stone, with a thick neck and a fleshy, high-coloured 
face under neatly styled brown hair. His features had 
good bones but the handsomeness was blurred by 
the pudge.

To give him his due, he did make an effort at 

small-talk. About art, of course. He was, I discovered, 
one of Dad’s old pupils, something the old man had 
kept quiet about. He wouldn’t have been proud that 
young George turned out to be a Hoarder, especially 
as the man made a point of telling me that his love 
of art was a direct result of my father’s teachings … 
Whoops. Poor Dad.

All in all, Baverstock wasn’t quite what I’d 

expected. However, there was no way I could 

tactfully ask him if he’d arranged the theft of the 
panels, or was aware of the possibility his supplier 
might have stolen them specifically for the sale.

Besides, in the cold light of day the idea was 

preposterous. The one oddity as far as I could see 
was that he was only too happy to pay in cash. Two 
thousand in an unsealed manila envelope. And 
it wasn’t an oddity in itself, simply Dad’s way of 
feeding the Thatch Fund and anything else around 
the cottage that needed repair.

After he’d gone I shoved the envelope containing 

the money into my backpack and zipped it closed, 
a little nervous about carrying such a sum around 
with me and wishing I had a padlock for it, if not a 
security guard.

* * *

During the twenty mile drive to Stockbridge in 

Hampshire I did some serious thinking, and came 
to several conclusions. One, Dad’s fall was exactly 
what it had seemed, an accident. Two, my brother’s 
over-active imagination had finally blown a mental 
fuse and there was absolutely nothing shady about 
a man bringing much loved and valued works of art 
to a trusted expert like Dad. After all, they could be 
Baverstock’s own family heirlooms for all we knew, 
or bought all legal and above board on the open 
market. Yes, I was definitely the sensible one in the 
Rees-Wells tribe. To be absolutely sure, I decided to 
do some net-surfing when I got back to the cottage, 
in case there was news out in the ether about stolen 
Hilliards.

That settled to my satisfaction, I pushed a disc 

into the radio-CD player and sang along to old rock 
tracks the rest of the way.

* * *

Hepple - no one called him anything else - put 

something of a fly in the ointment at first. He knew 
all about Our George and the panels. Dad had 
obviously been gossiping over the jungle juice and 
mugs of industrial-strength tea.

Since he was a long-time crony of Dad’s and I’d 

known him most of my life, I felt free to quiz him: did 
he know how long Baverstock had owned them and 
were they likely to be nicked?

He gave this due consideration, head on one side 

like a slightly arthritic hoodie-crow.

“Well, he certainly hasn’t bought them openly,”he 

said. “I’d’ve heard if they’d been up for sale or 
auction. As for stolen, well, there’s a thriving market 
in speciality thefts.” He grinned at me and winked.

“The local cops are always popping in for a chat 

and a pot of tea, to see if I’ve heard of or seen a 
particular thing. No one’s mentioned Hilliard-style 
panels, so Alan should be in the clear. They’re just 
as likely to be in the Baverstock family, you know.”

That was good enough for me.

* * *

The news that Ann had been completed, handed 

over and paid for, certainly seemed to take a load 
off Dad’s mind. Needless to say, I was not stupid 
enough to pass on Mike’s theory.

Then Lisa turned up, looking her usual elegant 

self in one of her own designs and bubbling with 
enthusiasm about a trip to Paris Simon had promised 
her. That poor devil adored her, even when she was 
being a right royal pain and making his life absolute 
hell. She’d never actually been unfaithful to him, 
she’d once assured me during a late night out at 
a local club, and she really was in love with him, 
honestly. No one understood her like dear Simon …

Right. One day she was going to wake up and dear 

Simon would be long gone with a bimbo secretary in 
tow, looking for the quiet life. But, knowing Simon, 
he’d be back with her after a few weeks because he 
couldn’t stand the peace and quiet. Lisa had a heart 
of gold, fingernails of tungsten steel and a firecracker 
temper. She was as bright as she was beautiful, with 
a business head a stockbroker could envy, and ran 
her small chain of fashion shops with a rod of iron 
and a lot of creative imagination.

She was as close to me and Mike as a sister, since 

Mum and Dad had brought her up with us after 
Dad’s brother and his wife had died in a car crash 
when Lisa was five and I was seven. She had adored 
Mum and was as devastated by her death as the rest 
of us, and she couldn’t love Dad more if he had been 
her natural father. Which is understandable. He 
could be a manipulative old vulture when he wanted 
to, but underneath it all he was a rather special, 
loveable man - though heaven forbid anyone other 
than Lisa actually said it in his hearing.

We chatted for a while until Dad began to look 

tired, then I took off to dump the money in his 
account via the hole-in-the-wall deposit point at 

Lloyds. I was looking forward to getting back to the 
cottage for a late and much needed meal.

* * *

There were two motorbikes parked by the 

workshop when I pulled in off the lane. Mike’s 
Kawasaki and another, bigger, beast in black and 
chrome. As I got out of the car, my brother came 
running from the workshop, his face white in the 
swathe of light from the open door. “Rob!” he yelled.

“Ann’s gone!”
“Yes,” I said calmly. “Mr B has her and we have 

his money. Or rather, Dad does. Why the panic? Did 
you think she’d been nicked?”

“Bee?”
“As in Baverstock.” I peered more closely at him.
“Mike? Are you okay? You look as if you’ve seen 

a ghost.”

“I’m fine.” His smile seemed a bit forced. “Just a 

bit hung over, and finding her gone was a jolt.”

“I’ll bet. Too much imagination, Stud.”
“Huh!” Then he seemed to remember something, 

and the smile was turned up to full wattage. “Rob, 
come and meet an old pal who’s going to solve a 
problem for us.”

“Oh?” I said. “I wasn’t aware we have a problem.
Apart from Dad.”
“Exactly. I meant what I said, you know. Those 

paintings could well be hot, and Baverstock may or 
may not know it. Then there’s Dad’s fall which might 
not have been an accident or even a fall. So-”

“Mike, you’re not making much sense.”

“Yes, I am. I don’t like the idea of you being here 

alone, or the panel when we’re both away seeing 
Dad, so - “

“I am perfectly capable of looking after myself!” 

I snapped. “Will you stop equating gay with limp 
wrists! I’m not a fainting waif and I’m no pushover!It 
wasn’t me who ducked out of Karate classes because 
they interfered with my love life!” I had a green belt 
in Shotokan Karate, hardly Bruce Lee material, but 
it kept me fit.

“So,” Mike continued, ignoring me, “I’ve 

arranged a backup bodyguard.”

“What?” I scowled. “Who? Uncle Joe? What could 

he do? Huff distillery-breath on them?” It began to 
rain heavily, which did not improve my temper.

“Fox,” he said brightly. “He owes me a favour, so 

I asked him to stay for a while. Until Adam’s finished 
and gone back to Baverstock.”

“Oh. Did you.” Fox? What kind of name was 

that?If he was one of Mike’s friends, he probably 
smelled like one and was as house-trained; a spotty 
would-be biker with delusions of style. Or the real 
deal.This was Mike’s idea of being a responsible 
adult?My nerves had been stretched raw from the 
moment I received Lisa’s phone call telling me 
about Dad, and this was the last straw. I had a choice 
between anger or anger with violence, and the first 
swept over me before the second could get a toe 
in the door. Besides, satisfying though it might be, 
punching Mike’s lights out would get us nowhere. 
“Nice of you to consult me first,” I snapped. “You 
can tell your old pal Fox his company is not required, 

so he can jump on his toy bike and pedal off back 
where he came from!”

“Don’t be hasty, Rob! Just stop and think for a - “
“I have, and foxes are superfluous to 

requirements!”

“ - moment. He can sleep in my room - “
“No! Of all the arrogant, stupid, selfish - if you’re 

so concerned about me and the bloody panel, why 
don’t you and Donna move in here? Hmm? Thought 
of that, Stud? So hop it, both of you!”

I spun on my heel and stalked into the cottage, 

slamming the door behind me. It was old, of solid 
oak, and slammed very satisfactorily. After a short 
pause, a bike fired up and roared away.

One bike. A sharp tattoo of brass on brass rattled 

in my ears as someone played a tune on the lion-and-
ring knocker. I jerked the door open, smiling with 
all my teeth. “Fox,” I said, not feeling the need to 
moderate my words with Mike’s strange friends.“On 
your bike.” The figure on my unwelcome mat was 
clothed head to foot in dripping wet motorcycle gear 
- black leather topped off by one of those black full-
face visored helmets that looked like a leftover from 
the Star Wars epics. He took off his gloves, and then 
his helmet, and ran his hand through his matted hair.

“Robert Rees,” he said. His voice was quiet, 

deepish and slightly husky, and started a slow curl 
of warmth through my blood. “Can I come in?”

In the light spilling from the room I could see 

he was pale, the almost transparent pallor that goes 
with naturally auburn hair. His was not just red, it 
was a copper mane that came past his collar in heavy 

waves. The warmth became a pulse of interest, and 
I flattened it quickly. I’d been dateless far too long, 
obviously. He was about my age as far as I could tell, 
just under six feet tall and looked as if he’d escaped 
from a Hollywood Brat Pack: all lean grace and 
cheekbones and thin high-bridged nose, and a gold 
ring in one earlobe. He also had a chin with a jut to it 
that begged to be introduced to a fist.He looked like 
fire and ice. He looked like trouble.‘Can I come in?’ 
Who was he trying to kid? Not a chance ...

The impulse sort of faded away and, “Yes,” I heard 

myself say. I was moving aside to let him walk past 
me before I fully realised what I was doing. His eyes 
were very green and as our gazes met, he smiled. 
The conviction I was imagining things edged into 
my mind and took over. This biker lout was no more 
trouble than Mike. A pest and a pain in the backside, 
but that was all.

“Thanks,” he said. “Mike told me to say he’s 

sorry he upset you, but he is worried.”

“Huh. I’ll wring his neck when I get hold of him, 

but it’s not your fault. You can stay for a day or so, 
I suppose.” I shut the door on the night. I felt oddly 
disconnected from my irritation with Mike and my 
unwanted guest, and couldn’t recall why he was 
unwanted, just that he was. The beginnings of a 
headache twinged behind my eyes. “Have you got 
any gear?”

“Yes, on the bike.”
“Bring it in, then. There’s another tarp in the 

workshop if you want to cover yours up. You look as 
if you could do with a hot drink. Coffee?”

“Thanks. Black, no sugar.”
“Go on, then. And wipe your feet!”
By the time I’d put the kettle on, he was back, 

panniers draped over one shoulder, hair straggling 
wetly over his face. He dropped the panniers and 
held out a hand to me. “Thanks for the hospitality,” 
he said and I wondered if he was being sarcastic. “I 
am house-trained, I promise.”

That got a bit close to reading my thoughts and 

I could feel my colour rising. “So I should hope,” I 
snipped, shaking hands automatically. His paw was 
narrow and long-fingered and chilled, the grip firm 
without being a power play. I glanced down at our 
joined hands.

On the first finger of his right hand was what 

looked to be an antique gold ring, the armorial 
design on the bezel worn close to obliteration.Hmm. 
So the Brat Packer was wearing a fancy ring.That 
didn’t quite go with the image. I wondered briefly 
where he got it from, then it fuzzed and slipped 
from my mind. “Furniture isn’t improved by being 
dripped on,” I said sternly, determined to play the 
bitch to remind him he was here under sufferance, 
and if it sounded more bitch-queen, then tough. It 
might even scare him off. “These are the house rules 
and if you don’t like them you know what you can 
do about it. Since you’re the resident Doberman, 
you can sleep on the sofa in the living room. It’s 
a lot closer to the workshop than Mike’s attic. You 
can also do the cooking and washing-up for both of 
us while you’re here, so I can spend more time on 
Dad’s work. Do you have any problems with that?”

“No, Rob,” he said meekly. Too mealy-mouthed, 

by half.

“Good,” I lied. “Get that wet jacket off and come 

through to the kitchen. It’s the warmest place in the 
cottage at the moment. Want something to eat? I can 
run to eggs, baked beans and sausages.”

“No, thanks. Just the coffee’ll be fine.”
“Okay. The coffeemaker and stuff are in the 

cupboard over the fridge. Help yourself while I fetch 
towels and bedding.”

I collected the clean pillow, sheet and duvet from 

Mike’s room, hooked a couple of towels from the 
airing cupboard and left them on the chair by the 
panniers. That would have to do. I wasn’t running 
an hotel, after all.

When I got back to the kitchen, he was sitting at 

the table, both hands wrapped around a steaming 
mug. The ring drew my eyes. It looked too heavy 
for the fine bones - he, on the other hand, looked 
frozen. He’d taken off the jacket and all he’d had 
underneath it was a black tee-shirt. The contrast 
made his skin as starkly pale as veined marble.

“Would you like some whisky in that for the cold?” 

I asked before I remembered he was an uninvited 
guest.

“No, thanks,” he smiled.
A Brat Pack biker, teetotal? That was stretching 

credulity a little too far, especially for Mike’s 
crowd.“You do drink, don’t you?” I demanded 
suspiciously.He smiled again, showing white teeth 
this time.

“Yes,” he said.

 

 Chapter Three

Another restless night, full of erotic but un-

remembered dreams, didn’t make it easy to get up 
the next morning, and I was tempted to have a lie-
in. It was a foul day out there, a good old-fashioned 
Wiltshire fog had descended and the moisture in the 
air would have given a sponge pneumonia. To pay 
the weathermen their due, they’d got their forecasts 
right this time. If they continued to be right, we’d 
be stuck with variations on this for the rest of the 
week. But much as I wanted to burrow in and stay 
warm, out in Dad’s workshop waited the other half of 
Baverstock’s commission, and the sooner I finished 
it, the sooner I would be rid of my unwanted guest.

He was part of the reason why I hadn’t slept so 

well, and the fact that he was film star handsome 
had very little to do with it.

I was no more immune to spectacular good looks 

than any other human being, but at the same time, I 
was wary. The few relationships I’ve had were with 
good-looking charmers. I’d really thought I’d met 
the one and only in John Newton, then I discovered 
he was married. To a woman, and had a couple of 
kids. So I’d told him a few home-truths and kicked 
him out of my life.

For about a month he’d pestered me, until I lost 

patience and temper and instructed him to back off 
before I took a sledgehammer to his car and wrote 
a long letter to his wife. I wouldn’t have, of course. 
If the poor woman didn’t know what kind of a rat 

she’d married, I couldn’t tell her. The car, though, 
was fair game. Anyhow, one of the threats worked 
and I hadn’t seen nor heard of him since. One more 
to chalk up to experience and not to be repeated if I 
could help it.

As far as Fox was concerned, handsome is as 

handsome does and it didn’t matter I awoke with 
semen sticking me to my tracksuit pyjamas, I 
didn’t trust him an inch. If he was such a great pal 
of Mike’s, how was it my idiot brother had never 
mentioned him before? The first chance I got, I was 
going to pin Mike into a corner and extract some 
answers from him.

I changed into another pair of tracksuit bottoms, 

dragged on my bath robe and yawned my way 
downstairs. All in all, I was not feeling in love with 
the world. However, a cup of tea would go a long 
way towards curing that.

* * *

The living room was in darkness, the curtains 

were still drawn and Fox was an unmoving lump on 
the sofa. So much for house rules and breakfast.

“Yoiks,” I said, pulling back the curtains and 

letting in what passed for daylight. “Tally-ho.” Fox 
didn’t move. So he got the same treatment as Mike 
when he tried to take advantage and didn’t keep 
to bargains. I leaned over, took a good handful of 
duvet and heaved. “Rise and shine, Reynard,” 
I snapped, “or I’ll set the hounds on you.” He lay 
like a disarranged statue, stark naked, a living 
reproduction of a Mapplethorpe photograph, and 

not as skinny as I’d thought he’d be. Believe it or not 
I was too irritated to be embarrassed - and if I was I 
would have died rather than let him know it.

He got his eyes open as if his lids weighed a ton 

and blinked up at me. He was more than half asleep, 
and all that red hair was tangled around his face like 
unravelled silk. Without even trying for it, he was 
a study in sensuality, and looked good enough to 
eat. Wildly, I made a mental note to keep him out of 
Lisa’s sight, just in case she decided she was in the 
market for a bit on the side. My cousin gave her poor 
long-suffering husband enough headaches as it was. 
I would need to keep my own libido in check as well.

“Remember the rules?” I said coolly. “Breakfast.

Mine’s a large pot of tea, toast and marmalade. You 
can have the same if you like. Or eggs and bacon.
The kitchen’s thataway.”

Something blazed up in his eyes, something feral 

and savage that stopped the breath in my throat and 
sent me back a pace. But in the same instant it was 
gone, leaving me with only the searing memory and 
the contradictory conviction that my imagination 
was working overtime again.The curl of his mouth 
became a smile.

“Yes, Rob,” he said and got to his feet, swaying 

slightly. He pushed both hands through his hair, 
shoving the weight of it back from his face. The thin 
gold hoop glinted in his left earlobe, and there was a 
pearl-white scar on his temple, a ragged line running 
from the bony edge of his eye socket to disappear 
into his hair. By the look of it, he’d come within a 
millimetre of losing that eye. Someone took a bottle 

to him? Sacrilege. Dad would not have approved. 
One does not damage a work of art, after all.

He stretched, completely unselfconscious rather 

than flaunting. He had the muscle definition of an 
athlete but without that burned-to-tendon-and-
sinew look. He was something pagan, archaic, and 
at the same time so distant and self-contained it 
took away any hint of eroticism. Mate of Mike’s, my 
foot. Fox was way out of his league. I might as well 
compare a Toledo rapier with a falchion - that was it. 
Sword blades, that’s what he reminded me of.“You 
know,” I said, eyeing him slowly up and down, just 
to see if I could rattle him, “Michelangelo would 
have loved you.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment,” he said 

easily,“Though I don’t think it’s intended to be one.
Where’s the bathroom?” No, I hadn’t rattled him.
Where the blazes had Mike found him? Or maybe 
that should be where did he find Mike - and why?That 
thought took care of the problem rising beneath my 
bath robe.

“Door at the top of the stairs, right in front of you.”
Something was going on here, and it wasn’t too 

hard to guess what. There were one or two items 
around the cottage worth a very pretty penny, and 
that didn’t include Baverstock’s painted panel. If 
so much as a teaspoon went walkabout I would do 
more than wring Mike’s neck, I would rip his head 
off and shove it.

Scooping up the panniers Fox turned on his heel 

and headed for the stairs door. God, his body was 
gorgeous, and he moved as lithely as a panther. 

He defined poetry in motion. Yes. Definitely I must 
steer Lisa clear of him. Poor Simon wouldn’t stand 
a chance against that kind of competition. Briefly 
I wondered if my unwanted house guest was gay, 
or bi. But I should be so lucky. He was probably as 
straight as a die, like Mike. It didn’t matter either 
way. I was pretty much useless at connecting with 
interesting people.

* * *

I turned my attention to the remains of the fire 

until I heard the hinge-squeal from the bathroom 
door, then I pounced on his jacket. It was of the up-
market, up-price tag kind, sans motif, sans studs, 
sans fringes, in fact it was designer wear rather than 
biking leathers. He’d left it on the floor by the couch 
- another thing he had in common with Mike. I went 
through the pockets, fast and thorough.

Bike keys, a moderately clean handkerchief, a 

ditto comb, a Swiss Army knife with all the usual 
gadgetry including wickedly sharp blades, and in 
every pocket a haphazard assortment of coins and 
notes that totalled up to about fifty or sixty pounds.
No driving licence, no credit cards, no identification. 
I started on the trousers without much hope. There 
were pockets, but they wouldn’t hold much. Those 
trousers fitted him far too well for pockets to be fully 
functional. Sure enough they yielded up a couple of 
fivers and a handful of tenners and that was all. All! 
This Fox had over a hundred quid about his person, 
which seemed an unlikely amount for a mate of 
Michael Permanently Broke Rees.

Curiouser and curiouser. I would have to ferret 

through those panniers of his as soon as possible.
Upstairs the ancient plumbing groaned and crashed 
and I dived back to the hearth. When he came back 
into the room I was industriously building a pyramid 
with kindling-wood, humming quietly to myself.

Barefoot, he padded past me to the couch, 

dropped the panniers and started folding the duvet.
He wore faded blue jeans and the black tee-shirt, 
his hair had been combed to a neatness that lasted 
until he ran a hand through it. I had the feeling the 
gesture was a habit of his.

“There’s an old chest under the window,” I 

said.“Dad only keeps newspapers for lighting the 
fire in it. You can stow your things there for the short 
time you’ll be here. I don’t want the living room 
looking like a squat.”

“House rules, Rob?” he said with an amused 

drawl and a lift of an eyebrow that irritated the hell 
out of me. Sooner or later I was going to get some 
answers out of him, but for now I’d give him some 
rope and see how long it took before he hanged 
himself.

“Dead on target,” I answered.
He nodded acceptance, stored the things away 

and headed for the kitchen while I lit the fire then 
hared upstairs to have a quick wash and put on some 
clothes.

By the time I came down, a pot of tea had been 

made, toast was on the way and the table set for one. 
“Not eating?” I asked, sitting down and pouring 
myself out a mug.

“I don’t have breakfast,” he said. “This’ll do 

me.”‘This’ was a steaming mug that contained, by 
the smell of rich meat-extracts, hot Bovril in solution.

“Well, at least you won’t eat me out of house 

and home,” I said, vaguely uneasy. Unobtrusively I 
peered at his arms, but there were no needle tracks 
on the thin blue-veined skin of his forearms. He 
seemed even paler in the light of day, but looked 
tired rather than strung out. I didn’t have a lot of 
experience in that department, admittedly, but 
as I’ve said before, my brother has some very odd 
friends.

“Oh, I won’t do that.” He smiled and placed a 

plate piled with slices of toast done to just the right 
shade of brown in front of me.

“Nice. Sit down, Reynard, and tell me all about 

yourself.” I’m afraid curiosity got the better of 
me.“Looks like you were lucky,” I went on, tapping 
my own left temple. “What happened? Come off 
your bike?”

“No,” he said, easy and relaxed. “A bay mare 

called Medusa.”

“No kidding? What happened?”
“Nothing much.” He shrugged casually.“Everyday 

story of country folk. I was eight and knew I could 
ride anything. She was my father’s favourite and had 
a bit of a temper. So of course I sneaked a ride on her. 
She objected and bolted with me, straight through 
the South Wood. She scraped me off with the low 
branches the first chance she had. I collected this 
and was unconscious for two days.” For a moment, 
a puzzled expression crossed his face, as if he’d 

surprised himself by mentioning it.

“Strewth. What happened to the horse?”
“Medusa? Nothing. Father took his belt to me as 

soon as I woke up,” he said with wry humour and I 
laughed along with him, at the same time trying to 
place this South Wood. I know most of the farms and 
estates around here, but I couldn’t pin it down.So I’d 
have to fish subtly.

“Local, are you?”
He shook his head, lounging easily into the 

nearest chair and sipping the beef stock. “Somerset.A 
village about ten miles from Glastonbury.”

“Pretty countryside in Somerset,” I observed.

There was no trace of the yokel in his voice.

“Yes. Lots of tourists think so. And travellers.

Remember when Mike was in his hippie phase? 
He stayed in the area for a couple of weeks about, 
uh, five, six years ago. We knocked about a bit and 
stayed in touch when he moved on.”

That would have been when they were in their 

teens, if it happened at all, and before Mike went 
away to Reading University. I gazed into those 
guileless eyes and wondered how much of it I could 
believe. “And that was when he did you a favour and 
now you owe him?”

“Right.” He nodded, and raked his hair back.
“Mike,” I said, “has degrees in Mathematics and 

Design Technology and is using them to be an odd 
job layabout. If he survives that long.” Along with a 
sharp intelligence he managed to hide most of the 
time, Mike had a streak of laziness a mile wide and 
always took the easy option. “What are you good 

for, Fox? Apart from falling off horses.” No glitter of 
fire or ice followed my question, just a slow, earnest 
blink.

“Not a lot. I know something about antiques 

-weapons, mainly. I’m an apprentice specialist, 
I suppose,” he added with a lopsided smile that I 
liked far too much.

“I see. Dad in the trade, is he?”
“No, but he had one or two things which 

fascinated me, so I read up on them.”

“A trainee antiques dealer. What else? That bike 

didn’t come free inside a packet of cornflakes.” 
Fox’s eyes were focussed on my face, catching my 
gaze and holding it. The last few minutes became 
an unimportant blur in my memory. “Pass the 
marmalade,” I said. “Since I have an unexpected 
lodger, I’ll need some extra supplies. You can do the 
shopping for me.”

“Shopping?” he said with a wry smile. “I’m 

your bodyguard, remember?” The cocky bugger. It 
occurred to me there was something I was going 
to ask him, or had asked him, but I couldn’t pin it 
down. Which meant it couldn’t have been that vital.

“Shopping,” I pronounced with authority. “I’m 

not buying my brother’s wild theory. I’ll write you 
a list.”I half-expected him to refuse, to insist on his 
Mike-imposed job title and its duties, but he didn’t.

* * *

The phone rang just as I finished the last of 

my breakfast. Fox was in the living room and took 
the call. “Orchard Cottage,” he said, as if we were 

inhabiting a stately pile. Then, “Hold the line, 
please. Rob, it’s a Cecil Hedges about a Regency fire 
screen.”

“Oh, damn!” But an evil thought came to me as 

I lunged for the phone. If I introduced Fox to Beau, 
the Brat Packer would either be set up for life or 
he’d be heading for Somerset so fast he’d burn his 
tyres to the canvas. “Beau, you know we can’t do 
embroideries - “ But it was the frame, not the fabric, 
in need of restoration. By the time I’d sorted him out 
and struck a deal I didn’t want but couldn’t refuse 
because it would go into the Thatch Fund, Fox had 
finished the washing up and was back in his bike 
leathers. His helmet was tucked under one arm like 
Ann Boleyn’s head and those bloody panniers were 
slung over the other shoulder. Damn.

I followed him outside and leaned casually on the 

door-frame, hands in my pockets. It was cold and 
dank, and visibility was down to about twenty yards. 
“Not the best of weather for travelling,” I said.

“It’s not that bad,” he said, lifting off the tarp and 

folding it up. Every inch of the black and chrome 
gleamed, the result of loving care and attention. To 
coin a phrase, she looked like she could go like a 
bat out of hell. I know Mike has been lusting after 
a Harley Davidson for a long time now, but I would 
have thought one glance at that beauty would have 
given him an instant orgasm.

“A big beast,” I commented. “A Yamaha Fazer?”
“Yes,” he said briefly, fastening the panniers in 

place. “What do you want?” Hmm. Bike fanatics 
usually can’t resist an opening to wax lyrical about 

their beloved pets. Mike’s mates, some of whom 
really were bikers, certainly couldn’t.

“Hmm? Oh, yes. The shopping.” I fished a pencil 

and an old envelope out of my pockets and scribbled 
down some of the necessities of life, gave him the 
list and a tenner from my wallet. “Know your way 
around Salisbury?”

“More or less.” He gave me his rather charming 

one-sided smile and my toes threatened to curl. “If I 
get lost I’ll ask a policeman.”

“If you can find one.” I smiled back with all the 

sweetness I could muster.

His smile became a chuckle and he pulled on the 

helmet, undergoing an instant transformation into 
Darth Vader’s other son. He swung astride the Big 
Beast and shifted her off her stand, turned the key 
and she fired up first time. I say fired up advisedly. 
She sounded like NASA had supplied the engine. 
He raised his hand in farewell and they disappeared 
into the murk, her sibilant moan barely muffled by 
the fog, her taillight a red Cyclopean glow.

I hurried back into the cottage and investigated 

the chest. He’d obviously emptied the bike panniers 
for my shopping. A couple of tee-shirts, several pairs 
of jockey underpants, jeans, socks, and a washing kit 
were all I found on top of the duvet.

Talk about travelling light.
Weather like this would keep the casual caller 

away and I wasn’t expecting anyone - apart from 
Beau this evening - so I could spend the day in the 
tack room making a start on young Courtney. It 
would be a longish, very delicate and painstaking 

task before he could be revealed in all his true glory.

 

 Chapter Four

Hardships aside and without any interruptions, 

I retreated to the tack room and immersed myself 
in the delicate work of lifting away the first layers 
of muck from the panel, losing all track of time. My 
stomach was supplied with frequent oatmeal biscuits 
and the occasional apple, the lights were on for the 
day as a matter of course to give me good consistent 
light, so there was nothing to remind me how the 
hours were ticking past. Until a sudden blast of rain 
against the windows made me jump.

It was gone half past five, it was as black as 

pitch outside, and a good imitation of a monsoon 
was falling out of the sky. At least the fog had gone. 
On the other hand, neither my bodyguard nor my 
brother had shown up as yet. Mike’s absence, 
despite his intention to start on the spinning wheel, 
was no surprise. Fox was another matter. Regardless 
of how absorbed I was in sixteenth century artwork, 
I couldn’t have missed the Big Beast’s arrival, even 
if Fox had headed to the house rather than interrupt 
me.

So was he in a ditch, in the local police cells, or 

an intricate and bloody part of a piece of modern 
sculpture entitled “A Fox and a Motorcycle”?

I wondered what his real name was.
I tucked the panel away in the copper and went 

across to the kitchen for a hot drink and a sandwich 
or two. The temperature in the living room was cold 
as charity, since the fire had burnt out through lack of 

fuel. It took a while to relight it and get some warmth 
into the place. As soon as the thatching was done, 
maybe I should try once more to convince Dad on 
the wonders of central heating. But I couldn’t keep 
my missing watchdog out of my thoughts. I’d give 
Fox another hour - no, I’ll give him until tomorrow 
morning, then I’ll - no, he’s a big boy, old enough to 
look after himself, and he wasn’t my responsibility. 
Besides which, he almost certainly had designs on 
Dad’s better items. Then I remembered Beau and 
muttered a few more curses.With a cheese and pickle 
sandwich in hand, I nipped back to the workshop to 
clear some space for the fire-screen.

Minutes later the door opened and two men 

walked in. Tall, wide-shouldered men with dark 
coats and hats, and cold grim faces. Where the hell 
had they come from? I hadn’t heard a car. Instincts 
I didn’t know I had until now were ringing all kinds 
of alarm bells in my head. How the hell did I handle 
this? And where the hell was my bodyguard when he 
was needed?

