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concentrate on this for a day or two?’
    Dougal nodded. He hardly heard the question. The idea of getting 1,200 pounds for a couple of days’ work swam like a seductive mirage in his mind. He owed his landlady two months’ rent. His aunt’s money had somehow reduced itself to double figures. His credit cards were on the verge of changing from flexible friends to implacable usurers. Amanda was an expensive luxury.
    His thoughts swerved away from the question of Hanbury’s motives, from the lengths his employers were willing to go in order to get what they wanted; it was none of his business and, if it was, it lay in the province of his conscience which he had always found to be an obliging, biddable organ. It would help no one to bring the spectre of morality into this.
    Despite what Hanbury had said, there must be a risk, but he couldn’t for the life of him see where it was; a reasonable degree of caution should prevent the police from linking him with Hanbury, even supposing they succeeded in identifying the latter as Gumper’s killer; Hanbury’s employers were obviously dangerous – but surely they would only get unpleasant if, like Gumper had done, he started trying to cheat them. If he did an efficient job, why should there be any danger?
    He looked across at Hanbury. ‘Okay, I’m interested. What would I be working on – the original or a photograph?’
    â€˜A photograph, I’m afraid. We don’t have the original.’
    Yet
, thought Dougal. Aloud, he said, ‘That shouldn’t matter too much if it’s a reasonable reproduction.’ A question which had been troubling him all the time they had been in the pub, worrying him somewhere below the level of conscious thought, suddenly found words which insisted on being spoken. ‘Look, why did you take the chance? I know I didn’t rush off to the nearest phone when I . . . when I saw it, so you might trust me from that point of view, but I don’t see why you took the gamble that I had the same sort of skills as Gumper. Wasn’t it a hell of a risk?’
    Hanbury smiled and Dougal realized that the man was actually enjoying himself, and boggled at the thought that someone could extract pleasure from juggling with dangers. Hanbury only slightly dispelled the illusion by saying, rather in the manner of Holmes to Watson: ‘The risk was minimal, in fact. Gumper and I had a little scene, you see, during which he was unusually informative. Towards the end anyway. He told me that he had given the photograph to one of his students, who should be returning it this week. He mentioned your name. One imagines he would have checked what you had done – presumably he wanted to avoid the donkey work. The very fact that you went to see Gumper suggested you knew something about the subject – paleography is hardly a popular option, I thought. Then, as you came out of his room the second time, you were carrying your briefcase – I could see through the crack of the door of the seminar room – and the initials WD were clearly visible on it. It seemed reasonable to assume that you were you, as it were.’
    Dougal laughed. ‘Gumperish to the very end,’ he said and then realized that he must sound flippant; but perhaps it didn’t matter for surely the ordinary etiquette of death would be inappropriate here.

3
    D ougal went west with rush hour crowds, his mind preoccupied with the necessity of establishing an equilibrium between the memory of Gumper and the reassuring presence of 200 pounds in his wallet. Like an automaton, he changed on to the District Line at Hammersmith and got off at Turnham Green. With his eyes half-closed he walked down to Chiswick High Road, where habit drove him into an off-licence. He bought a bottle of Veuve Clicquot – might as well do things properly – half a bottle of brandy and some angosturas. The Scot who managed the place with a grim