Murder by the Book by Eric Brown

was so very upset. He said he couldn’t possibly concentrate on work. I’ve been with him all day. Thank you for coming.’
    â€˜It’s the least I could do. Where is he?’
    â€˜In his rooms …’ She indicated the stairway and followed him up.
    Charles was pacing the sitting room, waving a sheet of paper before him. Even in distress he had the look of a seasoned thespian hamming it up. ‘Thank God you’re here, Donald! Five hundred! Would you believe it, the wretch wants five hundred!’
    â€˜Let me see …’ Langham crossed the room and took the letter.
    â€˜Can I get you a drink?’ Maria asked.
    â€˜A brandy for me, my dear,’ Charles said. ‘Make it a double.’
    â€˜I’m fine,’ Langham told her. He took the letter to the window and angled it into the light.
    Dear Charles,
    It was a rather foolish thing for you to do, allowing a man to do a lady’s job now, wasn’t it? Your messenger deserved that cosh on the head. This time, you will do the delivering. I want five hundred in used ten-pound notes. Follow these instructions to the letter and the judiciary will be none the wiser. Tomorrow, Tuesday the 15th, take your Bentley and drive down to the village of Chalford in Sussex. From there follow the lane to the village of Hallet. A mile out of Chalford you will pass a derelict farm building on the right, and a hundred yards further on, to your left, you will see the opening to a field, barred by a gate. Stop there at two p.m. exactly, get out of the car and leave the money in an envelope propped against the gatepost. This done, return to the car and drive back to London. I have no need to stress that you should come alone.
    Langham read the note for a second time. He looked across at Charles, who was regarding him with tear-filled eyes.
    â€˜The envelope?’
    Charles passed him a long manila envelope identical to the others. This one also bore a Streatham postmark.
    â€˜What should I do, my dear boy?’
    â€˜Can you get hold of the money by tomorrow?’
    â€˜Just about, though it will clear out my current account. I have funds, of course, investments … But this just cannot go on! Where will it end, Donald? My nerves are shattered.’
    Maria passed Charles a brandy. Langham took Charles’s elbow and guided him across to a settee before the hearth. His agent flopped into the seat, sloshing the brandy, and closed his eyes in an expression eloquent of despair.
    â€˜Do you have a gazetteer of Sussex?’ Langham asked.
    Charles waved a languid hand. ‘In the bookshelf, bottom shelf.’
    Maria fetched the road atlas and passed it to Langham, then sat on the edge of an armchair, stockinged legs crossed, watching him.
    Charles wailed, ‘I have half a mind to hand myself in now, confess all, make a clean breast of the situation and trust in the inherent fairness of my country’s legal system.’
    Langham eyed him sceptically. ‘You’ll do nothing of the sort, Charles. The “inherent fairness” you speak about will see you sent down for a year or more.’
    â€˜And the alternative? Allow the cad to bleed me dry?’
    Langham looked up from the gazetteer. ‘The only incriminating things the blackmailer has in his possession are the photographs, am I right?’
    â€˜Does he need anything else , my boy – a signed confession, perhaps? Donald, Donald, what else does he need? The wretched photographs are evidence enough!’
    â€˜Hear me out, Charles. It occurred to me earlier that it would be to our advantage if we could find out who’s blackmailing you.’
    â€˜You’re making rather a habit of stating the obvious without the foundation of logic, Donald. Forgive me, but I am at my wits’ end!’
    Maria said, ‘What do you suggest, Donald?’
    Langham looked from Charles to Maria. ‘I intend to be there when the blackmailer picks up the