As luck would have it Mr Bentley was in his rooms briefing his team of housekeepers for the evenings Christmas Gala. Pawser could hear Mr Bentley's dulcet tones through the door civilly instructing his team on how the event was to be policed. The Gala always presented the housekeepers with the moral challenge of maintaining the security of the building in a festive manner whilst restraining their innate need for extreme physical violence.

Pawser knocked politely to be greeted by a surly individual in a black suit who looked through the crack in the door seemingly irritated to have been disturbed from his instruction.

'Carol singers. Mr Scrooge. Would you like to hear Silent Night or a rather ribald version of God rest ye merry Gentlemen, the one with the put upon camel and the rather large festive candle?'

Scrooge at once dismayed but then clearly intrigued by Pawser's offer, opened the door slightly wider.

Mr Bentley was sitting at a small kitchen table spread with an assortment of floor plans of the building. Around him stood his team watching intently as he drew small pencil circles at various points saying, 'Jacobs you'll be here, Black here. You rotate every twenty minutes. Understand?' He paused for a moment to look up to see who had so impetuously interrupted his planning session.

'Ha! Mr Bingham, I should have known it was you. Very funny, the old carol singing joke.' He seemed genuinely pleased to see Pawser. 'Down to check this evenings arrangements I'd say. Open the door Mr Roberts and let Mr Bingham in. We wouldn't want to appear unwelcoming would we?'

Mr Roberts more surly now, having been denied hearing the outcome of the camel's encounter with the candle, opened the door and ushered Pawser in.

Pawser now entered the home of the Head Housekeeper or, to some, more prosaically, 'The Realm of the King of the Fairies.'

Mr Bentley stood up, and his team parted to make way for Pawser. The tiny room, crowded as it was with Mr Bentley's team, barely offered enough room to enter, but he managed to shuffle around the table occasionally stepping on the highly polished shoe of a vigilant ex Welsh Guardsmen, to greet Mr Bentley.

'All the arrangements will be to your liking as they are every year Mr Bingham. You'll stay for a cup of tea won't you?' Mr Bingham grabbed Pawser's hand in a vice like grip. 'Mr Jenkins get a brew on will you. We'll all have one I think, heavy night ahead eh! Snap too it lads.' He clapped his hands together to spur them on.

Mr Bentley's team sprang into action, the plans were cleared, folded and deposited into the outsized Chubb safe that stood majestically in one corner of the room. A set of mugs appeared on the table and two cups and saucers were retrieved from the top of a book crammed Welsh Dresser festooned with strings of Christmas cards. A large tin teapot was filled from an enamel sink and put on one of the two gas rings of the old army camping stove that rested precariously on the top of a miniature fridge. A wooden folding chair was retrieved from the accompanying room, topped with an embroidered lace cushion and placed next to the table.

'Sit down, sit down!' Mr Bentley motioned welcomingly at the chair.

Pawser squeezed past a sea of broad chests into the seat while Mr Bentley settled himself back down in the chair opposite.

Mr Bentley was what people would have described many years ago as 'dapper'. He was a small man, 5' 6' at the most and was always immaculately turned out. His suits were clearly tailor made his patent leather shoes immaculately polished, his ties always silk. His suit pocket carried a silk handkerchief that just peeked cheekily over its edge. His immaculately pressed shirts were of an iridescent white that Pawser could only marvel at and he had mastered that illusive military taught technique of getting exactly 1/2inch of his shirt cuffs to reveal themselves whether he was standing or sitting with his arms crossed. With his short hair flawlessly combed back from his high brow he had more than a passing resemblance to Napoleon which despite his stature gave him a distinguished presence that was hard to ignore.

As for Mr Bentleys personal life Pawser knew more than most, which was in itself little. His habit of saving up all his holiday each year meant he could disappear for five weeks to his small property in Tuscany to paint watercolours and study Renaissance history, a subject he was deeply interested in as testified to by the vast collection of history books which packed the shelves of the dresser behind him. When he returned he always looked tanned, relaxed and carried with him his well known shrewd good humour. And as for his personal leanings, if, while on his sojourns in Italy he was accompanied by a big bearded fisherman from Folkestone who played Josephine to his Napoleon, Pawser felt it was none of his concern.

