London, 1939

Jack Skelton put the cigarette in his mouth, lit it, then handed it to Weyland. “Well?” Weyland took a long, appreciative drag on the cigarette. “It’s Pen Hill,” he said. “Noah loved this place.”

“Goddamn it, tell me why you brought me here!”

Weyland tipped the cigarette towards the summit of the hill. “Harold came to her here and made love to her when she was Caela. That was just before the unfortunateness of Hastings.”

Skelton’s face tightened. He tipped out another cigarette from his pack, and lit it. “Yes?”

“Long Tom used to dance atop here.”

“Weyland—”

“I wanted to show you the summit. Do you think you can get over these railings?”

Skelton shot him a black look, then leapt lightly upwards, grasping the top of the railings and hoisting himself easily over.

At the kerbside, Frank—who was now standing by the driver’s window of the black sedan talking to Piper—looked over, obviously appalled at the further time about to be wasted.

Within a moment Weyland Orr had joined Skelton, and together they slowly climbed the hill. It only took them a minute.

“It has shrunk and somewhat declined,” said Weyland as they reached the top. Where the summit should have been there was a dip of some four feet, and then the blank grey water of a reservoir. “Now the hill is used by the London Water Authority as a holding station for water before it is pumped further into the city. Pity, really.”

“A sad fate for a sacred hill,” said Skelton. “Did you plan it? Do it to torture Noah? To torture the land?”

“Oh, it was done to torture the land,” said Weyland, then took another long drag on his cigarette. “Effective, too. There are drowned stones at the bottom of this reservoir, Jack. Murdered Sidlesaghes. Who now knows they are there, eh? Who cares, these days? But I didn’t do this, Jack. You know who did.”

Skelton didn’t reply.

“Stella tells me you walked about London last night,” Weyland said. Skelton grunted.

“Did you see me, Jack? Parading about in all my bullish finery?”

Skelton dragged his eyes away from the water to Weyland. “You’re far prettier this morning.”

“I didn’t move from my bed last night, Jack. As you know, my bed holds far greater pleasures for me than chasing you through the cold, heartless streets of London. You spoke to…well, I’m sure you know who you spoke to. But it certainly wasn’t to me.”

Jack Skelton stared at him, and then, with a muttered expletive, turned back for the cars.