'Oh.  Suvinder, is it?  Okay then, consummate it.'

'Consummate it?'

'Yes.  Is he that gruesome?'

'He's a little plump.'

'How little?'

'Maybe an extra twenty, thirty pounds.'

'How tall is he?'

'About my height.  No, a bit taller.'

'That is not grotesquely obese.  Does his breath smell?'

'I don't think so.'

'Does his body smell?'

'No.  Well, only of scent.  Well, I mean…Never mind.'

'Teeth straight?'

'The teeth are good.  The teeth are an asset.  And he's a good dancer.  Light on his feet.  Even graceful.  You could say graceful.'

'Well, that's good.'

'Yeah, but they're old-fashioned dances; waltzes and shit.'

'The waltz may be making a come-back.  That's a neutral, for now.  Could become a plus.'

'Okay.  What else?'

'Full head of hair?'

'Yup.  Maybe too full; slightly bouffant.'

'Irrelevant.  Hair on a man's head is like the opposite of salt in a dish; you can take it away but you can't add it in.'

'That is so nearly profound it's painful.  Keep going.'

'Is he slimy, repellent, actually, like, ugly?'

'None of the above.'

'Can you imagine fucking him?… Hello?  Kathryn?  Hello?'

'I just imagined it.'

'And?'

'It wasn't that good for me.'

'Did you imagine having to fake orgasm?'

'Yes.  Probably.  Maybe.'

'But you don't actually feel sick?'

'Not sick.  Possibly a little soiled.'

'Why soiled?'

'I never imagined fucking a guy I didn't actively want to fuck before.'

'You haven't?'

'Never.'

'You're unreal.  But anyway, it wasn't that awful, right?'

'Right.  But imagining fucking him isn't the same as actually fucking him, is it?'

'That's what your imagination is for, you idiot, it's like on-board VR.  If it's not that terrible in your imagination it'll probably be even better in reality.'

'So I marry him, fuck him, but keep my beloved as lover?'

'Yes.'

'That may be a little sophisticated.  I'm not sure how that'll play someplace where a good wife is worth three yaks.'

'Be discreet.  Anyway, he's a man.  He'll want to play away, too.  Think reciprocity.'

'What about children?'

'What about children?'

'What if I'm expected to produce?  There's a royal line to be continued here.'

'Well…maybe you're not fertile.'

'I am.'

'You checked?'

'I checked.'

'So go on the pill.  Tell him they're headache tablets.  He'll never know.'

'That is almost plausible.'

'Anyway, once you're in a stable relationship, in fact once you're in two stable relationships, with the King-prince and your beloved, you may change your mind.  You may realise you've wanted children all along.'

'So you would have me believe.'

'Hmm.  The Prince; his colouring.  Is he, ah, dark-complexioned?  Compared to the beloved, I mean.  Could you…would it be possible…?'

'…No, I don't think I want to look down that…'

'…No, you're right, maybe not.'

'Definitely not.  I could get beheaded or something.'

'They behead people for that sort of thing there?'

'Actually they don't have the death penalty at all.  More civilised than the US in that respect.'

'Yeah?  Well, fuck them.  How many aircraft carriers they got?'

'Not a lot of call for aircraft carriers in landlocked Himalayan states.'

'Stealth bombers?  Cruise missiles?  Nukes?'

'You're right, they're pathetically ill-equipped to enter an escalating correctional-system conflict with Old Glory.'

'You do realise you could end up with three passports at the end of this?'

'Dear holy shit!  I hadn't thought of that!'

'Well, you —'

'Hold on, I got a call waiting.  Oh, shit.  I got a bad feeling about this, Luce.'

Miss Heggies was sitting on the parapet at the end of the mile-long reflecting pool, her feet dangling almost in the water, her usually neatly bunned hair hanging down in grey lengths around her undone collar.  She didn't look round when I parked the old Lancia on the gravel behind her.

I went up and sat with her on the stone, my legs drawn up under my chin.  A very light rain, what we'd call a smir in Scotland, was falling from the bright grey overcast.

'I'm very sorry, Miss Heggies.'

'Yes,' she said dully, still staring at the flat water. 'Sorry.'

I put my arm out tentatively.  She inclined millimetrically towards me.  She didn't exactly relax and start sobbing, but. she leant against me and put her arm round my waist, patting me.  We sat like that for a while.  In Scotland, sometimes crying is called greeting, and it only struck me then that it was odd that something you usually did when you were saying goodbye to somebody, one way or another, should also mean welcoming.

On the way back to the house I stopped and looked up at the place.  So did she, gazing wonderingly at it, as though taking in its baroque confections of stonework for the first time.  She sniffed, buttoning the collar of her dress and tucking up her hair.

'Do you know what's happening to Blysecrag, Ms Telman?'

'Apparently it's going to the National Trust, but I think only on condition you get to stay.'

She nodded.  I pulled a piece of paper out of my pocket. 'And this is my inheritance.'

She squinted at the note. 'David Rennell?  He used to be a gardener here.  Nice lad.  Mr Ferrindonald found him a job with the company.'

'Yes, most recently just outside Glasgow.  I'm sorry if this isn't a good time, Miss H, but Uncle Freddy obviously thought this was important and I'd like to talk to Mr Rennell as soon as possible.  Would you make the introduction?'

'Of course, Ms Telman.'

I didn't really need the introduction from Miss H, apart from having my identity confirmed quickly; Uncle F had told David Rennell to answer all my questions if I ever got in touch.

'You've been in there?'

'Yes, Ms Telman.  There doesn't seem to be any big deal about it any more.  People are wandering in and out, clearing up and that sort of thing.' He had a nice Yorkshire accent.

'Call me Kathryn.  I'll call you David, all right?'

'All right.'

'So, David, what was there?  What did you see?'

'Just a big empty room.  There were containers for etching materials in there, but I talked to one of the guys; they were empty and just put in there the other day, after everything was moved out.'

'What was moved out?'

'I don't know.  Whatever it was it all disappeared in the middle of the night, on the twentieth.  Somebody saw a load of desks being shifted next morning.  I think some of them might still be around in the warehouse.'

'Could you describe the room in more detail?'

'About ten metres by twenty, ceiling the same height as the rest of the factory, with the usual ducting and so on, carpet tiles on the floor, lots of cables lying around and coming out of opened conduits in the floor.'

'What sort of cables?'

'Power cables.  Lots of others, like printer cables and that sort of thing.  Ah, I picked up a couple of connectors and plugs and so on.'

'Ah-hah.  Well done.  Could you possibly do me a favour, David?'

'Certainly.'

'…and maybe take some time off?'

I was to meet David Rennell in the car park at Carter Bar, right on the border between England and Scotland.  It was a coolish, blustery day.  The view from the shallow pass, looking north into the undulating hills, forests and fields of the Scottish lowlands, was moodily dramatic and changing all the time under the clouds that sped and tumbled above.  I got a veggie burger from a van at one end of the car park and sat eating it in the car.  Very stake-out.  Meeting on the border; very cold war.

It had been a good drive.  I'd left the phone off for most of it, just driving the Aurelia across the moors on secondary roads, thinking.