'Fruit cake?' Pawser suggested having taken up occupancy in the wooden chair opposite Mr Bingham.

'I'm sorry?' Mr Bentley stiffened momentarily and Pawser detected a slight tension around him.

Pawser slid the one of the two badly wrapped packages he had bought with him toward Mr Bentley across the table. 'Cake for you and something a little stronger for the boys.'

'Oh I see.' Mr Bentley relaxed, 'Very kind. I think we shall try a piece of it now. I'm right out of Madera. I have some Battenberg but that does rather overegg the Earl Grey don't you find? '

Sitting down he looked dwarfed by the men who now shuffled around the room collecting cups and doilies. His reputation preceded him and Pawser knew that over the years both MI6 and Royal Protection had tried to poach him. But Mr Bentley was MI5 through and through. He ran his team with military precision and a respect they had not been treated with in the forces and they loved him for it. They even dressed like him to complete the homage.

The phone rang. Mr Roberts picked it up and listened for a moment. 'It's Mr McBride's secretary Sir, she says all the paper towels are gone in the men's loos on the forth, the hand dryers packed up, and there's loo paper and burnt bits of the FT all over the floor. He thinks it's been vandalised.'

'Can you go and deal with it Roberts,' Mr Bentley turned to Pawser,' you'd think we'd get this sort of behaviour on some of the other floors. But the forth?' He shrugged his shoulders in dismay.

'Tut tut,' Pawser nodded sympathetically. 'Yes it's really too bad, some people just don't know how to respect the amenities.' He drummed his fingers nervously on the top of his slightly damp corduroys under the table.

'Well Mr Bingham, how you are and how are your team, Mr Killerman and Mr Maine? All fine and dandy I would hope?' He studied Pawser's face carefully.

'Yes Mr Bentley. Just fine thank you.'

'Good, good. It was just one of my team were down in your part of the woods the other day and there was the distinctive smell of cordite in the air in the corridor outside your offices - you wouldn't know anything about that would you. I forget. It was Tuesday Roberts wasn't it?'

Roberts nodded in confirmation and added 'Yes Mr Bentley, it was Tuesday.'

Pawser knew that Mr Bentley, a stickler for detail would have logged this event in his record book so knew full well it was Tuesday. He looked around the room. Ten pairs of eyes bored into him. He shuffled uncomfortably on his embroidered cushion. Christ, he couldn't lie to Mr Bentley, not now the game was almost up.

Seemingly sensing Pawser's anxiety Mr Bentley pulled up his sleeve and tapped his highly polished gold watch. 'My goodness is that the time? Gentleman the next shift is on.'

'Well er, 'Pawser struggled and racked his brain. 'It's a bit difficult you see Mr Bentley.'

'Ah I see Mr Bingham,' said Mr Bentley and turned to his team, 'Mr Bingham is clearly struggling here with loyalty to a workmate and now finds himself compromised. We should give him a little space as I'm sure he has dealt with the matter appropriately and honourably.' He added poetically to his team who all nodded at this sage advice.

'Yes Mr Bentley, I have. I can assure you.' Pawser added feebly.

'Good. I'm sure you have.' Mr Bentley smiled benignly, picked up the tin tea pot that had arrived on the table and starting pouring out the tea into two delicately flowered china cups. 'Does Killerman still carry that tired old Glock pistol of his? The safety on those models can be a bit tricky you know. Perhaps you'd like me to have a word to remind him to be careful. A discharge of a firearm in the building would be most regrettable.'

'Yes, thank you, Mr Bentley that would be very prudent given that you know more about such things than I.' Pawser felt somewhat relieved.

Mr Bentley seemed satisfied with this resolution for he clapped his hands again with a, 'Well come on now off with you all. Time is pressing on.' Quickly the room cleared as all his staff disappeared off to their shifts.

Mr Bentley deep in thought produced a handkerchief and gently patted his high forehead.

