The Hanging Tree

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This book is dedicated to all librarians everywhere – for they are the true keepers of the secret flame and not to be trifled with

I dreamt that I heard Mr Punch laughing gleefully by my ear, but when I woke I realised it was my phone. I recognised the number on the screen and so wasn’t surprised by the cool, posh voice that spoke when I answered.

‘Peter,’ said Lady Ty, ‘do you remember when we spoke at Oxford Circus?’

I remembered her finding me after I’d managed to get myself buried under the platform. I remembered her leaning over me once they’d dug me out, her breath smelling of nutmeg and saffron.

‘One day I will ask you for a favour. And do you know what your response will be?’

‘Yes ma’am,’ I said, remembering what I’d said then. ‘No ma’am – three bags full, ma’am.’

It was five in the morning – still dark – and rain was smattering against the French windows at the far end of Beverley’s bedroom. The only serious light came from the screen of my phone. The other half of the big bed was empty – I was alone.

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