The clubhouse was an imposing glass-walled structure with a peaked roof of brown slate like a tortoise shell. It was situated on a green hill commanding a splendid view across the Solent to the Needles on the Isle of Wight, along to Old Harry Rocks at Swanage. The golf course here dated back to 1879. The day was blustery and unseasonably cold, with snarls of cloud promising rain that never came scudding swiftly against a deceptively bright blue-white sky. The lawn was as green and neat as only two centuries of maintenance could produce, surrounded by thickets of darker green rough and water traps like shining rugs. Hal resisted the impulse to swat his golfball over the cliff into the sea. He could not remember why he had agreed to take Laurel golfing on Wednesday. A month ago, he would have thought nothing of it, but ever since the day that they broke into the High House of Wrongerwood, he had found himself entertaining distinctly unbestmanly thoughts.
