t was raining at Clonloughlin the first morning Anthony was back, and there was a faint mist that softened the dark skeletal trees and the tall chimneys of the house etched so starkly against the leaden sky.

As he walked up the central path carved out between wide lawns he thought how lovely it looked even on this bleak winter’s day, with its symmetrical, harmonious proportions, soaring windows, and the four white Palladian pillars supporting the front portico. Georgian in origin, it was a stately mansion situated on a small rise in the middle of a splendid park, with excellent views from its many windows. There were three hundred and sixty-five of them altogether, one for each day of the year, a fine madness on the part of his ancestor who had built the house in the eighteenth century. But it was a madness that Anthony had always secretly applauded. The many windows were unique, gave the exteriors a certain gracefulness, opened up the interiors to the pastoral landscape, filled those beautiful rooms with light and air the whole year round, and hazy sunshine in the summer months.

Anthony loved Clonloughlin with a fierce and abiding passion. It was his ancestral home and the only place he had ever wanted to live. He had been born here forty-five years ago and he would die here when his time came. And his son Jeremy would continue in his place, the Standish line unbroken as it had been for centuries.

His mind swung to Alexander and a rush of sadness engulfed him as it had last night when he had been talking to Sally. Although she had met him at Cork Airport he had resisted giving her the grave news about Sandy on their drive home. He had not even told her when they finally reached Clonloughlin, had waited instead until they were in the privacy of their bedroom suite.

Sally had been dreadfully upset once she had heard the stark facts about Sandy’s illness; she had wept, and he had comforted her. And then to cheer themselves up and trying to be as positive as possible, they had made extensive plans for Sandy’s stay with them after he left the hospital. But later, when Sally had fallen asleep in his arms, her cheeks had been tear-stained once again. She and her brother Winston had grown up in Yorkshire with Sandy and Emily, and they had been unusually close; Sandy was one of the godfathers to Giles, their nine-year-old son.

Anthony now veered to the left as he drew nearer to the house, and went around to the other side, entered through the back door. Inside the small indoor porch he shed his barbour and tweed cap, which were both drenched with rain, hanging the oilskin and the hat on the coatstand to drip. Seating himself on the wooden chair, he pulled off his green Wellington boots, slipped into a pair of brown loafers, then hurried down the back passageway to the library.

The house was very quiet.

It was early, only seven, and Sally was still asleep, as were the younger children. Settling himself at the desk near the window, he pulled a pile of correspondence towards him, began to sort through the mail that had accumulated in the week he had been in London on business.

He did not hear the housekeeper come into the room until she spoke.

‘Good morning, your lordship,’ said Bridget O’Donnell. ‘I didn’t expect you to be up so early after your late arrival last night. Excuse me for not having the fire going in here.’

‘Ah, good morning, Bridget,’ Anthony said with a quick smile as he looked up. ‘No problem. I’m not cold.’

‘The kettle’s boiling. I’ll just be putting a match to the fire, and then I’ll be back with your pot of tea and toast.’

‘Thank you,’ he murmured, glanced down at the papers, wondering whether to ask her what it was she wished to discuss with him, then decided against it. Far better to wait until he had been fortified by his light breakfast. Bridget had a tendency to be garrulous at times, which required an enormous amount of patience on his part. He was not in the mood for her this morning.

He heard matches being struck, a faint whoosh as the paper and wood chips ignited and flames flew up the wide chimney back. Then there was the sound of bellows being pumped, the scraping of metal against stone as she placed the guard around the fire, and finally departed to the kitchen.

Anthony reached for the letter addressed to him in his son’s handwriting. Jeremy had only just returned to prep school after the Christmas holidays, and as he slit open the envelope he wondered what his eldest son and heir had to say to him. There would be a request for cash, no doubt. Eleven-year-old schoolboys were forever hard up. He smiled. Jeremy was exactly like he had been at the same age. But the boy worried him at times. Jem was not strong physically, did not have the robust health of his brother Giles and his sister India, and Anthony had to resist the temptation to mollycoddle him, as did Sally.

Anthony scanned the letter quickly. It was, as usual, a sketchy, imprecise report of Jeremy’s activities over the last few days since he had been back at school, with a postscript, underscored, to please send money urgently, please, daddy, please.

Bridget came sailing in with the breakfast tray sooner than he had expected, and Anthony put the letter down as she approached.

‘Where would you like this, your lordship?’