'So is Neville still trying to shag Miss Dearing, I wonder?'

'Yes. I caught them fiddling with each other in the library the other day. He must fancy his chances at the Christmas do I should think.' Pawser added, recollecting her father's sudden demise and miraculous resurrection which Neville was on hand to take full advantage of.

'All the more reason to make sure all the photocopier rooms are locked early this evening. I'd rather not open up tomorrow morning to find fifty copies of Mr Neville's dangly bits in one of the paper trays. It would be most unbecoming. They can by the devil to clean after such misuse, it's usually best to use white spirit I find.'

'For your dangly bits?'

'For the photocopier glass.'

'Cake then?' Mr Bentley flipped the cake knife twice around his knuckles in the manner Pawser had seen the trained killers do. He swiftly despatched the cake and passed over part of its remnants with a small cake fork.

Pawser waited in trepidation for the next question which, for all Mr Bentleys professional acumen, he could see coming a mile away.

'And I hear you are taking Miss Fangle to the ball. Will you be taking milk with your tea?'

'Yes, I will be.' Pawser hoped there may be some confusion over whether the affirmative could be taken to his penchant for sugar in his tea rather than that to taking Miss Fangle to the ball.

Mr Bentley pursed his lips and dabbed at their edges with a small cotton napkin. 'That's very decent of you Mr Bingham,' he paused and added a dash of milk to the tea, 'especially after what happened last time.'

Pawser tried to purge his mind of what had happened last time and resolved to change the direction of his interrogation.

'And how are things down here? I saw the last Non Executive Directors report and the changes that followed. How do those sit with you and your team?'

Mr Bingham arched his eye at Pawser to show he knew his game but would run with it.

'Well in these difficult economic times we must all do our bit mustn't we? Mr McBride was instrumental in the recommendations but I'm not sure he totally understands that Security and Housekeeping cannot be one and the same. My team are all ex military and some changes do not sit well with them.' Mr Bentley sounded non plused but Pawser had heard that when they told Mr Bentley about the report it was the only time anyone had ever heard him swear.

'Like the incident with the flowers?'

'Exactly. Although the incident with Mr Lamour was most unfortunate. I did suggest after that the remark made by the Deputy Chief Constable of Wessex about Mr Lamour's sexual leanings was most inappropriate as it was based purely on Mr Lamours adeptness at flower arranging.' Mr Bentley blew on his tea before taking a cautious sip.

'I saw the one he did for the Princess's visit in the reception area,' remarked Pawser, 'Absolutely spectacular I must say.'

'Yes, it got him a brief mention in WI's best Bouquets of the Year. A proud moment for us all.' agreed Mr Bentley. 'However it all went to his head, he was most tearful after the events with the Deputy Chief Constable. Almost inconsolable I'd say.'

'Not as tearful as the Deputy Chief Constable, it can't have been pleasant being used as a human receptacle for a bouquet of thirty red roses.'

'Not just any red roses, Bulls eye variety. I'd gone out of my way to get them. I was most upset that he'd wasted them. They'd just come into bloom.'

'Bulls eye? How very apt. Mr Lamour certainly seemed to be on target from what I heard.'

'For sure. Even the hospital were surprised how many he had managed to insert. Ah well, the mysteries of capacity the human body.' Mr Bentley reflectively took another bite of his fruit cake.

Pawser was not as surprised at this revelation as he had recently reached page 117 of 'Orifices and Crevices .The fine art of Physical Concealment .A Practical Guide.' Not willing to despoil his leather walking gloves he had furtively borrowed Penny's marigolds whilst inspecting the relevant pages and surreptitiously placed them back by the washing up bowl after completing the chapter. Thirty roses, the chapter would had him believe would fit up there with room aplenty to spare.

'Speaking of Mr McBride I heard he was the recipient of some unwelcome correspondence this morning and you were there at the grand opening?' Mr Bentleys held one finger of his manicured hand expectantly in the air as he sipped his tea.

'I was.' Pawser confirmed.

'And?'

'Well I barely looked.' Pawser shrugged his shoulders nonchalantly.