“Mr Rees?” said Tweedledum. “We’ve come to 

collect a certain item.”

“What item?” I demanded, cool and calm on the 

surface. Underneath was another thing entirely. “On 
whose behalf?”

“A portrait of a young man, oils on an oak panel, 

possibly by Hilliard. Our employer wishes to remain 
anonymous.”

I frowned. “Sorry, chaps,” I said. “You’ve come to 

the wrong place. If I had a Hilliard, I’d be laughing 
all the way to Sotheby’s.”

“We are instructed to say,” said Tweedledee, as if 

I hadn’t uttered a word, “that our employer is aware 
the portrait is one of a pair, and the young woman 
is currently in the possession of George Baverstock.

Our employer is also aware you and your father 

are uninvolved third parties to his dispute with Mr 
Baverstock. He will ensure that your status as such 
will be respected, as soon as you hand over the 
young man.” They sounded like a pair of lawyers.
And who else but Fox could have told them all about 
us? When I got my hands on him, I’d -

“I’m sorry,” I said again, with a sinking feeling 

that I soon would be, “but I don’t know what you’re 
talking about. I haven’t got a Hilliard. The earliest 
painting Dad has at the moment is seventeenth 
century Flemish and it belongs to Wilkie-Scott in 
Ipswich.”

“He purchased certain substances from Stanley 

Hepple,” said Tweedledum.

“Yes, we’re expecting another commission from 

Wilkie - “

“Mr Rees,” cut in Tweedledee, “we’re sure our 

employer respects your integrity, but business is 
business. No doubt you are unaware your father’s 
client came by the portraits illegally, and would not 
wish this matter to come to the notice of the police.
So you should seriously consider your involvement 
in what is potentially a very difficult situation.”

“Let me see if I’ve got this right,” I said. “Your 

employer and Baverstock are both after the same 
thing only he got there first, and now your employer 
is working on the theory that half a cake is better 

than none? Fine, I can see how that would be. But 
I’m not the one you want. Oils on an oak panel, you 
said - definitely not our speciality. Canvas or vellum 
now, that’s a different story.”

“Mr Rees,” the first Tweedle said, and I gritted my 

teeth. The way they said it really got my goat.“Our 
employer’s information was quite specific.”

“Specific but wrong,” I said wearily. “Incorrect, 

false, mistaken, whatever. Have a look if you 
like,”waving a hand around me, “but I’d appreciate 
it if you took a little bit of care while you do it. I’ve 
got nothing to hide from you or the police. Unlike, it 
seems, your employer.” I couldn’t resist that. It got 
no reaction from the Stoneface Twins.

“Thank you, Mr Rees,” Tweedledum said, 

ponderously polite, and ambled casually up the 
stairs to the loft. Tweedle Two fixed me with gimlet 
eyes. And spoke not a word.

“I don’t suppose you’re going to tell me who your 

employer is,” I said, as much to break the silence as 
to make conversation. He didn’t answer. “Oh, well. I 
take it he’s a collector? You could let him know we’re 
always open for commissions - all above board, of 
course - so if there’s anything in particular he would 
like cleaned up … ?”

“I’ll pass it on, Mr Rees.”
“Thanks.” All the time my ears strained to keep 

track of One. The lack of crashes or splintering 
sounds from upstairs was comforting, but didn’t 
prove anything. I prayed Adam was safe enough in 
the mash-copper - as long as it didn’t occur to them 
to look anywhere else but the workshop or cottage. I 

hoped I wasn’t sweating too much.

Tweedledum came down and searched 

meticulously through the ground floor for a while, 
his heavy features as inscrutable as when he’d 
arrived. Then he came back to me and loomed. “Mr 
Rees,” he said, “our employer had expected this 
development and has instructed us accordingly. If 
you can locate the portrait within twenty-four hours 
and hand it over to us, you will receive a commission 
of ten thousand pounds.” How I kept my jaw from 
dropping to the floor, I’ll never know.

“He is fully aware of your father’s reputation, as 

well as your own skill in this area,” went on Two,“and 
has every confidence in you both.”

“That’s nice,” I said brightly. “But I’ll need 

something like twenty-four days rather than hours.
Or even better, weeks.”

“We’re sorry, Mr Rees, but that isn’t possible.”
“We’ll come back at the same time tomorrow,”said 

the other half of the double act, “to collect the 
painting and pay your commission.”

“And if I haven’t found it?” But they didn’t answer, 

just stared at me as if I was something clinical under 
a microscope.

“Good evening, Mr Rees,” they intoned, one after 

the other, and walked out.

Silence crashed into place. I blinked stupidly 

twice before my reactions flooded me.

I was furious and not ashamed to admit I was 

scared as well. This was not the stupidly frivolous 
nonsense I’d longed for. Those men meant business.I 
trailed a few metres behind them to make sure they 

didn’t hang around, and as soon as they climbed 
into a large black Mercedes with tinted windows 
and drove off, I made a beeline for the tack room and 
the copper. I reassured myself that Adam was safe 
and sound, then stalked back to the cottage.

Fox had set me up. He’d had all yesterday to pump 

my brother, all last night to poke around the cottage 
and outbuildings, though he obviously hadn’t found 
Adam, hence the twenty-four hour deadline from the 
Tweedles. I wondered if he’d have the brass neck to 
come back, but I doubted he’d appear again. After 
all, he’d done his dirty work and what were a few 
items of second-hand clothing to someone with over 
a hundred quid on him -including, I remembered, 
my tenner.

In spite of my terror, I fumed. I swore. Talk about 

adding insult to injury. Something had to be done. 
I picked up the phone, but froze with my fingers 
poised over the number pad. Calling the police 
-prompted by my law-abiding Rees genes - was my 
first instinct. My second instinct came from the less 
socially acceptable side of my ancestry. I needed to 
know a hell of a lot more about what was going on 
before I made a decision about contacting the cops.
Besides, I’d have to explain about Our George and 
the panels, not to mention the cash that went into 
the Thatch Fund was mostly undeclared.Everything 
the police might demand answers for would drop 
Dad right in the shit.

I was so tangled up in my thoughts that the growl 

of an approaching engine gave me a distinct shock, 
then I realised that it sounded more like a lawn 

mower than the Big Beast. Beau and his infernal fire 
screen. Damndamndamn.

* * *

Getting the rather plump Beau and the fire screen 

out of his antiquated Citroen 2CV and into the 
cottage - without the rain touching either of them 
- involved a sequence of masterful manoeuvrings 
on my part. I, of course, was soaked through. The 
screen could stay safe and dry in the living room 
until the rain stopped and I could get it across to the 
workshop.

The frame was an instant distraction for 

me.Fashioned in beautifully turned rosewood, it had 
a delicate flower design in mother of pearl and ivory 
inlay, though some of it was beginning to lift. The 
embroidery was very nice, too. And in pretty good 
condition. I gave it a thorough inspection while 
Beau revived himself on Dad’s sherry and made 
himself comfortable in the wing chair. “Robbie-love, 
you’re a lifesaver,” he fluted, patting my hand. “How 
soon, dear boy?” Personally, I’ve always thought he 
overdid the gay stereotype thing. In comparison, he 
made me look as butch as your average lumberjack.

“Come off it, Beau, it isn’t a rush job and you 

know it,” I said. “Not if you want it done properly 
and we don’t work any other way. Would you like 
some coffee?”

“Oh, yes, please, but only a little brandy in it, 

dear. I’m driving, you know.”

“Dad hasn’t got any,” I lied. So sue me. “You’ll 

have whisky and like it.” He simpered at me coyly.

Beau thinks he’s a real charmer, but he’s also a good 
friend as long as I keep my backside and crotch out 
of reach. He likes patting things. Because he’s a 
friend, I put the percolator on instead of the kettle, 
and took out the porcelain cups in his honour.

As I came back into the living-room the hissing 

bellow of a dinosaur began to grow in the distance.
How on earth could I have mistaken any other engine 
for her? And he was travelling! Why the howling hell 
had he come back? To make sure I handed over the 
panel? I’d sooner hand over Uncle Joe. I’d lull Fox 
into a false security, I decided, and wait for him to 
make a mistake.

“Hmph,” Beau sniffed. “One of Mike’s odd 

friends, by the sound of it. Are they staying with 
Alan again?”

“Well, uh,” I stalled. “It’s a long story.”
“Yours usually are, Robbie-love,” he snickered, 

patting my hand again.

“I’ll tell you all about it, one day,” I promised. The 

dinosaur moaned past the windows and silence fell 
like lead sheeting. It didn’t last long. Fox came in 
with a lithe pounce to his stride and dropped helmet 
and panniers on the sofa. His hair was a mane of 
living copper and feral delight blazed in his face, 
transforming already striking features to something 
else entirely. Beau’s strangled gasp was all I’d hoped 
for: his eyes bulged, his jaw sagged, his hands shook. 
Lust at first sight. I could sympathise.

Fox paid no attention to him. “Sorry I’m late,” 

he said. “I had some errands of my own to run.” 
He pushed his hand through his hair and grinned 

fiercely at me. “Did you miss me?”

“You’ll never know how much,” I drawled. “Let 

me introduce you. Beau, meet Fox, he’s staying with 
me, temporarily. He’s a friend of Mike’s. Fox, meet 
Beau Hedges, he’s an antiques dealer, has a shop in 
Amesbury.”

“How do you do,” Beau burbled, snatching Fox’s 

hand before it was offered.

Fox seemed to draw into himself, to grow taller and 

suddenly aloof. His green-eyed gaze laser-sharp, he 
looked at me. Then he smiled. This means war, that 
smile said, as if he’d guessed I was matchmaking.

I smiled back You and whose army? as sweetly as 

you please.

“Such a pleasure to meet you,” Beau was saying, 

practically drooling. Beau was gay as a carnival float, 
but his flirtations with me were more of an automatic 
reflex. When it came to pretty young men, present 
company - the uninteresting twenty-something - was 
an also-ran. Admittedly, Fox wasn’t strictly pretty. 
That would be like calling a wolf a lapdog.

“Any friend of Rob’s,” Fox drawled, and left the 

rest unsaid. Too self-assured, as well as mealy-
mouthed. The toe-rag. But I was determined I’d cut 
him down to size, and before he or his shady pals 
nicked Dad’s treasures. Or Baverstock’s.

“Mmm,” Beau purred, stroking Fox’s leather 

sleeve. “My goodness, but you’re soaked to the skin.
You’ll catch your death! Take it off at once and come 
to the fire.”

It was just as well I was getting a kick out of 

playing gooseberry. “Coffee, Reynard? With or 

without alcohol?”

“With,” he smiled. “I’ll get it - part of the house 

rules, remember?”

“I can make exceptions.”
“I’ll bet you can. Why don’t you and Beau talk 

about veneers and how much it’ll cost him, while 
I follow the rules.” He disengaged his hand and 
scooped up the panniers, then headed for the 
kitchen. He was apparently unaware of how Beau’s 
eyes were focused on his leather-clad bum but I 
wouldn’t place money on it. Beau should have seen 
the view I’d had this morning; he would have had a 
seizure on the spot. Remembering it, my toes curled 
again.

So Beau and I talked about veneers, or rather, 

I tried to. His responses were distracted to say 
the least, and his questions focussed on a certain 
redhead rather than antiques and their restoration.

Fox came back with the coffees on a tray. I was 

ensconced on the sofa by this time, but instead of 
clearing off a space and sitting beside me once he’d 
handed out the Royal Doulton, he folded cross-
legged to sit at my feet and lean back against my 
knees. What the hell? Did he know I was gay - did 
it mean he was interested in me? I stamped that 
thought down pretty damn fast and told my toes 
to uncurl. No. It was a defensive move on his part, 
putting himself out of Beau’s reach by implying he 
was with me.

Beau’s disappointment was obvious and his gaze 

became accusing. I could read his thoughts as if 
they were written in bold capitals, underscored and 

highlighted.  You always told me you weren’t into 
rough trade and you wouldn’t touch any of Mike’s 
leather clad cronies with a barge-pole… Which is 
absolutely true and I meant every word of it, then and 
now. I eyed Fox uneasily. It was rather like having a 
hungry tiger curled up at your feet, pretending to be 
a tabby hearth-cat. I wondered what he’d do next.

He glanced up at me, laughter brilliant in his 

eyes. Suddenly I could see the contained power, the 
overwhelming vitality and energy coursing through 
him - I was mesmerised, and I must have looked 
a little bemused, because Beau gave a somewhat 
vicious titter. I ignored him.

“What about the shopping?” I demanded. I had to 

pretend I suspected nothing, after all.

“I got everything you wanted.”
“Good. And, by the way, I’ve got a very large bone 

to pick with you, but we’ll talk about that later.”

I tried to steer the conversation back to antiques 

in general and the fire screen in particular, but Beau 
wouldn’t co-operate. He had now decided he was the 
gooseberry, and far from comfortable about it. Fox, 
damn him, didn’t say another word and didn’t move, 
either. In the end Beau gulped the rest of his coffee 
and went into the farewell ritual. I didn’t attempt 
to detain him. Part of my mind was struggling to 
analyse what Fox was up to. The other part was still 
reeling from that brief but dazzling revelation.

I shut the door on Beau’s heels and came back to 

the sofa. “What do you mean, sloping off the whole 
day when you promised Mike you’d hang around 
here?” I asked. It didn’t come out as snappy as I’d 

intended. Fox hadn’t shifted much, just lounged 
back on the cushions instead of me. I sat in the 
wing-chair.

“You said you didn’t believe in his theory,” he 

replied, which was unanswerable. “Why don’t we go 
out for a meal? On me, as an apology.”

“Don’t be daft! You’re supposed to be guarding 

Dad’s things day and night, and I’m not having you 
draped on that sofa all day, sleeping it off and looking 
like a Praxiteles’ reject! Little old ladies come in 
here.” So did beautiful blonde cousins, but that was 
beside the point. “They’d have heart attacks!”

He shrugged, completely unconcerned. “Now 

there’s a job prospect I haven’t thought of. Do you 
know of a sculptor who might be looking for a 
model?” he asked with that smile of his. Good grief.
He knew who Praxiteles was. I was shocked. Mike, 
the son of an art expert and enthusiast, had asked 
Dad if he played right wing for Real Madrid. The 
pillock couldn’t even get the country right. Fox was 
being extremely careless if he expected me to believe 
his connections with my brother. On the other hand, 
it was so unlikely maybe it was true.

“Beau will know someone,” I said. “In fact, I’ll 

ask him if he can put you up, if you like,” I offered. 
“As a favour to me.”

“No, thank you,” he replied gravely, but I knew 

the laughter wasn’t far from the surface. “The Beaus 
of this world are not to my taste.” As if he was a 
hundred-year-old connoisseur and I’d offered him 
supermarket plonk. “Well? Do I buy you a meal?”

Absolutely not. For all I knew he could be getting 

me out of the way for the Tweedles to ransack the 
cottage and the tack room. My thoughts wavered, 
and the conviction grew that if he was with me, 
the panel and everything else of value were safe 
enough. Maybe I should rethink it ... I struggled 
with the two impulses while he watched me, 
something like admiration and bewilderment in his 
gaze. That distracted me so much, I forgot what I’d 
been dithering about and hunger won. “Yes,” I said. 
“Apology accepted. The Rose & Crown in Harnham, 
and we go to the hospital first so I can check up on 
Dad.”

“You’re on,” he agreed.
I grabbed my jacket and my Volvo’s keys, but he 

was picking up his helmet. “I saw Mike’s spare in 
the kitchen,” he informed me, as if I didn’t know 
already.

“There is no way I am sitting behind you on that 

beast out there,” I said grimly. “We’ll go in my car, 
or not at all.”

 

 Chapter Five

I hated riding pillion. I’d far sooner be the one 

in control of all that horsepower. Comfort and 
convenience were the only reasons I stuck with 
the Volvo instead of my old Triumph Bonneville 
motorcycle stored under wraps at the back of Dad’s 
workshop. Leaning against Fox’s back, my hands 
locked on his lean hips, I didn’t have to see the 
speedometer or the nightscape whipping past to 
know how fast we were going. That bike felt like a 
living thing under me, an extension of the body I was 
clutching - as if I was riding a centaur - but flights 
of fancy don’t stand a cat in hell’s chance when 
your imagination would sooner dwell on things like 
aquaplaning, excess speed and sharp bends, mud on 
the road, oncoming traffic. Images like that would 
never bother me if I was in control.

Besides, country roads are not designed for the 

speeds we were travelling. But he had the Devil’s 
own luck. And skill, I had to give him that. He was 
enjoying himself, the rat. He handled the Yamaha 
with cool competence, not really showing off, just 
paying me back a little for Beau.

I have never reached the hospital so quickly, nor 

been so glad to arrive. I dropped onto the chair by 
Dad’s bed with a sigh of relief. Needless to say, I’d 
left Fox kicking his heels in the café in the main 
lobby. Nothing could have forced me to introduce 
him to my father at this stage of the game; I wanted 
Dad to recover, not relapse.

Dad and I talked screens and veneers and Beau 

in general for a while, then I stood up and said 
goodbye. I was going to have dinner with one of 
Mike’s friends, I told him cheerfully and unwisely.
That didn’t save me from the Spanish Inquisition, 
however, and the only way to escape it was to bolt 
for cover. Which I did, collecting my not-so-tame 
Doberman on the way. A short time later we reached 
the safe haven of the Rose & Crown.

We ordered: he had the consommé and steak and 

I had the seafood and steak. We consulted the wine 
list together - I would have been happy with beer, 
but Fox opted for red wine. Since he was paying, I 
didn’t argue. Wine is nearly as good as beer. Then 
he was asking sensible questions about Beau’s fire 
screen and how I’d restore it, and we were halfway 
through the main course before I realised it.

Fox had a razor-sharp intelligence, I soon 

discovered, and a sardonic sense of humour that 
appealed to me. He also had an appreciation of the 
antique and the beautiful that Dad would thoroughly 
approve. Fox seemed genuinely interested - 
fascinated even - in what I had to say, prompting 
me to expand on various subjects when I wavered. 
All told, he was great to be with, and he seemed 
to be enjoying my company as much as I enjoyed 
his. Once or twice I thought I saw a kind of happy 
bemusement drift across his face, and some of his 
glances and comments were close to flirtatious. 
Which was flattering, to put it mildly, but I was 
wary of responding. I rarely found it easy to reach 
out to people, and he was no exception. But though 

the apparently two-way undercurrent of sexual 
awareness fizzed through my blood and nerve ends, 
I had no intention of it ever going further. He was an 
unknown element, a potential threat to the panels 
and Dad’s business.

Finally I noticed he didn’t seem very interested 

in his chips and salad, and I was still starving. 
So,“If you’re not going to eat all of that,” I hinted 
cunningly. He laughed and off-loaded the veg onto 
my plate. But he hung on to the remains of his steak.

“Rob, with all the talent you have for 

restoration,”he said, “why are you a librarian? It 
seems such a waste of - “ He broke off and shrugged.

I didn’t answer immediately. When I was 

eighteen, I’d been taking care of the family as well as 
getting an education, and I’d ended up with barely 
enough grades to scrape into the librarian course at 
a local University. Then or now, I simply didn’t have 
the money for me to take all the necessary courses in 
art history, art conservation and restoration. Besides, 
what could I learn from them that I hadn’t from Dad? 
All a stint in a university could gain me would be the 
necessary degrees for a legitimate career, and I was 
doing just fine as a librarian.

“I’ve become very attached to a regular 

monthly pay slip,” I said succinctly. “Restoration is 
amazing.Especially portraits. Those faces fascinate 
me.Besides, helping Dad every now and then is 
fun, a hobby. If I had to do it for a living, I probably 
wouldn’t enjoy it so much,” I added, not believing a 
word of it. Suddenly an opening occurred to me. “I 
also like old places, old things, the way they look and 

feel, the stories behind them. The human element, if 
you like. The links between past and present. Like 
heraldry, for instance.” Probably the clumsiest segue 
outside of a DJ at a disco, but I was snatching at 
straws. “Now there’s a timeless language for you. 
Come to think of it, isn’t that an armorial ring you’re 
wearing? May I?” holding out my hand.

He stared at me, wary and assessing. Then he 

worked it off his finger and dropped it into my palm.I 
took a quick glance at his hand. You know how it is 
if you wear a ring for a long time - years, say - the 
base of the finger where the ring sits narrows a little. 
His now nude one had that telltale sign. Of course, 
it didn’t have to be one particular ring which created 
it, but part of me knew it was down to the ring I held.

I turned my attention to the ring itself. It was 

beautiful. And old. I don’t think I’ve ever seen one 
quite like it in the flesh, so to speak. The coat of arms 
was pretty worn, but in better light at the right angle 
I might be able to decipher it. There were supporters, 
too, rising out of the band to frame the bezel. They 
were wyverns, I realised, judging by what seemed to 
be a serpentine tail, lack of back legs and a hint of 
wings. Fascinating and oh-so-very familiar. I’d been 
cleaning the muck of centuries from their twins most 
of the day. Things were beginning to fall into place.

“Family heirloom?” I asked, wide-eyed and 

innocent.

“What do you think?” he drawled and took it from 

me, shoved it over the finger-joint and back in place.

I cackled. “You don’t want to know what I think, 

Reynard.” The ring obviously came from the same 

place as the portraits, which meant he did a little 
burglary on the side. So perhaps he’d stolen the 
panels, flogged them to Our George, and now was 
going to steal them back for the Mystery Man. “I 
had a couple of visitors this afternoon.” I wanted to 
see his reaction.

“More Regency fire screens?” he smiled.
“Nope. A couple of well-tailored musclemen.”
“You don’t say,” he marvelled, amusement in his 

eyes. “Police?” Cocky bugger.

“Oh, no. Far from it. Someone else got to hear of 

the Baverstock panels and sent them to collect what 
they could.” Startlement showed, alarm, fury and 
then the Ice Age, in that order. I would take an oath 
that none of them were feigned.

“Explain,” he said, silky-soft and dangerous.
A subtle pressure started behind my eyes, not a 

headache, but something threatening to be one. I 
took a large sip of wine to clear it. Okay, Fox, here’s 
both barrels.

“Adam Courtney,” I said crisply. “George’s got 

Ann, this other Hoarder wants Adam.”

“Who is he?” He stayed angry. It brought out 

the autocrat in him. The pressure increased and I 
blinked. Was it the precursor of one of my occasional 
migraines?

“I don’t know.”
“Are they coming back?”
“Tomorrow, five-thirty-ish.”
He sat back and picked up his wine glass, and I 

decided he was going up in my estimation. A lesser 
man would surely have become foaming-at-the-

mouth profane. The Sauvignon glowed like dark 
blood in the subdued lighting, and showed not a 
tremor. His face was a carven mask, nothing visible 
at all now. “I see,” he said. “What are you going to 
do about it?” Oh, well, that knocked Theory Number 
One on the head. He wasn’t in with Tweedledum 
and Tweedledee. So, on to Number Two.

“That’s my line, Fox, or whatever your name 

is.Something tells me you’ve got a stake in all this 
and I want to know what it is - “

“Courtney,” he interrupted. “Adam Courtney.”
“What about him?”
“It’s my name. The panels are mine. Your friend 

Baverstock has Ann’s portrait. I want it back.”

“Another family heirloom?” I asked quietly. “I 

don’t know that I believe you, Fox. I thought you had 
more class.”

That stung him a little, I think. “You wanted 

answers,” he shrugged, cool and relaxed now, on 
the surface. He paused and for a brief moment, 
my thoughts hazed and wandered to the wine list.
Maybe we should order a sweeter wine to go with the 
dessert ... “I had a fifty-fifty chance of success,”he 
continued, “and it seemed worth the gamble. I lost. 
Temporarily. I’m not interested in the other portrait, 
it’s her I’m taking back with me.”

Now that was heresy, and the shock of it cleared 

my mind, dispersed the pressure, and snapped 
my attention right back to him. “Are you crazy?” I 
squawked, startled off-balance. “As a pair they’re 
worth a fortune, even if Nicholas Hilliard didn’t sign 
them!”

“Why should he?” Fox said, sipping wine. A 

slight frown creased his forehead and he stared at 
me intently. “He didn’t paint them.”

“Baverstock thinks he did, so does the Mystery 

Man. And they’re genuine,” I added with a 
snap.“Dad said, and Dad knows!”

“Of course they are, but not by Hilliard. He stuck 

mainly to miniatures and in any case the family 
couldn’t afford his prices. They were originally one 
large panel. By Penton.”

I choked. Literally. I wheezed, croaked, flailed 

my arms and reached across to grab a double 
handful of black fabric. “What?” I bellowed in a 
whisper, forgetting the years of conditioning against 
emotional scenes. I shook him. “He’s only a name 
-none of his work has been identified - “

“He’d signed it, but a benighted idiot had it cut up 

in the late seventeen-hundreds,” Fox said, ignoring 
the death grip I had on his tee-shirt. “I’ve got the 
household accounts listing its commission, and his 
letter accepting it.”

“Oh God,” I moaned, releasing him and slumping 

back in my chair. I wanted to howl. To read some 
books, you’d think there were only a handful who 
specialised in miniatures in those days, and most of 
them were called Hilliard. But we know the names 
of men whose works have never been linked up with 
them - Thomas Penton was one of them.

“He was said at the time to be greater than Nick 

Hilliard,” Fox continued, “but he didn’t get the Royal 
custom. Offended Elizabeth somehow. He was an 
eccentric, tended to refuse commissions if he didn’t 

like the sitter.”

I could understand that. “He liked Ann,” I said, 

remembering the happy vitality I’d revealed as I’d 
lifted away the last layer of old varnish.

“Yes.” He smiled and those marble features 

softened into an expression that made me want to 
glance away. But I was starting to believe him. “She 
had that effect on people.”

“Still does, by the look of you.” I smiled as 

well.“Authentic household accounts?”

“’Item’,” he quoted softly, “’this tenth day of the 

month of May in the year of our Lord one thousand five 
hundred and-eighty-four, one hundred sovereigns for 
Master Thomas Penton to record the marriage of the 
Lord Adam Courtney and Lady Ann Darcy. To be set 
in the wall between the windows of the long gallery.’” 
He’d spoken it with a strong accent and stress on the 
words that made it sound, well, genuine. That was 
how Shakespeare should be spoken. But I would not 
be distracted.

“Are you telling me you would throw away a 

unique combination by splitting them?”

“I want Ann back,” he said quietly. “She was 

stolen from the house and I intend that she returns.I 
don’t care much how I accomplish it, or who is 
harmed in the process. Unless they are innocent 
parties to it. As you seem to be.”

“Thanks a lot. But how did you find out about 

us?Or Baverstock, for that matter.”

“I traced the burglar. He decided to be co-

operative and gave me Baverstock’s name, plus 
the fact that they’d already been handed over for 

cleaning, but he didn’t know who’d be doing it. A 
friend at Christie’s gave me the names of those who 
specialise in panels, which led me to Hepple. He 
told me he’d sold Alan Rees some of his patented 
fluid and Rees had been commissioned to clean a 
pair of Hilliards.”

So why hadn’t the old goat warned me someone 

had been asking questions? He’d out and out lied, 
damn him! I took a deep breath and tried not to let 
my irritation show.

“Fox, I don’t have to be an art expert to know 

those portraits are worth a fortune each with that 
provenance, more if you’ve got household accounts 
and wills down the years keeping tabs on them. 
As a pair they’re - they’re - “ I became incoherent 
thinking about the possible price ticket. And all this 
lunatic wanted was one particular picture to take 
home. There was an obvious conclusion to be jumped 
to, and I felt a gut-wrenching disappointment as I 
jumped. Even though I believed him by now, I still 
didn’t trust Fox as far as I could spit a rat. But I had 
to admit to myself I liked him. A lot. Or, to put it more 
basically - I wanted him. “You’re a Hoarder as well, 
aren’t you?” I accused. He knew what I meant.

“No.” He shook his head. “You have my word.

She hangs in one alcove in the parlour, with Adam 
in the other. In plain view, Rob, even if I have few 
visitors.”

“Oh. That’s all right, then,” I muttered. “So you 

were sussing us out, trying to find out if we had her 
so you could do a little burglary of your own?”

“Yes,” he admitted, “that was the original idea.

After all, no need for you to be involved. As it was, I 
was too late. All I want is Ann.”

“Great. What about Mike and this debt you owe 

him? How much does he know?”

“Nothing. His worry about your father was - an 

incredible piece of luck as far as I was concerned,”he 
said, refilling both glasses. “And it was easy to 
suggest the cottage and you needed some protection 
in such a way he thought it was his idea.”

Poor Mike. He’d be as sick as a parrot when he 

found out what his so-called mate had been up to. 
It was a crying shame that someone as smooth as 
Fox had gone to work on him, he hadn’t stood a 
chance.Well, I had this latter-day Adam Courtney 
sorted out now. Daddy’s a West Country landowner, 
private education - I’ve noticed that public schools, 
especially the frightfully up market ones, tend to 
churn out two types; your average ten-a-penny 
chinless wonders, and occasionally your hundred-
year-old whiz-kids who are the Borgias reborn in 
all but name. Like Fox. Once again I wondered if 
he was gay, then wrenched my mind back to the 
situation at hand.

“Okay,” I said. “Field this one. What are you 

going to do about Ann and Baverstock?”

“Meet him,” he replied. “That’s where I went 

today, checking out where he lives. I’ll talk to him.
Perhaps he’ll see reason. If he doesn’t - “ he broke off 
and shrugged. “There are other ways.”

“None of them legal,” I pointed out. “How old 

are you?”

“Twenty-six going on a century or two,” he said 

solemnly.

“You’re not kidding,” I sighed. “You’re the same 

age as I am, and you might as well come from another 
planet! What happened to youthful insecurity? 
Acne? Ever had a spot in your life? Too much poise 
and education, Fox. It’s not natural.”

“I walk my own path,” he said. “Have done for 

a long time. Some of us grow up a lot sooner than 
others, Rob. It’s no big deal.”

That could explain a lot, if he wasn’t a borderline 

sociopath. “Like hell it isn’t,” I snorted. “Listen, it’s 
stupid, not giving a toss about the other portrait.
They belong together, damn it! Any fool can see that! 
You can’t leave him behind, it wouldn’t be right.”

“Perhaps,” he shrugged. “But he has a use, 

doesn’t he? As trade goods. That ball is in your court, 
I won’t interfere.”

“If I hand him over, they’ll give us ten thou. They 

said. If I hand him over.”

“What will Baverstock give you if you don’t?” he 

asked.

