'I,' I agreed.

'I'll bet she can't catch people who're fainting off horses.'

Mackie was, as Tremayne had said, a sweet young woman.

Angela Brickell's remains lay on the Quillersedge Estate at the western edge of the Chilterns.

The Quillersedge gamekeeper arranged on the telephone for the local police to collect him from his cottage on the estate and drive as near to the bones as possible on the estate's private roads. From there, everyone would have to go through the woods on foot.

The few policemen on duty on Sunday afternoon thought of cold wet undergrowth and shivered.

In Tremayne's house, the informal party lingered cheerfully. Fiona and Mackie sat on a sofa, silver-blond head beside dark red-brown, talking about Mackie's baby. Nolan discussed with Tremayne the horses Nolan hoped still to be riding when racing resumed. Gareth handed round potato crisps while eating most of them himself and Perkin read aloud how to return safely from getting lost.

' "Go downhill, not up," ' he read. ' "People live in valleys. Follow streams in their flow direction. People live beside rivers." I can't imagine I'll ever need this advice. I steer clear of jungles.'

'You could need it in the Lake District,' I said mildly.

'I don't like walking, period.'

Harry said, 'John, Erica wants to know why you've ignored mountain climbing in your guides.'

'Never got round to it,' I said, 'and there are dozens of mountain climbing books already.'

Erica, the sparkle of victory still in her eyes, asked who was publishing my novel. When I told her she raised her eyebrows thoughtfully and made no disparaging remark.

'Good publishers, aren't they?' Harry asked, his lips twitching.

'Reputable,' she allowed.

Fiona, getting to her feet, began to say goodbyes, chiefly with kisses. Gareth ducked his but she stopped beside me and put her cheek on mine.

'How long are you staying?' she asked.

Tremayne answered for me forthrightly. 'Three more weeks. Then we'll see.'

'We'll fix a dinner,' Fiona said. 'Come along, Nolan. Ready, Erica? Love you, Mackie, take care of yourself.'

When they'd gone Mackie and Perkin floated off home on cloud nine and Tremayne and I went round collecting gla.s.ses and stacking them in the dishwasher.

Gareth said, 'If we can have beef sandwich pie again, I'll make it for lunch.'

At about the time we finally ate the pie, two policemen and the gamekeeper reached the pathetic collection of bones and set nemesis in motion. They tied ropes to trees to ring and isolate the area and radioed for more instructions. Slowly the information percolated upwards until it reached Detective Chief Inspector Doone, Thames Valley Police, who was sleeping off his Yorkshire pudding.

He decided, as daylight would die within the hour, that first thing in the morning he would a.s.semble and take a pathologist for an on-site examination and a photographer for the record. He believed the bones would prove to belong to one of the hundreds of teenagers who had infested his patch with all-night parties the summer before. Three others had died on him from drugs.

In Tremayne's house Gareth and I went up to my bedroom because he wanted to see the survival kit that he knew I'd brought with me.

'Is it just like the ones in the books?' he asked as I brought out a black waterproof pouch that one could wear round one's waist.

'No, not entirely.' I paused. 'I have three survival kits at present. One small one for taking with me all the time. This one here for longer walks and difficult areas. And one that I didn't bring, which is full camping survival gear for going out into the wilds. That's a back-pack on a frame.'

'I wish I could see it,' Gareth said wistfully.

'Well, one day, you never know.'

'I'll hold you to it.'

'I'll show you the smallest kit first,' I said, 'but you'll have to run down and get it. It's in my ski-suit jacket pocket in the cloakroom.'

He went willingly but presently returned doubtfully with a flat tin, smaller than a paperback book, held shut with black insulating tape.

'Is this it?' he said.

I nodded. 'Open it carefully.'

He did as I said, laying out the contents on the white counterpane on the bed and reciting them aloud.

'Two match-books, a bit of candle, a little coil of thin wire, a piece of jagged wire, some fishhooks, a small pencil and piece of paper, needles and thread, two sticking plasters and a plastic bag folded up small and held by a paperclip.' He looked disappointed. 'You couldn't do much with those.'

'Just light a fire, cut wood, catch food, collect water, make a map and sew up wounds. That jagged wire is a flexible saw.'

His mouth opened.

'Then I always carry two things on my belt.' I unstrapped it and showed it to him. 'The belt itself has a zipped pocket all along the inside where you can keep money. What's in there at the moment is your father's. I don't often carry a wallet. Those other things on the belt, one is a knife, one is a multi-purpose survival tool.'

'Can I look?'

'Yes, sure.'

The knife, in a black canvas sheath with a flap fastened by Velcro, was a strong folding knife with a cunningly serrated blade, very sharp indeed, nine inches overall when open, only five when closed. Gareth opened it until it locked with a snap and stood looking at it in surprise.

'That's some knife,' he said. 'Were you wearing it while we were having drinks?'

'All the time. It weighs only four and a half ounces, about one eighth of a kilo. Weight's important too, don't forget. Always travel as light as you can if you have to carry everything.'

He opened the other object slotted onto the belt, a small leather case about three inches by two and a half, which contained a flat metal rectangular object a shade smaller in dimension: total weight altogether, three and a half ounces.

'What's this?' he asked, taking it out onto his hand. 'I've never seen anything like this.'

'I carry that instead of an ordinary penknife. It has a blade slotted in one side and scissors in the other. That little round thing is a magnifying gla.s.s for starting fires if there's any sun. With those other odd-shaped edges you can make holes in a tin of food, open crown cork bottles, screw in screws, file your nails and sharpen knives. The sides have inches and centimetres marked like a ruler, and the back of it all is polished like a mirror for signalling.'

'Wow.' He turned it over and looked at his own face. 'It's really brill.'

He began to pack all the small things back into the flat tin and remarked that fishhooks wouldn't be much good away from rivers.

'You can catch birds on fishhooks. They take bait like fish.'

He stared at me. 'Have you eaten birds?'