'Be a good chap,' Emsworth said. 'There's a whiskey decanter on the sideboard. Pour me a large one and one for Lady Helen.'

'Will I need it?'

'I think so.'

She nodded. Hedley poured the drinks and'served them. 'I'll be in the kitchen if you need me.'

'Thank you. I think I might.'

Hedley looked grim, but retired to the kitchen. He stood there thinking about it, then noticed the two doors to the serving hatch and eased them ajar. It was underhanded, yes, but all that concerned him was her welfare. He sat down on a stool and listened.

'For years I lived a lie as far as my friends were concerned,' Emsworth said. 'Even Martha didn't know the truth. You all thought I was Foreign Office. Well, it wasn't true. I worked for the Secret Intelligence Service for years. Oh, not in the field. I was the kind of office man who sent brave men out to do the dirty work and who frequently died doing it. One of them was Major Peter Lang.'

There was that crawling feeling again. 'I see,' she said carefully.

'Let me explain. My office was responsible for black operations in Ireland. The people we were after were not only IRA, but Loyalist paramilitaries who, because of threats and intimidation of witnesses, escaped legal justice.'

'And what was your solution?'

'We had undercover groups, SAS in the main, who disposed of them.'

'Murdered, you mean?'

'No, I can't accept that word. We've been at war with these people for too many years.'

She didn't pour the tea, but reached for the whiskey and sipped some. 'Am I to understand that my son did such work?'

'Yes, he was one of our best operatives. Peter's ability to turn on a range of Irish accents was invaluable. He could sound like a building site worker from Derry if he wanted to. He was part of a group of five. Four men, plus a woman officer.'

'And?'

'They all came to an untimely end within the same week. Three men and the woman shot…'