“No more work for Dad.” I shrugged. “Baverstock 

isn’t a villain, and I’m sure he doesn’t hire them.
Apart from his collecting, that is. He’ll cut his losses 
and Dad’ll get no more cash-on-the-nail payments.If 
I had more time, I’d ask Beau to find someone good 
who could copy young Courtney and let the Mystery 
Man have that. I don’t like the way he operates.” 
I began to wonder how Fox would operate when 
Baverstock gave him the heave-ho, but I wasn’t daft 
enough to ask him. After all, what I don’t know I 
can’t be an accessory to, can I? But I couldn’t ignore 

the unease settling into my bones.

However, with a kind of truce between us, there 

was something else that needed sorting out. “It looks 
as if I really do need a guard for the workshop,” I said. 
I might well believe him, but he didn’t need to know 
exactly where the panel was stored. “Much though I 
hate to admit it, Mike was right. But you don’t have 
to sleep on the sofa. Mike’s bedroom overlooks the 
yard and the outbuildings, so you can sleep up there. 
It’ll be a lot more comfortable.” It would also be dark 
and cramped.Since Mike rarely slept at the cottage, 
being too deeply involved with various girlfriends, 
Dad had started to use the room as another overflow 
store.All but one of the small dormer windows were 
completely blocked by a couple of narrow nineteen-
thirties wardrobes, bulging cardboard boxes and 
piles of old books. At least Fox would have plenty to 
read if he couldn’t sleep.

* * *

We finished off the main course in companionable 

silence while I thought about what he’d told me. It 
seemed logical, if potentially on the shady side of 
legal, but nobody’s perfect. Then something struck 
me. Dad had found the original Adam in Burke’s 
Extinct Peerages, and there was no question in the 
old man’s mind that the coats of arms in the book and 
on the portrait matched up, and Fox’s ring certainly 
had the same wyvern supporters. So if the barony 
had lapsed through lack of issue, how had he come 
to be the son of a land-owning Courtney?

“Um,” I said, unable to resist asking, “did Burke 

get it wrong? Burke as in Extinct Peerages, that is?”He 
smiled at me, eyes glittering with amusement.Damn 
it, I liked fencing with this man. I also liked the way 
my body was reacting to him, and by the way his 
gaze lingered over me, he wasn’t exactly indifferent 
to me either. Or was I seeing what I wanted to see? 
I decided against making any overtures, just in case 
...

“No,” he said. “The last Baron had only two 

children. Michael and Julian both died in the Crimea 
without legitimate issue. Note the key word.”

“’Bastard slips shall not take root’,” I intoned and 

he chuckled.

“Exactly. But bastards can grow rich enough to 

buy out an eccentric and impoverished old man, 
lock, stock and barrel. Which is what my great-great 
grandfather did - John Tarrant. Changed his name to 
Courtney-Tarrant and dropped the Tarrant as soon as 
the old man died.”

“Where did he get the cash from?” I demanded, 

fascinated.

“Antiquities,” Fox said apologetically. “I suppose 

the polite term for him was archaeologist, but he 
made a fortune at it. There wasn’t a lot of it left once 
he’d bought the estate, of course, but as a working 
farm it made a living.”

“Is it still?”
“No. Over the last eighty-odd years the land’s 

been sold off piecemeal. All that’s left now is the 
house and a few acres. Part of the South Wood, as a 
matter of fact,” touching the scar by his eye.

“So the portraits were stolen from the house?”

He nodded, face grim and angry again, and sad.
So I asked him what else was taken. The list 

appalled me. “Some Limoges,” he answered 
indifferently, “a couple of Fabergé things,” - I 
winced - “some books, two Caxtons, Byron’s Corsair 
signed by him and a fifteenth century book of hours. 
A pair of Manton duelling pistols, some Turners, a 
van Dyck - “

“Stop!” I couldn’t stand any more. “Have the 

police got any leads?” Then answered my own 
question. “No, because you haven’t reported it,” and 
sighed my exasperation. “Fox, you’re a moron.”

We were on dessert by now, or rather I was 

working through fresh fruit salad and clotted cream 
while he’d opted for the cheese board. He didn’t 
react to the insult, just smiled and shrugged. It 
wasn’t an act. He simply did not care. Except for that 
portrait of Ann Darcy. I shook my head. He needed 
to be taken in hand and re-educated.

 

 Chapter Six

It was gone eleven o’clock by the time we got 

back to the cottage, and I stoked up the fire while 
he went into the kitchen to make coffee. By the 
time Fox joined me the fire was burning healthily 
and I, full of food and wine, was half asleep on the 
sofa.He, on the other hand, was so full of energy he 
practically crackled. He handed me my coffee, then 
sat cross-legged on the floor as he had before and 
leaned back against my knees. It didn’t feel strange 
this time, just a natural part of the evening and the 
companionship. I felt as if I’d known him for years, 
part and parcel of my life. Who needs a Labrador 
when there’s a Fox available? At the same time, the 
low background hum of arousal drifted closer to the 
surface, and I had to clutch my coffee in both hands 
to stop myself from stroking my fingers through his 
hair.

“What are you going to do about the portrait?” 

he asked, sipping his coffee. I took a careful sniff of 
mine first. By the aroma he’d added a good quantity 
of Dad’s brandy. A Fox with taste, this one. I sipped 
it respectfully.

“I don’t know,” I admitted. “Could let Baverstock 

know what’s going on, I suppose, but it won’t make 
any difference. He won’t want trouble. I don’t either, 
but I hate the idea of that lowlife sending in his paid 
muscle to walk away with the panel.”

“I know. But let them have it.”
“What? Are you insane? No way!”

“Stop and think,” he said quietly. “Let them 

take the panel. This man won’t settle for half the 
cake.He’ll want it all. Which means that sooner 
or later Baverstock will find Ann’s been stolen, or 
he’s received an offer for her he can’t refuse. Once 
they’re both in the same place, I’ll get them back 
and I won’t have to be so fussy about how I do it.”

“Yes, I know what you mean. But how did the 

Mystery Man know about Ann and Adam?Baverstock 
wouldn’t have talked about them to anyone. Except 
Dad, and then only up to a point.”

“Probably my burglar told him,” Fox said 

quietly.“If he supplied one Hoarder, why not two?”

“Makes sense,” I agreed. Well, if that was the 

case, one of my theories had nearly been right.

“I’ll go and have another talk with him,” Fox said 

and rose smoothly to his feet, leaving his coffee half-
finished.

“Now?” I protested. “It’s midnight, for God’s 

sake!”

“No, it isn’t. I can be back by dawn.”
“If the police don’t pull you over.”
“Rob,” he said, an affectionate laughter in his 

face and voice that abruptly turned my bones to 
liquid, “go to bed.” He looked like a living flame and 
I came very close to resenting his vitality. “See you 
tomorrow.”

“Don’t expect me to bail you out of the nick,” I 

muttered. “Where are you going?”

“London,” he said. “Have you got a spare key or 

should I get you out of bed?”

“You do and I’ll break your stupid neck.” I dug 

my own key out of my pocket and tossed it to him.

“You’re crazy. Insane. Barking mad.”
Home truths made no difference. He put on jacket 

and helmet and was out of the door with a casual 
wave. Seconds later the Big Beast launched herself 
into the night with a howl that rattled the windows. 
Fox was a lunatic.

* * *

“Rob.”
I struggled from the quicksand of strange 

dreams beyond the reach of memory, unsure if I 
was relieved or bereft. I forced my eyes open and 
found my bedroom gloomy in the watery dawn light 
filtering through the gap in the velvet curtains. Fox 
was a white-faced apparition perched on the edge 
of my bed. All of the evening’s energy was spent -he 
looked gaunt and tired. “I’m going to bed,” he said, 
before I could speak. “He used an alias, but Jerry 
recognised him from an art auction. His name’s 
Henry Wendlow and he lives in Lockeridge, west 
of Marlborough. He specialises in the sixteenth 
century - books, paintings, weapons, jewellery, you 
name it. A bad man to cross. I’ll give you the details 
later.” He reached out as if he wanted to slip his 
fingers through my hair, then he was gone and I lay 
there blinking like a myopic owl, wondering if I had 
dreamed that almost-caress and if I was awake or 
not.

It took me ten minutes or so to decide I was and I 

crawled reluctantly out of bed. Henry Wendlow.The 
name rang no bells, not surprisingly. So legwork 

would have to be done, but not necessarily by me. 
After all, Hepple owed me one - God, did he ever! - 
and Beau might be good for some leads.

And there were the family connections: I’d try 

them first. Uncle Joe was my mother’s brother. Mum 
had been a very sweet woman with a warm and 
generous nature. He also had a warm and generous 
nature. Unfortunately, he was also a semi-retired 
poacher turned odd-job-man with a penchant for 
alcohol, and as well-known to the local police as he 
was in the surrounding villages. A loveable rogue 
with a feckless charm when sober, fashioned in the 
Falstaff mould. In his youth, he’d been movie-star 
handsome, much like Mike. Mum had always said 
there was Romani blood in the Wells’ line. Others 
claimed it was Irish tinker blood, but whatever the 
stock, they locked up their horses, chickens and 
daughters, regardless.

While the kettle heated to the boil I picked up 

the phone and dialled his number. It took him a long 
time to answer it. “Good morning,” I carolled in 
reply to his wordless grunt. “How are you this bright 
day, Uncle?”

“Sod off,” he suggested. At least, I think that’s 

what he said.

“Money, Uncle,” I said and the heavy breathing 

acquired a sort of acquisitive overtone. “I want you 
to make some very discreet enquiries for me - and I 
mean very. This man could be a problem.”

“Ungh?”
“A bad man to cross, or so I’ve heard, but he’s 

crossing me and Dad at the moment.” That earned 

me yet another grunt. But as he hadn’t hung up 
on me, I carried on with Wendlow’s address as far 
as I knew it. “I need as much information about 
him as possible, so see what you can find out,” 
I continued,“but be careful; he plays rough, if his 
goons are anything to go by. I’ll make it worth your 
while.”

“What do you mean, rough?” he wheezed. Which 

was promising. The old bear was actually coherent.I 
gave him a quick run-down on Tweedledum and 
Tweedledee - needless to say he swore a lot, and 
amongst the profanity was a promise to be both 
thorough and discreet. The Romani and tinker 
connections gave us access to an information network 
that made the French Resistance look like amateurs, 
and Uncle Joe would use it to the best advantage. To 
put it more politely than he did, no illegitimate issue 
of an incestuous and cross-species relationship was 
going to drop manure on the Wellses and their kin 
and get away with it.

Lisa was my next contact. Or rather, Simon would 

be, through her. I left a message on her voicemail to 
give me a ring as soon as possible. I was beginning 
to feel like Alexander the Great planning the Persian 
Campaign.

However, I was still no nearer deciding what I 

was going to do about the portrait, though I had a 
horrible feeling Fox was right.

Time. That was all I needed, and it was the one 

thing I didn’t have.

* * *

Breakfast over, I wandered into the tack room, got 

Adam out and propped him on the easel. A sallow 
oval above the small ruff, framed by a featureless 
mass of brown hair, his face had become familiar as 
an old friend. Brownish eyes stared straight out at 
me, blank and unseeing. That final area I’d tackled 
on Ann’s face had been nearly as bad, then all the 
small details were there to completely bring her to 
life once more. The top couple of inches of the panel 
already showed bright and clear - the background 
was a creamy-ochre and everything on it stood out 
now in wonderful clarity, especially the heads on 
the golden wyverns and the top of the shield. In 
heraldry-speak it was argent a chevron sable with 
five fleur-de-lys or and a label of three points azure 
for difference. The label of the firstborn son and heir. 
I wondered if he and Ann had produced any kids, 
or if the line had descended through his brothers or 
sisters.

Ten thousand pounds. True, it was a lot of money, 

but there was no getting away from the knowledge 
that he and Ann belonged in that house somewhere 
in Somerset.

I sighed and covered him up again, not having 

the heart to do any more work on his portrait. I didn’t 
want to get as attached to him as I had to Ann, not 
until he was safe. There was a strong chance I would 
be handing him over this evening and an even 
stronger probability I wouldn’t be seeing him for a 
long time after that, if at all.

And then there was George Baverstock. I 

wondered how much he knew about this Henry 

Wendlow and the way he operated. How could I ask 
without putting him on his guard? Abruptly, all the 
answerless questions brought my mind juddering 
to a stop. Sternly, I reminded myself that I would 
have to wait, give Uncle Joe a chance to find some 
answers, and get a full report from Fox once he’d 
surfaced.

I hate waiting.
To take my mind off the waiting part, I started work 

on Beau’s fire screen. After a few distracting‘what 
if’s, I focused on the task at hand, and the 
preliminary work occupied me until late afternoon.
Then I collected the Adam panel and retired with it 
to the kitchen for a snack. I preferred to have it near 
me while I waited for Lisa to call me back.

There was no sign of life from upstairs. I was 

rapidly getting fed up with my own company when 
the sound of a car pulling up outside brought an 
excuse for an extended tea break. I might have 
guessed Lisa would turn up in person.

“Hell-ooo,” she yodelled as she walked in through 

the front door. “Are you home, Rob?”

“In here,” I called and started the makings of a 

fresh pot of tea. Thanking my lucky stars that Fox was 
asleep and out of her sight, I dug out our favourite 
chocolate biscuits as she joined me in the kitchen.

As well as stylish suiting, Lisa was wearing a 

new perfume, something extremely French and 
horrendously expensive. I said so and she laughed.

“Simon bought it for me,” she said. “Next time 

you go out on a date, you can have a splash or two.”I 
winced and shook my head. It was an old joke. “Is 

that a new motorcycle out there under the tarpaulin? 
Yours or Mike’s?”

“You’ve been poking around.” I smiled. She 

always was too curious for her own good. “No, it 
isn’t Mike’s. She belongs to a mate of his.”

“Oh, no! Not another grease-rag of a biker?”
“What do you think?” I shrugged, then 

remembered why I’d phoned her. “Lisa,” I said 
thoughtfully as I pottered about with kettle and 
teapot, “do you know someone called Wendlow, 
Henry Wendlow?”

“Sounds familiar. I think he’s one of Simon’s 

cronies. Why?”

“Oh, no reason. I just heard the name on the 

grapevine and wondered who he was, that’s all.”

“I see,” she drawled knowingly. “Is he good-

looking? I should be careful, if I were you, Rob. If he 
is one of Simon’s business acquaintances, you could 
get your fingers burned.”

“Not me, coz. Could you ask Simon about 

him?Give me a call as soon as you know, would 
you? It’s important. He could be a useful chap to 
know if he’s into antiques. He might have things to 
be cleaned or restored, and the Thatch Fund needs 
feeding. If I’m not here, Fox will be and he’ll take a 
message.” I didn’t like lying to her, but I didn’t want 
her involved if things started to get a bit dicey. To my 
relief Lisa homed in on my houseguest rather than 
Wendlow.

“Fox? Is that a name or a nickname?”
“Nickname. His hair’s so red you could use him 

for a beacon.” I determinedly pulled her back to the 

topic at hand. “What do you say?”

“Of course I will. A prospective boyfriend, this 

Henry of yours? You can borrow the whole bottle of 
perfume, if you like,” she added teasingly.

“No boyfriend,” I snorted. “More like the opposite, 

so I’d be grateful if it didn’t get back to him that I’m 
asking questions. I’m sure Simon will understand.” 
No matter how soft he was with Lisa, when it came 
to the cut and thrust of the stock market, Simon was 
a jungle animal.

In the living room one of the clocks struck the 

hour, while upstairs the plumbing gave me the two 
minute warning. I swore on both counts. It was five 
o’clock and Wendlow’s muscle would be turning up 
in half an hour and the lodger was up and about.

Before I could get to the living room to head him 

off, he appeared in the kitchen doorway, barefoot 
and looking like he was posing for a Hollywood 
glossy in his tight jeans and black tee-shirt. How did 
he manage to look elegant while someone else in the 
same gear would have merely looked scruffy?

Cousin Lisa, I noticed, was giving him the kind 

of once-over I’ve seen people give to young hunters 
they were thinking of buying. I half expected her to 
inspect his teeth and hooves.

He smiled at her, radiating charm and sex appeal.
She smiled back, radiating sex appeal and charm.
Oh, well, that answered my question about Fox’s 

sexuality; possibly bi but, given my luck, more likely 
straight hetero. I stood between them. “Lisa this is 
Fox, Fox this is my cousin Mrs Lisa Rees-Lockyer,” I 
gabbled, “who is just leaving.”

“I am?” she asked, puzzled. “Rob, don’t be silly.

How do you do, Fox?” and held out her hand. He 
took it and for a moment I thought he was going to 
kiss it. Thank God he didn’t.

“I’m pleased to meet you,” he stated gravely,“Mike 

has told me a lot about you.” I bet he has, the cretin. 
Despite the blood-link, Mike and his hormones have 
been in a flat spin over Lisa ever since he hit puberty.

“Come and sit down,” she said, “there’s plenty of 

tea in the pot.” But he smiled and shook his head, 
padded to the stove and heated the kettle again.

“I didn’t realise you had company,” he said 

casually. The liar. My back to Lisa, I wriggled my 
eyebrows at him and grimaced. Time was getting on, 
and I wanted her safely out of the way in case the 
muscle lurched in early. But he ignored me, didn’t 
even glance at me. His eyes were on Lisa’s face, 
appreciation and speculation in their depths.

Cousin Lisa, however, didn’t seem to get the 

message, or perhaps he wasn’t her type after all.She 
gathered up her shoulder bag and spread her smile 
equally between us. “I’d like to stay and chat,”she 
said, “but I really must fly or I’ll be late. It’s been 
nice meeting you, Fox. I hope you enjoy your stay 
with Rob,” and she was heading for the door. I stared 
after her, nonplussed.

“What - ?” I began. Too late. The door had shut 

behind her, and the smell of hot Bovril overpowered 
her lingering fragrance.

“Have you decided?” he asked quietly, distracting 

me.

“Yes,” I answered. He dropped into Lisa’s chair 

and leaned his elbows on the table, the steaming 
mug poised between his long fingers, waiting 
expectantly. “I’ll go along with your idea,” I went 
on.“What exactly did you find out from your burglar, 
apart from the few pearls of wisdom you scattered at 
my feet at some ungodly hour this morning?”

“Not a lot more. He’s unmarried, in his forties, 

lives in Brayscott Manor just outside the village and 
works in London. He’s a stockbroker.”

“With an interest in the sixteenth century.”
“More of an obsession, apparently. Jerry said it 

gives him the creeps.”

Now that might be useful. “Jerry being your 

friendly neighbourhood house breaker. One day soon 
I’d like to know how you tracked him down.” I was 
also wondering how it was that Fox’s burglar was 
still running around free as a bird and apparently 
happy to give information and assistance. A little 
judicious blackmail, perhaps?

Help me out or I’ll shop you/damage you, delete 

as appropriate? I wouldn’t put it past him. “The best 
thing you can do now is grab something to eat, then 
make yourself and the bike scarce until they’ve 
gone. Then I’m off to visit Dad. We can continue the 
Council of War afterwards.”

“All right,” he agreed cheerfully enough. “You’re 

the boss, for now.”

“What does that mean?” I snapped.
“That we’ll try it this way first,” he replied 

easily.“If it doesn’t work out, I do it my way. However 
it’s done, the two portraits will end up back here. 
Ann goes home with me, the other one is yours.” I 

think my jaw sagged.

“W-what?” I bleated.
He smiled. “My gift to you. It’s yours to do with 

as you choose, to give away, sell or keep. After I get it 
back from Wendlow.” He meant it. The raving loony 
meant every idiotic word. But what had happened to 
the ‘we’? “I’ll be careful how I do it, so he won’t think 
you’re involved in any way,” he went on blithely. “I’ll 
give you the provenances as well.”

“You can’t do that!” I howled. “Fox, he’s worth a 

fortune!”

“So?” He leaned back, relaxed and smiling, 

charming and magnetic. “It’s mine, or rather, it was 
mine. Now it’s yours.” He glanced up at the kitchen 
clock. In a brisk voice, he added, “they’ll be here 
soon, so I’ll make tracks.”

“Why me?” I demanded. “What’re you playing 

at?You’re insane!” But he finished his Bovril and 
stood up, gazing at me with what looked like real 
affection as well as amusement, while I sat there 
spluttering like the car on a bad day. I thought he 
was going to answer, but he didn’t. He just chuckled 
and ruffled my hair as he walked out of the kitchen.
Minutes later the sound of the Fazer’s powerful 
engine announced his departure.

 

 Chapter Seven

I was still sitting in the kitchen, feeling as if I’d 

been taken for a spin by a tornado and trying to work 
out what Fox’s game was, when the doorknocker 
was assaulted a couple of times and a familiar voice 
was raised.

“Mr Rees,” said Tweedle One.
“Just a minute,” I answered, and took the chance 

to pull myself together before I opened the door.After 
all, it’s not every day I’m given something valuable 
enough to be a millionaire’s ransom and minutes 
later have to give it away in turn, hopefully only 
temporarily. It isn’t a pleasant feeling.

They stood shoulder to shoulder in the living 

room, mammoth-like in their dark coats and hats 
and as menacing as sabre tooth tigers. Modern 
Nature, red in cheque-book and shoulder holster. I 
suppressed a shiver.

“Did you succeed in locating the portrait, Mr 

Rees?” Tweedledum asked.

“Yes,” I said.
“Excellent,” said Tweedledee. “Our employer’s 

faith in you has been justified. We would wish to 
inspect it, of course.”

“Of course,” I repeated. “I’ll go and fetch him - 

it,”and ducked into the kitchen to retrieve the panel 
from the table. I whispered an apology and told 
him it wouldn’t be for long, then took him back to 
the living room. Even so, it was hard to hold him 
out, harder still to actually let go. Tweedle Two took 

the portrait, carefully unwrapped it and they both 
studied it in silence.

“On behalf of our employer,” Tweedle One 

pronounced, “we thank you for your services.” He 
put a massive fist inside his coat and I froze, but all 
he brought out was a narrow brown package. “Ten 
thousand pounds,” he said, “in used notes, low 
denominations. You are welcome to count it.”

I counted every last one and they waited in 

respectful silence while I did it. It came to ten thou 
exactly. “All present and correct,” I said with a 
brightness I didn’t feel. What I actually felt was sick, 
as if I’d sold a family member into a vice ring.

“Then our business is concluded,” One 

said.“Good evening, Mr Rees.” Two echoed him and 
they marched out - I swear they were in step.

Ten thousand pounds. I counted them again, just 

for the sheer novelty of that much cash in my hands, 
then made myself a whisky laced with medicinal 
coffee. Fox didn’t return, but I had a good idea what 
he was up to. Or at least, I knew what I’d do in the 
circumstances: follow them discreetly to where they 
came from, and explore the area. I wasn’t altogether 
sure how I was going to explain all this to Dad, but 
time was on my side in that respect. I’d think of 
something, I was confident.

* * *

However, I’d conveniently mislaid the fact that 

Dad was never easy to fool, and even harder to 
fob off with generalities. By the time I got to the 
hospital that evening, I had a story all planned out 

in my head. In the event, I didn’t need it. When I 
turned up at Dad’s bedside, he launched straight 
into a question and answer session on my dinner 
date which strained my self-control very nearly 
to breaking point. Honestly, the old goat can be 
intolerable sometimes. You’d think I was a fourteen 
year old virgin girl, not twenty-six, male and far from 
virginal.

* * *

I was back at the cottage within the hour, and 

once I’d lit the fire and made myself a much-needed 
cup of coffee, I flopped in the wing chair in front 
of the hearth and tried to summon up the energy 
to think about food. Fox arrived a few well-timed 
minutes later, bringing me an aromatic lifesaver.

“Chicken in black bean sauce,” I enthused, 

investigating the cartons he’d dropped into my 
lap.“Special fried rice and prawn crackers. You must 
have read my mind.” But there was only enough 
for one, and he’d retreated to the kitchen to mix up 
more Bovril and hot water, which didn’t seem right 
to me. “What about you?”

“Already had mine,” he said, coming back with a 

steaming mug, and a plate and fork for me. Instinct 
told me he was lying. I’d already noticed his face was, 
if anything, whiter than usual and pinched looking, 
and there was a febrile tension about him that made 
me uneasy. I wondered again about drugs.

“Go and grab another plate - there’s enough food 

to share.”

“I’m fine,” he insisted. “Any trouble with your 

visitors?”

“No,” I said, filling my plate and beginning to 

dig in. It tasted very good. But all he had was Bovril? 
Was he injecting or snorting his drug of choice ... ? I 
lost the thread for a moment and for some reason it 
didn’t seem important enough to catch it back again. 
“Went as smooth as silk. Let’s talk about Wendlow.”

Once more he took the floor with my knees as a 

backrest. “I followed them when they left here,” he 
said. “I know where he lives.”

“So? He’s going to have more security than the 

Pentagon. Surely you don’t think you can just walk 
in for a quick burgle? You can’t be that naïve?” I 
added in between shovelling food.

He snickered into his Bovril. “I haven’t been naïve 

for a very long time. Yes, I can do it, no problem. If I 
need expert advice, there’s always Jerry.”

“Oh, yes. The so co-operative Jerry.” I sat in 

thoughtful silence while I polished off the last of 
my meal. “I would think,” I said cautiously, “that 
getting past hi-tech security systems would take a 
lot of planning and probably gadgets of your own. It 
would be a lot easier if he invited you in. Instead of 
breaking and entering, why don’t you go fishing?”

“Fishing?” He frowned up at me.
“Exactly. The list you gave me last night was all 

of smallish things, easily carried. Did Jerry clean 
you out?”

“No,” he said, eyes glittering with a growing 

anticipation at odds with the laziness of his 
voice.“Thinking of baiting a trap?”

“Why not? Do you have anything else Elizabethan 

you wouldn’t mind risking?”

“I could find some things. What did you have in 

mind?”

“Wendlow has a fetish. Feed it. Make contact 

with him, tell him you’ve got an inside deal on 
Elizabethan goodies. I bet he’ll jump at the chance 
for a discreet meeting and you can talk your way into 
the house. Then try the blackmail angle.” I couldn’t 
believe the deviousness coming out of my mouth. 
I’d obviously missed my calling and I should have 
been a criminal mastermind. Well, that was probably 
overstating it, but at least I had the basis of a plan. 
“Can you get hold of them easily?”

“Of course I can.”
“Good. So what are they?”
“All sorts. What are you looking for?”
“I don’t know,” I sighed, rubbing my forehead 

tiredly. “Here is a man with an obsession - why?Does 
he believe he’s Raleigh reincarnated? Does he want 
to retreat from the twenty-first century by recreating 
the sixteenth? In either case what would appeal to 
him?”

“Things he can hold,” Fox answered slowly,“things 

he can use or wear - “

“And he obviously isn’t bothered about working 

outside the law. Can you find that sort of stuff and 
will you risk them?”

“Yes,” he said. “Rob, you are far too clever for 

your own good. I’ll bring what seems best.” He stood 
up, a rueful smile tilting his mouth. “I’ll be back as 
soon as I can.”

“There’s no rush,” I pointed out. I was getting a 

little fed up of these sudden departures. “You don’t 
have to leave right away. Tomorrow will be soon 
enough. You could get in touch with Jerry as well 
-in fact, it might be better if he’s the front man and 
makes contact with Wendlow with the offer of more 
goodies. Let him take the risks - he’s the one that 
started this unholy mess in the first place - and once 
he’s inside - “

“Perhaps,” he said, sitting down again. But I 

guessed he had no intention of letting Jerry do it.Fox 
had plans of his own that I ought not to know about, 
I was certain. But there was something I definitely 
did want to know.

“Why do you want me to have the Adam portrait?” 

I asked him casually and the shutters come down 
behind his eyes.

“Why not?” he said, turning back to his Bovril.He 

shrugged, and I could feel the movement of the long 
muscles against my knees. “You’ll give him a better 
home than Wendlow. Or Baverstock.”

“Not good enough. Try again.” He put the mug in 

the hearth and turned round. There was that amused 
affection back in his expression but his smile was 
taut.

“Rent?” he suggested. I threatened to wallop him.
“Compensation?”
“For what?”
He shrugged again, expression becoming 

grim.“We don’t know how this is going to turn out,” 
he answered. “I want to be sure you’re not going to 
suffer for it, be out of pocket. At times,” he continued, 
and there was suddenly an incredible bitterness in 

his eyes, “with some people, I cannot stomach the 
lies - “ He broke off, coming to his feet with lithe 
speed, taking me totally by surprise.

Something happened. I don’t know what. He 

didn’t change exactly. It was as if he’d been pulled 
into sharper focus. Everything about him was the 
same as it had been before, only more so. I’d already 
had a glimpse of this, I realised. Fire and ice. 
Something elemental, savage and unpredictable and 
overwhelmingly alive. And very, very dangerous. 
Then he was just Fox again, like a switch being 
thrown, but the tension in him was close to breaking 
point. I had another swallow of coffee for the shock.

“I’m sorry,” he said, so quietly I could hardly hear 

it. “That was - careless of me … “ His hands were 
shaking as he raked them through his hair.

“What are you on?” I asked as gently as I could.

He stared at me blankly. “What drugs are you on?”

“I’m not,” he said and I would swear on a stack 

of bibles his puzzlement was genuine. But then the 
bitterness swept back and he was laughing it, an 
unpleasant sound, cruel and mocking. His teeth 
were very white, very sharp. In truth a fox. Or a red 
wolf. “I’m going out,” he said abruptly. “I’ll be back 
tomorrow evening.”

“Oh, no, you don’t,” I said. “I want answers.”
“There are none.” Arrogant toe-rag.
He scooped up his helmet and started for the 

door. But I can move fast as well when I have to and 
I was there before him, leaning against it. “House 
rules,” I said coldly. “I don’t give board and lodging 
to homicidal maniacs. Give me answers.”

“Get out of my way.” His whisper was like frosted 

silk, the kind of sound a sword might make when 
it’s drawn from its scabbard. The switch had been 
triggered the other way again and now all that 
deadly intent was focused on me.

He dropped the helmet and moved forward, a 

smooth hunter’s glide. I looked into his green Fenris-
eyes and for a moment couldn’t even breathe. His 
hands fastened like metal bands on my upper arms, 
icy-cold and with more strength than I’d thought 
possible. He smiled, a feral baring of his teeth, and 
I was put to one side as if I was no more than an 
importunate child.

