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Richard nodded, and took a deep breath. ‘I've arranged for you to have a “Visiting Fellowship” there for the rest of the summer term,' he stated boldly, and shot his friend a challenging look.

Lorcan's lips twisted. ‘In Oxford, the summer term is called “Trinity Term”,' he corrected mildly.

Anybody else would have reacted angrily to such high-handedness, Richard acknowledged
with
a smile. But Lorcan Greene was not like anybody else that Richard had ever known. He had a deep dislike for art fraudsters and, for a multi-millionaire, he was surprisingly helpful and generous to the police when it came to giving up his valuable time and energy.

‘So what's up?' Lorcan asked simply.

Inspector Braine gazed silently into space for several moments and then began to talk in a slow, thoughtful voice. ‘A few months ago we began to hear rumours that somebody, somewhere in Oxford is planning a big coup. We're not sure whether it's a theft, or an attempt to sell a forgery. But, according to one of our more knowledgeable informers, we should take a special interest in the Ruskin. Specifically one of the students.'

Lorcan frowned, as his deep, well-modulated voice, rose a scant octave. ‘Ruskin undergraduates are more interested in pushing back the boundaries of art than anything else. Besides, it would take a very exceptional student indeed to be of use to a serious forger.'

‘I know. I'm not so sure that Skeeter Smith, the informant, isn't leading us around by the nose,' Richard mused. ‘But on the chance that he's right, I want you to go down there,' Richard drawled dryly. ‘Just think what a little added extra cachet it will be for you: a Visiting Fellowship to Oxford University, no less.'

Lorcan grunted, unimpressed. On the other hand, he
did
enjoy bringing down the parasites
in
the art world who preyed so readily on the unwary. ‘All right,' he agreed, with an apparent reluctance that didn't fool the policeman for a minute. ‘I'll do it.'

Selling the Constable to Sir Basil that morning had been a very satisfactory experience. But bringing an art forger—or art thief—to book, would be infinitely more satisfying still.

‘You know,' he murmured softly, drinking the last of his exquisite wine with relish, ‘I've always wanted to get to know Oxford better.'

CHAPTER TWO

Raymond Verney unlocked the door to an empty, unfurnished flat in London's East End, and sighed deeply. He glanced at his watch, supposed glumly that the first members of the cast would straggle in shortly, and started pinning several sheets of paper on to the grubby walls.

He'd been hired by a publishing company holding a summer conference at St Bede's College, Oxford, to set up a Murder Mystery weekend. Ray was a jack-of-all-trades, and hiring a cast of actors, writing their scenes, and concocting a believable murder mystery had taken him only a matter of a few weeks. It was, however, the hidden agenda that worried him.

Ray
had, in his time, done many things that less liberal-minded people would have considered criminal. But nothing violent—a clever computer swindle or two, a property scam here and there. And since meeting up with a clever forger, the selling on of a dodgy painting or two. Ray knew people who knew people, and prided himself on being a creative kind of crook. He was a portly, amiable-looking man, with white hair thinning into a fringe just above his ears, leaving the top of his head shiny and bald. His eyes were a twinkling, warm, easy-going blue. He spoke with a warmth and sincerity that fooled everyone—at first!

He'd never been to prison, though he'd come close once or twice, mainly because he preferred to be the anonymous middle-man. But this time it was different. This job was like no other he'd ever tried to pull. And that's what was worrying him. That, plus the fact that he didn't trust his ‘client'.

The man was cool, clever, and quite, quite obsessed. He made Ray very nervous indeed. Especially since he insisted on being in at the kill, so to speak.

Ray sighed heavily and began to rehearse his welcome speech to the cast of actors due to arrive at any minute, plus an explanation of the murder mystery weekend.

It was important to Ray that the weekend conference ran smoothly. Nobody must
suspect
that all wasn't as it should be. These actors, for instance, must have no idea that this particular gig would be different from any others they might have previously done.

To accomplish that, he had to act like a pro—as a proper producer, director and organiser—which would be easy enough for a man of Ray's talents. He'd even written the perfect plot to cover the real felony that was going to take place within St Bede's hallowed halls.