‘You can put it here on the desk,’ he answered her, pushing aside the papers he had been perusing a moment before.

She did so, then went around to the other side of the large partners’ desk, stood looking at him.

Lifting the teapot, he poured tea into the oversized breakfast cup, added milk, then glanced at her. ‘Yes, what is it, Bridget?’

‘I’ve got to talk to you, Lord Dunvale. About something important.’

‘Now?’

‘Yes, sir, I think so…I’d like to get it out of the way…this morning.’

Anthony smothered a sigh. ‘All right.’ He spread his favourite thick-cut Frank Cooper marmalade onto the buttered toast, crunched on it, took a sip of tea. When the housekeeper was silent, he said, ‘Go on, Bridget, get it off your chest. And don’t hover there, you know I detest people doing that. Please, do sit down.’

She lowered herself into the chair, sat facing him, twisted her hands together nervously in her lap, focused her dark blue eyes on him.

The Earl finished his slice of toast as he waited for her to begin. Finally he raised a brow.

Bridget said slowly, ‘I’m not quite sure how to tell you this,’ and stopped abruptly mid-sentence.

Anthony, who had his cup halfway to his mouth, put it down with a clatter, stared at her in alarm. This was the second time in the space of several days that someone had begun a sentence with those words. First Sandy, and now Bridget, and it seemed like a bad omen. ‘You really ought to be able to tell me anything, Bridget. After all, we’ve known each other since we were children.’

The housekeeper nodded. ‘Well, your lordship…what I have to say…Well, it is about Lady Dunvale.’

‘Oh.’ He sounded surprised and his eyes narrowed.

‘Not this Lady Dunvale. The first one.’

‘My mother?’

‘No, no, not the Dowager Countess. Your first wife…that’s who I mean…the Lady Minerva, sir.’

Startled, Anthony sat back in his chair and gave Bridget a long, probing look. ‘What about the late Lady Dunvale?’ he asked at last.

‘It’s…er…er…about her death.’

For a moment he could not speak or move. Instinctively, he knew that something awful was about to be said, and he braced himself before muttering, ‘Is it important to discuss her death now…so long after the event?’

‘Yes,’ Bridget said tersely.

‘Why?’ he probed, unable to resist the question, yet, conversely, not wanting to hear a word she had to say.

‘Because I don’t want it on my conscience any more,’ Bridget replied. ‘I have to tell you what really happened…it’s been a burden for me to carry, a nightmare still, even after all these years.’

His mouth had gone very dry. ‘Tell me.’

‘It wasn’t suicide like they said it was at the inquest.’

He frowned, at first uncomprehending, not fully understanding her meaning. ‘Are you trying to tell me that Lady Dunvale fell into the lake, that she had an accident as I’ve always maintained? That she didn’t take her own life?’

‘No, she didn’t, she – ‘ Bridget cut herself off, pursed her lips, then muttered, ‘She was put there.’

‘By whom?’ His voice was barely audible.

‘Michael Lamont. They had a quarrel that fateful Saturday night, those two did, and he struck her. She fell, hit her face on the brass fender in his living room. If you remember, she did have a bruise on her face. The pathologist and Doctor Brennan mentioned it at the inquest. Well anyway, Lamont couldn’t revive her. She appeared to be unconscious. Within seconds he realized she was actually dead. He said she’d had a heart attack or something. All that liquor she had drunk continually through the afternoon and evening, the tranquillizers she was forever swallowing…the combination killed her, he said. So Lamont took her and put her in the lake to cover everything up, and the next morning he drove past, pretended to have found her body…then he came up to the mansion to tell you there had been an accident, and he sent for the police and no one ever suspected him of being involved in any way. But they did suspect you though. At least, Sergeant McNamara did.’

Events that had happened over a decade ago came rushing back to hit Anthony between the eyes, and he remembered every tiny detail with great vividness and clarity. He felt as if he had been kicked several times in the stomach, and he began to tremble all over, clasped his hands together to stop them shaking, took several deep steadying breaths. He said at last, ‘And how do you know all this, Bridget?’