I dragged air into my lungs and braced my hands 

on his shoulders, digging my fingers into the locked 
muscles beneath the leather jacket. The tension in 
him was tight wound and poised on the edge of 
violence. It howled a warning to every instinct I 
possessed. I should have been scared out of what 
few wits remained to me. But I wasn’t.Maybe it was 
the memory of the affection I’d seen in him not so 
very long ago, but I knew I had no real cause to be 
afraid of him. I also knew that if I let him out of the 
door, there would be more wormwood and gall for 
him to add to the load he already carried.

“No,” I said. “Adam, listen to me.” It was the first 

time I’d used his real name, and it startled him. The 
clamp of his fingers eased a little and I watched 
sanity filter back into his eyes, watched the self-
loathing crowding in on its heels. He started to pull 
away but it was my turn to hold on. “I don’t know 
what devil is driving you, and if you say it’s not drugs 

then I believe you, but you’re not going anywhere 
tonight. We are going to sit down and talk about it 
and if I can help I will.”

He was back in control now. His hands dropped 

to his sides and those striking features were a 
blank mask. “I have no answers for you,” he said 
quietly.“Let me go, Robert.”

“Tell me what’s wrong.”
“Nothing.” The muscles under my hands 

quivered and twitched with the effort to remain 
inactive, shouting the lie. His eyes, though, were 
ocean-deep, limpid and calm. The haze came back 
and there was nothing wrong, bar my over-active 
imagination. Nothing wrong at all ... “I’m going 
home,” he explained, “to collect the bait for the trap.”

Trap. And I was the one who had almost walked 

into believing what he wanted me to believe: that all 
was well with him. It wasn’t. At some point in the near 
future, I was going to demand some answers on the 
weird distraction that hazed my thoughts whenever 
I asked questions he didn’t want to answer, but for 
now all my concentration was on him. A faint sheen 
of perspiration highlighted the line of the proud 
bones of his features. His breathing was fast and 
shallow, nostrils flaring slightly at each in-drawn 
breath, and close as we were I could see the ghosts of 
freckles on the pallor of his cheekbones. Something 
that was almost pain twisted in my stomach and of 
their own volition my hands moved to cup his face, 
fingers tangling in the fine silk of his hair. I traced 
my thumb along the line of the scar. His skin felt 
chill, smooth as ice, even the untidy ridge of tissue.

His eyes widened with shock and his cold fingers 

closed round my wrists, the band of his ring cutting 
into me. Shit! I’d just made a pass at a straight man! 
How could I make such a stupid mistake? But he 
didn’t use that athlete’s strength of his to break free. 
My breathing was erratic, getting mixed up with my 
heartbeat. The whole room moved with the rhythm of 
it, everything except Fox, and my vision of him was 
sharp and clear. He was as unyielding as marble, 
as pure as a new-forged blade and as innocent as a 
carnivore, and more alive than anyone I have met 
before. What the fuck was going on?

“Robert Rees,” he said shakily, “you’re a fool,” 

and leaned through the few inches that separated 
us and kissed me. His lips were cool and soft and 
sent a bolt of lightning through me clear to the pit 
of my stomach and my genitals. My blood rushed 
south and I became hard so quickly I was giddy. 
Which was daft - worse, moronic, because he was 
virtually a stranger, and I have never, ever, let a date 
with a man I barely know get out of control and this 
was no date - what in God’s name was happening 
to me?This was absolutely insane and I should be 
shoving him off. But did I really want to? The kiss 
deepened, and I suddenly recognised the tension in 
him for what it was. An overriding hunger, and it 
triggered off a hunger of my own.

Confusion, I decided, could wait. Life’s for living, 

pleasure’s for sharing and I wanted him. It was as 
simple as that, and just because I had never given 
in to that basic need on such a short acquaintance 
before, there was no reason not to then and there. I 

opened my mouth for the satin glide of his probing 
tongue, welcomed the wildfire surge flooding 
through me.

It’s a cliché to say time stood still, but in a strange 

way it did. My consciousness narrowed down to the 
taste of him, the scent of him, the texture of his hair 
and the shape of his head in my hands. A distant part 
of my mind recognised that this had been building 
between us ever since he turned up on the doorstep 
only a day or so ago.Days? I think I’d known him 
all my life - I couldn’t begin to understand all the 
whys and wherefores, it was just there, complete in 
itself. He broke the kiss first, pushing back against 
the death-grip I had on him. “You taste better than 
the finest wine,” he whispered. “I could get drunk 
on you.”

“Be my guest,” I said crazily and he began to 

chuckle. It felt very good to be so close. The strength 
of his lean body was added fuel for the fire spreading 
out from deep within in me.

“Rob, you’re impossible,” he sighed, voice husky-

rich with caring and desire. “Are you sure? You 
haven’t a clue what you’re doing - “

“Of course I’m sure!” I said, stung. “I haven’t 

been a virgin since I was fift - “

“Robert,” he cut in. “Shut up.” And kissed me 

again, giving a small growl of pleasure against my 
mouth, body arching lithe and supple as a great 
feline. I could feel the power of him, the hard potency 
of his erection pressing against mine, the silken heat 
of his mouth and the incandescence pulsing beat for 
beat with my heart. His lips moved across the line 

of my jaw, leaving a lava trail of kisses. I buried my 
face in his hair, he smelt of sandalwood and myrrh. I 
found an ear and kissed it, nuzzling in to nibble the 
lobe. He shivered and pressed closer, his erection 
swelling even more in the confining leather of his 
trousers. His hips moved in rhythm with mine, 
spiralling sensation to a higher sphere. “I’m sorry,” 
he whispered against my throat. At least, I think 
that’s what he said. I couldn’t hear much above the 
thunder of my pulse.Then everything was drifting 
away from me, except that incredible fire and I 
was falling slowly into a black velvet void wrapped 
around like Lucifer in wings of flame.

What the fu ... ?

 

 Chapter Eight

I woke up in stages, the way I usually do, and 

lay for a while curled around my pillow wondering 
what had awakened me. The luminous dial of my old 
alarm clock told me it was ten past one. I was heavy-
limbed and lethargic, still more than half asleep, 
and the echo of a weird and incredibly erotic dream 
floated around in my head. I smirked to myself in the 
darkness. So why was I wasting time? I should be 
sound asleep and going through the action replays. 
Which were - what? I frowned. The dream skittered 
away from me as they usually do when you try to pin 
them down. John and I -no, not John. Fox. I’d been 
having an erotic dream about the lodger again. Oh, 
well, hormones will be hormones and God knows he 
was certainly decorative.

I burrowed a little deeper into my pillow and 

closed my eyes. Sandalwood and myrrh. My body 
throbbed, a warm, delicious feeling, and my cock 
thickened with more than morning wood. It’s funny 
how evocative scents are. In my dream Fox had 
smelt of - wait a minute. I sat bolt upright, the night 
air cold on my bare skin. In my dream Fox had gone 
a little crazy and I had stopped him from leaving 
because I was afraid he was going to do something 
stupid - we were at the door, I had hold of him, and 
he’d kissed me. My body pulsed again and my cock 
nudged against the sheet. Then what? Nothing. No 
more dream. Only the impression of sensuality, of 
eroticism, almost abstract but blindingly intense. 

Try as I might, I couldn’t remember any more. But 
then, I couldn’t recall coming to bed, either. I rubbed 
my hands over my face, yawning, and froze in mid-
yawn. Sandalwood and myrrh. From his hair. On my 
hands. And I was naked.

What the hell was going on? My mind stopped 

playing tricks on me and I inspected the memory 
with what I tried to keep as a clinical detachment, 
but failed.It ended with his whispered ‘I’m sorry’. 
I’d blacked out for some reason - not because I didn’t 
want to remember, blast it - I don’t need a Freudian 
brain-descrambler! I could remember that slow, 
pleasurable fall into the dark but nothing else. Fox 
must have somehow carried me up to my bed. No 
mean feat given I probably weighed the same as he 
did, and undressed me.

By this time the liquid warmth of arousal had 

disappeared, leaving me feeling chilled. Was my 
heart playing tricks on me? Then there were those 
odd hazy moments I’d been experiencing - incipient 
blackouts?What causes blackouts? Blood pressure, 
brain tumour, epilepsy - no, I am not a hypochondriac, 
but can you blame me for worrying? I was also very 
thirsty, and there was fruit juice in the fridge.

Feeling a bit weak at the knees, I pulled on my 

bath robe, tied it securely and tottered carefully 
down the stairs, and opened the door to the living 
room.

The fire blazed cheerfully in the hearth and 

provided the only light in the room. It glowed on 
Fox’s hair and skin, and threw strange highlights 
on the black leather trousers which were all he was 

wearing.He lay in a lazy sprawl on the hearthrug, 
belly down, chin propped on his hands, reading an 
old book. A brandy snifter stood on the rug nearby, 
about an inch of alcohol left in it.

I coughed loudly and had the pleasure of startling 

him. He got to his feet with his characteristic 
grace and stared at me without speaking. For a 
brief moment he looked shocked, bemused, as if 
he couldn’t believe I was standing there. Then his 
chin jutted arrogantly and it sparked my anger until 
I recognised the guilt beneath. And I realised the 
hungry tension that had made him so dangerous last 
night was no longer there.He was wary, yes, but that 
was all. Interesting. Fox hadn’t struck me as being 
the type to suffer from sexual repression on that 
scale, but what did I know about him? Bugger all, 
other than the few snippets he’d thrown casually at 
my feet. So to speak.

“You put a little too much whisky in your coffee,” 

he said, the smile switching on a little late. Like hell I 
had.The last coffee I’d drunk had been unadulterated. 
What was he playing at?

“Oh. I see.” And I did. He thought I didn’t 

remember last night, or if I did, might want to forget 
it happened so he offered me an excuse. I perched 
on the arm of the wing-chair, as much for support as 
an air of nonchalance. “Care to fill me in on what I 
missed, Reynard?”

He eyed me with increased wariness. “Missed?” 

he echoed.

“The last thing I can remember is lust on the 

doormat, and as I have never yet passed out after 

drinking caffeine, I’d like to know what happened. 
Or at least carry on where we left off,” I added 
without thinking. To my dying day I will swear that 
he blushed.I couldn’t be absolutely sure, of course, 
and it might have been the firelight on his skin, but-
Abruptly he was angry. “God-cursed fool!” he yelled 
and pounced on me, grabbing a double handful 
of bath robe and shaking me. “Always pushing, 
breaking through when you should be - why couldn’t 
you stay where you were? You should be asleep!”

“Sleeping the sleep of the innocent and just?” I 

raised an eyebrow at him.

“The?” Then anger went as quickly as it had come 

and his voice was quivering slightly. With laughter, I 
realised, irritated. Talk about mood swings. “Are you 
thirsty?” he asked. “I’ll get you something to drink.” 
It was the most natural thing in the world to slide my 
arms around his waist.

“In a minute,” I said. “Is there anything wrong? 

I meant it when I said I want to help.” Initially he 
hesitated, then sighed and leaned against me, his 
arms about my shoulders. He was on the edge of 
laughter again, damn him. Where was the joke, for 
God’s sake?

“You don’t give up, do you?” he sighed. “Don’t 

worry about me, Rob. I’m a predator, I can survive 
anything.How about you?” Now that was a challenge 
if ever I heard one.

“I’ve got Romani and Irish tinker in my family 

tree -we’re natural-born survivors. I’d say we’re a 
good pair.”

“That’s settled then,” he said. “I’ll get you that 

drink.”But he didn’t seem in any hurry to go, and 
I was in no hurry to release him. It was a strange 
and rather intoxicating feeling, all the dangerous 
swift power of him quiescent in my arms, and it was 
something I’ve never experienced before.

I moved my hands slowly up and down his back, 

relishing the contour of muscle-over-bone, the sheer 
maleness of him. I have a weakness for a healthily 
muscled, attractive man, but I had never before felt 
this playing-with-fire high. Who is he? Why is he 
really here? “Stop thinking,” he whispered, mouth on 
my throat just below my ear. “You’ll get a headache.”

And why me, I wondered suddenly. Is he using 

me as a means to an end? “No,” he said. “My word 
on it. I didn’t expect this to happen - “ What the hell? 
He is reading my— Fox leaned back against my 
arms, studying my face with an unnerving intensity, 
and I forgot what I was going to say and why. “A 
bonus?” he asked with the wry smile that had caught 
me right from the start.

“I’d say so,” I agreed.
“There is an old proverb,” he went on as if I hadn’t 

spoken. “Perhaps you know it? ‘Take what you want, 
says God, take it and pay.’”

“I’ve heard it.”
“I live it,” he said, “and I have done for a very 

long time. I’ll do my best to make sure you don’t pay 
as well.Do you still think we’re a good pair?” He 
wasn’t talking about a one night stand, I was certain. 
Hope brought its own delirium.

“Tailor-made,” I assured him. My pulse was 

picking up its beat and spreading warmth through 

my body.

“Good. This is as serious as I intend to get on the 

matter. I’ll fetch that drink and you can make yourself 
comfortable in front of the fire. I’m not making love 
with you on an old table.”

“It’s eighteenth century,” I told him sternly.
“Well, I’m not, and I’m old-fashioned about some 

things.” That struck me as funny. There he was, 
seducing me out of any sanity I had left, and primly 
declaring he was old-fashioned. I started snickering.
Couldn’t help it.

I was still snorting quietly to myself when Fox 

came back with the nearly full carton of orange-juice 
and a half-pint glass. I’d settled myself on the sofa 
and he sat beside me. He poured out a glassful and 
handed it over, I drained that and he poured another 
without speaking. His features were pensive, 
almost sad.“Penny for them,” I prompted, my thirst 
temporarily assuaged. He gave a shrug and a slight 
smile.

“You’re an unusual man, Rob Rees,” he said 

quietly.“I don’t think I’ve met anyone quite like 
you.”

“They broke the mould,” I said with an expansive 

gesture that was half invitation. He leaned against 
me and I held him close. He was relaxed and warm 
from the fire, apparently happy to be where he was.
Curiosity as well as desire was alive and well and 
gnawing at my vitals, and I couldn’t resist it. So, at 
the risk of destroying the mood, “What was wrong 
with you last night?” I asked quietly, tightening my 
hold on him a little. Tension rippled through him, 

then ebbed away.He didn’t answer. Didn’t intend 
to answer, I guessed. I switched to another track. 
“Forget that, then. Tell me about yourself, hmm?”

He turned in my embrace, half-lying across my 

lap.Rather sharp elbows dug into my ribs as he 
propped his chin on his hands and stared at me from 
a distance of about two inches. There was a laughing 
devil lurking behind the sunny green of his eyes. 
“You’re relentless,”he observed. “I’ve already told 
you about myself.”

“No,” I said. “You told me about the scar and 

which county you come from along with some family 
history, and that’s it.”

“Oh. I thought there was more.”
“I’m sure there is, but you haven’t said anything 

about it.”

“All right, what do you want to know?” His gaze 

drifted slowly over my face, as if charting every 
millimetre of it, as tangible as a caress. There was 
a powerful sensuality about him, I could breathe it 
in like the sandalwood and myrrh of his hair. He 
removed his elbows and shifted so that he was lying 
along my side and slid his hand inside my bath robe, 
teasing my nipples with his nails. I forgot most of 
what I was going to say, while at the same time 
knowing I was being deliberately distracted.

“Everything,” I murmured.
“That could take quite a time.” Fox chuckled 

quietly.He sounded a little breathless. “But you’re 
the boss. I was born at the Grange.” He dropped his 
head to my shoulder. “My father’s name was John, 
my mother’s Elizabeth … “ His breath was warm 

and moist on my throat, I could feel the movement 
of his lips as he spoke and his fingers were drifting 
over my abdomen, tracing patterns of sensation that 
added to the distraction. “My brother James was 
born a year later and Mary two years after that.” He 
fumbled down to the belt of my bath robe and untied 
it, pushed the fabric aside and exposed me. “Rob ... 
“ he whispered reverently, and leaned down to trail 
kisses along the route his fingers had drawn, from 
my nipples to my navel.

By this time I didn’t give a toss about his family 

tree.A jolt went through me at every touch of his lips, 
my cock was hot and leaking on my belly, and all I 
wanted was him, any way I could have him. He was 
a fever in my blood, burning away the last vestiges 
of common sense. But more than a healthy lust, I 
liked him, liked simply being with him... But he was 
overdressed. I tried to get to the waistband of his 
trousers, but our positions didn’t allow it.

“Fox, shed the leather,” I pleaded. “I need you 

naked.”

“Yes,” he said, tugging at my bath robe, “and you 

need to lose this.”

The bath robe was easily disposed of, and I 

watched him peel out of the close-fitting trousers. 
How he managed it with speed and grace I have no 
idea.Natural talent, I supposed. For a moment he 
stood there, gloriously erect, and if it wasn’t for the 
wonder and affection glowing in his eyes, I might 
have been intimidated by his perfection. Why me, 
for God’s sake?My body was good, my face wouldn’t 
crack mirrors, but I simply wasn’t in his class. Was I 

just a convenient fuck?

“You’re thinking again,” Fox accused, and 

pushed me gently sideways to lie along the couch. 
He knelt astride me and with a fast wriggle and slide 
he lay down, covering me. His weight pinned us 
together, our cocks side by side between our bellies. 
Precome flowed from both of us, slick and smooth. 
“You don’t see yourself as I see you. You’re strong, 
Rob. You ground me, and I need that. You remind 
me I’ve been alone far too long.” He rolled his hips 
and we were pressed so closely together I might as 
well be inside him by the way pleasure struck its bolt 
through me. “I need you ... “

“You’ve got me.” I wrapped one hand in his hair 

and angled his head so I could kiss him, my tongue 
licking deep into his mouth, tasting brandy and 
something spicy-sweet. My other hand was clamped 
on his buttock, holding him as close as I could while 
we rocked as one. Sweat and precome lubricated 
our bellies, the slide of sensitive flesh over body hair 
enhancing the enjoyment. We kept the pace slow, 
our bodies moving with perfect synchronicity in 
that most ancient of dances, and I lost track of time. 
There was simply Fox and me, caught up in our own 
world of joyous sensuality. But it couldn’t last.

The ecstasy soared, sharp as blades and soul-

deep, sweeping me on to a place I have rarely 
attained. I revelled in it, didn’t want it to end. There 
was only this incredible incubus and the scorching 
gift he was giving. It peaked like an earthquake and 
it was as if the very essence of my life was being 
tapped. Those wings of fire came beating out of 

pulsing darkness to fold around me, but this time I 
didn’t pass out. Instead I floated safe and warm as 
my heart gradually slowed down to its normal beat, 
aware of Fox sprawled across me, heavy and sated in 
my arms, his head on my shoulder. Then he kissed 
my throat and slid down my body to lick through 
the semen spilled on my belly. It took him a while to 
clean me up, and he used my towelling bath robe to 
wipe his own skin clean. Then he came back to my 
arms and stretched out with a contented murmur.

“I love the taste of you,” he whispered. “I could 

drink you dry ... “ That sounded like a wonderful 
plan, when we’d recovered.

A long time later, I stirred, remembering I had 

condoms and Astroglide upstairs in my bedside 
cabinet. “I’ve got an idea,” I said into his hair. “Why 
don’t we go to bed?” So we did.

* * *

For a while we just curled together under the 

duvet, kissing and exploring, until our cocks rose 
again, hard and ready for more. Then Fox prepared 
me with lube and clever fingers, and he slid into me 
with moans of intense pleasure from both of us. I 
locked my legs high around his ribs and rode him 
from beneath, trying to slow the pace, not wanting 
the ecstasy to end.

“Don’t come,” he panted. “Don’t - I want to suck 

you, drink all of you - “

I whimpered. “Are you insane?” I demanded 

breathlessly. “After saying - that - you expect - me 
to be able to - “ Then he was shuddering, rhythm 

broken, control broken. He drove deep into me, 
gasping my name and pulsing his release into the 
condom. How I held back my own orgasm I’ll never 
know, but I managed it somehow, though I was 
sweating and shaking by the time Fox withdrew and 
collapsed on me. I wrapped my arms around him, 
stroking his back, half-expecting him to roll away 
with only a sleepy acknowledgement. But he didn’t. 
He kissed me as if his life depended on it, then 
wriggled carefully down the bed until he was lying 
between my legs. And proceeded to suck my brains 
out via my cock.

Fox had the most talented mouth I’ve ever 

experienced, and it took every bit of my crumbling 
self-control not to choke him or pull his hair out in 
handfuls.Instead I kept my hips still, caressed his 
hair with shaking hands and whispered sentimental 
nothings, while he did things with his tongue I 
didn’t think possible. But I made mental notes as 
best I could. After all, every good turn deserves to 
be returned, right? My climax hit like a train, and 
I know it’s a cliché, but that was truly what it was 
like. One of those very long goods trains that jolted 
over the points in a steady, unrelenting tempo. I was 
boneless and incoherent by the time he let my cock 
slip out of his mouth with a gentle pop. Then he 
crawled up my body, hooked one leg over my thighs, 
rested on hand over my heart and his head on my 
shoulder.

“Rob ... “ he breathed on a long sigh, and relaxed 

into sleep. I followed him moments later.

* * *

I was awakened at some ungodly hour as he slid 

carefully out from under the duvet and kissed my 
forehead.

“Go back to sleep,” he whispered. “I’m off to 

collect the bait.” Bait? Oh, yes. Bait.

* * *

I dozed for a while, feeling very good about life 

in general and myself in particular in spite of, or 
more likely because of, the various tender parts of 
my anatomy. I’d come twice more in the night; once 
buried deep in Fox, and later with him filling me. 
I revelled in the memories, my overworked cock 
somehow managing to struggle valiantly to half-
mast. But gradually darker thoughts began to creep 
in. Like Henry Wendlow, George Baverstock to a 
lesser extent, and what we were going to do about 
the portraits.

Plan A was largely cobbled together in my head, 

and while it had a cast of thousands - well, four or 
five -bits of it were still nebulous. The important 
bits, like how Jerry and/or Fox were going to get 
the portraits away from Wendlow once they had 
actually got inside his damned house, and without 
any repercussions.Especially without repercussions. 
We should have a conference. Sit round the kitchen 
table and bounce ideas off each other.

The best way to resolve it would be an accident. 

Or rather for Wendlow to believe an accident had 
happened and the pictures had been destroyed. Yes, 
that would do it, and if it could be swung so that it 

looked as if either or both of the Tweedles were to 
blame then all the better.

In fact, there was a way that I, personally and on 

my own, could get my paws on Adam without Fox or 
anyone else being involved. Rees vs. Tweedledum & 
Tweedledee. I thanked God Fox was safely out of the 
way heading for Somerset. All I had to do was wait.

And think of a way to slant the blame.

* * *

It was gone ten o’clock by the time I finally 

crawled out of the wreck of the bed and lurched into 
the bathroom. I felt about a hundred years old and 
as if the marrow had been drawn out of my bones. 
I’ve had the occasional orgy, but last night was 
something else entirely. From the mirror, my face 
smirked back at me, heavy-eyed and complacent. 
There were marks on my throat and the line of my 
collarbone - love-bites. I could vaguely remember 
giving him one or two similar ones.

But Fox was still an enigma I was no nearer 

solving.Then again, did I really want to solve it? All 
this trying to find out what makes a person tick, isn’t 
that a bit like making a commitment of some kind? 
Not only had I known him for just a few days, but 
he was entirely the wrong personality for a long-
term relationship. I wasn’t exactly sure what the 
role model was in that department, but somehow I 
couldn’t see Fox being very domesticated and I am 
very fond of my creature comforts. On the other hand, 
he was one of those people I’ve known for ever. You 
must know how it is -you meet a total stranger and 

it’s like meeting an old friend you haven’t seen for 
a while. You ground me, he’d said ... Furthermore, 
making love with him had been fantastic. I could 
feel a headache coming on so I gave up trying to 
puzzle it out.

It took a large pot of tea and a plate of eggs 

and bacon to begin to restore me to something 
approaching my usual vitality, and I was singing 
cheerfully to myself as I strolled across the yard to 
the workshop to put the finishing touches to Beau’s 
screen. The work went well, but most of the time 
I kept all ears cocked for the phone or the door-
knocker. Uncle Joe should be reporting back pretty 
soon.

 

 Chapter Nine

He reported back all right. Lisa delivered him 

mid-morning and we retreated to the kitchen for a 
tea break. She’d come across Uncle Joe in Salisbury 
and he’d promptly cadged a lift out to the cottage.He 
was fairly well-oiled into the bargain, but that was, 
after all, his natural state, so he retained enough 
discretion not to babble on about Wendlow in front 
of her, just in case she wasn’t in on it already.

Lisa, though, had no such compunction. 

“I’ve been making a few discreet enquiries,” she 
announced cheerfully as I made a fresh pot of tea 
for all of us. “About Henry Wendlow. By the way, 
where’s Fox today?”

“Out,” I told her. “Don’t know where.” There was 

the unmistakable sound of a motorbike turning into 
the yard, but it wasn’t the Beast’s distinctive engine 
note.

“What a pity,” she cooed. “I was looking forward 

to meeting him again. An interesting young man.”

“I don’t know about that,” I shrugged. “Bikers are 

ten a penny these days and they don’t often have too 
many brain-cells to rub together. Did I ever tell you 
about when Mike brought Mad Dog home?”

“Frequently, dear. But from what you’ve said 

about him he is not at all decorative. Fox, on the 
other hand, is remarkably good-looking.”

“Who’s good-looking?” Mike asked, entering the 

kitchen with his usual bouncing swagger. “Me?” He 
left his helmet on top of the fridge and joined us at 

the table, helping himself to a mug of tea. I ignored 
him.

“Handsome is,” I said sternly, “as handsome 

does.”

“Absolutely,” Lisa agreed, nodding vigorously. “I 

couldn’t agree more. Could you, Uncle? Mike?” And 
all the time she was staring at me, those gimlet eyes 
fastened on a point just below the angle of my jaw. 
I could feel my colour rising. “I trust the carnivore 
of your acquaintance is also handsome?” she added 
sweetly, Robert Rees, who are you trying to kid?unsaid 
but clearly understandable.

Mike followed the line of her gaze and he started 

to chuckle.

“Did Fox change your mind about the bodyguard 

thing?” he asked innocently. “Thought perhaps he 
might.”

“Good idea, that,” Uncle Joe put in. “The cottage 

needs a watchdog with all the valuables Alan’s got 
laying around in here. And maybe, Robbie-lad,” he 
added after a pause, “Alan’s fall wasn’t an accident.”

“That’s what I said!” Mike said smugly. 

Then his expression changed. “What else has 
happened?Where is Fox, anyhow?”

I hesitated for what felt like a long time. How 

nasty was this likely to get? But then, I’d already 
brought them in so far with the stuff I’d asked them 
to find out.

“Out checking on someone,” I answered. “A 

man called Henry Wendlow started to show a lot 
of interest in the Courtney-Darcy panels - one of 
Dad’s projects,” I added for the benefit of Lisa and 

Uncle Joe. “And now it’s turning rather difficult.” I 
hesitated again, then shrugged. “Mike, you were 
right about the panels being stolen.” I owed him that 
much, after all, and told them about Fox Courtney, 
Jerry the Burglar, and that I’d handed over Adam’s 
portrait as part of a bid to draw Wendlow in with 
more Elizabethan goodies. “I’m trying to learn more 
about him,” I finished.

Lisa and Uncle Joe were gaping at me with their 

jaws dropping. Mike was fuming.

“There is no way that bastard is getting his paws 

on Ann!” he blazed.

That seemed to jolt Lisa to attention. She 

straightened her spine and glared at me, Fox 
effectively banished from her mind if her scowl was 
anything to go by. “That isn’t what you told me!” she 
snapped.

“I wasn’t sure then,” I answered. “Now I am. Did 

you find anything?”

“Not a lot,” she replied grimly. “But he certainly 

isn’t interested in antiques, according to Simon.

He’s a widower, hasn’t got much of a social life, 

does a fair bit of yachting, belongs to the local Hunt. 
As far as work is concerned, he’s got a reputation 
in the City for closing deals even when the odds 
are against him. He’s ruthless, unscrupulous and 
successful. Simon doesn’t like him,” she added. 
Those last four words told me everything I needed 
to know.

“What about you?” I asked Uncle Joe.
There are times when his voice resembles 

traditional Christmas pudding: rich, fruity and 

soaked in alcohol. “They don’t think much of him in 
Lockeridge, either,” he announced. “Wendlow’s not 
liked but he is respected. Marston House was in his 
wife’s family, but they took it on when they married.

He’s on his own, no live-in servants apart from a 

chauffeur and a security guard.” They would be the 
Tweedles, I assumed. “The cook comes in five days 
a week, the housekeeper two. No entertaining, no 
guests.”

“What about his horses?” Lisa said, frowning.
“Cook’s daughter looks after them. She and 

her parents live in the lodge, about half a mile 
from the house and stables. Cook’s husband does 
the gardens,” he added as an afterthought. “It’s a 
nice little place - part of the east wing is sixteenth 
century, and the rest of it is early-nineteenth,” Uncle 
Joe went on. “But that’s all I could see from the 
lodge. He’s got CCTV and some bloody great dogs 
to discourage the casual caller.” Okay, that knocked 
Plan A out of the water. Burglary was no longer an 
option. The Wells, Stockwell and Hughes relations 
might well be poachers par excellence - Ocean’s 
Eleven they were not.

“You were careful, I hope?” I said sternly.
“Very, Robbie-lad.” He pushed at the thick tangle 

of greying hair falling over one bloodshot eye and 
studied me with a surprisingly acute gaze. “Spoke 
to the Stockwell cousins - they work that area pretty 
regular. Wendlow’s a bad man to cross. He’s had the 
dogs set on trespassers a few times.”

“About the dogs,” I said.
“Four of ‘em, according to Mrs Johnson. Bloody 

big brutes. Teeth like a shark’s. Rot-things.”

“Oh.”
“Robert,” Lisa cut in, bristling curiosity as 

a cat bristles whiskers, “what exactly are you 
planning?Helping Fox steal the portrait back?”

“Of course not. Just collecting what information 

we can so we can decide what would be the best way 
to approach him.”

“Rob,” Mike snapped. “I wasn’t born yesterday.

You’re getting involved with something a lot heavier 
than that, aren’t you?” The next thing would be Can 
I help? “I want to lend a hand.” Almost right.

