The Pargeters believed that they had been robbed even though they had no idea how it had happened. Berkeley had led his friend downstairs, supposedly to look after him but in reality to prevent him investigating too closely himself. Of course, at this stage, if the Pargeters had worked out they were being tricked, there would have been no danger to Berkeley or to his co-conspirators. The whole thing would have been put down as some sort of bizarre hoax. Nobody would ever find out what had been planned.

Things changed with the arrival of Gilbert and Dickinson. Pünd could imagine exactly how it had worked. ‘And what exactly is the combination of the safe, sir?’ Charles Pargeter would have volunteered the numbers without a second thought. After all, these were the police. And the horse had bolted. ‘I wonder if I might take a look at this key of yours, sir?’ Again, Pargeter would have handed it over. He believed he had already been robbed, but in fact the robbery took place while he was sitting in the downstairs living room being interviewed. One of them – probably Dickinson again – had hurried back upstairs and opened the real safe, removing the contents. Then he had taken them outside, using the back door, along with the fake safe and the theatrical flat, leaving things exactly as they had appeared when the Pargeters got home.

He had made just one small mistake. Moving the flat, which had been wedged into place across the alcove, he had very slightly torn the wallpaper. Pünd had found that tear and everything else had fallen into place.

He looked at the clock. Half past six. It was time to go. He finished his sherry, stubbed out his cigarette and finally picked up the rosewood walking stick that he carried as an affectation and not because it was needed. He glanced at himself one last time in the mirror, patted the speech nestling in his inside pocket, and left.

SIX

CRIME AND PUNISHMENT

There were three hundred people in Goldsmiths’ Hall, the women in long gowns, the men in black tie. They were sitting at four long tables in a room whose magnificence was beyond anything Pünd had ever experienced: soaring columns, massive chandeliers and more than enough gold ornamentation to remind those present of the industry to which it owed its existence. Perhaps it was because he was a foreigner that he felt a particular admiration for this ancient British tradition. The guild had been formed in the Middle Ages and now, six hundred years later, it still existed to provide education and support for its fellow citizens. The meal had been excellent, the conversation lively. He was glad that he had come.

His speech had also been well received. He had been talking for half an hour and had covered his experiences as a police officer in the Ordnungspolizei in Germany and what had happened when it had been brought under Nazi control. But as he approached the last few pages, he changed direction. He had, after all, been given free rein when he was invited to speak and there was a point he wanted to make.

‘You will be aware,’ he said, ‘that the Royal Commission on Capital Punishment set up by the last prime minister will be reporting in the next few months and it is my hope and belief that even if we do not see the end of capital punishment altogether, the law will soon be changed. It is not just the possible mistakes that were made in the cases of Timothy Evans and Derek Bentley earlier this year. No, surely, if our experience of Nazism and the war has taught us anything it is that we must believe in the sanctity of life, even the life of a criminal.

‘Is it right that all murderers should die? Is the man who loses control for one terrible moment, who perhaps lashes out and kills his wife or best friend in an argument, to be treated no differently from the man who has planned and cold-bloodedly executed a murder for his personal gain? Is it not time to consider different types of murder and to apply appropriate sentences?

‘Judges no longer have any appetite for the death penalty, ladies and gentlemen. You should be aware that almost half of all murderers are reprieved. In the first half of this century, five hundred and thirty-three death sentences out of one thousand, two hundred and ten were commuted, and that figure is rising. I have met many murderers. I have abhorred what they have done, but often I have found some sympathy for the terrible circumstances that have led them to commit their crimes. At the end of the day, they are human too.

‘To kill the killer is to descend to his or her level. I await the result of the Royal Commission with interest. I believe it will lead us to a new age.’

Pünd had feared that his comments might not connect with this audience but the applause as he sat down was warm and sustained. It was only later, as the port and cigars were being passed round, that the treasurer, a slightly hard-edged man who was sitting next to him, suddenly remarked: ‘I don’t suppose you saw that story about Melissa James?’

‘The actress who was killed in Devonshire a few days ago?’

‘Yes. Forgive me, Mr Pünd, but I really wonder if what you said just now would apply to what happened to her.’

‘The police have yet to identify her killer, I believe.’

‘Well, it all points to the husband from what I understand. He was the last person to see her alive. Strangling someone is a very personal way of killing them, I would say, and all the circumstances would seem to suggest what the Americans call a “crime of passion”. Now, here’s a beautiful and talented young woman, loved all over the world. She made some superb films. My wife and I were definitely fans. Would you really be so willing to forgive her assassin?’

‘Clemency and forgiveness are not the same thing.’

‘Are you so sure of that? I would say it sends out a message. Lose your temper. Kill your wife. The law understands!’

Pünd did not agree but he kept his thoughts to himself. He had made his speech, which is what he had been asked to do, and that was the end of it. Even so, he was still thinking about the treasurer’s words the following morning as he finished his breakfast and went into his office. His secretary had arrived promptly at nine o’clock and was waiting for him, sorting through his mail.

‘How did your speech go, Mr Pünd?’ she asked.

‘It went extremely well, I think, Miss Cain.’ He had brought home a cheque and he handed it to her. ‘Could you send this, please, to the Police Orphans Fund.’

Miss Cain picked up the slip of paper and glanced at the amount. Her eyebrows rose. ‘That was very generous of them,’ she said.

‘It is certainly a considerable donation,’ Pünd agreed.

‘And very good of you to give up your time, Mr Pünd.’

Atticus Pünd smiled. He had, he thought, found the perfect secretary in Madeline Cain, who had come to him through a highly respected agency. He had actually interviewed three women and she had seemed the most formidable, answering his questions with the brisk efficiency that she now brought to her work. She was forty-five years old, a graduate of Cheltenham Ladies’ College, unmarried, with a flat in Shepherd’s Bush. She had worked as the private secretary to a small number of senior businessmen, all of whom had given her excellent references. With her jet black hair, her dress sense – which was definitely on the austere side – and her horn-rimmed spectacles, she might seem daunting on first appearance. But she could be warm-hearted too. She had only been with Pünd for three months but she was already devoted to him.

‘May I ask you a question, Miss Cain?’

‘Of course, Mr Pünd.’

‘What was your opinion of what I said last night?’

‘The speech?’

‘Yes.’

‘Well, I’m not sure it’s my place to say.’ Miss Cain frowned. She had, of course, typed the speech and was familiar with its contents. ‘I thought your description of Germany in the forties was very interesting.’

‘And my remarks on capital punishment?’

‘I don’t really know. It’s not something I’ve ever really thought about. I think it’s right to show mercy in certain cases, but you don’t want to encourage people to believe that evil will go unpunished.’ She changed the subject. ‘You have a Mrs Allingham coming in at eleven o’clock. She wants to talk to you about her husband.’

‘And what is it that her husband has done?’

‘He’s disappeared with his secretary. Would you like me to be present?’

‘It would most certainly be a good idea.’

Miss Cain had already opened the mail and had been glancing through the various letters as she spoke. Now she stopped with one of them in her hand. ‘Someone’s written to you from New York,’ she said.

‘Is it perhaps Herr Pargeter?’

‘No, no. It’s an agency.’ She slid the letter in front of him.

Pünd picked it up, noticing that it had been typed on high-quality paper. According to the letterhead, it had been sent from the William Morris Agency, 1740 Broadway, New York. It read:

Dear Mr Pünd,

My name is Edgar Schultz and I am a senior partner at the William Morris Agency in New York. It was my privilege to represent Miss Melissa James, a major motion-picture talent and a wonderful human being. I am sure you will understand how shocked we all are by the news of her passing.