‘I had seen her ladyship that afternoon, when she had driven over to Clonloughlin from Waterford. You know she came to the estate quite a lot, even though you had forbidden her to do so and were in the middle of the divorce. But Lady Min couldn’t stay away, she loved Clonloughlin so much. She often came to see me. And him. We had tea together that afternoon, and she drove off around five, told me she was going down to the lake…she’d always been drawn to the lough, even when she was a small girl. Don’t you remember the picnics the three of us used to have there when we were children? In any case, sir, you saw her little red car at the edge of the lake, after your Land-Rover had stalled, and you’d decided to walk home, taking the long way round in order to avoid her. And her ladyship also took a walk…over to Michael Lamont’s house. She’d told me she was going to have dinner with him, but explained that she wouldn’t be staying the night. You see, your lordship, they were – ‘

Bridget took a gulp of air, rushed on in breathless haste, the words pouring out of her, ‘They were having an affair. Lady Min had told me she would come by the kitchen at ten-thirty to say goodnight to me. She never ever left Clonloughlin without doing that. When she hadn’t arrived by eleven-thirty I got worried, so I went down to Lamont’s house looking for her.’

Bridget paused and her face crumpled and she almost broke down. She was suddenly thinking of their childhood, remembering how close they had been…she and Lady Minerva Glendenning, daughter of the Earl of Rothmerrion and the young Lord Anthony Standish, now the Earl of Dunvale. So long ago. And yet those days were as clear to her as yesterday, and they had been the best part of her life.

Watching her, Anthony saw the distress on Bridget’s face, the anguish in her eyes, and he was about to make a sympathetic gesture towards her, but inexplicably changed his mind. He said, a trifle harshly, ‘Continue, Bridget, tell me everything. I must know.’

She nodded, swallowed. ‘When I got to Lamont’s door it was locked and the curtains were drawn, but I could hear them. Screaming at each other like banshees they were, saying horrible things, vile they were, and her ladyship…well, she sounded very drunk. Out of control. And then suddenly everything was quiet. There was absolute silence. I was frightened. I banged hard on the door, called out that it was me, and Michael let me in. He had no option, did he. Besides, he knew how close I was to Lady Min. When I saw her lying on the floor my heart stopped. I ran to her, tried to revive her. But she was gone. It was then that Lamont dreamed up the idea of putting her in the lake, so as to make it look as if she had drowned herself. You see, he didn’t want you to know that he’d been sleeping with Lady Min for all those years. He was afraid you’d sack him if you found out. He couldn’t afford to lose his job. And even though he hadn’t had a hand in Lady Min’s death, it might have looked as if he had. That’s what he said to me, your lordship. And he kept repeating it, over and over again, and he told me that circumstantial evidence can be very damning.’

Anthony was appalled and outraged. ‘Why in God’s name didn’t you come up to the mansion to get me?’ he demanded furiously, his voice rising in anger and disgust. ‘Why did you go along with Lamont?’

Bridget compressed her lips, said nothing.

He saw the stubborn set of her jaw, the defiance in the iceblue eyes and he knew he was wasting his breath. She had been independent and difficult as a child; she had changed little over the years. If she did not want to confide her reasons for her silence at the time of Min’s death, and for so many years after, then nothing could drag it out of her.

Sitting back in the chair, he studied her thoughtfully, trying to still his rage, the urge to shake her violently. And then suddenly a terrible thought occurred to him, one so unacceptable he tried to squash it, was barely able to face it. But he found himself saying carefully, and with great deliberation, ‘Why were you so sure Lady Min was actually dead?’ He leaned forward, fixed his probing, steely eyes on her. ‘Lady Min may only have been unconscious, Bridget. In which case, Michael Lamont did murder her if he put her in the lough whilst she was still alive.’

‘No, no, she was dead, I know she was dead!’ Bridget cried excitedly, her eyes wide and flaring. ‘I know she was dead!’ she insisted, verging on hysteria.

‘Do you not recall the pathologist’s report? Doctor Kenmarr said that when he did the autopsy he discovered an excessive amount of alcohol and barbiturates in her bloodstream and a quantity of water in her lungs. This led him to conclude that her death had been by drowning. And since her lungs were full of water she could not have been dead when she was placed in the lake. I don’t believe a dead body can take in water.’

As the implications of his words sank in, Bridget paled. She had loved Minerva like a sister, had mothered her from the first moment she had set eyes on her as a child.

‘No!’ Bridget shouted. ‘She wasn’t alive. She was dead. I would never have harmed her. I loved her. I loved her. You know I did. The water must have somehow seeped into her lungs afterwards.’

Anthony wondered if this was actually possible. He decided it might be, depending on the length of time Min had been dead before she had been submerged in the lake. He rubbed his forehead wearily, looked across at the housekeeper, asked in a quiet, very controlled voice, ‘Was her body still warm when Lamont took her out to the lake?’