The conference itself, of course, was strictly legitimate, and the delegates would be encouraged to play Miss Marple or Sherlock Holmes to their hearts' content.

It was what was going on behind the scenes that worried Ray. For this time he was not going to be in the background. If something went wrong, it was going to be Ray Verney's head on the chopping block.

But the pay-off was so huge it was worth the risk. And the scam itself was so simple, so easy, that he wasn't seriously worried. This plan was one of Ray's best, right down to the finest detail.

And when he'd heard that the Art Fraud Squad had caught a sniff of something, he'd even fed that stool pigeon Skeeter Smith a false lead about the Ruskin School of Fine Art. No, he'd left nothing to chance. Even so . . . he was worried. He'd be glad when it was all over and he need have nothing more to do
with
his client ever again.

The door opened, making Ray jump. ‘Er, is this the Murder Mystery rehearsal?' a pretty blonde asked warily.

‘That's right. I'm Ray Verney, the producer. And you are?'

‘Julie Morris.'

‘Right.' He ticked her off his list. ‘You're playing one of the suspects. Not the killer or victim I'm afraid.'

And so it began. One by one the struggling, hard-up actors and actresses arrived. Tall, sandy-haired Gordon Fleming, was cast as the policeman. Geraldine Smith, a well-preserved redhead, was to play the wife of one of the murder victims. The oldest of the suspects, fifty-year-old Norman Rix, was pleasantly greying and still handsome at fifty, while John Lore, a dark young man, was signed up as the first murder victim.

Some of the more experienced knew that weekend shows required living and working closely together, and everything went a lot more smoothly if you made friends and got on together. So by the time Annis Whittington walked in, the room was crowded, much warmer than it had been, and noisily filled with chat and gossip about ‘the business'.

‘I heard she only got the part because of her sister. You know, they wanted the name, but of course they couldn't afford the real thing. Still, the younger sister is nearly as pretty . . .'

Annis
smiled at the two women who were talking about the latest English film to do well in America, and looked around. She quickly picked out Ray Verney.

‘Hello m'dear,' Ray beamed at her as she approached, ticking her name off his checklist. ‘You must be Annis? Oh good—you're the killer.'

Annis laughed. ‘Really?' She rubbed her hands together. ‘I've always wanted to play a homicidal maniac!'

Ray quite liked actors—they were all so self-absorbed for one thing. All the better for him! Not one of them was going to be much interested in what the producer got up to behind the scenes.

Ray's gaze lingered on her face as Annis smiled. He knew she was in her mid-twenties and her free, flowing cap of bell-shaped black hair was very appealing, and her eyes . . . Ray blinked in surprise. They were a strange, tawny, almost amber colour. Very striking. If he'd been a film producer, he would have been excited by those eyes. The woman certainly had . . . something. Still, even beautiful actresses had to eat.

‘Who do I get to kill?' Annis asked, and several of the others looked up and grinned at her.

‘Me, for one,' the actor playing the first murder victim spoke up, his eyes caressing as they ran over her. Annis glanced his way. From
the
way he smiled at her she guessed he was far too vain to be of any interest. She smiled politely but ruefully.

‘And your other victim hasn't arrived yet,' Ray noted, with a slight scowl. ‘Reeve Morgan'.

Annis frowned. She'd heard that name before somewhere. A faint prickle at the back of her neck told her that what she'd heard hadn't been flattering either. Reeve Morgan . . .

‘Hello. I'm Julie.' A pretty blonde girl introduced herself. ‘This is Gerry.'

‘Hello. Annis Whittington. Have you ever done one of these things before?' she asked with a small laugh. ‘I haven't.'

Julie yawned and glanced at her watch. ‘I thought we were supposed to get started at eight?'

Annis's own watch told her that it was already twenty past. She shrugged. ‘We're missing one of our number. Reeve Morgan.'

‘Reeve Morgan?' Gerry said sharply. ‘Really? Too small potatoes for him I would have thought.'

‘Oh?' Annis asked, raising one black eyebrow inquisitively. ‘I seem to have heard his name before . . . '

‘He wrote a radio drama which was aired not so long ago.'

‘That's right,' Julie said. ‘I remember listening to it now.'

‘It
was good,' Gerry agreed, ‘I suppose that's why the director cast him in the leading role.'

