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magazines.”
    â€œThat would be Mr Larkin the football player?” Bentley said. “The one who’s reported to be coming back to England?”
    â€œYes, it would—although he didn’t say anything to me about leaving Milan. And no, I don’t know him well enough to get his autograph for any of your multitudinous nephews, or to put in a good word for Leeds United if he is thinking about a transfer. We just happened to be sitting next to one another in Monte, right across the table from Lissa Lo, and we all happened to bet on the same number. Pure coincidence—but you know what the papers are like when an opportunity comes up to get two celebrities’ names in the same sentence, especially if one’s male, the other’s female and they’re both sexy.”
    â€œIf only you were five years younger, sir,” Bentley observed, flippantly, “you would doubtless have sparked rumors of a fascinating ménage à trois . Were there no film stars present to add spice to the mix? Members of the royal family, perhaps?”
    â€œI’m afraid not—unless you count royal families from the United Arab Emirates. I know you don’t usually, but as they’re moving Royal Ascot to York next year, I thought you might be prepared to be flexible.”
    â€œVery amusing, sir.” Bentley had slipped back deep into mock-Wodehousian mode, if not all the way back to American sitcom parody, but Canny didn’t mind. He had said what he needed to say, and he knew that the butler would have taken note of the salient points.
    The car was already turning into the driveway of Credesdale House. The early morning sun was lighting the Great Skull from the side, making its shadowed eyes seem even more sinister than usual; Stevie Larkin would doubtless have thought its symbolism horribly excessive.
    Canny got out in front of the house before Bentley took the car around to the old stables. He let himself in, and paused in the hallway to hug and kiss his mother. He was in no hurry to rush upstairs, but his mother was so enthusiastic not to delay him that he felt obliged to set aside all other possibilities.
    â€œHe’s been asking for you for hours, Canny,” Lady Credesdale said. “Hasn’t slept a wink. You mustn’t mind if he curses you a little—he wouldn’t take his morphine until he’d seen you, and now he’s in dreadful pain. Ring as soon as he decides to take it—Bentley will give him the shot.”
    â€œIt’s okay, Mummy,” Canny said. “I don’t suppose he’s got anything new to say—he just wants to make sure that I’m on board. It won’t take long.” He knew that it was an optimistic judgment, but it was what his mother needed to hear. He went upstairs resolutely, nodding derisively to the lugubrious ancestors whose eyes seemed to be following his course.
    You might have hooked and landed me , he said, silently, but you haven’t gutted and filleted me yet—not by a long way. Just you wait and see who’ll be coming up these stairs with me tonight .”

CHAPTER SEVEN
    Lord Credesdale seemed more angry than pleased to see him, but that was just the pain. The old man was propped up on three voluminous pillows, but he was having difficulty holding himself steady.
    â€œWhat’s all this about you flying over in a private jet?” he demanded, as Canny pulled up a chair so that he could sit as close to the bedhead as the beside table would permit.
    â€œI got a lift, Dad,” Canny replied, brightly. “A real stroke of luck—I wouldn’t have got here till late afternoon if I’d flown Air France and British Midland via Heathrow. The streak’s still holding, you see.”
    â€œWell it won’t hold much longer, if the diaries are reliable,” the sick man snapped. “I might not last through the night. This is the acid test, Can. This is when all your