'Come on Mr Bingham there are no secrets here, you know that. You can rely on my discretion.'

'Well,' Pawser paused to recollect. 'The envelope was handwritten, poorly I must say. Hammersmith postmark. Buff manila but good quality. The contents were a single sheet A4 size, same buff colour. It carried the message, 'The Lord gave, and the Lord will take away; blessed be the name of the Lord.' In typeface bold letters. Without doubt lifted from a national newspaper'

'Ah. So you barely got a glance then.' Mr Bentley replied with the glimmer of a smile. He pulled out a small notepad and jotted down a few notes. 'Job 1, I believe. Are you sure? Word for word?'

'Yes sure. It's the words I'm hoping to read as his epitaph, sometime in the not too distant future.'

'Well that's odd?' remarked Mr Bentley his eyebrows furrowing. He stood and went to the Welsh dresser. Running his fingers along the titles he extracted a small bible. Sitting down he flicked though the pages.

Looking more closely at the merry strings of cards strung around the room Pawser was surprised to determine that they were all identical. Each featured King Cnut in his little rowing boat.

'Here we are, Job 1,'said Mr Bingham stopping and reading a passage, 'The Lord gave, and the Lord hath taken away. Blessed be the name of the Lord.' He took a large bite for his cake. ''Will take away. Have taken away.' Our letter sender is writing in a future tense not past.'

'A threat perhaps?' Pawser mused, 'Yes, the question is from whom, to whom?'

'It's a reckless man who sends threatening letters to MI5, particularly to McBride,' reflected Mr Bentley idly spinning the cake knife around his hand.

'If you drove drown to Southampton docks took a ship across the Atlantic, caught a ketch to Borneo, moored up at Sarawak and accosted a fisherman wearing nothing but a pigmy bone through his nose you'd find that at some time in his past McBride had either offended his wife, nicked his canoe, or stepped on his shrunken heads in his drive to get to the top.'

'Yes you're right. Here in this building he's less popular than Afghan terrorist at an electronics fair and he isn't much favoured by the Yard or 6 either but he does have the art of tonguing his way up the right people. Might be the next head of 5 some say, when Sir Berty goes.' Mr Bentley sighed.

'So they say.' And if Berty goes, you'll go considered, Pawser regretfully.

'And your analysis of said missive?' prompted Mr Bentley waving the bible at Pawser.

'The handwriting on the envelope was deliberately disguised. Probably a left hander writing with his right or vice versa, however the script was fine suggesting a fountain pen. Hammersmith mark means someone fairly local, possible working here? No spelling mistakes, good quality paper and typeface was from the Times, so someone well educated.'

'Yes I agree it all points to someone working here, someone with a grudge against Mr McBride.' Mr Bentley reflected.

'But the biblical reference. What's that all about?'

'Maybe it's pulling on the Scottish puritanical aspect. McBride's an ardent Presbyterian you know. Maybe it's in there deliberately to unnerve him.'

They sat there in silence for a few minutes sipping tea .Mr Bentley deep in thought whilst Pawser considered how likely it was that a Presbyterian might be sacrificing haggis over the Christmas period to Beelzebub.

'Well, you'll want to check the sleeping arrangements then?' Mr Bentley jumped up and escorted Pawser to the next room where a number of camp beds lined the walls. Pawser's was below a frosted window by a radiator.

'Just one bed reserved for you Mr Bingham. I take it you won't be bringing company?' Mr Bentley's eyes twinkled.

'Quite alone Mr Bentley. Quite alone.' Pawser reassured him.

'Have you heard anything about mermaid tattoos recently I wonder?' enquired Mr Bentley taking Pawser's pillow off the bed and puffing it up.

'No. Should I?'

'No. Of course not.' concluded Mr Bentley showing Pawser to the door. 'Oh if you bump into Mr McBride tell him I hope his testicles feel better.'

Pawser passed over the obligatory bottle of whisky, wrapped in reindeer paper leaving Mr Bentley to his floor diagrams and plans for the evening.

He was off to prepare for his assignation with Lucy Fangle.