“Me, too!” Lisa said.
“Crossing him and Alan,” Uncle Joe volunteered 

unnecessarily. “Wendlow is, I mean. Not bloody 
having that. Count me in, Robbie-lad.”

“I could always invite him to dinner,” Lisa 

suggested. “That would give you and Fox a chance 
at the house.”

“Not with CCTV and Rot-things roaming the front 

lawn,” I said. Splendid dogs, Rottweilers. I have a lot 
of respect for their jaws. “Don’t bother for now. Give 
us a chance to think some more about it and work 
things out.” I already had - sit tight and wait.

* * *

For the first time I was glad to see my family leave. 

I had a lot to think about, one way or another, and 
they were distractions I couldn’t afford. Apart from 
Fox, there were Tweedledum and Tweedledee.I had 
worked out it would take a couple of days for further 
developments to arise in the Wendlow quarter. Which 

meant waiting, and waiting gave my imagination 
time to trot out all kinds of unpleasant possibilities. 
Lurking in the background was a wild-eyed wonder 
that I was actually coping with the whole bizarre 
scenario. So far. Incipient panic wasn’t far away.

* * *

I made a fresh pot of tea and dug out an unopened 

packet of biscuits. While the other major distraction 
in my life was elsewhere, I could put together a few 
contingency plans.

But life is never that easy.
“Mr Rees,” said the voice and I jumped like a 

startled deer. Shit! A Tweedle stood just inside the 
kitchen door, the other behind him like a shadow.
Men that size have no business moving so quietly. 
I hadn’t heard a thing. “Our employer has a 
commission for you.”

“Sorry,” I said as calmly and offhand as I 

could.“I’m up to my eyes at the moment. Call back 
next week.”

“Another ten thousand,” he went on as if I hadn’t 

said a word, “for you to complete the cleaning work 
you’ve already begun.”

The movement my heart made in my chest 

mimicked the frantic flopping of a trout stranded on 
a riverbank. I’d been counting on this, but, God! not 
so soon. “Oh, well, I’ll try to fit it in. Leave it on the 
table, boys, and pop in next Tuesday.”

“Our employer,” said Tweedle Two, “requests 

you accept his offer of hospitality until the work is 
completed. You may bring with you any specialist 

equipment you need. Everything else that is required 
will be provided.”

That had not been part of my calculations and the 

panic transmuted to nausea. “Come on,” I protested, 
swallowing hard. “Be reasonable. I have an aged 
father in hospital and a brain-dead brother- I simply 
can’t just disappear for however long it takes - “

“Our employer,” One intoned, “offers five hundred 

pounds a day over and above the agreed fee.”

They’d almost certainly expect me to attempt to 

bargain, so - “Six hundred,” I countered promptly.

“It is not negotiable,” he said, inscrutable as 

Stonehenge.

In the meantime my brain had kicked into top 

gear. There was added risk of course, being on the 
inside, but there were no more options. From now on 
in, I would be playing it by ear. I just hoped I was up 
to the challenge.

“Okay,” I said. “There’s stuff I’ll need in the 

workshop, I’ll have to pack some clothes and give 
the lodger some dos and don’ts.” They nodded.

“We are instructed to tell you that your discretion 

must be absolute,” Two warned.

“And,” One continued, “that there is the strong 

possibility of other such commissions in the future 
should your work be of the required standard. If it is 
not or if your discretion is not watertight, there will, 
of course, be serious repercussions.”

“He can rely on me,” I replied with a casualness 

I was far from feeling. Two’s words had been the 
closest so far to an outright threat, and held the 
chilling certainty of Holy Writ.

* * *

I packed all I’d need for the portrait into a holdall 

and dumped it in Tweedledum’s arms, then repeated 
the process for my own basic necessities.

Back in the kitchen, I wrote a quick note. A job 

calls and I’m off for a few days. Tell Mike to tell the 
old curmudgeon he’s to behave himself and I’ll visit 
him as soon as I get back. Don’t give Beau his fire 
screen until the day after tomorrow when the glue’s 
hardened off and not until you’ve seen the colour of 
his money. Don’t let Uncle Joe get his paws on Dad’s 
alcohol or I’ll break your neck. Tell Lisa I can’t make 
her dinner party, but I’m looking forward to meeting 
her man very soon. Stay put and guard the stock. 
Cryptic, but I daren’t be any more specific. I just 
hoped Fox would read between the lines and my 
mind.

Tweedles One and Two gave my note the seal of 

their approval and I signed it with a flourish, the 
elaborate scrawl masking the shaking of my hand.

I left the note propped up against the Bovril jar 

and grabbed my jacket. “Ready when you are,” I 
said with a jauntiness I did not feel. The two men 
said nothing, just escorted me out to the large black 
Mercedes. My tatty luggage was placed in the boot, 
I was placed in the back seat like royalty, and we 
drove off.

* * *

Just outside Marlborough they pulled into a 

convenient lay-by and Two joined me in the back.

“Just a couple of minor precautions, Mr Rees,” he 

said. “Our employer requests you humour his whim 
and put this on until we arrive.” ‘This’ was a black 
hood.

“A little melodramatic,” I muttered, but pulled it 

over my head. I wasn’t going to argue, especially as 
I knew where we were going - or hoped I did. But 
he’d said ‘a couple’… He started to pat over me and 
I jerked away from him.

“No need to panic,” Tweedle Two said 

imperturbably, taking my iPhone from my 
pocket.“Your mobile will be returned to you when 
you leave.”

* * *

The hood stayed on for some time. We must 

have been driving round in circles for the most part. 
I could appreciate that a person’s sense of time is 
likely to be up the creek when in potentially hostile 
company while wearing a blindfold, but it doesn’t 
take that long to get from Wilsford to Lockeridge.

When we did stop, I was kept hooded as they 

guided me out of the car. They steered me across 
gravel that crunched under my feet, and up some 
stone steps into what felt like a large hallway. Some 
forty paces later, I was taken down a flight of narrow 
stairs and along a passage.

“Thank you, gentlemen,” said a cool, suave 

voice.“You may remove the hood, Mr Rees, and 
thank you for co-operating.”

Wendlow was at least a couple of inches over 

six foot, ramrod of spine and with the shoulders of 
a bullock. He had dark hair sleeked back and one 

of those raw-boned faces with weather-beaten skin, 
and narrowed granite eyes as if he squinted into 
a strong wind all the time. The old school tie and 
Yachting Club type. And yes, I could see that he 
would be a bad man to cross, and dangerous.

The room was pretty interesting as well. Used to 

be a wine cellar by the look of it. Now it was all set 
up to be an art restorer’s dream. My holdalls sat on 
the workbench, shapeless and out of place. Beside 
them lay the portrait.

“Any difficulties, gentlemen?” Wendlow queried.
“None, sir,” One answered. “He left a note for his 

lodger. All above board, sir, no hints.”

“Excellent. That’ll be all for now. Sit down, Mr 

Rees.” They left and I sat at the bench. “My staff will 
see that your stay here is comfortable. Do you have 
all you need to continue with the portrait?”

“Yes,” I said. “For now.”
“Good. Perhaps you’d care to make yourself at 

home before you start. Lunch will be in half an hour.
By the way, this door will be locked and you will not 
leave this area unescorted. All facilities you will need 
are here, from the kitchenette to the toilet.Ring that 
bell and my staff will come. Good day, Mr Rees.”

“Good day,” I echoed with a calmness I was far 

from feeling, and didn’t move until I was on my own.

 

 Chapter Ten

As workshops go it was almost perfect. All it 

needed was natural light instead of those fancy 
tubes that are supposed to be the same as daylight 
but aren’t quite. The fridge and the cupboards in the 
little kitchen were stocked up as if against a siege, 
all of it from Fortnum & Mason. The small bedroom 
with its cabin bunk was immaculately fitted out.

When I’d finished poking around I sat in the 

filtered glow, did what I could to calm the terrified 
churning of my stomach, and thought about Wendlow. 
I was going to have to deal with this situation very, 
very carefully.

Shortly afterwards Tweedledum came for me 

and I was blindfolded again, escorted up the stairs 
and along corridors until I was led into a room 
and the hood removed. The walls were covered in 
oak panelling carved in simple linenfold design, 
beautifully done and clean-cut as if it had been 
fashioned yesterday. It was sixteenth century. So 
was the table, set for two and with Wendlow sitting in 
solitary state at the head. A beautiful court cupboard 
stood along the wall behind my chair.Carved stone 
framed the fireplace where logs burned merrily. A 
couple of exquisite Holbeins hung on the walls. 
Even the lighting was by candles in silver sticks and 
beautiful pewter wall-sconces.The chairs were later, 
and they were the only things that were.

“Sit down, Mr Rees,” Wendlow said, geniality 

personified. “Are you satisfied with the workshop?”

“It’ll do,” I answered casually as I took my seat.
Tweedledee served as the designated butler, 

dishing out game soup from a silver tureen. He 
might as well have been invisible for all the notice 
Wendlow took of him. I did my best to do the same.

“Good,” he said. “How long will it take you to 

complete the work?”

“Eight, nine days. Some of the initial stages have 

already been done. I’ve got to the delicate stuff now, 
actually lifting off the dirt and layers of varnish 
without disturbing the paint. Then it’s a question 
of repairing any damage, and stabilising the whole 
thing.” He nodded, but I could tell he wasn’t really 
interested in the technicalities, just the finished 
result.

“Do you anticipate any problems?”
“No,” I said. “I didn’t have any with Ann.” I 

wanted to kick myself.

Wendlow didn’t waste time, he snatched the 

opening I’d given him. “Ah, yes. Ann Darcy. I really 
must add her to my collection, Mr Rees.”

“I don’t think the owner is selling,” I said.
Tweedle Two removed the soup bowl and put 

a plate of Steak Diane in front of me, afterwards 
topping up my glass with the claret. So the meal 
wasn’t going to be authentic Elizabethan cuisine.

“Oh, I think he would if he thought she was a 

fake,” Wendlow said, smiling like a shark. “I am 
acquainted with George Baverstock.”

“No, he wouldn’t. He’d have her tested, and 

dendrochronology will confirm the age of the panel.”

“True, but your father has something of a 

reputation, I believe, and Baverstock trusts you both 
or you wouldn’t be continuing his excellent work.I’m 
sure that if you or he were to tell Baverstock she 
was a very clever forgery, he’d take your word for 
it.”There was not a cat in hell’s chance Dad would 
tell him any such thing. I probably would, if he used 
the right kind of pressure. “I’ll make it worth your 
while,” he was saying. “My supplier brought me 
other items from the same source, things that do not 
interest me. I’m certain they’d appeal to you. Some 
perfect Fabergé and a pair of really lovely Limoges 
candlesticks, worth quite a lot at auction, I’d say.”

Actually, I’d be more interested in the medieval 

book of hours and the duelling pistols. “I expect 
so,”I said steadily. “As long as the original owner 
didn’t turn up for the bidding.”

Wendlow didn’t pretend any innocence. “Oh, he 

won’t. I have it on the best authority he’s a frail old 
man in his eighties who never goes further than the 
village.”

Fox’s grandfather? Yet somehow I’d got the 

impression he lived alone. “And if he’s reported his 
-um - loss to the police?”

“He hasn’t. I have friends in high places, to coin 

a well-worn phrase. Mr Courtney hasn’t reported a 
thing.”

No. He just set his godless grandson on the 

trail.“Poor old sod,” I muttered. “I bet he didn’t even 
have any security alarms.”

“Correct. Though I have to confess I find your 

sympathy for him a little out of place. After all, your 
father has been working for Baverstock - among 

others - for some time now. Most of those paintings 
have come from ‘poor old sods’.” I couldn’t find 
an answer to that. Except that Dad would never 
knowingly work on anything stolen. I didn’t say it, 
though. If Wendlow suspected I would be heading 
for the nearest police station as soon as I got out of 
there and to hell with the consequences, I had an 
uncomfortable feeling I wouldn’t be getting out. So I 
smiled and shrugged instead.

He took an envelope from his pocket, handed it 

to the hovering Two to pass on to me. I opened it up 
and found photographs.

A jewel of a house, mid-seventeenth century 

stone alongside Tudor brick and timber, partially 
surrounded by trees. Interior shots of rooms and their 
contents, a haphazard of treasures, most of which 
seemed to be in daily use rather than on display. 
There were several of the portraits, hanging in their 
alcoves, just as Fox had said, on either side of an 
elegantly simple Adam fireplace. There were more 
exterior shots, showing rain-swept outbuildings 
forming another range, making the floor plan a 
U-shape around a cobbled courtyard.

One photo also showed the figure of an old man 

in a soaking wet raincoat. He was thin, slightly bent 
of spine, and a gnarled, fine-boned hand clutched 
the carved handle of a walking stick. The gaunt face 
under the dripping hat-brim had Fox’s profile.

“He’s a widower. There’s a grandson somewhere, 

but he’s rarely there. My supplier will be paying a 
return visit before long.”

I sorted through the photos and found the close-

ups of some silver bowls and goblets, the shield 
with its chevron and fleur-de-lys engraved on their 
surfaces. “For these?” I asked, showing them to him.

“Yes, among others.” He eyed me narrowly. “Why 

did you choose those, Mr Rees?”

“They’d fit in here,” I said casually, “on the court 

cupboard.” Somehow I had to warn Fox his grand-
dad was for it again. It looked as if his burglar wasn’t 
as cowed as he’d thought he was. It would be ironic 
if the items Fox brought back had those goblets 
among them.

“That’s very acute of you,” Wendlow smiled. “I 

specialise, Mr Rees - or may I call you Robert? - and 
I don’t like it when others encroach on my preserves. 
I’m sure you can convince Baverstock to get rid of 
Ann’s portrait. I have every faith in you.”

I took a deep breath. “No,” I said. “I’m sorry. I 

can’t.”

“I beg your pardon?” As if I’d committed a social 

solecism.

“We’ve already told him she’s a genuine 

Elizabethan.” Which was the truth, after all.

“Then tell him you were mistaken.”
I stared at him. “Why don’t you simply make him 

an offer and buy the bloody thing? Through a third 
party, if necessary.”

His mouth thinned to a cold angry line, and 

I could feel Two looming behind me. So much for 
playing it carefully. “I don’t operate that way, Robert,” 
Wendlow said softly. “Only my staff, my supplier 
and now you know that I collect. I can’t have every 
Tom, Dick and Harry knowing my business. But I’m 

a reasonable man. Everyone has their price. When 
I’ve found yours, I’ll ask you again.”

“I’ll do what I can to co-operate,” I said grimly,“as 

long as it doesn’t compromise my Dad’s reputation 
or mine. That’s fair, isn’t it?”

“No, Robert. Finish your meal. We’ll talk again 

later.” He dabbed a napkin to his mouth and walked 
out.

Somehow I did carry on eating, though it was 

ashes in my mouth. I was scared spitless of course, 
but they didn’t have to know it, did they? They 
couldn’t ever know how scared I was.

* * *

Back in the cellar-workshop, I was left to stew in 

my own juices. No one came to check my progress 
on Adam, or even that I’d started work on him at all.
Which was as well. I hadn’t touched him. I sat there 
and drank a lot of coffee in the hope the caffeine 
would stimulate my brain into producing some 
master strategy. But all it did was send me hurrying 
back and forth to the toilet. In between trips I sorted 
through the tools and kitchen equipment, pocketing 
anything that looked like it might be useful. Like the 
Stanley knife.

At seven-thirty One came in and placed 

something on the workbench and walked out again 
without saying a word. It was a motorcycle helmet.
Black. The visor was splintered and deep scores 
marred one side. I stared at it numbly for a long time 
before I picked it up and examined it. There was no 
sign of blood, thank God, but Fox must have come 

off the Big Beast at a hell of a speed to damage the 
thing like that.

A few minutes later Wendlow strolled in, smoking 

a Havana. “Good evening, Robert,” he said genially. 
“Are you going to co-operate?” Clutching the helmet 
to me, I shook my head. He wasn’t close enough 
for me to use my karate skills. And in any case, I’d 
never used them in earnest before.Wendlow smiled. 
“That is unfortunate. And by the look of it, you 
aren’t keeping to your side of the contract as far as 
this portrait is concerned. That is not clever of you, 
young man.”

“Where’s Fox?” I demanded.
“Here, relatively undamaged, though I believe 

his motorcycle is a write-off. He’ll be with you 
shortly. I suggest that when he regains consciousness 
you talk things over between the two of you. The 
consequences could be quite serious, you know.”

I didn’t answer, and after a brief pause he left.

Within five minutes the door opened again and 
Tweedle Two walked in, Fox’s body slung over 
his shoulder in a fireman’s lift. All I could see 
immediately was a large bruised lump on Fox’s 
forehead and scuffing on the right shoulder, hip 
and thigh of his leathers. With impersonal care, Two 
laid him out on the floor three quarters prone in 
the recovery position, then stood back. “As far as I 
can ascertain, Mr Rees, he is merely concussed and 
should be coming round before long with a severe 
headache. If you are concerned about his condition, 
ring the bell and we will come to your assistance.”

I gawped at him, unable to believe what I was 

hearing. “In a pig’s ear,” I sneered and turned my 
back on him, kneeling by Fox’s side. I didn’t hear the 
door close as he left. Merely concussed - I racked my 
brains, trying to recall the symptoms.

Fox was already beginning to stir. His head rolled 

a couple of times and his breath hissed through 
clenched teeth. Then his eyes opened, glittering 
with anger and with no sign of fuzziness that I could 
see. He pushed himself up to sit leaning against 
the bench leg. I expected a curse or two but he said 
nothing. His face was a blank mask, only his eyes 
gave the game away. Fenris was back in business.

“What happened?” I asked. His gaze flicked over 

me, checking me for damage, I think.

“I got back within about five minutes of you 

leaving - saw your note and guessed what had 
happened, where you were going.” He paused, took 
a careful breath. “He put me off the road,” he said 
evenly. “On the straight he wouldn’t have got close, 
but - “ he broke off with a one-sided shrug. He didn’t 
need to say any more. Nippy as the Big Beast was, 
on unfamiliar, twisting back roads the odds were 
with the opposition. For someone who had been 
knocked off a motorcycle while travelling fast, he 
was remarkably compos mentis. “The bike went into 
the river,” he added abruptly. “I bounced off a tree.”

“After scraping a furrow in the asphalt, by the 

look of it. Are you hurt?”

“No. Just bruised. I was lucky.”
Lucky! “You were coming to rescue me?” I asked 

gently, all misty-eyed.

“Well, no, not exactly. I was going to pay 

Baverstock a visit. See if he could be useful against 
Wendlow. Tweedledum must have been watching 
him. He obviously knew my bike and headed me off 
not far from his gates.”

“I said stay put in my note,” I said. “Don’t you 

ever do as you’re told?”

“Why break the habit of a lifetime?” he answered 

with far too much sang-froid given the situation. “I 
left the note for Mike, so your family won’t worry.
What does Wendlow want you to do?”

I explained briefly and a frown settled on his face. 

He got to his feet with less than his usual grace and 
leaned on the bench, not giving the damned portrait 
a glance. “Are you going to do it?”he asked.

A fair question. “No!” I barked. “At least, I don’t 

think so.”

“The heart spoke first,” he said, the laughing 

affection in his gaze completely banishing the wolf.
In spite of everything, my toes curled again. “I’ll go 
along with that.”

But things were no longer quite so clear-

cut.“Wendlow could have the edge on me,” I said 
quietly. I would have said more, but he suddenly 
glanced at the door. Seconds later it opened on the 
Tweedles, both of them holding revolvers - the snub-
nosed variety with what looked like the bore of a 
cannon.

“Our employer,” said One, “wishes to know if you 

have changed your mind, Mr Rees.”

“No,” Fox said. “He hasn’t.”
“Unfortunate,” Two observed. “Empty your 

pockets, Mr Rees.” The only move I made was to 

widen my stance slightly, lower my centre of gravity. 
I thought I’d been inconspicuous but Tweedledum 
must have recognised what I was doing. His eyes 
narrowed and he stuck the barrel of his gun against 
the back of Fox’s skull. “Not advisable, Mr Rees.”

They let me keep my handkerchief, but that was 

all. Fox was given the same instruction with me 
on the business end of the gun, and then we were 
marched out of the workshop.

No blindfolds this time, which was a bad sign 

in all the books and TV cop shows I’ve read and 
watched.

 

 Chapter Eleven

We were taken up several floors by the back-

stairs, along corridors and up more stairs until we 
were on the top floor. This was servants’ quarters in 
the good old days, cramped boxes for those lucky 
enough to live in.

The room was small and bare of everything 

except the unshaded light bulb and the cobwebs.The 
narrow window sported two vertical iron bars.With 
the Tweedles crowding on our heels, it was almost 
claustrophobic.

“Shoes and socks,” Two said crisply. I wasn’t 

inclined to argue with the gun in his hand, so I did as 
I was told. Fox shrugged and took off his boots and 
socks. Two scooped the footwear out of the door with 
the side of his Doc Martens as if we’d been wading 
in cowpats. “Jackets, sweaters and shirts,”he said.

“We’ll freeze!” I protested.
“I doubt it,” One said ironically. “However, the 

cold might aid your decision, Mr Rees. I suggest you 
obey. If we have to do it for you, you’ll be stripped to 
the skin.” Put like that, I didn’t have much choice. I 
took them off and dropped them on the floor, which 
left me wearing only my jeans.

Fox’s jacket and tee-shirt landed on top of mine 

and they all went the same way as our other things.
One ran expert hands over my jeans, not that there 
was anything left to find. Fox got the same treatment 
and though he stood like a statue for it, there was 
a look in his eyes that promised due retribution as 

soon as he could arrange it.

“Thank you,” One said. “Our employer will see 

you some time tomorrow, Mr Rees. I suggest you 
spend the time thinking very carefully about your 
future actions. And you,” fixing that bleak stare on 
Fox, “would be advised to do your best to convince 
him to co-operate. Mr Rees’s skills make him 
indispensable. You are not. Therefore you will be 
the one who’ll lose your hands, a finger at a time, 
until Mr Rees sees reason. Unless, of course, he’s 
made the correct decision by the time our employer 
interviews him again.”

The door was old-fashioned and therefore solid.

It shut with a heavy finality that made me shiver 
more than the cold, and the key turned in the lock.
Two pairs of footsteps walked away. At least they had 
left the light on. The handle had been removed on 
our side of the door and a metal plate fastened over 
the lock. There was simply no way we could get the 
thing open from inside the room.

Fox hadn’t wasted his time with the door. He was 

examining the bars.

“That’s no use,” I said. “Our best bet is to jump 

them when they come for us next. Or bring us 
something to eat,” I added hopefully.

Fox took no notice of that. “The cement is old,”he 

said. “Look, I can turn this one in its socket. If I can 
get it out - “

“Don’t be daft! We’re on the fourth floor, for God’s 

sake!”

“The ivy’s grown up to the floor below and it 

looks strong enough to take - “

“Will you listen to me!” I shouted. “I don’t care 

if it’s tapping on the window, we can’t get to it. The 
casement’s too narrow!”

“No, it isn’t. I can climb down and get back up 

here to let you out.”

I hesitated, looking from his muscle-and-

whipcord body to the window and back again. He 
was leaner than me, but not by much. He might 
make it, but - “No,” I said. “It must be nearly twenty 
feet from here to the ivy. You can’t do it. If you fall 
you aren’t going to bounce.”

“I won’t fall. If the cement in the wall out there 

is anything like this, there’ll be plenty of weathering 
and gaps.” All the time he was working at the 
damned bar, and there was a drift of fine dust on the 
boards at his feet. Cracks were beginning to appear 
in the sill.

“Here,” I said, “let me have a go.” He moved aside 

and I took hold of the bar. It was old iron, but solid. 
I managed to rotate it in its setting, rock it slightly. 
It was enough to start a few hairline fractures in the 
cement. More powdery dust floated to the floor.

“My turn,” he said, elbowing me out of the way.

The muscles moved under his smooth hide, the 
cracks widened, and with a strangely soft sound 
a chunk broke away. Fox gave a quiet whoop of 
triumph. A twist and a wrench and the bar was out of 
the embrasure and in his hands. I reached past him 
and forced up the window catch, pushed against the 
rusted hinges until the window opened.Colder air 
gusted in, starting me shivering again.Cautiously I 
craned my head out and looked down.

Ivy clung black against the wall, about a hundred 

miles away.

“You can’t,” I said. “It’s impossible.”
“No, it isn’t.”
“Of course it is! We haven’t even got anything to 

use as ropes, unless you intend to use our jeans!”

“Don’t need to.”
He was maddeningly calm and matter-of-fact. I 

wanted to strangle him. “And it’s too narrow. You’re 
not so skinny you can squeeze through that gap - “

“With the other bar out of the way I can.”
There was no convincing him. Numb with more 

than cold I watched him work on the second bar 
until that, too, was wrenched out from its place. If 
he went out of the window with a sideways twist and 
his lungs empty, he would just about make it.Then 
all he had to do was imitate a spider and crawl down 
to the ivy.

“What about the dogs?” I was snatching at straws 

now. “If they’re loose - “

“Jerry said Wendlow lets them out when he goes 

to bed, and he hasn’t gone yet.”

“You hope. All right,” I muttered. “Just - be 

careful.”

“I will,” he smiled. The bloody idiot showed no 

sign of nerves at all. If anything he was enjoying it, I 
think. “Give me a hand.”

I got hold of him and took his weight while 

he swung his legs up and out of the window. He 
wriggled forward until his hips were balanced on the 
sill, one arm hooked around my neck.

“You are insane,” I told him with quiet sincerity.

“Yes,” he agreed, laughing. Laughing!
“Don’t bother about trying to get me out,” I said.
“Go to Lisa and Simon and tell them, tell Uncle 

Joe and Baverstock as well while you’re at it. But 
not Mike. He’ll go off half-cocked and do something 
incredibly stupid.” He nodded, then tightened his 
arm and kissed me, tongue probing possessively 
deep - God, what a time and place to pick for it! I 
held him in a convulsive embrace, but somehow 
he was sliding free, body twisting, lithe and strong, 
and almost before I knew it he was outside, hanging 
from the window frame by his hands. He grinned up 
at me and started down.

The night was cut-glass clear and frost was already 

glinting in the moonlight. Shuddering, I leaned out 
as far as I could and watched the pale form move 
steadily down the wall. God knows how and where 
he found handholds. I could see no unevenness in 
the stones, but then, I wasn’t nose on to them.

Fifteen feet down he reached the comparative 

security of the ivy and looked up. The lunatic smiled 
at me, waved a casual hand and carried on towards 
the ground. I felt slightly sick. His fingers had shown 
black in the colour-leaching light, torn and bloodied 
from the descent. Another one for the tally against 
Wendlow.

* * *

It seemed to take several lifetimes for him to 

reach the bottom, and I didn’t breathe properly until 
I saw him step away from the wall. He was standing 
in a flower bed. Ahead of him was a wide stretch 

of lawn and then a white fence that glimmered in 
the moonlight. Beyond that was an orchard, the trees 
skeletal in the night. Frost limned everything. Fox’s 
breath was a brief pale cloud as he glanced around 
him, then started across the lawn.

In the room behind him, the lights switched 

on.The effect was like stage lighting, and he was 
caught in the middle of its swathe. He leaped aside 
for the darkness, but a shout went up and French 
windows were thrown open. The lights went out 
again almost immediately, but I could see the shapes 
of two men running in his wake. The moonlight 
gleamed off the metal in their hands, but it positively 
glowed on Fox’s bare skin. He might as well have 
been luminous. Helpless and with agony growing 
under my ribs I watched him jinking like a hunted 
hare, but I knew it was only a matter of time. He 
could outrun them, but he couldn’t outrun a bullet.

A gun fired, the sound sharp in the night, and 

the dogs were roused to a frenzied barking not so 
far away. I could hear them crashing and scrabbling 
against heavy mesh. Fox ran on, untouched. If he 
could reach the orchard, he’d have some kind of 
cover - but he was half-naked and barefoot - twice 
more they shot at him and missed, and he was almost 
at the fence. They fired again, in unison this time, 
and he stumbled. Another shot and Fox suddenly 
fell forward to slam against the barrier. He bounced 
back from it, leaving a dark smear on the paintwork, 
and two more shots rang out. He staggered, turning 
to face the gunman, and I saw what looked like black 
tarry splashes on back and breast as he did so. He 

took one step towards them and collapsed.

Even then I half-expected him to get up, start 

running again. He didn’t, of course. The Tweedles 
jogged across the grass and stood over him. Two 
nudged him in the ribs with his toe, One crouched 
down and put his hand on Fox’s throat.

Two came back to the French windows, putting his 

gun into its shoulder holster. Wendlow was there, the 
smoke of his cigar drifting in the cold air.“He’s dead, 
sir,” Two reported over the hysterical yammering of 
the dogs.

“The price of foolhardiness,” Wendlow 

observed.“Take the body into the orchard and bury it 
deep.Clean off the fence and do what you can about 
the blood on the grass. Oh, yes, and bring me the 
ring he was wearing.” He raised his voice a little. 
“I trust you are watching and listening up there, 
Robert?” I couldn’t answer. My voice wouldn’t work 
at all. He laughed and went back inside. After a 
while the dogs shut up.

Bury it deep, he’d said. I leaned against the 

window frame, not feeling the cold, and watched the 
two black shapes moving in the orchard, the scene 
lit by a moon like a spotlight. They dug deep.

They dropped Fox into the hole with no more 

ceremony than if he had been the four-footed raider 
he was nicknamed for. Six regulation feet from the 
sun and the air. Burying him. Fox. Then they started 
filling it back in, stamping down the earth every 
now and then. By the time they were replacing the 
carefully cut turf the moon had been curtained by 
clouds and I could no longer see them.

All that life, all that crackling energy snuffed out 

and broken. My mind began to unravel.

“Fox,” I said into the night, “you idiot.” I wanted 

to howl like a wounded wolf, I wanted to tear down 
the sky and shatter the moon, I wanted to rip out 
Wendlow’s guts and make him eat them -

I wanted Fox to be alive again.

* * *

By dawn the temperature had risen enough to 

clear the frost and bring the rain. I hadn’t moved, 
couldn’t move. He’d been here, at the window, 
laughing at the danger. From my window I could see 
almost every tree in the orchard, but I couldn’t find 
a sign of his grave. Nor was there any mark on the 
fence. That was all I could make out unless I closed 
my eyes. And then all I could see was him.

