‘You are dead, you,’ he yelled back, leaping into the seat of the final pew. His gaze drawn, Gerald watched him dip to pick up a crushed square of white linen and a starched object that resembled a helmet. ‘Dare I guess at the reason for your sudden interest in émigrés, Gerald?’ ‘Lucilla,’ barked Hilary warningly. “You seem to be taking our little joke more seriously than it deserves, Ferringhall,” he remarked. “She’s going to have some sort of meal with the Widgetts down the Avenue, and go up with them. He was a Wiltshire Edmondshaw, a very old family.
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