Then for some startling moments they saw what appeared to be ghostly figures moving about in the inferno before they became lost in the flames. Finally a gigantic column of smoke - or was it smoke?- curled into the sky. Shaped like a raised cobra, it writhed and twisted into the night sky, livid in the red flames around it till it disappeared.

By the time the fire-engines arrived from Keighworth, the detectives had gone and the next day a news black-out was thrown over the whole business. When Special Branch combed through the ruins they found the charred remains of three of the four who’d died, Riad, Mukhtar and Roxley. But they were left with a mystery. They discovered the dead guard-dogs by the charred altar of Hathor inside the Mausoleum. And on the altar was the unscorched body of Blackwell. He’d died by garrotting and was trussed like a sacrifice with his dogs.

Blake Hartley was phoned at home by Donaldson the next day. The Super asked him if he’d heard about the fire at Pithon Hall and the bodies found there.

“Not a word. Tell me more, sir,” he said innocently.
There was a moment’s silence then, “I appreciate you’re on leave, Hartley, but I’d -er- I’d consider it a favour if you’d drop in to the station for a few minutes this morning,” said Donaldson sweetly. “There’s one or two things I want to discuss with you.”

Inspector Hartley said he’d be in when he’d finished his devotions.

When he arrived he found Donaldson bleary-eyed. He’d been up half the night at Pithon Hall. Special Branch, too, had been grilling him. He said Hartley would be relieved to hear DWC Anwar was freed and unhurt. Kahn and Waheeb had managed to release her after a shoot-out. He was glad Hartley hadn’t been there. He might have got hurt. But he wasn’t in a position to say more. There was a total blackout on information, and what he’d told him hadn’t to go further.

He said Special Branch had uncovered a can of maggots, with Whitcliff and Listerton squirming in the middle. It was all very hush-hush, but he had to tell someone. Hartley seemed the most likely being the senior officer at the station. He could trust him.
Hartley had never known his boss so talkative and friendly, and he’d had to listen to him for years. The Chief Constable had been to see him and said Hartley was to remain on leave till the whole affair was cleared up. Heads were about to roll at the highest level . Nationally. Way above Donaldson and the Chief Constable. Listerton’s was one of them. The Superintendent was pleased about that.
The longer he stayed, the more Arthur Donaldson fussed over him. But Blake Hartley sat solemn and asked why he’d been brought in. Was there any chance at all he’d be back on the case?

“Oh, no,” said Donaldson hurriedly, “I’m afraid not. You see there have been further developments.”

“I don’t know how you did it, but you did well there, Sammy. Congratulations!” shouted Fawcett. “You were very smart. But I’m not going to shoot you, Sammy. You’ll have to run or else the hounds will finish you off. You know what they’re like.”

Woodley knew what they were like all right. He’d seen Carter feed them. He’d no choice and limped off as fast as he could. Fawcett watched him with the same cruel smile till he gauged the right moment to release the hounds. By then, Sammy had reached the slippery slope down to the Strid.

“Take him, Jack! Take him, Bess and Beauty!” snarled Fawcett, slipping their leads and urging them on. The three dogs lunged into the dark racing madly at the figure in front.

Sammy turned and saw them coming. “Oh, God help me!” he moaned. He struggled to the Strid, then halted at the brink. The leap was beyond him. He turned again and the hounds were upon him.

He caught the first one by the throat, in mid-air, ducking and trying to hold it off as it tore at his face. Then he lost his footing and fell, rolling over and over, wrestling with the hound as the other two savaged his legs.

They slid nearer and nearer the Strid so Fawcett called off his hounds, fearing they’d follow Woodley in. Two of them came back, but the other was locked to Sammy who’d entwined his fingers in the brute’s collar as he throttled it.

There was nothing to stop them once they’d started rolling down the slope. Their momentum took them on and on. Within seconds both had dropped out of sight over the lip of the whirlpool into the raging waters.

The smile left Fawcett’s face. He put down his rifle and, stepping gingerly down the slope, peered over the edge. He saw nothing.

Only the moonlight jumped and flickered in the seething cauldron beneath him. Of Woodley and his hound there was no sign. Their bodies were already being whirled round and round, battered in the black watery depths below.