Four large Rottweilers patrolled the course of 

Fox’s last run, stiff-legged and rough-hackled with 
suspicion, but they did not go into the orchard, 
though the fence would be no obstacle.

I didn’t turn round when the door opened. A 

blanket was put around my shoulders and a steaming 
mug was placed on the window ledge in front of me. 
The scent of fresh-ground coffee laced with brandy 
rose to my nostrils, making my stomach churn with 
incipient nausea.

“Our employer,” said Tweedledum, “has every 

confidence that in the light of recent events you will 
have reconsidered your position, bearing in mind 
that there are others available for your persuasion.A 
Michael Rees, a Joseph Wells, not to mention Lisa 

and Simon Rees-Lockyer and their daughter. Drink 
the coffee, Mr Rees.”

I drank it. After the first couple of sips it actually 

settled my stomach and brought me some inner 
warmth. I wrapped both hands around the mug 
and stared at the Tweedles, memorising every line 
of their features. If the weight of my regard made 
them uncomfortable, they didn’t show it. I was no 
threat to them, or so they thought. They were wrong. 
I was Nemesis. Sooner or later I would work out how 
justice would be done on all three of them.

I was taken down a couple of floors and into a 

warm bedroom. My holdall was on the bed, along 
with my shirt, my jacket and sweater. Fox’s clothes 
were there, too. I dressed, then carefully folded his 
things into the holdall and zipped it shut.Sandalwood 
and myrrh drifted faint as a distant dream and was 
gone.

“Breakfast is ready for you in the workshop, Mr 

Rees,” Two said. I nodded and went with them.

Left alone, I sat down at the bench, ate bacon and 

eggs without throwing up, drank a vast amount of 
tea.

The portrait lay there, waiting for me.
I took the dirty crockery into the kitchenette, 

washed them up and dried them.

The portrait was still there. Adam’s blank blob of 

a face seemed to be watching me. So I wandered 
back to the bench and sat there, staring back at him. 
But I wasn’t seeing him at all. Fox, lying in the cold 
earth, body stiffened with rigor mortis and soon to 
be invaded by maggots and decay, the body that had 

been so incredibly alive in my arms - grief began to 
twist in me again, and a hunger for revenge brought 
a snarl to my throat.

I glared at the bland oval face and hated it. If it 

hadn’t been for that portrait Fox would still be alive- I 
stopped the Stanley knife millimetres away from the 
painted surface. I couldn’t do it. Wendlow’s living 
face, perhaps, but not this centuries old piece of art.

Sickened and shaking, I dropped my head into 

my hands and squeezed my eyes shut. There was 
another consideration as well. My own life. Once I’d 
finished this commission, I doubted there would be 
others. I’d seen murder done - I literally knew where 
the body was buried. Could Wendlow afford to let 
me live? Hardly. Unless I used Ann as a bargaining 
piece. Fox’s Ann. God help me, I couldn’t even think 
coherently.

I was on automatic pilot. Some time later I 

discovered I was working on the portrait. I couldn’t 
even remember making the decision, let alone 
starting. Before it could clearly register, the door 
opened and Wendlow came in.

“Good evening, Robert,” he said smoothly, 

keeping the width of the bench between us.

Evening? I’d lost a whole day? “I’m glad you 

have decided to be sensible. You’ll explain this, if 
you please,” holding up his hand. Fox’s ring was on 
his little finger. “This is the same coat of arms as in 
the painting.”

“Yes.” I was shocked at the sound of my voice. It 

was thin and croaky, like an old man’s. I coughed to 
clear my throat.

“How did the boy come by it? Did Jerry Hancock 

sell it to him?”

“By right of birth,” I growled. “He’s a descendant.” 

Was a descendant. I glanced at the portrait - and ice 
grew like a knotted fist in my gut.

 

 Chapter Twelve

I hadn’t realised how much of the panel I had 

cleaned up. The painted face was no longer an 
almost featureless blob. His hair was now bright 
copper, waving back from his forehead and looking 
as if hands had just been raked through it. From his 
left earlobe hung an emerald. Green eyes laughed 
out at me from a handsome proud-boned face, the 
smile charmingly awry. And from the edge of his 
left eye-socket ran a ragged scar angling across his 
temple to disappear into his hair.

I think Wendlow was saying something, but I 

couldn’t hear him properly.

Likenesses I could accept, even an identical twin 

image despite the four hundred odd years between 
them, but the same scar? That was an impossible 
coincidence - I couldn’t understand it.

No, it wasn’t really there. I was imagining it.Shock. 

That was it. I was in shock and hallucinating…

Wendlow barked my name and I looked up at 

him. He was glaring at me, on the edge of losing 
his temper, but then I started hallucinating again. 
I thought I saw the door open and Fox step silently 
into the room. Mud and fresh blood smeared his 
upper body and leather trousers, but not enough to 
hide the raw wounds in his chest and belly, though 
they weren’t bleeding. There were fresh grazes on 
his arms, as if he had been clawed. Blood smudged 
bright about his mouth and nose. His lambent Fenris 
eyes were locked on Wendlow’s back, his bloodied 

lips drawn back from sharp white teeth -and I forgot 
to breathe. No ice, now, in this Loki’s child, he was 
all fire and fury and hunger. How in God’s name 
could Wendlow not be aware of the danger stalking 
him?

Probably it was my fixed stare that alerted him.He 

spun round and froze in his tracks, jaw slackening. 
Then he snatched for the gun inside his jacket but 
Fox was moving with inhuman speed.One instant he 
was poised on the room’s threshold, then he was on 
Wendlow and the man was falling, brought down by 
the flying weight.

I was glad my view was blocked by the bench.

Wendlow screamed once, a horrible gurgling sound 
that bubbled into silence.

After a while Fox stood up. He wiped the back 

of his hand across his mouth, smearing blood. He 
didn’t look at me. Would not. His breathing was 
ragged, shallow, the burning anger gone now and 
taking with it his vitality. He pushed his fingers 
through his tangled, dirty hair. His hands shook a 
little. He looked - defeated.

That ice was still in my belly, crawling trails of 

terror up and down my spine, but I stumbled round 
the end of the bench, refusing to look down at 
Wendlow, and I got my arms around Fox. Briefly he 
tensed against me, but then he gave a shuddering 
sigh and sagged in my embrace, hands clutching 
my lapels while spasmodic shudders racked through 
him.

“I don’t like being buried,” he whispered. I 

couldn’t stop myself, I began to laugh. At least I 

think it was laughter.

And all the time my brain was bellowing questions 

I wasn’t sure I wanted answered, because none of it 
made any kind of sense. There had to be a rational 
explanation for this unholy craziness, but I retained 
enough sanity to know this was neither the time nor 
the place to start trying to find it.

“We’ve got to get out of here,” I said into his 

hair.It smelt of earth and blood, making me feel 
slightly sick. He nodded and pushed away from 
me, staggering a little as he did so. “Have you got 
a bullet in you?” I demanded. Those raw, seemingly 
half-healed wounds looked awful.

“No,” he said. He crouched beside Wendlow, 

touched fingertips to the man’s temple. I forced 
myself to look and to my surprise saw very little 
blood. There was a bruised-looking bite mark on his 
throat, already scabbing over, stains on his collar, 
and that was all.

“He’s not dead?” I gasped.
“No,” Fox said coldly. “Not yet. I drink living 

blood, Rob.” The momentary lapse of control was 
obviously over.

“I don’t want to know that,” I snapped, fighting 

the uneasy churning in my stomach. “What’s the 
body count?”

“One, out by the lawn.”
“Oh. Where’s the other one?”
“Unconscious, in the hallway. There’s no one else 

in the house.”

“I’m thankful for small mercies - No! The 

dogs!”Down here I wouldn’t have been able to hear 

them barking.

He gave a painful shrug. “Outside,” he said 

shortly. “By the lawn.”

“ - Guarding the corpse. Damn! We’ve got to hide 

it!”

“Why?”
“Because, you brainless pillock, if you did to him 

what you did to Wendlow, it’ll be only too obvious, 
won’t it?”

“No,” he said. “Not by now.”
It took me a few seconds to register what he 

meant, and when I did my guts heaved. All those 
Rottweiler teeth - “Then let’s get out of here!”

“There’s no hurry.” He stood up and wavered to 

the bench, leaning on it as if his legs were about to 
let him down. “We’ve got some hours yet.”

“How do you work that out?”
“No one’s likely to find the body before dawn, 

and we’ll be gone by then.”

“Why the delay, damn it, and what about 

him?”nodding towards the unconscious man. “He’ll 
have a pretty weird story to tell.”

“No, he won’t. I’ve got to clean up, and if you 

give me time enough to get some strength back, I 
can take care of them.” My face must have shown 
my thoughts, because he gave a croak of laughter 
that became a coughing fit. It sounded as if his lungs 
were doing a good job of tearing themselves apart, 
and he was left gasping for breath, fresh blood on his 
mouth. “Time,” he wheezed, “that’s all.They won’t 
remember us. Just the dogs killing - “He began to 
cough again.

“All right,” I said grimly. I’d have to take his word 

on that. “I know where to find a bedroom, and a 
bathroom shouldn’t be too far away from it. Come 
on.”

Even with me supporting him, it was no easy 

journey for Fox. I could not see how he’d found 
the strength to fight his way out of that hole in the 
orchard, and dispose of the paid muscle into the 
bargain.

Unless it was pure blind fury. Whatever it was 

that had fuelled him, he ran out of it at the top of the 
stairs. I carried him the rest of the way.

Leaving him flat out on the bed I hurried back 

downstairs. I found Two in the hall and at first I 
thought he was dead. His throat bore a messier scab 
than Wendlow’s, but closer inspection showed the 
barrel chest was rising and falling steadily enough.
He weighed a lot more than Fox and at the risk of 
giving myself a damaged back, I rolled and dragged 
him down to the cellar workshop. There I tethered 
him to the radiator, Wendlow to the heavy bench. I 
used the brass picture-hanging wire from my holdall, 
thin strong stuff that would hold an elephant, if its 
struggles didn’t cut off its foot first.Like a cheesewire 
through the best Cheddar. I hoped they’d try it.

Then I gathered all my kit together, including the 

portrait, and climbed the stairs to the bedroom.

Fox lay still dead to the world, and I took a 

close look at his injuries. The claw-marks had the 
pinkness of new skin under the flaking scabs, but 
the others were a different matter. Three entry holes, 
three exit holes, the latter torn and ragged as might 

be expected. Any one of those bullets should have 
killed him. Had killed him.

All right. Questions and answers later. The en 

suite bathroom was completely kitted out with 
towels, soaps and all the rest. I helped myself to 
what I needed and began the job of cleaning him up.

It was slow and unpleasant, because fine slivers 

of shattered bone were protruding from the mangled 
flesh and had to be picked out, and I had very little 
stomach for that kind of thing. He, on the other 
hand, couldn’t have had much stomach - or guts - 
left whole if the probable trajectories were anything 
to go by. Even so, heavy scabs were forming as I 
worked, and the injuries looked a lot less raw. When 
I finished I tore a sheet into wide strips and swathed 
them tightly around him from waist to armpits. 
Couldn’t think of what else to do.

But something else did occur to me. This was 

an ideal opportunity to examine his teeth without 
losing my hand, and I took it. I don’t know what I 
was expecting, but since I wasn’t a dentist I couldn’t 
see anything unusual about them. No fangs, for 
instance. His canines were perhaps a little more 
pointed that was usual, but not that much longer 
than anyone else’s. The incisors looked absolutely 
normal, until I gave them a prod with my fingertip.
They were sharp as broken porcelain, and it wouldn’t 
take too much pressure for them to cut through skin. 
I swallowed hard, remembering just how close those 
unnaturally sharp teeth had been to certain vital 
parts of my anatomy. And left me unmarked. More 
or less. Automatically my hand went to my throat, 

but all I had seen there before were love bites. Nary 
a scab. So had he or hadn’t he … ?

‘I’m sorry,’ he’d said, and then that incandescent 

pleasure had swamped everything. Including pain.
No wonder I’d felt so rubber-kneed when I woke 
up, he must have had a couple of pints from me, the 
bastard!

But, said my memory, only because I’d pushed 

it.I’d made the first move, I’d started the - what? - 
call it seduction for want of a better word. And he 
hadn’t expected me to remember.

I had a lot to think about, and as it turned out, 

some time in which to do it.

* * *

Two hours later his eyes opened, focusing on me 

with surprise and a wary gratitude in their depths.

“Did you think I’d make a run for it?” I asked 

quietly. “Or be poised with stake and silver bullet?”

“Not until you got some answers,” he said. His 

voice was a lot stronger, and I grinned at him, not 
bothering to hide my relief.

“Bull’s-eye,” I said. “What are you going to do 

about Wendlow and Two?”

“Rearrange their memories.” He sat up, 

moving without too much effort or obvious 
discomfort.“There’s still a couple of hours. Ask your 
questions, Robert.”

“I’ll get the truth?”
“Yes, my word on it. The truth - or silence,” he 

added with that smile of his.

“Okay. The portrait by Penton. It’s you.” He 

nodded. “I don’t believe it,” I said, but he carried 
on smiling because he knew I did. “Why? How? 
When did it happen? You becoming a - whatever it 
is.” It was stupid, but I didn’t want to say the word. 
It belonged to horror novels and meaningless films, 
not the reality sitting on the bed, watching me with 
eyes that reflected the light like living jewels.

“Night-hunter,” he said softly. “Blood-drinker.

Immortal, after a fashion. Why? Initially it wasn’t 
entirely my choice. I was meant to die.”

“Right,” I said, “you can start at the beginning.

But first I’m going to track down and raid Wendlow’s 
supply. I think we both need a stiff drink.”

When I returned with the whisky decanter and a 

pair of glasses he was lying back on the pillows, eyes 
closed. “Are you sure you’ll be all right?” I asked.

“I’m sure.” He hitched himself up on the bed 

until he was wedged against the padded headboard. 
“Do you want the full story or the bones of it?”

“Whichever you’ve got time for. If necessary, 

details can be filled in later.” I poured a tumbler of 
whisky and gave it to him, poured out my own. then 
I sat beside him on the bed. “Go on,” I said. “I’m all 
ears.”

The story didn’t take that long to tell. It was all 

very simple on the surface. He was twenty-six years 
old, been married to Ann for nearly four years, there 
were two kids and one on the way. It was early in 
1589, England was still celebrating the victory over 
the Spanish fleet the previous year, and he’d gone 
with others to Bruges for some reason. There he met 
a woman called Alisande de Something Or Other 

and her brother André. He became, he said with a 
wry self-mocking shrug, completely besotted with 
her, to the exclusion of common sense. One night 
even André had tried to warn him, but Alisande told 
him her brother was jealous and he wasn’t to take 
any notice of him. Then she had kissed him.

He glanced away from me at that point, and I 

could guess why if that incredible sexuality is part of 
the stock-in-trade.

But his awakening, if it could be called that, 

had been a lot different to mine. The next thing he 
remembered was lying on her bed knowing he was 
dying. He could feel her mouth on his throat, could 
feel the life being drawn from him, and for all that 
he raged against it he couldn’t even twitch a muscle. 
Then André was suddenly in the room, pulling 
Alisande from him. There’d been a brief struggle 
and then André had bent over him.

“Do you want to die?” he’d said. “No? How much 

do you want to live? At any price? You can die, mon 
cher, or drink and live as we do.” And André had 
bared his arm, cut the flesh with a knife and let the 
bright blood flow.

Fox made his choice, not in the fear of dying, but 

in the fury of a young man who’d known his life had 
been stolen before it had been fully lived. He drank 
André’s blood, and slept as if drugged. When he 
awoke it was noon and the house was empty. André 
had left him a letter. It started with, ‘In time to come 
you will not thank me for the gift of life, but I could 
not stand by and know that you would die. There 
have been too many deaths already and there will, 

of necessity, be more to come. One, at least, I can 
prevent, if only for selfish reasons.’ He’d then gone 
on to give a rough idea of what would be happening 
to him and what to do about it. The do’s and don’ts 
of the trade, so to speak.

I wasn’t surprised Fox could recall every word, 

comma and full stop of that letter. I would, too, in his 
circumstances.

The changes, and he didn’t go into details, were 

slow, myths and legends notwithstanding. They took 
months, years, and some André either hadn’t known 
about or hadn’t revealed to him. For instance, Fox 
found out for himself that he could exist on animal 
blood, could eat and drink small quantities of animal 
products - like that damned Bovril! - and gain a little 
nourishment from them.Alcohol, too, as well as tea 
and coffee in moderation, though they were about 
the only vegetable stuff his system could tolerate. 
Silver aversion was a myth -

“Sunlight as well?” I said. “You were up and 

about the other day.”

“I didn’t have any option,” he pointed out.“Thanks 

to you. Besides, it was foggy, and I don’t sleep nearly 
as deeply when the sun is hidden.Bright sunlight 
burns me. Too long in it and I’ll die.

On sunless days I need the leather clothes for 

added protection, but it weakens me. Summers are 
difficult,” he added wryly, “even English ones.”

“I thought you were on drugs, you looked so 

washed out.” Then I thought of something else. “The 
whisky isn’t doing you much good, then.”

He chuckled and took a quick swallow as if he 

thought I’d try to take it from him. “It’s not doing me 
any harm.”

I studied his pale face, every plane and curve, 

admiring the artistry of flesh over bone. Belatedly 
the penny dropped. “Wait a minute, if you can 
rewrite their memories, why didn’t you do it right at 
the start when they picked you up?”

“Because,” he said, irritated, “I’d come off the bike 

at high speed, and I promise you that concussion and 
a splitting headache make it impossible to influence 
anybody! That’s also why I didn’t do anything when 
they took us up to the attic!”

“Oh.” The other penny dropped. All those hazy 

moments where I’d lost track of what I was saying, 
the memory slips, the lack of concern over possible 
premature senile decay when I should have been 
tearing my hair out - it was Fox, messing about with 
my mind! There would be a reckoning, but not yet. 
I thought of something else. “You gave Mike those 
memories, didn’t you? Of being mates years ago.
None of it was real.”

“Yes.” He shrugged. “It seemed like a good idea 

at the time.”

I gave him that. It had been a bloody good idea, 

and worked a treat. Until the Tweedles showed 
up.Which brought my thoughts full circle. “Wendlow 
showed me photos of your house. One had an old 
man in it. He looked a bit like you, in profile.” We’d 
need to find those photos and take them with us.

“It was me. Human blood maintains and sustains. 

Animal blood only maintains and not so well. In a 
matter of weeks I become slow, my joints ache and 

swell, and I look - and feel - about ninety years old.”

“How long does restoration take?”
“You make me sound like Beau’s fire screen,” he 

snorted. “A day or so.”

“I see.” I didn’t hesitate. “Well, if you need 

something a little stronger than whisky at the 
moment,” I offered, and saw his astonishment - and 
the flare of hunger. He looked away.

“No,” he said. “Thanks. I’m okay.”
“The truth,” I repeated his earlier words. “My 

word on it.” He flushed and set his mouth in an 
angry line.

“Robert,” he snapped, “you’re a - “
“Be polite, Fox,” I grinned. “I’m by way of being 

your landlord.”

“But not lunch,” he cut back.
“Breakfast,” I corrected. “Why not? I seem to 

remember being supper on one occasion.” He 
flushed again, and I could have crowed with victory.
Twice in as many minutes! “Well, if you’re being 
finicky, there’s Wendlow and Two downstairs.”

Slowly that one-sided smile grew on his face.“You 

taste better,” he admitted.

“Glad to hear it.” I leaned forward and kissed 

his mouth, my tongue gently teasing, exploring the 
smooth sharpness of those white teeth. We didn’t 
have time for anything more ambitious, I was sure, 
and besides, I didn’t know what state his innards 
were in. But something weird was happening -things 
were getting decidedly fuzzy about the edges, sort 
of drifting away from me and there was a distinct 
impression I was feeling very tired … The bastard 

… I tried to fight it, and I was succeeding -until I 
wasn’t.

 

 Chapter Thirteen

I awoke with a start and found myself staring up 

at the ceiling. I was on the bed and shower sounds 
were coming from the bathroom.

I sat up. Felt fine, no dizziness, no lethargy. I 

stood up. No ill effects. So I peered at myself in the 
dressing-table mirror. There were no marks on my 
throat, either. We frowned at each other, my reflection 
and I. In fact, the only area of discomfort that I could 
pin down was an ache in my left hand, as if the ball 
of my thumb was bruised. Must have done it while 
I was tying up Wendlow and the Tweedle. I glanced 
at it. There was no bruise, just a new and pink scar 
about an inch long.

“Just as effective as far as I’m concerned,” Fox 

said quietly from the bathroom doorway, “if less 
intimate, and causes no comment. It’ll be gone 
completely in less than an hour.”

I stared at it, fascinated. “Why does it heal so 

fast?” I asked.

He shrugged and went back to towelling his hair 

dry. “Something to do with my saliva. It stops the 
blood clotting while I’m drinking. As soon as air gets 
to it there’s some kind of chemical change and it 
causes fast scabbing and accelerated healing.”

“You heal pretty damn fast as well.”
“Part of the survival factor. As I said, immortal 

after a fashion.” His smile was bleak.“Unfortunately, 
regeneration does nothing at all about the pain.”

“Can’t have it all ways, Reynard.”

“That has to be one of your more fatuous 

comments,” he muttered. “Did you say you had my 
tee-shirt and jacket?”

“Coming up.” His recent wounds looked like old 

scars, smooth and white on white. “How long before 
yours disappear?”

“A couple of days or so,” he said, pulling the tee-

shirt over his head. “It’ll take that long for the bone 
splinters to work their way out.”

“Ouch.” I winced, wishing I hadn’t asked. There 

were, however, still one or two other questions 
buzzing in my head. Such as, how many of his ilk were 
there running around the countryside? The main 
blockbuster regarding my possible - um -alteration? 
- had already been answered, if indirectly.

I wasn’t going to be joining the ranks of night-

hunters, thank God, since nothing like what had 
happened between him and André had occurred 
between us. It made a kind of sense, after all. If it 
was passed on like a disease, given the number of 
mealtimes and victims in only one hunter’s lifetime, 
there would be an awful lot of ‘em about.

And then there was his wife. “Did you ever tell 

Ann?” I asked quietly.

There was a longish silence and I was beginning 

to think he wasn’t going to answer. Then, “Yes,” he 
said. “I told her eventually. When I could no longer 
hide the changes - the need to avoid sunlight - “ He 
fell silent again, eyes distant, reliving a past that 
was centuries out of his reach. How do you tell your 
wife something like that? I tried to imagine Simon 
telling Lisa and it deteriorated into black farce. But 

Ann Darcy came from a different age, one of deeply 
held religion, ditto superstition and blind faith. How 
would she have taken it?

None of my business, of course, and I couldn’t 

ask. But I could make an intuitive guess. She’d have 
given him hell, then stuck by him, covered for him 
and loved him to her last breath, just as she had 
before. I didn’t have to ask if he’d changed her. I 
knew he hadn’t. Loved her too much to do that to 
her.

“When did Adam Courtney first die?” I asked 

instead.

“1663. Lost overboard in a storm off the Brittany 

coast. Ann had died the previous year.” He met 
my gaze with a shrug and a sardonic smile. “That 
was when I started hating André in earnest. And 
Alisande.”

“I’ll bet.” I did the maths and blinked. She’d lived 

a hell of a long time. “Did you track them down?”

“No, and I looked for them long enough.”
“How about others?” I asked cautiously.
He shrugged again, but didn’t answer. I had 

the uncomfortable impression I was trespassing on 
the edges of some weird quasi-Masonic enclave, 
watched his smile grow and knew he was either 
reading my expression or my thoughts. As a 
distraction I glanced at my watch. It was nearly ten 
past four. How long before the girl from the lodge 
turned up to see to the horses? That, I recalled, was 
an early morning job with most stables. “I’ve got a 
lot more questions,” I confessed, “but we’re running 
out of time. We have to find the photos of your house 

and do something about the CCTV. It’ll have us on 
tape, arriving and leaving.”

“What do you want Wendlow to do about the 

painting?”

“Huh? Oh. Right.” Think fast, Rob Rees. “Um, 

someone in London phoned and told him test results 
had come through and they were inconclusive. The 
painting could possibly be a forgery, but done on a 
piece of authentically old oak panelling. Since he 
won’t settle for anything less than a dead cert he 
gave it to me and told me to get rid of it. I keep the 
commission already paid, but don’t get any more 
payments. How does that sound?” It sounded pretty 
feeble to me, but probably Wendell’s own memories 
would fuse actual recollection with the fabrication. 
Fox seemed happy enough with the idea, anyhow.

“Fine,” he said. “You left the day you arrived, after 

dinner. Me, they never saw at all.” He leaned forward 
and kissed me, slow and deliberate. “Later,”he 
smiled. Then pulled on his boots, zipped them up 
and straightened. “Ready?” he asked crisply.

“Yup,” I said. “Let’s go get ‘em, Reynard.”

* * *

We walked into something of an anti-climax. Two 

and Wendlow were still out of it when we went down 
to the workshop. Fox released Two, wedged him up 
against the radiator and cupped his face in his hands. 
The Tweedle’s eyelids flickered and lifted. Terror 
flared across his face, then his expression blanked 
out as if he’d gone back to sleep again. They stayed 
like that for a few minutes, both of them unmoving. 

Then Fox leaned closer.

“Where is the CCTV control point?” he asked 

quietly.

“Door under the main stairs,” the Tweedle 

mumbled.

I didn’t need to be told what to do. I dashed up 

to the entrance hall and dived into the small room 
beneath the sweeping staircase. There was a bank 
of half a dozen screens, all of them blank, little red 
lights glowing steadily. My iPhone was there as well, 
sitting in a filing tray. I reclaimed it with a silent 
whoop and pushed it into my pocket.

Dizzy with relief, I returned to the workshop.
“Nothing’s working,” I said. “It looks as if 

everything’s turned off.”

“Why?” Fox demanded of our prisoner.
“No evidence. No record of either of you. Mr 

Wendlow only has the cameras running when he’s 
not here.”

“Ask him about Dad,” I prompted. Fox did so and 

the answer came back without hesitation.

“He was already in the hospital when we learned 

who had the paintings.” Dad’s fall had been an 
accident, then. It was a relief.

After another intense moment Fox shifted aside 

and Tweedledee clambered to his feet, walked 
past me as if I was invisible and went out of the 
door.“Where’s he going?” I bleated.

“To bed. His friend had the night shift. He’ll get 

up at his usual time, go through his usual routine, 
during which he’ll find the body.”

“As simple as that?”

Fox nodded. “As simple as that.” He stripped his 

ring from the oblivious man’s finger and did his mind-
rewrite trick. A quick question and answer session 
confirmed Dad’s accident, and Fox programmed 
Wendlow to bring us the photos.Wendlow stood up 
and also departed stage left without so much as a 
glance around.

We followed on his heels, me lugging the portrait, 

Fox the holdalls. After Wendlow had given us the 
envelope from his safe, he went his oblivious way up 
the stairs to his bedroom while I phoned Uncle Joe’s 
home number.

It didn’t take him long to answer. Nor did it need 

a lot of special pleading on my part to get him to 
drive to Lockeridge and pick us up. He wasn’t at all 
surprised and had been expecting me to pull some 
kind of fast one on Wendlow. He was, however, 
a bit taken aback when I insisted that he use his 
van, complete with trailer. That, he said, would 
cost me extra, family or not. I muttered something 
uncomplimentary and ended the call.

There was something else that might cost me 

as well. “What about the Rottweilers?” I demanded 
queasily as we reached the front door. “I don’t fancy 
being the second course on their menu.”

“You’ll be okay,” he said, supremely 

confident.“Dogs don’t give me any trouble.”

Nor did they. The four big shapes were lurking 

around the lawn and came running as he opened 
the door, but they didn’t bark and they didn’t come 
closer than a couple of feet. They slunk on their 
bellies and whined a bit, showing teeth like band 

saws, but that was all. Fox ignored them as if they 
were so many garden gnomes.

And that, as they say, was that. We walked out 

of the Manor unchallenged by man or beast, and 
headed for the bus shelter in the middle of the village 
to await the Wells Taxi Service.

Uncle Joe, bless him, didn’t let us down. He 

arrived in record time and on the way home we made 
a wide detour to see if we could rescue the Fazer - 
hopefully supposing she hadn’t already been found 
and reported, which might throw up some leading 
questions by the local bobby. But I had this feeling 
under my ribs she was still there, waiting for us. And 
she was.

With considerable difficulty and an amazing 

display of profanity on Uncle Joe’s part, we got her 
out of the river and up the bank, and inspected her 
in the light from the van’s headlamps. There was 
damage, of course, but I couldn’t begin to guess 
how serious it might be. All I could tell was that she 
looked as if she needed a period of intensive care in 
a garage. I hoped Fox had her insured.

He, however, was more interested in the 

panniers. Bait, I remembered. Oh, God, don’t let 
it be of perishable or fragile stuff - but he dropped 
them into the back of the van without checking their 
contents, so I suppose the whatever-it-was couldn’t 
be that delicate.

We manhandled the bike into the trailer and 

headed homeward with, on my part, a sense of 
overwhelming relief. I’d been expecting a lot of 
questions from Uncle, but they weren’t as leading 

or as persistent I’d have thought they might 
be.Intuition suggested Fox had something to do with 
it. That memory-editing talent of his would be useful 
to have around, but I knew he wouldn’t be staying 
much longer.

The knowledge was painful. I’d become used 

to him hanging about, and it wouldn’t be quite 
the same sitting in front of the fire without him on 
the floor leaning back against my knees. Still, he 
wouldn’t be going anywhere until the Big Beast was 
repaired, and I intended to make the most of it, one 
way and another. Fox had become important to me 
very quickly, and I had to admit to an incongruous 
feeling of protectiveness towards him.

* * *

We reached the cottage just as dawn was 

lightening the sky, and I sent Fox inside to clean off 
the river mud and get his head down while Uncle Joe 
and I heaved the bike to her place by the workshop. 
He then squelched off in the direction of Dad’s 
alcohol with the unerring instinct of a lemming for 
a cliff, leaving me to my own devices. I collected the 
soggy panniers, disentangled the slimy garlands 
of half-dead river weed from the bike and thought 
about things.

As soon as possible, we’d pay Baverstock a social 

call, Fox and I. Knowing what I did now, I almost 
felt sorry for the poor devil. George wouldn’t stand a 
chance. He’d give Ann away and never feel a thing.

