I do not own any of the characters from the series The Persuaders! However, I claim ownership of any original characters appearing in this story.

The original series ran for twenty-four episodes in 1971-1972. This story, consequently, takes place in 1972.

"Come in. It's open."

Lord Brett Sinclair, 15th Earl of Marnock, placed his empty tea cup on its saucer, and continued his perusal of the morning mail. He'd scarcely looked up at the sound of the buzzer; he knew by the short, repeated pressing of the button who was at the door of the apartment.

The only response was a further symphony on the buzzer. With a sigh, Brett stood up, and walked across the apartment to open the door.

"Back from rustication so soon?" he remarked. "How's the cottage going? Still standing?"

The visitor uttered a sarcastic laugh. "You're a real comedian, you know that? As a matter of fact, I've just finished fitting out the loft."

"Attic, Daniel," said Brett, returning to finish his tea. "You really must learn your architectural terminology now that you're a landowner."

"Yeah, yeah." Danny Wilde took the chair across the table from the peer of the realm, and surveyed the array of dishes. "Kind of late for breakfast, isn't it?"

"I overslept," replied his Lordship.

"Oh, you overslept? Where's she hiding?"

"It's depressing how predictably your train of thought runs. As usual, it's on the wrong track. I didn't sleep well, because I'd spent the whole evening at a reception at the Australian High Commission, trying to avoid talking to a sheep farmer's daughter from heaven alone knows where in Queensland. Loveliest girl I've ever seen – the face of a Renaissance angel, but with a voice like an Irish navvy. My ears are still ringing. The worst of it was, she was a terrible bore. I'd have been better off spending the weekend helping you renovate your country death trap."

"Oh, I didn't stay the whole week at the cottage." Danny helped himself to the last slice of toast, bit into it and continued, rather indistinctly: "I spent the last couple of days in this dinky little country village – Little Worthy, it's called. You know, Brett, one thing you English are good at, is finding cute names for your villages."

"Unlike you Americans. All the same, I'm not sure I'm convinced of Little Worthy. Are you sure you didn't make it up? Where is it?"

"It's… well, it's up around there somewhere." Danny gestured with the toast, more or less in the direction of the Irish Sea.

"Really? I wouldn't have thought – er – dinky little country villages were your style."

"Are you kidding? I love country villages. This one's real pretty. They've got a model village and everything..."

"Spare me the gruesome details."

"...and there's this boat race every year…"

"A regatta?"

"I don't think so. It's more a fancy dress party, but on the water. It's happening this coming Sunday. Now, I met this girl…"

"Plus ça change, plus c'est la même chose," murmured his Lordship, returning to his correspondence.

"Whatever. Anyway, she's gonna meet me there, and give me the grand tour. And here's the best part – she asked me to bring a friend."

Brett let the last of his letters fall from his fingers and flutter down onto the table. "Let me guess. She has a sister."

"A cousin. And let me tell you…"

"What does she look like?"

"Chrissie? She's a peach. Blonde hair – you know, not blonde blonde, it's more that kind of strawberry blonde…"

"The cousin, Daniel."

"Oh, her? Yeah, yeah, she's…" Danny gave him a furtive sideways glance. "You won't believe your eyes. She's a looker – a real doll."

"Is she?" A faint smile played about Brett's lips. "Remind me to take you some time to visit my second cousin, Ursula Sinclair-Evans. She's the custodian of the Sinclair family doll. Now, there's a – a looker, if you like. Eighteenth century, possibly earlier. Papier-mâché head, wooden limbs. It's said to have had human hair, once upon a time, but that's long gone. Most of the paint has worn off the face, so it looks like it has some kind of horrible skin disease. The nose was eaten by mice some time in the last century. It's only got one eye, and that's skewed. That doll has been a prominent feature of every nightmare I've ever had since I was four years old. So if you want to convince me to come along as a spare on this little rural foray of yours, don't, I beg of you, describe my prospective date as a doll."

Danny had listened to this diversion with the enforced patience of a man who knew from experience that once the train had set off, there was no halting it. "Okay, not a doll," he conceded. "But she's a beauty, Brett – just your type."