Annis's lips twisted. ‘Very clever,' she said dryly. She herself had no talents in the screen-writing department, although she knew a lot of actors thought of it as a good short-cut to a part. ‘What's the betting he's recently written a murder-mystery screenplay?' she asked, looking at Gerry, who smiled at her knowingly. ‘And what's the betting there's someone at this conference who's acquiring drama for television companies?'

‘I've heard something else about him too,' Julie mused. ‘Didn't someone say . . . ? I know! Isn't his father stinking rich?'

Annis smiled bitterly. The thought of rich, good-looking young men just waltzing through life, taking everything for granted, really got her goat.

Gerry coughed. It was a strange, choking-like cough, and Annis glanced at her surprised.

‘I daresay his father knows somebody in television, too,' Annis carried on grimly. ‘No doubt he's asked some old school friend of his in the publishing business to give his son's screenplay the once over . . . '

Julie had begun to turn a distinct shade of red. That was odd for someone so very fair, and Annis glanced at her, puzzled. Then she became aware that everyone else had stopped speaking.

And
then, slowly, Annis felt the colour ebb away from her face, and then rush back. Agonisingly, she glanced at Gerry, who gave an almost imperceptible nod and looked away.

Annis took a deep, slow breath, and slowly turned around.

Standing right behind her was the most handsome man Annis had ever seen. He was about six feet tall, with very dark brown hair which curled loosely. Everything about him screamed classical good looks—from the strong chin, to the straight, well-shaped nostrils, to the full, but tightly-moulded lips. His eyes were the deepest blue she'd ever seen. There was obviously some Celtic ancestry somewhere in his blood. Right now, those eyes were boring into her like lasers. He looked well-heeled. Successful. Too handsome for words. And angry.

And he had to be—could only be—Reeve Morgan.

And Annis knew with a sinking heart that he must have heard every derogatory word she'd been saying about him. She felt her chin angle up in mute challenge. Her tawny eyes flashed. She was damned if she was going to cringe with embarrassment or apologise. Even if she was in the wrong! She held out her hand. It was perfectly steady. ‘Hello. You must be Reeve Morgan?' she asked coolly, her voice ringing out clearly.

Reeve looked down at the hand she held
out.
And found himself taking it. Her grip was surprisingly firm.

When he'd walked in and heard himself being bad-mouthed, he'd found himself anticipating the black-haired woman's grovelling apology. But she looked about as embarrassed as an ice queen.

He looked into the level, tawny, unbelievably lovely eyes. They seemed to trap his breath somewhere between his lungs and his throat. Damn her, did she have to look so . . . amused?

‘Yes. I'm Reeve Morgan,' he agreed, his voice cold and uncompromising. ‘And you are . . . ?'

‘Annis Whittington.'

‘Annis,' he echoed grimly. And managed a smile—a simple flash of perfect, white teeth. ‘You obviously know my family background right down to my very rich father. By the way, he made his fortune in car parts.'

Annis forced herself not to blush. It was only because she was such a very good actress that she managed it. ‘How nice for you,' she said sweetly.

‘And he did, as it happens, give me a loan to see me through my training. Anything else you'd like to know?' he asked grittily.

Annis's chin lifted yet another inch, at five feet six, she'd always found tall men a literal pain in the neck. This one, she realised instinctively, was going for the double—a
physical
pain in the neck, and a figurative one! As the rest of the cast held their breath, waiting for an explosion, Reeve wondered what those flashing tawny eyes would look like, sleepy and sated after a night of passionate lovemaking . . . ? He felt his body stir, and firmly held it in check.

Annis ignored the voice at the back of her mind that insisted she owed him an apology. Apologise to . . .
him
? Never in this life! Instead she asked coolly, ‘Yes. Just one thing. Do you have a screenplay you're hoping to sell at this murder weekend?'

And suddenly it was Reeve's turn to use every ounce of his acting skill. To keep the tell-tale shocked reaction off his face. Because she had him, fair and square. He was hoping to sell a screenplay he'd written to one of the literary agents at the conference. Not that he'd ever admit it now. He'd rather undergo torture than admit anything to this tawny-eyed virago!