I wondered if Baverstock would demand his part-

payment back?

 Chapter Fourteen

The best laid plans gang aft agley, as someone 

once said. Nobody went anywhere that day, let alone 
the evening. I took one look at myself in the mirror 
and knew that I daren’t go and see Dad until I’d 
got some sleep. He’d know something major had 
happened as soon as he set eyes on me, and the last 
thing I wanted was for him to worry. I phoned the 
hospital and spoke to the Ward Sister just to make 
sure he was progressing well, which set my mind at 
ease a little.

Then there was the rest of my family. While Uncle 

Joe was sober enough to take it all in, I gave him a 
heavily edited version of what had happened, with 
the rider that if he so much as breathed a shadow of 
a word of it to Dad, I would make the rest of his life 
an absolute hell. But repeated phone calls failed to 
raise a response from Mike, while Lisa’s voicemail 
informed me she was in London with Simon and 
Beth, catching a matinee of The Lion King.

Fox slept. Like the dead.
At three o’clock in the afternoon I gave up trying 

to track Mike down and crawled off to bed, trying not 
to worry about him. Needless to say, though I was 
exhausted, I could not get to sleep. Wendlow might 
have already grabbed him for insurance before Fox 
and I broke out of there - but no, if he had, he would 
have used him as well as Fox to pressure me.

Fox.
My brain just would not switch off. Without people 

around me, things to do, there were no distractions. 
So the thoughts were able to scurry round inside my 
skull like demented mice trapped in a wheel, trying 
to make some kind of sense out of the impossible.

For instance, creatures like Adam Courtney did 

not exist. They were figments of a writer’s overheated 
imagination.

But Fox was real, even if he hadn’t so much as 

twitched a muscle since he’d dropped onto my bed.
The only thing that told me he was more or less alive 
was that rigor mortis hadn’t set in.

Yet I had seen him shot to death and buried.Seen 

him lunge for Wendlow’s throat with the speed and 
ferocity of a hunting leopard. That wasn’t nightmare 
or dark fantasy. It was as real as the smell of earth in 
his hair, real as the shuddering tension in his body 
as I’d held him. As real as the splinters of bloodied 
bone I’d picked from his wounds. That thought was 
the last straw. I got up, pulled on my bath robe and 
went downstairs.

The clocks struck four. In the living room, Uncle 

Joe’s snores supplied bizarre grace-notes to the 
chimes, while I slumped at the kitchen table with a 
mug of tea in my hands and wondered what I was 
going to do about Fox.

In the space of seven days my world had been 

turned upside down and inside out, and most of the 
chaos had been caused by a redhead with too much 
charm and a very strange diet.

How did I really feel about him? That was easily 

answered. I knew I’d still be drawn to him even if he 
was in truth just another of Mike’s pals. That smile, 

the way his eyes lit up, his personality and sense of 
humour - the way he moved, for God’s sake- and 
underneath it all was an odd kind of vulnerability 
that twisted my heart a little. He must have lost so 
much over the years. Was that why he clung to bits of 
the past with such single-minded stubbornness? He, 
more than most, must surely feel the need for roots, 
for at least one constant in his long life. A home base.

The house he’d been born in, had somehow kept 

his own against all the odds, only to have it invaded 
and raided to feed a Hoarder’s greed.

That would be enough to turn a meek and mild 

Mr Average into a homicidal maniac. Fox’s moral 
code, let’s face it, had been bred into him in the 
sixteenth century. Modern though he seemed on the 
outside, I knew the invasion of his home would have 
triggered reactions dating back to his early years. In 
spite of all that, I had fallen for him. Me, ordinary 
Lose-Me-in-a-Crowd Rob Rees. God, I was a fool.

But what about Wendlow’s code? The man was 

obsessed with Fox’s era. Would that obsession 
counteract the mental blocks and suggestions Fox 
had fed him? Once the fuss had died down about the 
body and the dogs, he’d turn his attention back to 
collecting. If the cover story Fox had planted in his 
mind fell under the pressure of Wendlow’s lifelong 
habits and behaviours, the game would be right back 
at square one, with added complications.Everyone 
in my family, and others like Baverstock and Ann, 
would be in the firing line.

Again, my first instinct was to phone the police.
Then I remembered all the reasons why that 

would be a monumentally bad idea, and I swore. 
Uncle Joe would have been proud of my vocabulary.

I swore again a few minutes later when a 

motorcycle roared up the lane and turned into the 
back yard. Mike didn’t come in immediately. He’d 
probably discovered the wreck of the Beast and 
would be examining her -

“Rob!” The back door crashed open and my 

brother made an entrance an avenging angel would 
have envied. “Where the hell have you been? I’ve 
been scouring half Wiltshire for you! What happened 
to Fox’s bike? Was he hurt? Did you know the panel’s 
disappeared? Are you all right?”

“Busy.” I answered the questions in order. “A tree 

and a river. Yes, but not much. I know, we brought it 
back. I’m fine. Pour yourself some tea.”

“What was that note all about?” he demanded, 

ignoring the teapot and helping himself to biscuits 
instead. “It didn’t make any sense. What job?”

“I’ll tell you later,” I said. “All of it.” Well, most of 

it, anyhow, and only when Fox was around to control 
the inevitable reaction. There was no way he would 
believe me if I told him what Fox was, and as far 
as the Wendlow situation was concerned, the wrath 
of God has nothing on a Rees or a Wells declaring 
a vendetta. “How’s Dad? You haven’t said anything 
that’ll start him off, have you?”

“It was Wendlow, wasn’t it?” Mike exploded.“What 

the hell did he do? Where were you? What - “

“I’m not telling you anything until you’ve calmed 

down and stopped shouting,” I interrupted.

“The panels,” Fox said from the doorway, making 

us both jump like startled rabbits. “They were stolen 
from me.”

“I know, Rob said,” Mike began, and I remembered 

I hadn’t got round to letting Fox know I’d brought 
most of my family into the tangle.

“Well, his grandfather, actually,” I put in, “but 

it’s the same thing.” Fox’s eyes met mine and his 
smile was warm with appreciation and thanks. And 
something more than just affection? Or was I kidding 
myself?

“Exactly,” he agreed solemnly. Casually he 

strolled into the kitchen, looking sort of rumpled, 
half-asleep and completely harmless. He stopped 
beside Mike and equally casually he dropped his arm 
across my brother’s shoulders, hooking a chair out 
from under the table with his foot as he did so.“Why 
don’t you sit down and make yourself comfortable?” 
he suggested. Mike nodded and slumped into the 
chair. Then he shook his head.

“Can’t,” he mumbled. “Rob’s in danger…”
“He’ll be fine. I’ll make sure of that.” I bristled. I 

didn’t need a bloody knight in shining armour!

Mike struggled half-heartedly against the 

compulsion, then he folded his arms on the table, 
rested his head on them and closed his eyes. In 
seconds his breathing was slow and even.

“Very impressive,” I said warily and shot out of 

my chair as Fox started towards me. “But keep your 
distance, Fox. You’re not putting me under!”

“Don’t be difficult, Rob. It’s for your own good.”
A fuzzy kind of sleepiness began to fold over me 

and I fought it off with grim determination. “No,” I 

said and he frowned quizzically. “You can’t get to 
Baverstock without me.”

“Wrong,” he smiled. “I know where he lives, 

that’s all I need. The Rees clan is best out of this now.
Stop fighting me, Rob. You won’t win.”

“Ah, but you can’t influence his security cameras, 

can you?” I pointed out. “Talking of which, this 
mental manipulation of yours isn’t exactly a hundred 
per cent guaranteed, is it?” He didn’t like that much. 
I edged further away, keeping the table and my 
sleeping brother between us.

“What do you mean?”
“The other night. I wasn’t supposed to remember 

anything out of the ordinary, was I? But I did. If 
the scent of your cologne can kick-start some of 
my memory, maybe Wendlow’s obsession will do 
the same for him. So don’t you try to keep me out 
because it won’t work!”

“It’s for me to settle,” he interrupted. “No one 

else.”

“Bullshit. I’m involved right up to my neck! So 

is everyone else, if Wendlow remembers anything!”

“Robert, you’re getting paranoid.”
“I’m getting - ! Listen, a-a myth of all things turns 

up on my doorstep and takes over my life. I’m mixed 
up with burglars and paid muscle and Hoarders 
and man-eating dogs - I’m damn well entitled to be 
paranoid! Stark, staring, rug-chewing, foaming at 
the mouth, completely off the wall paranoid! Now 
you tell me how you’re going to fool a collection of 
security cameras to get to George!”He started to 
speak, but paused. “Exactly. The two of us, however, 

can get in and out legitimately, with nothing recorded 
that’ll trigger George’s mind into remembering 
things you don’t want him to.”

“How?” challenging me.
“I’m cleaning a painting, remember?” I never 

knew before that I could think so fast on my feet. It 
must have been fear. Or anger. Or both. “I finish it 
and we deliver it. Then walk out with both because 
you’ve convinced him they’re fakes. And if that 
works, we try the same thing with Wendlow, using 
the bait to get him and you in the same room so 
you can take him over and convince him to forget 
about us. Can you and your mental rewriting make 
it stick?”

“Yes.” He smiled wryly. “With you, I was a little 

-distracted. And you do seem to have the knack 
of deflecting the effects. With Wendlow, I wasn’t 
functioning at my best. Transition brings its own 
problems,” he said with a shrug. “I won’t make 
mistakes again, with Baverstock or Wendlow.”

“Distracted?” I ventured, and forgot to keep 

moving. He closed in on me and I back-pedalled 
myself right into the corner between the fridge and 
the dresser.

“There’s something about you…” Which had to 

be a cliché as old as he was. But even so, it didn’t 
stop my knees from weakening. He cupped my face 
in his hands and his smile was rueful, gentle. “Rob 
Rees, what are you doing to me?” It was reassuring 
to know the confusion seemed to be mutual. “I don’t 
want you involved in this. I need to know you’re 
safe. If any harm comes to you through me - “

“My choice, Adam,” I said quietly. “No one has 

the right to make it for me.”

He sighed and nodded, then drew me closer for 

a kiss that was tender and cherishing and balanced 
on the edge of passion. “I won’t take away your 
memories,” he said. “My word on it. But you do need 
to sleep. Let me give you that, at least. When you’re 
rested, we can make more coherent plans.”

“What about Mike?”
“I’ll get him to bed later.”
“That’s not what I meant,” I said with some 

caution. “I think he needs to know about you. He’d 
like the chance to make his choice as well.”

“No! That is my choice, Rob!”
“It could be useful, having another pair of eyes 

and ears. Especially when the sun is bright.”

“No.”
“All right,” I agreed, smoothing that wing of bright 

hair back from his forehead. “It was just a thought.”

“Huh. Go to bed, Rob, before you have any more 

clever ideas.”

“But you have to admit it makes sense for someone 

else…” But I’d let down my guard and tiredness 
flowed into me. Maybe he was right. I didn’t try to 
combat it, just let everything fade gently to warm 
black velvet.

 

 Chapter Fifteen

I awoke to grey daylight and the sound of a 

familiar voice calling my name.

“Rob! The tea’s getting stewed! Are you getting up 

today or not?” Mike, bright and cheerful and energy 
revving at full throttle. I groaned and squinted at the 
clock. It was nearly ten and rain spattered on the 
window-panes. This was the kind of day that should 
be spent in bed, if there was nothing worthwhile to 
do. Like visiting an injured father in hospital and 
spending time with a v – no, I still couldn’t say it. 
Not to mention investigating the smell of frying eggs 
and bacon wafting up the stairwell. All of a sudden 
I was starving.

I grabbed my towelling robe and headed for the 

bathroom, feeling very nearly as bright as Mike had 
sounded. Furthermore, as far as I could tell, Fox had 
kept his word and all my memories were intact. Of 
course he’d kept his word. It was unthinkable he’d 
violate that, once it was given.

They were both at the table when I reached the 

kitchen. I was dressed but still dragging a comb 
through my damp hair. Fox had his paws wrapped 
round a steaming mug of Bovril, while Mike was at 
the stove, turning bacon under the grill. He looked 
rather pale, almost as alabaster-white as Fox. Or 
maybe it was just against the contrast of black hair 
and black sweatshirt. On the other hand, our house 
guest had unusual dietary requirements … I shot 
Fox a glare and received a maliciously sweet smile 

in reply.

“Bacon, eggs and mushrooms?” Mike was asking.
“Yes, please,” I said. “I’m hungry too. Can’t think 

why,” firing off another glare.

“Yeah,” Mike said, oblivious to the by-play. “You 

can pour me another mug of tea while you’re waiting. 
Fox has brought me up to date on this Wendlow 
business - that man must be crazy!”

“Tell me about it,” I muttered. “Where’s Uncle 

Joe? Still asleep?”

“Nope,” Mike grinned. “He emerged like 

something from a zombie film about an hour ago and 
lurched off to find the hair of the dog. Or at least, 
I think that’s what he said. But Wendlow - it was 
lucky you two were able to convince him the panels 
are fakes. Not that I’d give a damn. Ann is still a 
sweetheart, no matter when she was painted.”

“How true,” I drawled, pinning Fox with a rapier-

stare. His eyes remained as limpid and innocent as 
forest pools.

“Reproductions,” he said, and smiled at me again. 

“Not fakes. I told Mike about the fire and Granddad 
having them replaced by copies done from the 
insurance photos,” he went on. “I’ve got the letters 
and invoice from home and with any luck Baverstock 
will be convinced a lot quicker than Wendlow.”

I remembered the Wendlow-bait in the panniers, 

but - fire? Invoices? I wished he’d briefed me on 
this new cover story before Mike had sprung it on 
me.Still, it made a lot more sense than the version 
we’d cobbled together that nightmare night.

“Well,” Mike said, “perhaps you’d better head 

for home again and stick all your Elizabethan stuff 
in the family vault in case another burglar comes 
along.”

“And fit security alarms,” I added.
“That’s a good idea,” Fox said smoothly, his gaze 

focussed on me. “Rob and I will see to it, won’t we, 
Rob?” His teeth were very white and he showed 
most of them in a patently false grin.

“God, spare me the gayness!” Mike chuckled. “If 

I’d’ve known you’d fall for my studious and boring 
as hell stick in the mud big brother, I’d never have 
called you in on this.”

Fox ignored him. “What do you say, Rob?”
What the hell could I say? Fox wanted me with 

him, if only for however long it took to make his 
home burglar-proof.

“All right,” I agreed. “After I’ve seen Dad. Shit, 

how am I going to tell him I’m off for a few days 
gallivanting around the countryside with one of 
Mike’s disreputable biker pals?”

“Easy,” my brother said with his usual blithe 

confidence. “Tell him it’s the affair of the century.”

“Oh, sure,” I snapped, flushing. “The key phrase 

was ‘one of Mike’s disreputable biker pals’!”

“So tell him Fox is one of Simon’s friends.”
“He always knows when I’m outright lying.
Besides, Lisa’s met him. She’ll tell Dad all about 

him given half a chance.”

“Not if we ask her to be discreet.”
“Besides,” I went on loudly, “how do I tell him 

I’m so concerned about his health, that I’m leaving 
him languishing in a hospital bed to go away with 

my supposed boyfriend?”

“Supposed?” Fox said softly. “You and I, Rob, 

have a lot to talk about.”

“And,” I continued, scarlet faced and slightly 

breathless, over Mike’s cackle, “we have to tell Dad 
about the panels. He’s likely to have a relapse.”

“So we go along with as much of the truth as we 

can,” Fox said. “That the panels were stolen from me, 
I got one of them back with a lot of help from Rob, 
your uncle and you, mainly by convincing Wendlow 
they’re reproductions, and we’re going to make an 
appointment to see Baverstock. In the meantime, I 
have to go back home for a few days to make sure 
everything is okay with the house. There isn’t much 
to worry him about in that, is there?”

Mike and I looked at each other, then we 

shrugged. “Probably not,” I agreed, frowning, “but–“

“Besides,” Fox went on, “with the bike off the road, 

I’m going to need transport and Rob volunteered to 
ferry me.”

“Makes sense to me,” Mike said, nodding. 

“That’s the kind of thing he’d do.” I tried to kick him 
under the table, but missed. “Yeah, I’ll stick around 
here, visit the old man every day and finish Beau’s 
spinning wheel. Honest,” he added, giving me his 
best scapegrace grin. “Word of a Rees.”

“Good,” Fox smiled. “That’s settled. The sooner 

you finish your breakfast, Rob, the sooner we can get 
started.”

This time I put knives in my glare. “And what about 

you?” I said, concern heavy in my voice.“Surely a 
mug of Bovril’s not enough of a meal for a growing 

lad like you?”

“Don’t worry,” he drawled, “I had something 

earlier.”

“I bet you did,” I muttered into my plate. A pint 

from my brother, probably. Or me? Thinking about it, 
I was aware of a vague tenderness at the base of my 
left thumb. I slid a quick glance at Mike and he was 
absently rubbing at his left hand. I met Fox’s gaze. 
His green eyes were glittering with amusement, 
but beneath the surface the bitterness lay deep and 
still as silt in a lake. I made a resolve to try to do 
something about that.

“Okay,” I sighed, swallowed the last of my tea 

and stood up. “Ready when you are, Reynard.”

Shrugging into my raincoat, I walked out of the 

front door and winced as the weather hit me. There 
wasn’t much wind, so the rain came down in vertical 
sheets and struck with bruising force. I bolted for 
the car and since my coat was water-resistant rather 
than -proof, I was soaked to the skin within seconds. 
Fox, looking not unlike a drowned red setter, dived 
for the passenger seat as I triggered off the central 
locking, and we slammed the doors on the rain with 
some relief.

* * *

It was a painfully slow journey to the hospital.

Visibility was less than thirty yards and the 
windscreen wipers simply could not cope with the 
volume of water. I was concentrating on the road 
and my driving too much to think coherently about 
what I was going to say to Dad.

In the event, I needn’t have worried. Fox 

hovered in the background with that awkward 
selfconsciousness that most fit and healthy men 
seem to develop beside a hospital bed. Dad fixed him 
with his patented schoolmaster’s steely glare, which 
increased Fox’s apparent discomfiture, and bought 
every word. He didn’t like it much, especially the bit 
about the portraits being reproductions. He prided 
himself on knowing the genuine article when he saw 
it.

“Must be damned good work,” was the only 

grumble he made and I thanked the stars for Fox’s 
telepathy. Otherwise we would have had a full-scale 
argument on our hands, one that would have made 
Prime Minister’s Question Time sound like a mutual 
admiration society. “He’ll be pretty sick about it.Was 
very taken with those portraits, was Baverstock.”

“So was I,” I sighed. “Don’t worry, Dad. It’s 

not our fault Grandfather Courtney hired the best 
reproduction artist around. I’m sure Baverstock 
won’t hold it against us.” I slanted a quick look at 
Fox and he gave me an infinitesimal nod.

“Yes, but ... “ The old idiot was going to be 

stubborn about it. Then his expression lightened 
into a rather sleepy smile. “Don’t let him bully you 
into any kind of refund,” he said, yawning.

“We have to go now,” I said and patted his arm in 

lieu of the hug I wanted to give him. “Please behave 
and do what they say. That way you’ll be out of here 
all the sooner.”

“All right, all right,” he said impatiently. “Just 

remember that there are such things as phones 

and I’d like to be kept up to date on the Baverstock 
situation.”

“I will. I promise.”
He was yawning again, eyes heavy. “Hah,” he 

muttered, determined as ever to have the last word.

The rain had stopped by the time we got back to 

the car. I dug out my iPhone and keyed Baverstock’s 
number. This time the secretary put me straight 
through to him.

“Something has happened,” I told him. “We need 

to talk.”

He immediately leaped to the conclusion that 

the Adam-panel had fallen to bits, developed death-
watch beetle, Dutch Elm disease, dry rot and wet rot, 
and he started to get shrill with panic. I soothed him 
as best I could without telling him anything, and he 
was so anxious he insisted I come to his home that 
evening. Which was exactly what I’d prayed for and 
hadn’t expected. Neither had Fox, judging by his 
almost silent sigh of relief.

Now all we needed was a sensible plan of 

campaign to deal with the major threat: Wendlow 
himself. It was all very well storing away all the 
sixteenth century collectables, but I wouldn’t feel 
safe until Fox had made sure Wendlow’s mind was 
wiped clear of anything to do with the Courtneys, 
the Reeses, our houses and their contents. A very 
uneasy conviction lurked at the back of my mind, 
that if Wendlow’s memory did start to fill in some 
of the pieces before Fox could get to him, my family 
would not be safe.

“Don’t worry so much,” Fox said quietly.

“Are you reading my mind again?” I grumbled.
“Don’t have to,” he smiled. “You’re scowling, 

chewing your lip and you’ve got a white-knuckled 
grip on the steering wheel.”

I muttered something uncomplimentary and tried 

to relax. It wasn’t easy.

* * *

Mike didn’t help, either. The first thing he said as 

we walked into the cottage was, “He’s on the local 
news.”

“What? Who?” I demanded. “Wendlow?”
“Yes. One of his staff got killed by his pet 

guard dogs. Very nasty, by all accounts. Police are 
investigating as a matter of course, but according to 
the report, it’s being treated as a tragic accident.The 
dogs have been put down.”

“Oh,” I said, feeling sick and guilty. “That’s - not 

good.”

“Yeah,” said my brother. “Poor bloody animals.

You know, I think I’m going to have to get a few of 
the guys and ride over to Marston House to have a 
friendly chat with Wendlow.”

“No!” Fox and I exploded together. “Don’t even 

think about it!” I continued. “Why would you do 
something that stupid?”

“Stands to reason,” Mike said stubbornly. “He’s 

obsessed. He’s targeted you once, he’ll do it again.
So he has to be convinced to leave you and us alone 
in future. It seems like he’s pretty secretive about 
his kink, not to mention aiding and abetting the 
burglaries, so he needs to be told to stay away or 

the newspapers and the police will get all the sordid 
details. So me, Mad Dog and a few others will pay 
him a friendly visit.”

“You will not,” Fox said, ice-cold.
“Okay.” Mike shrugged, colour a little high, but 

he gave way with uncharacteristic ease. “It’s just 
a thought.” And I thanked God for that ‘fluencing 
trick. “I better go or Donna will kill me if I stand her 
up again.”

Fox’s smile didn’t falter. For a moment I caught a 

glimpse of the same affection he’d shown me before 
our relationship escalated to something else, and it 
pleased me he thought of Mike as a friend. I hated 
the way he’d used my brother so callously to get 
closer to the paintings, even while I understood why 
he’d done it.

The two of them gave each other manly slaps 

on the shoulders and Mike disappeared at a lope, 
scooping up his bike gear as he went.

“I think he’s enjoying this,” I grumbled. “I haven’t 

seen him this animated for years.”

“Of course he is.”
But there was something I needed to say to Fox 

and now was as good a time as any. “Adam,” I said, 
holding up my left hand and massaging the base 
of my thumb. “You don’t have to feel bad about 
this. I mean, the offer’s always there.” He froze, 
his expression unreadable. Damn it, I’d lost any 
pretence at coherency. “You need to drink, then you 
don’t have to ask or beat yourself up about taking 
it.Just go for it.”

“Robert, you’re not making sense.”

“Yes, I am. I saw your face earlier on. You were 

smiling, but you were sick as a parrot inside. All 
I’m saying is, you don’t have to be. Not as far as I’m 
concerned.” He started to speak, but I shook my 
head, touched my fingertips briefly to his lips.“Don’t 
say anything. Just think about it, okay? Right now 
we have to come up with a plan for Wendlow.”

“I know, and I have one.”
“You do?” I frowned.
“I’ll contact him, offer to sell him some 

Elizabethan silver, anything. Grand-dad is in a rough 
way and not expected to live much longer.But I need 
the money now. It’ll all be mine sooner or later, so 
I’ll be claiming an advance on the inheritance. It 
won’t matter whether or not Wendlow remembers 
anything about me and what happened.As far as 
he’s concerned, I’m as crooked as he is. All I need is 
to be close to him.”

“Okay,” I said confidently. “So now we put 

Operation Baverstock into action.”

“Yes.” He smiled warmly at me. “Do you have 

some invoices and letters I could borrow?”

“Yes, but I don’t think there’s anything from 

George. He dealt with Dad verbally.”

“It doesn’t matter who they’re from or what 

they’re about. If he has something to look at, it will 
underline the conviction he’s reading documents 
proving the paintings are reproductions. I’m not 
taking any chances with this one.”

“Good point. I’ll dig some useful bits out of Dad’s 

filing system, then I’ll do some more work on Adam.
Hey, perhaps you could persuade George there’re 

some tiny initials and a date hidden in one of 
Ann’s corners? And how about some old newspaper 
clippings that as far as he’s concerned are about the 
disastrous fire at Whosit House.”

“The Grange,” he supplied. “Somerbourne. That 

is the touch of genius. Do you have any?”

“Dad has this album of local events. Goes 

back over fifty years. I can remember seeing a 
whole series of photos and articles from when the 
Coopers’farmhouse went up in a thatch fire.”

“Rob,” he said solemnly. “Has anyone ever told 

you that you’re a pearl above price?”

“Not recently,” I said, my face scarlet. I stood up 

to dig the old scrapbook out of the sideboard and Fox 
rose with me, then stepped in close.

“You are,” he said quietly, cupping my face in his 

hands. “You’re all anyone could want.” His kiss was 
achingly tender, full of need and barely restrained 
passion, and I immersed myself in the kiss, in the 
taste of him and the way his mouth moved over mine. 
Our tongues teased and slid together, we breathed 
each other’s air, welded so close from knees to 
lips nothing could come between us.Despite the 
growing urgency in my blood and my swelling cock, 
I could have stood there all day, lost in the moment, 
doing nothing but kiss. It was a long time before we 
dragged ourselves back into the real world and its 
problems.

* * *

Six-thirty on the dot saw us pulling up in front 

of the massive wrought-iron gates to Baverstock’s 

house. Smugly I glanced up at the security cameras 
and gave Fox a full voltage I-told-you-so smile. He 
gave me a slant-eyed glare in return so I leered 
smugly and got out of the car.

I pushed the button on the control panel on the 

gate pillar.

“Yes?” said a familiar voice.
“Robert Rees,” I said. “I have an appointment.”
“Come in.”
On cue the gates swung silently open.Technology 

is a wonderful thing.

I parked the Volvo by the front door and we 

climbed out. More cameras. Our George must 
border on the paranoid. But then, he was a Hoarder.I 
suppose the two go together.

I rang the bell and the door opened almost at once. 

He looked at both of us and his frown deepened.

“When you said ‘we’,” he said, “I thought you 

meant your father.”

“He’s still in hospital,” I explained. “Can we come 

in?” hoping and praying that Fox was doing his stuff.

“Yes, of course.” His face cleared and produced a 

welcoming smile. “Come through to my study.”

We followed on his heels to a beautiful spacious 

room overlooking manicured lawns and winter-neat 
borders. The walls were lined with books, French 
Impressionists’ landscapes and a couple of Stubbs.
The furniture was late-eighteenth and nineteenth 
century, comfortable and lived-in. He gestured us to 
armchairs and sat down himself. “You mentioned a 
problem,” he said anxiously.

“Yes.” I took a deep breath. “Mr Baverstock, I’d 

like to introduce you to Adam Courtney. The portraits 
you have are of his ancestors.”

Baverstock’s face drained of colour. He opened 

his mouth to speak but no sounds came out. It was 
painfully obvious he knew the name, knew that his 
precious portraits had been burgled.

“I’m sure,” Fox said quietly, oh-so-earnestly, 

“you bought them in good faith, and I hope you 
didn’t pay over the odds for them. What your dealer 
probably didn’t know and couldn’t tell, is that they 
are reproductions.”

“What? Impossible! They have been authenticated 

- “

“The originals were destroyed in a fire, forty-odd 

years ago,” he said. “I’ve brought the documents, 
invoices, newspaper articles, photos, to prove it.”

“That’s - impossible!” It was a bleat of protest, 

and for a moment I felt sorry for poor George. He 
had been so very taken with Ann.

“I’m sorry, Mr Baverstock,” I said with my most 

sympathetic smile. I did mean it, honestly. Okay, 
he was a Hoarder, but she had hit him right where 
he lived and I could understand that. “I’m pretty 
devastated as well. I haven’t dared tell Dad yet, it 
will knock him back too much in his present state.
But Mr Courtney’s papers are overwhelmingly 
conclusive.”

On cue, Fox opened up my briefcase and handed 

over the evidence. Baverstock took it with hands 
that shook, read it through with a painstaking 
thoroughness that had me sweating.Oh please God 
let Fox’s mind tricks be working. If there is a god that 

takes care of blood-drinking carnivores, that is.

There obviously is because Baverstock dropped 

the paperwork on his lap and sat back, gazing at us 
with shocked and guilty eyes.

“I don’t believe it,” he whispered, in tones that 

said he did.

“Mr Baverstock,” Fox leaned forward a 

little,“even as reproductions, the portraits are very 
important to my grandfather. Will you please let me 
take Ann back to him, and the Adam when Mr Rees 
has finished him?”

“I - yes. Yes, of course. I specialise in originals 

only, no matter how charming the copy may be… I’ll 
go and get her. It.”

We sat and waited in a nervous silence for what 

seemed hours. Finally he returned, Ann held gently 
in both hands.

“She really is lovely,” he said wistfully. “I collect 

faces, you know. I’ve never seen one before that 
catches the eye the way she does.”

“Yes,” Fox agreed solemnly. “I know what you 

mean. The copyist did a fantastic job. He painted 
them on panels taken from another part of the house, 
used pigments the original artist would have used, 
kept as close as he could to the sixteenth century 
way.”

Baverstock nodded. Then thrust the painting into 

Fox’s hands. “I bought them in good faith,” he said 
abruptly, his face now as red as it had been pale. I 
wondered if he had a history of heart problems.

“I don’t doubt it,” Fox said. We stood up to 

go and he held out his hand. Baverstock took it 

automatically. “Thank you for restoring them to the 
family.”

We got out of there as fast as we diplomatically 

could, and I managed not to cheer until the gates 
closed behind us. Fox leaned over and gave me a 
swift hug.

“If you weren’t driving,” he said huskily, “I’d kiss 

you.”

“What makes you think I’d let you?” I demanded.
He laughed. “Is the back seat big enough for 

sex?”

“Probably, but we’re not going to stop to find out.”
“Another time, then.”
I smiled, but didn’t answer. Time was not on my 

side.

