Mrs A. has changed from the Miss A. I followed. Miss A. was full of giggles, very little-girl. Mrs A. still dresses very young, acts young, but is embittered. Odd how some women flower in love affairs and wither in marriage. Seen it often. Seems as if the spice of secrecy and naughtiness is what they love, not the man himself.

Mrs A. very bitter on subject of Mr Pembroke spending money. Mr Ian's name brought angry looks. Mrs A. turned me out. End of enquiry.

Short and un sweet I thought.

I couldn't face going to see Alicia at that moment. I didn't think her physically capable of carrying Malcolm while he was unconscious, and I didn't think her efficient enough to construct a bomb: good enough reasons for avoiding something I wanted to do as much as jump into a crocodile-infested swamp.

I didn't want to talk to Gervase either, but that couldn't be as easily avoided.

I drove back to Grant Street in the early evening and parked along the road from No 14 waiting for the master to return. It wasn't until I was sitting there that I remembered Norman West's advice about defence. Pepper… paint… I couldn't see myself throwing either in Gervase's eyes, or anyone else's for that matter. Gervase was, goddammit, my brother. Half-brother. Cain killed Abel. Abel hadn't had his pepper ready, or his paint.

Upon that sober reflection, Gervase came home.

His Rover turned into his house's short driveway and pulled up outside the garage. Gervase, carrying a briefcase, let himself in through the front door. Five minutes later, I walked along the road and rang the bell.

The door was opened by one of the children, who called over her shoulder, "It's Ian."

Gervase, still in his City suit, came immediately into the hall from his sitting-room, looking inhospitable and carrying a cut- glass tumbler half filled with what I expected was scotch.

"Ferdinand phoned me," he said authoritatively. "It's the police's business to look into the bombing of Quantum, not yours."

"Malcolm asked me to," I said.

"You'd better come in, I suppose." He was grudging, but pointed me to the room he'd left. "Do you want a drink?"

"Yes, please."

He poured from the scotch bottle into a duplicate tumble rand handed me the glass, gesturing to the matching jug of water which stood on a silver tray. I diluted my drink and sipped it, and said, "Thanks."

He nodded, busy with his own. There was no sign of Ursula, but I could hear the two girls' high voices in the kitchen and supposed she was with them. They would tell her I had come, and she would be worrying about her lunch.

"Ferdinand told me about Malcolm's new will," Gervase said with annoyance. "It's ridiculous putting in that clause about being murdered. What if some random mugger bumps him off? Do we all lose our inheritance?"

"Some random mugger is unlikely. A paid assassin might not be."

Gervase stared. "That's rubbish."

"Who killed Moira?" I said. "Who's tried three times to kill Malcolm?"

"How should I know?"

"I think you should put your mind to it."

"No. It's for the police to do that." He drank. "Where is he now?"

"Staying with friends."

"I offered him a bed here," he said angrily, "but I'm not good enough, I suppose."

"He wanted to be away from the family," I said neutrally.

"But he's with you."

"No, not any more."

He seemed to relax a little at the news. "Did you quarrel again?" he said hopefully.

We were still standing in the centre of the room, as the offer of a drink hadn't extended to a chair also. There were fat chintz- covered armchairs in a stylised flower pattern on a mottled grey carpet, heavy red curtains and a brick fireplace with a newly-lit fire burning. I'd been in his house about as seldom as in Ferdinand's, and I'd never been upstairs.

"We haven't quarrelled," I said. "Do you remember when old Fred blew up the tree stump?"

He found no difficulty in the change of subject. "Ferdinand said you'd asked that," he said. "Yes, of course I remember."

"Did Fred show you how he set off the explosive?"

"No, he damn well didn't. You're not trying to make out that I blew up the house, are you?" His anger always near the surface, stoked up a couple of notches. "No," I said calmly. "I should have said, did Fred show you or anyone else how he set off the explosive."

"I can only speak for myself," he said distinctly, "and the answer is no."

Gervase was heavy and, I thought, getting heavier. His suit looked filled. I had never quite grown to his height. He was the tallest and biggest of all Malcolm's children and easily the most forceful. He looked a strong successful man, and he was cracking up for lack of a piece of paper that no one gave a damn about except himself. Perhaps, I thought, there was something of that obsessive ness in us all. In some it was healthy, in others destructive, but the gene that had given Malcolm his Midas obsession with gold had been a dominant strain.

Gervase said, "Will Malcolm ante up anything before he dies?" His voice was as usual loud and domineering, but I looked at him speculatively over my glass. There had been an odd sub-note of desperation, as if it weren't just of academic interest to him, but essential. Norman West's notes recycled themselves: "lost his nerve and was selling only gilts. Too much playing safe was bad stockbroking…" Gervase, who had seemed comfortably fixed, might all of a sudden not be.

I answered the words of the question, not the implications. "I did ask him to. He said he would think about it."

"Bloody old fool," Gervase said violently. "He's playing bloody games with us. Chucking the stuff away just to spite us. Buying bloody horses. I could strangle him." He stopped as if shocked at what he'd more or less shouted with conviction. "Figure of speech," he said, hard-eyed.

"I'll try again," I said, ignoring it, "but Vivien tried, and rubbed him up the wrong way so that he stuck his toes in. Malcolm's obstinate, the way we all are, and the more anyone tries to push him, the harder he'll resist."

"It's you that got him to buy horses. He wouldn't have thought of it on his own He was glaring at me. "Two million pounds for a bloody colt. Do you realise what two million pounds means? Have you any idea? Two million pounds for a four-legged nothing? He's raving mad. Two million pounds invested in any one of us would give us freedom from worry for the rest of our lives, and he goes and spends it on a horse. Retarded children are bad enough, half a million for retarded children… but that's not enough for him, is it? Oh no. He buys that bloody horse Blue Clancy, and how many more millions did that cost him? How many?" He was insistent, belligerent, demanding, his chin thrust aggressively forward. "He can afford it," I said. "I think he's very rich."

"Think!" Gervase grew even angrier. "How do you know he isn't flinging away every penny? I'll find a way of stopping him. He's got to be stopped."

He suddenly stretched out his free hand and plucked my half-full glass from my grasp.

"Go on, get out of here," he said. "I've had enough."

I didn't move. I said, "Throwing me out won't solve any problems."

"It'll make a bloody good start." He put both glasses on the table and looked ready to put thought into action.

"When Malcolm fled to Cambridge," I said, "did Alicia tell you where he was?"

"What?" It stopped him momentarily. "I don't know what you're talking about. Go on, get out."

"Did you telephone to Malcolm's hotel in Cambridge?"

He hardly listened. He embarked on a heartfelt tirade. "I'm fed up with your sneers and your airs and graces. You think you're better than me, you always have, and you're not. You've always weasel led into Malcolm's good books and set him against us and he's blind and stupid about you… and get out." He stepped forward threateningly, one hand in a fist.