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enough in his mind's eye.
    The church dated from the same period as St Neot's, but was a plainer, less ambitious structure. It was not noted for its stained glass, nor famed for much beyond some artfully carved bench ends and the historical curiosity of Theodore Paleologus's memorial plaque. Nick found the church door locked, as he had expected, so he could not view the plaque. But its wording was lodged in his mind beyond forgetting. Here lyeth the body of Theodore Paleologus of Pesaro in Italye descended from ye imperyall lyne of ye last Christian Emperors of Greece . . . Above it, engraved in the brass, was the double-headed Byzantine eagle, symbolizing the unattainable union of western and eastern Christendom.
    But the double-headed eagle was not confined to brass at Landulph. Nick walked through the churchyard to the area of twentieth-century burials and round to his grandparents' grave. GODFREY ARTHUR PALEOLOGUS, DIED 4TH MARCH 1968, AGED 81. ALSO HIS LOVING WIFE, HILDA, DIED 26TH SEPTEMBER 1979, AGED 87. REUNITED AND SADLY MISSED. There also, carved in the stone above the inscription, was the double-headed eagle of Byzantium.
    Nick's mother had been cremated at her own wish. He suspected that his father would prefer burial and that another Paleologus would eventually rest in this quiet, yew-fringed field of graves. But that would be the end. Whether they took Tantris's money or not, he and his siblings were gone from here. Not far, perhaps, but far enough. The eagle had stayed, but they had flown.
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CHAPTER THREE
    Irene was naturally pleased that Elspeth Hartley had been able to secure Nick's support for Tantris's scheme. For her, it was the sealing of an alliance which their father could surely not resist. And she greeted with enthusiasm Nick's contention that the old man would have to go along with it eventually unless he was willing to sacrifice his scholarly integrity, which they agreed he prized above all things. Viewed in that light, it was an argument they could not lose.
    Whether it was an argument they would actually win at Trennor next day was a different matter. That depended on how subtly they presented it. Emphasizing their father's alleged inability to cope on his own struck Nick as a poor tactic. But it was the tactic Irene had adopted and she was reluctant to abandon it. She always had enjoyed telling her nearest and dearest what was good for them, even when she knew they would not listen. It was clear to Nick that the occasion was not going to be without its flashpoints.
    He set off for dinner with Anna and Basil, wondering what view they took of the matter. He knew what Irene had told him: that they were right behind her. But he also knew he would be more confident about that when he heard it from their own lips.
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    Rain had set in by the time he crossed the bridge into Plymouth. Rear lights blurred by spray trailed him into the city centre. He parked in Citadel Road, a little way short of Anna's flat, and walked up on to the Hoe, relishing the dark wind and cold rain buffeting in from the Sound. He was nearly half an hour early, which was par for the course. It was a tendency that annoyed him, but which he was helpless to shake off. He turned east, towards Drake and the Barbican, the rain sheeting past him, halyards slapping against the flagpoles ahead.
    There was only one other person on the Hoe, which was one more than he might have expected. A hunched figure in a hooded anorak was bearing down on him from the other end of the promenade. As the figure drew closer, some quality of posture and bearing suddenly struck Nick as familiar. Or maybe it was pure instinct that told him who it was.
    'Basil?'
    'Nick?' It was Basil, his narrow, bony face peering at him from beneath the brim of the hood. 'Trust you to be the only other poor fool game for a stroll on the Hoe in this weather.'
    'I got here a touch early.'
    'Not a much better excuse than mine.'
    'Which is?'
    'Cooking for a guest makes Anna