* * *

Back at the cottage, the fire in the living room 

had burned down to a collection of glowing charcoal. 
Fox piled a few more logs onto the smoulder while 
I dropped onto the sofa. Almost at once the flames 
grew, and when Fox turned out the light the room 
was filled with their warm, flickering glow. He sat 
at my feet, leaning against my legs the way he had 
a million years ago, and we gazed into the fire in 
silence for a while, enjoying the basic luxury of just 
being together. At least, I did. It felt good. More than 
that, it felt right. What Fox felt I didn’t know, but the 
lack of tension in the muscled back pressed against 
my knees hinted he was relaxed and happy to be 
there with me.

The future remained a closed book - I had no 

idea what would happen when everything was 
sorted out and back to what passed as normal for 
a blood-drinking immortal and a librarian from 
London. I supposed we’d go our separate ways, but 
I didn’t want that. The terrible rending sense of loss 
that had ripped through me as I watched him die 
was something I’ll never forget. To watch him walk 
away wouldn’t be nearly as bad, but even so, I’d 
sooner avoid it if I could. Gently I carded though 
his hair, finding a bittersweet pleasure in the way 
the silky strands slipped through my fingers. A wave 
of emotion swept over me, so intense it came close 
to painful. I didn’t know what to say to him, how to 
ask what his plans were. How to explain everything 
I felt for him.

Fox moved, turning to look up at me, concern in 

his eyes.

“Rob?” he began. Damn it, he always seemed 

to pick up on my emotions, if not actually read my 
bloody mind word for word! I didn’t want to face 
his questions any more than I wanted to hear his 
answers to my own questions, so I did the only thing 
I could - distract him. I leaned down and planted an 
awkwardly angled kiss on the side of his mouth. He 
smiled and turned a little more, sliding our mouths 
and tongues together in a proper kiss.For an instant 
I contemplated making love on the rug in front of the 
fire. Very romantic, but there was no guarantee my 
relatives wouldn’t choose to waltz in at the wrong 
moment.

“Come to bed,” I said instead.
I led him up the narrow stairs to my bedroom, 

every nerve in my body aware of how close he was 
behind me. If I was going to lose him, then I was 
determined to have as many good memories as I 
could gather.

* * *

The room was darker than the night outside, the 

heavy curtains saw to that. I switched on the bedside 
lamp and we undressed in silence. The radiance 
gilded Fox’s hair and skin, highlighted the lines of 
muscle and bone and transmuting him to a living, 
breathing statue. He took my breath away.Then he 
stretched out on the bed and opened his arms to me, 
his smile an invitation and a caress.

There were words burning in my heart, but I 

couldn’t speak them, so I lay beside him and used 
my hands and mouth to draw their patterns on his 
body. I worshipped the contours of him with my 
fingertips, anointed them with kisses. I sucked and 
teased his nipples to hard nubs, gently nipped and 
licked my way down his abdomen. Fox writhed and 
arched under each caress, sinuous and sensual, 
whispering my name in a voice torn ragged with 
desire. For him to give himself so entirely into my 
care was intoxicating, yet I couldn’t entirely forget 
the basic facts of life that lay between us. Resolutely 
I shoved it all to one side. Here and now were all 
that mattered, and I was in love with him.

Fox’s belly muscles rippled under my mouth, 

and when I dipped my tongue into his navel, his 
hips jerked. The head of his cock painted a smear 
of precome across my cheek and I tilted my head 

to capture his erection between my lips. Nothing 
more, not yet. Flicking my tongue tip over the slit, 
I savoured the flavour of him, his musk-rich scent 
filling my nostrils. I took him deeper, the heat and 
weight of him perfect on my tongue. Fox groaned 
and shook, his hands moving spasmodically through 
my hair, but he managed not to drive up into my 
mouth. I took him as far as I could to the back of my 
throat and a shudder ripped through him.

He wasn’t going to last long now, and I was 

hungry for the taste of him, wanted - needed - to 
have as much of him as I could, in whatever way 
I could. Gently I kneaded his ball-sac, ran my 
fingertips along his perineum and started a rhythmic 
suction on his cock.

Fox held out longer than I thought he would, 

but the pleasure proved to be too much. He yelled 
my name and convulsed, flooding my mouth with 
spurting semen. I took all he had to give, swallowing 
it down and relishing every drop.

I held him while he caught his breath, whispered 

nonsense into his hair as I caressed him through the 
aftershocks, then reached for a condom and the lube. 
He took the small foil packet from me and tossed it 
away.

“We don’t need that,” Fox murmured. “I don’t 

catch diseases or pass them on, and if you do, they 
can’t affect me. All I need right now is you, in me, 
with nothing between us.”

Years of conditioning on safe sex and condoms 

meant that I have never fucked anyone without 
wearing one. I didn’t expect the lack of latex to make 

that much difference, but it did. Everything was 
heightened, his heat, the pulsing throb of his internal 
muscles, the silken sweet drag of his lubricated skin 
on mine. I made it last as long as I could, but with 
every kiss, every touch, every slow thrust, I was both 
asking him to stay and saying goodbye. By tomorrow 
afternoon the whole Courtney panel saga would be 
over.

If Fox was feeling anything other than sexual 

ecstasy, he didn’t show it.

 

 Chapter Sixteen

At seven minutes past nine the next morning, the 

shit hit the fan and the potential fallout was the stuff 
of nightmares.

The house phone rang as I was feeding the living 

room fire, and I picked up the handset, expecting to 
hear Lisa or Mike. “Orchard Cottage,” I said.

“I think you’re a player, Robert.” The voice was 

deep and cold, and shockingly familiar. “How did 
you do it? An hallucinogen? Very inventive, but not 
good enough. My memories may be impaired but I 
can remember enough. I want those panels, Robert.I 
want them now. I’ll exchange them for your brother.” 
My heart and lungs seized up momentarily and 
I sat down hard on the sofa. I knew it! That bloody 
reprogramming hadn’t taken! Fox and Uncle Joe 
were talking in the kitchen - their voices sounded 
as if they were coming from miles away down an 
echoing cavern.

“Hallucinogens? You’re not making any sense,” 

I said as calmly as I could while trying not to 
hyperventilate. My knuckles showed white as I 
gripped the handset.

“Really?” Wendlow’s drawl sent more chills down 

my spine. “Perhaps this will sharpen your wits.
Fenton, if you please.”

Sounds of something heavy being dragged came 

over the phone. I could hear harsh breathing, then 
a gasp.

“Rob,” mumbled another too-familiar voice and 

I thought I was going to throw up. “I-I think he’s 
serious about th - “ Mike howled in agony. I heard a 
scuffle followed by a solid thud.

“Thank you, Fenton. Need I say more, 

Robert?Bring me the panels, then you and I will sit 
down and talk about Adam Courtney. The current, 
supposedly dead, Adam Courtney.”

“About that,” I said, thinking on my feet. I had to 

shake Wendlow’s confidence somehow, but I would 
be gambling with Mike’s life. I’d heard that attack 
was the best form of defence, but Mike was at stake 
here.  Oh, God ... Time. I needed time! “Have you 
thought about how that happened? Deals within 
deals, Henry. Adam made them.”

“Who with?” he snapped.
“Haven’t a clue. He didn’t name names, just 

called them Tweedledum and Tweedledee. Probably 
you can make a better guess than I can.” I took a 
deeper breath and hardened my voice, putting as 
much steel into it as I could. “Harm my brother 
again, Henry, or anyone in my family, and you’ll end 
up like some of those Elizabethans you’re so fond 
of. Now, shall we stop the chest thumping and talk, 
or are you going to declare a war you will not win. 
Believe me, you have no idea what you’re dealing 
with.” And wasn’t that the truth.

Wendlow was silent for a long while and I forced 

myself to keep my breathing even. Fox and Uncle 
Joe were standing close by now, listening quietly.
Fox was behind my shoulder, I couldn’t see his 
expression, but Uncle Joe’s face was nearly purple 
with fury.

“Very interesting, Robert. It seems I may have 

misjudged you. So we have an impasse.”

“No. We don’t,” I cut in. “Let my brother go and 

I’ll give you the Adam panel. Then we draw a line 
under this. Make one more move against me and 
mine, and you’ll find that lovely old manor house of 
yours burned down in front of you. Then we’ll start 
on you.”

“You expect me to believe you?” He sounded 

scornful, incredulous.

I laughed. “Are you willing to take the risk?Think 

about it, Henry. How did we get away so smoothly? 
How did your Tweedle die? Call me back and we’ll 
arrange the exchange.” I put the phone down and 
dived for the kitchen, making it to the sink just in 
time before I lost my breakfast.

Uncle Joe followed me, patted my back as I 

heaved my guts up. “Robbie, what the fuck is going 
on?” he whispered. “What are you playing at?”

“Trying to keep Mike in one piece,” I croaked,“and 

buy us some time.”

“By threatening the bastard?”
“Had to knock him off balance.” I filled the 

nearest glass with water and gulped it down. “If 
he thinks I’m a soft touch, he’ll bleed me dry, take 
everything.”

“Yes,” Fox said quietly. “Rob, I’m sorry. This is my 

fault. I’ll put it right.”

I shook my head. “We will,” I answered. It 

seemed I’d inherited more from the Wells side of 
my ancestry than I’d ever thought; revenge is a dish 
best served cold, according to that old saying. An icy 

determination took root in me and I no longer felt 
sick. “Not your fault. Wendlow made the first move 
so everything following on from that is down to him. 
When he calls back, I’ll arrange the meet.”He had to 
call back, and soon. “Uncle, I need you to organise 
the clan. They can make sure Lisa is safe and that 
Wendlow hasn’t got a small army as backup.”

“Trust me, Robbie-lad,” Uncle Joe said grimly, 

eyeing me with deepening respect. “You name the 
time and place, and we’ll take care of the rest.”

“Neutral ground,” Fox said. “And not out in the 

open or miles from anywhere.”

I nodded. “A public place, where he can’t hit out 

and you can get close enough to deal with him.”

“Yes,” he said again.
“Okay.” I thought rapidly, running various 

places through my mind. A pub would be best ... 
Or a restaurant. There was a Holiday Inn outside 
Amesbury, a new, ultramodern construction, more 
glass than wall. It had a large restaurant and bar 
area, open enough to give Wendlow confidence he 
could control the situation. At the same time those 
wide, people-filled spaces would keep Mike and I 
safe from any reprisals. I hoped. I’d called Wendlow’s 
bluff, but what if he wasn’t bluffing? On the other 
hand, I wasn’t.

Not for one moment did I consider contacting 

the police, nor did Uncle Joe suggest it. All those 
generations of Irish tinkers and Romani I’d inherited 
along with my Wells genes, rose up and told me this 
was too personal to involve outsiders.

* * *

Waiting for Wendlow to phone back was a very 

special corner of Hell. All kinds of worst case 
scenarios seethed in my mind, but I built a wall of 
ice and shoved them behind it. Maybe Fox helped 
out with his influencing thing, maybe he didn’t, but 
somehow I managed to hold it all together. While 
Uncle Joe made a series of calls on his mobile, I 
sat by the house phone with Fox a solid supporting 
presence beside me. And waited.

Ten minutes later, the phone rang.
“My house,” Wendlow said as soon as I picked 

up the handset. “Both panels and we’ll call it quits.”

“No,” I said. “The Holiday Inn, just outside 

Amesbury. Do you know it?”

“Yes.”
“In the restaurant. You, Mike, and Tweedle 

Fenton, eleven-thirty. I’ll be there with Adam and 
the panel.”

He paused briefly. “Very well. But both panels, 

Robert, and we’ll draw a line under this.”

“No repercussions on my family. And that 

includes Simon and his business.”

“No repercussions. My word on it.” Those last 

four words had the same archaic ring to them that 
Fox used. I wondered if Wendlow would be as bound 
by them.

“Fine. We have a deal. Eleven-thirty, Henry.”
I put the phone down on him, and shook. Fox put 

his arms around me and I leaned against him, not 
caring how Uncle Joe’s eyebrows were climbing. 
But he made no comment.

“Everyone’s still on alert as far as he’s concerned,” 

he reported. “I’ll take a few Wells nephews and follow 
him from the manor, make sure it is just the two of 
them with Mike. The Hughes cousins are putting a 
cordon around the Inn, and the Stockwell boys are 
watching out for Lisa. Your dad’s safe enough in 
hospital.”

“Thanks, Uncle,” I said. “I need to clean my teeth 

... “

“Go,” Fox ordered. “I’ll have a hot drink ready 

for you when you come back.” I felt him press a kiss 
on my head, and he tightened his embrace before 
releasing me.

“Fox, my lad,” I heard Uncle Joe say as I started 

up the stairs. “Can I have a word with you on the 
quiet-like?” I paused, frowning. “This could well turn 
pear shaped,” he continued, sounding unnaturally 
serious - and sober. “Rob can look after himself, more 
or less, but this Wendlow’s an unpredictable sod and 
he fights dirty. Watch the boy’s back, all right?”

“I will,” Fox answered, equally solemnly. “My 

word on it.”

“Good enough for me, Fox-lad.”

* * *

At eleven o’clock on the dot Fox and I left the 

cottage and climbed into my Volvo. Uncle Joe had 
already left to co-ordinate the various protection 
operations, for which I was grateful. Fox was 
radiating quiet amusement, and the weight of his 
gaze was a tangible caress.

“What?” I asked as I fastened my seatbelt.

“Nothing,” he said, mealy-mouthed and 

virtuous.“When this is over, we should sit down with 
a bottle of wine and talk.”

“That sounds ominous,” I muttered, not meeting 

his eyes. “Put on your seatbelt.”

“It’s not meant to be,” he said as he obeyed. “Rob, 

you’re a pretty special person and you’ve become 
very important to me. I’d like it if we could stay 
friends. More than friends.”

“What does that mean?” I whispered, pulling 

away down the lane towards the road.

“It means I have feelings for you. Deep feelings.

And I think you might have the same for me.”

“I do,” I started to say. Then a large black 

Mercedes whipped off the road into the lane.“Fuck!” 
There was no time to swerve out of the way.I was 
only travelling at walking pace as it was. I stood on 
the brakes and we’d barely stopped moving before 
the car crashed into the front of my Volvo. “Fuck!”

We were slammed forward and then back, saved 

by seatbelts and airbags. Dazed and confused, I 
struggled to get my breath back, distantly aware that 
two men were getting out of the Merc. Images of 
insurance claims, repair bills floated before me -but 
it wasn’t my fault so my No Claims Bonus was safe. 
Then recognition hit me. Wendlow. It was sodding 
Wendlow and his surviving Tweedle.

I didn’t think about whiplash or neck injuries, 

just unclipped my seatbelt and forced the door open, 
aware that Fox was doing the same. We piled out, 
and I couldn’t speak for him, but I was fighting mad. 
I lunged for Wendlow, while Fox pounced on Fenton 

like a large panther. But Wendlow was ready for me.

Outweighed, outreached and outclassed, his first 

punch took me in the ribs, sending me lurching back 
against my car. Judging by his stance, Wendlow was 
a boxer, and his fiercely exultant grin said it all; he 
was going to batter the living daylights out of me. I 
dodged his next blow, but walked into its follow-up. 
His fists smacked into my face, splitting my lip, and 
hammering my cheekbone. I staggered, my head 
ringing. But the taste of my own blood acted like 
a bucket of cold water thrown at me. It was helped 
by his laughter, and his sneering, “What’s the 
matter, you arse-licking faggot? Can’t take a little 
punishment from a real man?”

My uselessly blind rage disappeared and I knew 

what I had to do.

For the first time I used my martial arts 

knowledge outside of the dojo. Or rather, I let the 
ingrained muscle-memory take over and the moves 
flowed as if they were second nature. Wendlow 
knew conventional boxing, but I was younger, faster, 
and functioning on pure adrenaline now. I blocked 
his first punch with a hard knife-hand chop to his 
forearm and heard his bone snap. He yelled in pain. 
I ducked under his left-hand swing and kicked high 
to the side of his head. He dropped like a stone. I 
stared down at him for a moment, baffled by the 
abrupt ending to our conflict and wondering if I had 
killed him. I hadn’t. He was breathing, and when I 
pushed my fingers into his thick neck, his pulse was 
strong.

Off on the other side of the lane, Fox wasn’t 

bothering with any kind of mind-trickery. He was 
systematically beating the shit out of Tweedle 
Fenton. He clearly bore a grudge for the shots that 
had put him down, and the grave they’d planted him 
in. I, for one, didn’t blame him, but didn’t spare him 
any more thought. Mike was the only thing on my 
mind.

There’d been no sign of him in the car, but when 

I wrenched open the back passenger door, he was 
lying jammed in the footwell behind the front seats.
His hands and ankles were tied, and silver gaffer 
tape sealed his mouth. Blood masked his face as 
well, and I sought frantically for a pulse in his throat. 
I found it and gasped with relief.

Fox abandoned the now unconscious Tweedle, 

and joined me at the car. “Is he all right?” he asked 
urgently.

“I think so, but he’s bleeding a lot.” Most of 

the blood was coming from his hands, and when I 
looked more closely, I saw one of them was wrapped 
in now-dripping bandages.

“Get him in the house,” Fox said. “I’ll do what 

I can for him after I’ve dealt with these two. This 
time there’ll be no mistakes.” He took out his Swiss 
Army knife and cut the thin cords, and between us 
we eased Mike out of Wendlow’s car. Carefully I 
gathered him into my arms and carried him into the 
cottage. He was no light weight but I hardly noticed, 
adrenaline giving me the necessary extra strength. I 
lowered him onto the couch and collected cloths and 
a bowl of warm water.

When I unwrapped Mike’s bandaged hand, 

blood flooded afresh. I did all I could to slow it, and 
saw enough to realise a blade had been driven clear 
through his palm.

“Oh, God,” I whispered. “That fucking bastard!” 

I fought down the impulse to go back outside and 
plant a series of hefty kicks to Wendlow’s ribs and 
stick a carving knife through his fucking palm. 
I bound Mike’s hand as tightly as I could, and 
cleaned up his face. Bruises and contusions marred 
his features, and his nose was probably broken. His 
wrists and ankles were welted by the cords, and in 
short he needed to be in hospital.

“Let me check him over,” Fox said, startling me 

into dropping the bloodied cloth. “I know a fair bit 
about injuries.”

“We have to take him to hospital,” I said, moving 

enough to give him access to Mike. “He could have 
a cracked skull, brain trauma, blood clots - “

“I don’t think so.”
“How the hell can you be so sure?” I shouted.“Do 

vampires come with x-ray vision?” I froze, staring 
at him. It was the first time I’d said the V-word 
aloud, and it jarred between us like nails down a 
chalkboard. Fox looked up and briefly met my gaze. 
His eyes were shuttered, blank, and if I’d been less 
worried about my brother I would have apologised.

Fox turned back to Mike. “His pulse is slow, but 

strong and steady.” He pushed Mike’s sleeves up and 
inspected each arm in turn. In the crook of Mike’s 
left arm was a blot of red under the skin, the kind 
of subcutaneous bleeding you get from a clumsily-
given injection. “I’d say he’s been drugged.It’s more 

efficient than violence.” He elbowed me further 
away, but I pushed back. “Rob, don’t be stubborn. 
How are you going to explain to the doctors that 
he’s obviously been attacked, tied up and drugged? 
They’ll involve the police, and that’ll mean all your 
family will be under scrutiny, and they’ll find out 
about your father’s non-declared income. Then 
there’s Wendlow and his part in this -and me. I can’t 
let you break my cover.”

“Then fuck you!” I blazed. “My brother’s life - “
“Will you let me do what I can for Mike?”
“Such as?” I demanded. “Sod it, Adam, I’m in 

love with you but don’t you dare make me choose 
between you and my family!”

He smiled wryly and smoothed my hair back from 

my forehead. “Not the way I would have chosen to 
hear you say you love me.” He sighed, shook his 
head. “I love you, too. Let me examine him. I’m 
willing to bet the worst injury he has is his hand. 
That, I can heal.”

“You can?” I asked uncertainly, hardly able to 

believe my ears. “You do?”

“Yes. My saliva clots and accelerates healing, 

remember?”

“Oh.” I flushed and looked away. “Yes. I forgot.”
Fox chuckled, leaned forward and kissed 

me.“Trust me on this,” he said. “If I think he needs a 
doctor, I swear I’ll see he gets one.”

Mike saved me from having to answer that. 

He moaned, stirred, blinked open bleary eyes and 
squinted up at us. “Wendlow,” he slurred. “The 
fucking arsehole stuck a knife in me! Rob? Tell me 

you didn’t cave and give him the bloody panels?”

“I didn’t,” I told him.
“Rob broke his arm and knocked him out,” Fox 

added, pride in his voice.

“You did?” Mike gazed at me wide-eyed. “Hey, 

Ninja-Robbo! You’re the best big brother I ever 
had.”It would have been more touching if he hadn’t 
sounded as if he’d been on a week-long binge. Then 
he gave me a silly grin and sort of zoned out.

At least that made it easier for Fox to run his 

version of a triage. During the process, I could see 
for myself the bruising on Mike’s ribs. It was no 
more than he’d collected playing rugby, and he 
didn’t react to gentle probing on his abdomen. He 
did yelp a bit when Fox realigned his nose, but Fox 
didn’t find any other wounds or lumps on his skull.

Finally Fox turned his attention to Mike’s hand.

He removed the blood-soaked bandaging with 
gentle care. As he did so, he used his influence.
Mike’s eyelids drooped closed, he relaxed with 
a sigh and to all intents and purposes, fell asleep.
Blood still welled and dripped from the open wound 
and my anger seethed again.

Not glancing at me, Fox lifted Mike’s hand and 

pressed the palm to his mouth. He held it there for 
what seemed a long time, then turned it over and 
did the same with the back. Blood no longer dripped 
from Mike’s palm. When Fox placed Mike’s hand 
back on the cushions and stood up, both wounds 
had closed. Fox wiped his hand over his mouth, 
smearing gore.

“He won’t remember the knifing,” he told me. 

“So he won’t question the disappearing wounds.”

“That’s stopped the bleeding, but what about 

damaged bones, tendons? His hand looks as if 
Wendlow had him nailed to a table!”

“As far as I can tell, the blade was very carefully 

placed between the bones. There’s no major damage, 
and what there is will heal faster. Trust me on this, 
Rob. His hand will give him pain for a while, but 
more like a deep bruise he could have got trying to 
fight them off.”

I drew in a deep, ragged breath. “Thank you,” I 

said quietly. “What about Wendlow and Tweedle?”

“They’ll keep. You’re hurt.” He cupped my face 

and kissed me again, his tongue lapping gently at 
the split on my lip. The small wound stung even 
more for a moment, then the sharp pain faded as 
his saliva did its work. He drew back, slowly licking 
my blood from his mouth. Added to the light in his 
eyes, it was nothing short of lascivious. “Better?” he 
whispered.

“Yes. But what about - “
“They’re sitting in their car, dreaming their new 

reality. They were coming here to discuss a portrait-
cleaning contract with your father, turned into the 
lane too quickly and met your car head-on. I’ve 
removed all knowledge of me, my home, the panels, 
photographs, and you from their minds, smoothed 
it all over. He’s going to go away and decide to get 
his portraits cleaned by someone else. There’s no 
way now the memories could be recreated, let alone 
recalled.”

“But we tore into them pretty effectively. Their 

injuries won’t match a car crash.”

“I know. They had a run in with a couple of 

poachers before coming here. I’ve covered all the 
bases, I think.”

“Thank you,” I said again. “Now we need to get 

ourselves cleaned up - and work out what the hell 
we’re going to tell Uncle Joe.”

Fox chuckled. “Easy,” he said. “Wendlow came 

here to force a confrontation, and we won. He 
agreed to forget the whole affair - “ My mobile phone 
sounded, interrupting him.

“Speak of the devil,” I said, glancing at the 

screen. “Hi, Uncle.”

“Robbie, we missed him!” Uncle Joe yelled in my 

ear. “They’d already left the house when our lads 
got here!”

“Calm down, Uncle,” I said. “It’s all sorted.

They’re here, we’ve got Mike back - a bit battered 
but otherwise okay - and Wendlow has seen the 
light. He’s going to go away and forget all about us.” 
Literally. As long as his car was driveable.

“Huh.” The old fool sounded disappointed. “How 

the hell did you manage that?” he demanded.

“Jodan mawashi geri,” I answered 

crisply.“Roundhouse kick to the head. Karate pays 
off. And Fox is a mean fighter. It’s over, Uncle.” My 
voice suddenly shook on the last three words, and 
Fox wrapped his arms around me. “Stand the troops 
down, it’s all over and we won.”

* * *

We had won. I knew it with gut-deep certainty, 

but on the surface of my mind disbelief roiled.
Nausea settled in my belly, a low-level threat rather 
than incipient attack, so I was able to ignore it.

Wendlow had taken himself and his battered 

henchman off back to where they’d come from, their 
shiny black Mercedes making strange groanings 
under its bonnet. Uncle Joe turned up just as they 
pulled out of the lane and he opted to follow them, 
just to make sure they got back to Lockeridge.Mike, 
looking like he’d gone three rounds with the current 
World Heavyweight Champion, was sleeping up in 
his room, his wounded hand already scabbed over 
and less swollen. Fox had cleaned himself up, I’d 
changed into clothes that didn’t have splashes of 
my brother’s blood over them, and the two panels 
lay on the dining table, the Adam still only partially 
cleaned. Success all round.

Gingerly I touched my cheekbone. My split 

lip had closed up, all swelling gone, but I had the 
beginnings of a black eye by the feel of it, and my 
ribs ached. It would be obvious to anyone seeing 
us that we’d been in a fight, so how much did we 
tell Dad? One thing was clear; I’d need to have Fox 
close at hand for the telling so he could keep Dad 
calm with his influencing trick. Probably he should 
go into the ward first, before Dad got a look at Mike 
and me.

Fox. Abruptly our victory tasted sour, and I felt as 

if I was on the brink of losing something - someone- 
very important. All right, Fox had said he loved me- 
and God knows I felt the same about him. But he was 
more than four hundred years old and I was twenty-

six. He wasn’t going to age unless he changed to a 
diet of animal blood, while I would go through the 
normal progression for the next sixty or so years - if 
I was lucky - and die, decrepit and possibly senile. 
And no way would I want to go through the same 
mutation, even if it meant I’d be as close to immortal 
as my lover. So where the hell did that leave me?

“You’re thinking too much,” Fox whispered in my 

ear. “Again.” He slipped his arms around me and 
clasped his hands over my stomach. I leaned back in 
his embrace, resting my hands over his.

“Maybe,” I said. “So, where do we go from here?”
“Somerbourne. My home. I’d like you to see it.We 

could spend a few days there, then come back here.”

I shook my head. “Not while Dad’s in hospital.

And I’m not going anywhere while he’s convalescing. 
Besides, your bike’s off the road and I haven’t taken 
a look at my car yet. “

“Not a problem. We’ll go when you’re satisfied 

he’s going to be all right.” He kissed my neck and 
I shivered with pleasure, rocking back against him 
a little harder. His erection pressed against my 
arse.“Your car isn’t too badly damaged, certainly 
good enough to drive to the nearest garage for repair, 
and I can buy another bike easily enough. Now tell 
me what’s really bothering you.”

I didn’t answer for a few minutes, trying to 

marshal my thoughts. “More than friends, you said.
For how long?”

Fox held me tighter. “I would like to share your 

life for as long as you’ll give me,” he said quietly.

“And my blood,” I said.

“Only if you’re willing.” He smiled ruefully. “We 

both know you’re not so easily influenced, so don’t 
be concerned I’ll coerce you.”

“I don’t want to be changed.”
“I know, nor would I suggest it.” He hesitated.“Ann 

was well over ninety years old when she died, and 
she looked closer to fifty than a hundred.”

The apparent non sequitur took me by 

surprise.“Um, really? That’s a good age.” Then I 
remembered the average life expectancy back in 
those days was a lot shorter than now. “You mean 
... “

“She gave me a little of her blood several times 

a week. Often enough for me to appear close to her 
age, but not enough to drain her in any way. In fact, 
her metabolism quickly compensated and she was 
much healthier than many of our contemporaries.
She was never ill and any injuries healed very 
quickly. Not as quickly as mine do but much faster 
than normal. I’ve heard of it happening with other 
long-term couples - it’s something to do with my 
saliva and semen, I think, though it’s never been 
scientifically investigated, of course.”

“Oh,” I said inadequately.
“I’d like us to be together, Rob.”
“Why me?” I whispered. “You’re way out of my 

league.”

“No, I’m not. It’s more like the other way 

around.I’ve done a lot in my life I’m not proud of, to 
put it mildly. But you ground me, Rob. You’re clever, 
loyal, funny, sensible, compassionate, and strong. 
You’re all I’ve ever wanted in a lover since Ann died. 

So what do you say?”

I didn’t really have to think long and hard about 

it. Being with him might well bring me a few extra 
decades, but the bottom line was, could I see myself 
settling down with Fox, living happy ever after -apart 
from the odd domestic dispute that would certainly 
arise between two stubborn people? Yes.I’d be able 
to help maintain his cover, though I wasn’t sure how 
Grandfather Adam would fit into the new setup. But 
I’d been silent for too long.

Fox released me and stepped back a few paces.
“My apologies,” he said, rigidly formal. I turned 

to face him.

“You, Adam, are an idiot.” I said, putting into 

the words everything I felt for him, all the complex 
emotions and needs I’d experienced since he’d 
walked into my life, not to mention the roller-coaster 
ride of drama and danger. That, apart from scaring 
me shitless and forcing me to find depths within 
myself I hadn’t thought possible, had brought us 
closer together more quickly than would otherwise 
have happened. “I am not going to rush into this, 
“ I told him. “In fact, I think we should have a trial 
period. Say, the first twenty, thirty years? And take it 
from there.” His features lit up and his smile became 
incandescent. “But,” I continued, placing my hand 
on his chest to hold him back as he stepped towards 
me. “I set the house rules.”

“Yes, Robert,” he said, meek and mealy-mouthed 

and utterly false, and pounced on me.

* * *

About Chris Quinton

I live in the southwest of England, in a small city 

with ancient roots.

I share my house with my extended family, two 

large dogs, sundry fancy goldfish and assorted pet 
mice. And a vast collection of books.

Writing has been an important part of my life 

for more years than I care to remember, and I daily 
thank The Powers That Be for the invention of the 
computer and the world wide web.

* * *