Bridget nodded, not able to speak, shaken by the Earl’s horrifying suggestion.

‘Rigor mortis doesn’t set in for about two to four hours after death. I suppose she might have been able to take water into her lungs for a short time after she died. Maybe for half an hour. But no longer, I’m absolutely sure of that. Still, only a pathologist could give me a truly accurate answer,’ Anthony said softly, almost to himself, as if thinking aloud.

Bridget stared at him, twisted her hands in her lap.

There was a long and deadly silence. The strain between them was a most palpable thing, hung heavy in the air.

Eventually the Earl spoke. Pinning his eyes on the housekeeper, he said, ‘Why did you suddenly decide to speak up, to confide in me now, after so many years? Tell me that, Bridget O’Donnell.’

Bridget cried, ‘But I already told you…I couldn’t have it on my conscience any longer…I mean about you not knowing the truth, not knowing the real circumstances of Lady Min’s death. I realized how much it troubled you…the idea that she had committed suicide while the balance of her mind was disturbed. You’d blamed yourself for years, blamed her death on your decision to leave her and get a divorce. And I was sure you believed your relationship with your cousin Miss Sally Harte had been a contributing factor in your wife’s death.’

Anthony flinched. There was a certain truth in all this.

Bridget gave Anthony a hard stare. ‘I wanted to put your mind at rest, your lordship,’ she finished.

Like hell you did, Anthony thought, not for one moment believing her. And then, in a flash of sudden insight, he understood. There was no question in his mind that Bridget had been having an affair with Michael Lamont. But Lamont was leaving Clonloughlin in a few days. He was going away and he was never coming back. He was going to America to work for Mrs Alma Berringer, the young American widow who had recently returned to her horse farm in Virginia after renting Rothmerrion Lodge for the past year. Lamont and Mrs Berringer had been friendly, but Anthony had not realized just how intimate they had become until Lamont had given his notice a month ago, announced that he was moving to the States.

Anthony rose, walked over to the huge stone fireplace, picked up the poker and stirred the logs. His expression was ruminative. He was convinced he was right. Slowly he spun around, stood facing Bridget, studying her with infinite care. Never really pretty, she had, however, been very arresting when she was younger, with her blazing red hair and milk white skin and cornflower blue eyes. Her striking colouring and long legs and lissome figure had always caught men’s attention. But sadly she had not aged well. The red hair was a faded salt-and-pepper auburn rapidly turning grey, her figure had lost its willowy appeal. Only those bright blue eyes remained unchanged, vivid and youthful. And very calculating, he decided. Yes, Bridget O’Donnell was always manipulative and devious even when she was a child. And oh how she had dominated poor Min. Odd that he had never realized this until now.

‘There’s an old saying, Bridget,’ Anthony remarked in an icy, contained voice. ‘Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned.’

‘I’m sorry, sir, but I’m not following you.’

‘You’re in love with him. You’ve always loved him since the first day he came to run the estate for me. That’s why you helped him, protected him since my wife’s death. And after she was dead, you became involved with him. And now, because he’s leaving you, going off, chasing after another woman, you want your revenge. You’re sticking the knife between Michael Lamont’s shoulder blades with a real vengeance, aren’t you? That’s what all this is about, isn’t it?’

She stared him down. ‘No,’ she said flatly. ‘It isn’t. I simply wanted to put your mind at rest. I didn’t want you to blame yourself for Lady Min’s death.’

‘But I don’t,’ Anthony said coldly, in all truthfulness, ‘and I haven’t for years. You’re pointing a finger at Lamont because he’s found somebody younger and prettier than you. Let’s face it, Bridget, your lover has passed you over.’

At these words she flushed deeply, looked down at her hands.

Anthony knew his words had struck home.

After a moment, she asked in a low, subdued voice, ‘What are you going to do about Michael Lamont? Are you going to have it out with him?’

Anthony looked at her with steadiness for several seconds, then slowly walked across the floor, resumed his position behind his desk. He leaned over it, looked deeply into those blue eyes so warily returning his penetrating gaze.

‘Obviously I shall confront Lamont. The facts you have given me cannot be ignored. As you know they cannot. That’s why you told me in the first place.’ There was a small pause before he said, ‘However, I may also go to the police, open up the investigation into my wife’s death again. And I wonder, Bridget, if it’s ever occurred to you that you helped to tamper with evidence in a sudden and questionable death. And that you perjured yourself under oath. Also, if my first wife was alive when Michael Lamont put her in the lake, then you are also an accessory after the fact. An accessory to murder.’