Jack Rayner lay alongside his dead wife fighting for his breath. Inspector Hartley staggered over to him and pressed his handkerchief to staunch the wound in his chest. But he knew Rayner was slipping away fast. He was grey and in pain and began coughing blood. He gripped the inspector’s hand tightly.

“I shouldn’t have done that, Blake,” he gasped nodding at the body beside him. “One shot was enough. But something snapped.”

Hartley told him to stop speaking. Help would be along soon, but the other only smiled grimly. “Nay, lad, I’m past all help. Have been for some time,” he said and went on to tell the inspector he was terminally ill with cancer. Blake had guessed it. “I knew tha were onto her,” he continued switching to the dialect both of them spoke as boys. “Tha allus were good at sortin’ things out, Blake. I’d only to follow thee an’ that led me to her.”

Another bout of coughing stopped him a while, when he spoke again he explained how Costanza had phoned him from the airport after he’d killed Dimitrov and Karminski. He’d found her hit-list and Rayner’s name was on it – so was Hartley’s! “Got here just in time, didn’t I?” he said.

“Tak it easy, lad,” said Hartley gently, cradling his head in his arm. Rayner closed his eyes. His breathing was growing more shallow by the minute and he spoke quickly. “It were me who killed Marcham and Willoughby,” he said opening his eyes, which had an unearthly light in them. “They had it all on video what they did to my daughter an’ Marcham said they were goin’ public wi’ it if I didn’t go along wi’ his wheeler-dealin’. Tha will make sure our Samantha’s looked after, weern’t tha?”

Humility was never a strong point of the Illingworths; for though they may not have inherited the earth, they had a generous slice of it and a baronetcy to go with it. Self-aggrandisement had become their family trait and Sir Abraham Illingworth was rich, very self-assured and arrogant. Most arrogant with those whom he considered to be beneath him. Those he paid. And he worked them to the last penny. If he thought they didn’t earn it, he sacked them.

He sacked many over the years, but Henry Johnson and Mary Calow had survived. One was his butler, the other his mistress. Both had well earned their keep. Johnson had been with the Illingworths all his life. He was younger than Sir Abe and he had been footman to Sir Abe’s father, old Luke. When war broke out in 1914 he went as Sir Abe’s batman and served throughout the war. At Ypres, where they’d both been wounded, Johnson had saved his Sir Abe’s life, pulling him off a minefield; consequently Johnson was the only man he trusted and his butler was just as loyal to him.

As for Mary Calow, he had fallen for her the day she came as a young typist at the family’s office in Bradford. He was married by then, but that didn’t stop him falling in love, for there had never been any real love between his wife Rachel and himself. Theirs had been a money-match.

Rosemary Clemence sensed that walk on Ilkesworth Moor with her cousin would be the last. She dreaded his going back and her worst fears were realised when news came through he’d been killed in action. She was numb with grief. So was his father.

Sir Abe wouldn’t be comforted and spent hours in his son’s old room staring at the photos on the wall or sifting through John’s boyhood possessions. Johnson, his butler, did his best to console him, but it was no use. The old man was inconsolable. He barely ate and seemed to have lost the will to live. Indeed, he remarked several times he wished he could die. His doctor told him to get away, have a holiday, but he refused; nor did he set foot in the office in Bradford for weeks. And that gave Harry Clemence more leverage to get rid of him.

Ironically, when they sent back the locket found on his son’s body, it brought Sir Abe to his senses and a new train of thought. It pained him at first when he opened it and saw Helen Greenwood smiling back at him. It brought back all those ghastly memories when he’d tried to break off their engagement and sent Grimstone off to Australia with his son. How he regretted that now.

Then he recalled how he’d never acknowledged her son, his grandson. He’d been brought up by the Gibsons and now seemed beyond his reach. Yet he was the only heir he’d ever have. His pride had kept him from his own flesh and blood, and now, a broken man, his folly flooded back as he sat slumped in his study looking at the pitifully few possessions of his son they’d sent back: his medals and ribbons, some letters, his wallet, the locket with Helen’s photo inside and her photo he always kept by his bedside.