Once Bridget had returned to the kitchen to go about her duties for the day, Anthony made a telephone call to Cork. It lasted for ten minutes and mostly he listened. When he quietly put the receiver back in the cradle his face was white and his expression was grim.

Glancing at the clock on the mantel, he rose to his feet, left the library and went down the passageway to the indoor porch. After putting on his wellingtons and his barbour, he took his tweed cap off the coat stand and went outside.

He looked up. It had stopped raining but the sky was still overcast and a light mist persisted. Walking at a brisk pace, he took the path which led to Michael Lamont’s house. It was just a few yards away from the lake, set back against a copse of trees next to a field. When he reached the front door he barged inside without knocking, strode through the hall, across the living room and into the adjoining office.

Lamont, a dark-haired, heavy-set but good-looking man, was seated behind the desk, entering figures in a large estate ledger. He looked up in surprise as the door was flung open unceremoniously and a gust of air caused the papers on his desk to flutter and lift.

‘Good morning, Lord Dunvale,’ he said pleasantly, his weatherbeaten face breaking into a smile. And then the smile vanished as he became aware of Anthony’s dire expression, his angry stance.

‘Is something wrong?’ Lamont asked, rising.

Anthony did not at first reply. He stepped into the room, closed the heavy oak door behind him firmly, leaned against it. He studied the estate manager through icy eyes. Lamont had worked for him for almost twenty years, and he suddenly wondered what in God’s name made him tick. Anthony had always believed he knew Lamont inside out; apparently he had not known him at all. He had considered him to be a trustworthy and devoted employee and a good friend. Now he was filled with loathing for him.

At last Anthony said, ‘Bridget had rather a strange tale to tell earlier this morning. About the late Lady Dunvale’s death.’

Taken by surprise, off guard, Lamont gaped at him, opened his mouth to speak, then closed it. He walked away from the desk swiftly, hovered near the fireplace, wanting to put distance between himself and Anthony. Reaching for a cigarette, he lit it, then pivoted to look at the Earl.

Lamont’s expression was one of uncertainty and his dark brown eyes flickered with apprehension. ‘What exactly are you getting at?’ he asked finally.

‘Bridget told me everything, confided every little detail about what happened here in this house that tragic evening.’ Anthony stepped forward, drew closer to the estate manager, let his eyes rest on him for the longest moment.

Lamont flinched under this intense and unwavering scrutiny. Blinking, he eventually glanced away, took a long drag on his cigarette, inhaling deeply.

‘How could you be so certain Min was dead after she collapsed?’ Anthony demanded in a hard voice. ‘You’re not a doctor, Lamont.’

Lamont’s face turned brilliant red and he cried out angrily, ‘She was dead! I’m telling you she was dead!’ Unexpectedly he began to cough, and it took him a few minutes to recover. When he finally caught his breath, he added, ‘I might not be a doctor, but I do know when somebody has stopped breathing.’ He puffed on the cigarette again with nervous intensity, then exclaimed in a shaky voice, ‘I tried to revive her, to breathe life into her with mouth-to-mouth resuscitation, but she was gone. I loved Min. Which is more than you ever did.’

Anthony took another step forward. His hands were clenched tightly at his sides, his knuckles shining white in the pale morning light. He wanted to ram his fist into Lamont’s red, boozy face, smash it to a pulp until it was unrecognizable. But he resisted the impulse, hung onto his self-possession with a masterful control.

‘You don’t know the meaning of the word love, Lamont. You’re a philandering, double-dealing bastard, and a menace to any decent woman.’

‘You talk to me about philandering. What about you!’ Lamont snorted. ‘Certainly you drove Minerva into my arms with your constant womanizing and years of neglect.’

Anthony held himself very taut. He was once more afraid that he might do Lamont bodily harm. He said slowly, ‘Why didn’t you come for me when my wife collapsed? Or at least call a doctor? Why did you take matters into your own hands? Your behaviour was unconscionable and nothing short of reckless.’

Michael Lamont was not blessed with great intelligence, but he had sufficient native shrewdness to recognize that Bridget O’Donnell had done her work well. He decided there was no point in lying, and so he spoke the absolute truth when he mumbled, ‘I was afraid. Afraid that once you knew what had been going on between us you’d get rid of me. I couldn’t lose my job. It also occurred to me that you might blame me for her death. Circumstantial evidence has condemned more than one innocent man. Don’t you see,’ he finished in a whining tone, ‘I had no choice, I had to cover everything up.’

Disgust and revulsion swamped Anthony as he continued to observe the estate manager with a steely gaze. ‘I wonder how you’ve been able to look me in the eye all these years, knowing the terrible things you did, knowing how you lied to everyone to protect your own skin. You’re despicable, Lamont. Monstrous.’

Lamont did not respond. How stupid he had been not to leave Clonloughlin years ago. He had stayed because of Bridget O’Donnell, the terrible hold she had over him. He had never really trusted her. Apparently he had been right not to do so. When their long relationship had ended by mutual consent, he had believed himself to be finally free of her. There had been no rancorous feelings on her part, or so he had thought. He had been wrong. The minute he had taken up with another woman she had struck out at him like a viper, wanting to destroy him. She had succeeded.

‘I ache to give you the biggest thrashing of your life,’ Anthony was saying. ‘But I’m not going to lay a finger on you. I shall let the law do my work for me.’

Lamont started, drawn out of his thoughts. He peered at Anthony. ‘What? What are you saying?’

‘I fully intend to reopen the investigation into my wife’s death. I believe you killed Lady Dunvale. And I aim to see that you pay for it,’ Anthony said with cold deliberation.

‘You’re mad, stark raving mad!’ Lamont shouted, his dark eyes popping out of his face, his expression one of sudden fear. ‘You don’t know what you’re talking about, Dunvale. Min poisoned her system with all that muck she was forever swallowing. She died within a few minutes of collapsing.’

‘That’s where you’re quite wrong,’ Anthony said in a voice that was murderously soft. ‘She was in a deeply unconscious state, which was indeed induced by excessive amounts of alcohol and barbiturates. But when you placed her in the lake she was very much alive, and –’

‘I don’t believe you! You’re lying! Inventing all this!’

‘I am not!’ Anthony shot back with ferocity. ‘When Bridget confided in me this morning I was not absolutely sure about certain medical facts! So I telephoned Forensic at the hospital in Cork, where I located Doctor Stephen Kenmarr. The pathologist who did the autopsy on Min’s body, who discovered her lungs were full of water and testified at the inquest that she had died of drowning.’

Anthony paused, finished emphatically, and very slowly, as if to give added weight to his words, ‘Doctor Kenmarr confirmed to me what I already suspected…that water cannot be inhaled by a person who is dead. Therefore, Min was alive when you placed her in the lake. You drowned her.’

Michael Lamont felt his hackles rising, and he was so shocked, so stunned by Anthony’s dreadful accusation he could barely stand. He swayed slightly on his feet, reached out, supported himself against the mantelpiece. The idea that he might have actually caused Min’s death struck horror in him. Over the years he had suffered greatly, had been haunted by his deceit, the lies he had told, the cover up he had wrought, and he had never stopped wrestling with his guilt and his conscience.

Now he cried out in protest, ‘No, Dunvale, no! She had no pulse, no heartbeat!’ He choked on his words and tears came into his eyes and he broke down completely. ‘I could not have done anything to hurt her,’ he sobbed. ‘I loved her. Talk to Bridget again. Please. Please. She’ll verify that I’m telling the truth. Min was dead…and Bridget O’Donnell knows that she was.’

‘She was alive, Lamont!’

‘No! No!’ Demented, Lamont rushed at Anthony, his arms flailing in the air, his face apoplectic. He felt a sudden and excruciating pain shoot across his temple and along the side of his face, but he did not let it slow him down. He lunged at Anthony. As he did another searing pain blinded him. The blood rushed to his head and everything went black. He fell sprawling to the floor, and then was still.

Startled, Anthony stood looking down at him, momentarily rooted to the spot, unable to move. He had noticed the sudden and dreadful change when Lamont had rushed towards him, had instantly realized that the other man was having some sort of seizure.

Pulling himself together, Anthony bent down, felt Lamont’s pulse. It was erratic, faint, but it was there.

Hurrying to the telephone, Anthony dialled the cottage hospital in the village of Clonloughlin.

‘Dunvale here,’ he said to the duty nurse when she answered. ‘Could you please send an ambulance immediately. To the estate manager’s house. Michael Lamont has just had a stroke, I think. But he’s still alive. If you hurry we can probably save him.’

To see justice done, Anthony thought, as he hung up.