Brett smirked, and rose to his feet, laying down his napkin. "You know, one of your most endearing qualities, Daniel, is that you're such a very poor liar. Believe me, there is nothing you can say or do which will convince me to waste an entire day attending a fancy dress boat race in Little Worthy. Help me clear the table, will you?"

"I thought you had someone to do that for you," said Danny.

"Andrea? Oh, I had to let her go." Brett began stacking dishes, not very handily. "Well, not exactly let her go. She eloped with the gas meter inspector. Sent me a postcard from Southport with her resignation. Would you mind taking these to the kitchen?"

Danny held up his hands. "I don't wanna get porridge on my gloves. I'll answer the door."

"If it's Andrea's new husband's ex-wife," said Brett, as he went towards the kitchen, "tell her I'm not here."

When he returned, Danny was sitting on the arm of the sofa, examining a small package wrapped in brown paper.

"You got an early Christmas present," he said. "By courier. I signed your name, I hope that's okay."

"Perfectly. I can always deny it's mine. Who sent it?"

Danny squinted at the label. "It says... Erasmus Hill, Mildenhall Street."

"It's pronounced Mynall, actually."

Ignoring the interjection, Danny kept reading. "Watchmaker. By appointment to His Royal Highness... You know, I'll never understand you guys. What's with a Royal Highness having to make an appointment to get his watch fixed?"

It was probably a joke, although with Daniel it was sometimes hard to be sure. Brett let it pass, and took the little packet over to the desk. "It must be my great-aunt Sophie's pocket watch," he said, setting to work with a paper knife. "I left it with Hill for cleaning and repairs. It was in something of a neglected state when I received it from her executors. But it's a thing of beauty, Daniel, and if you only knew the history..."

"Never mind the history. Let's just see it," said Danny. He knew only too well how these Sinclair family anecdotes usually turned out.

"Hill's a nice old gentleman, and an excellent craftsman. He's been looking after my antique clocks for years," Brett went on. "All the same, I didn't expect him to have completed the work so quickly."

"Yeah, well, that title of yours probably rates express service. You gonna get that open any time soon?"

"Patience," tutted his Lordship, removing the last of the wrapping to reveal a nondescript, very shabby light blue box. "Now, this really is odd," he murmured, and opened it. For a few seconds, the two men regarded the contents. Then Brett, with his thumb and forefinger, picked out a plain silver pocket watch, the case badly dented, the glass missing and the enamel dial almost completely worn away.

"How much did he charge you for the repairs?" asked Danny.

"Too much," replied Brett grimly. "He's sent me someone else's watch."

He snapped the lid shut, took the wrapping paper and went to the phone. With very precise movements he dialled the number on the label, and waited. "No answer," he said at last.

"Probably having his morning tea break. Try again in an hour."

"I'll do better than that." Brett slipped the box into his pocket. "I've got an fitting at my tailor's at eleven. It's on the way."

"You mind if I tag along?" asked Danny. "I got nothing on this morning, and I want to see how you reprimand the peasants when you can't slug 'em."

"Fine. You can drive me there."

They didn't talk much on the way. It wasn't in Danny's nature to be tactful, but seeing how annoyed Brett was, he obviously thought it prudent to keep his peace. It made for an uncomfortable ride.

"Traffic's pretty bad," said Danny, as they approached the little side street to which he'd been curtly directed.

Brett's lips pursed up. "Do you hear…?"

"Yeah, I hear it."

"Pull up here, will you?"

The Ferrari came to a halt a little way from the corner. By now there was no mistaking the noise of sirens; and the congestion on the road was explained by the sight of a police car parked across the intersection. Ignoring the constables who were directing onlookers to "move along, please", Brett headed straight for the corner. His eyes narrowed as he took in the scene before him.

"Hey, Brett," said Danny, standing at his elbow, "that shop there, with the smoke billowing out and the fire brigade all over it – is that what I think it is?"

"Yes," replied Brett, his voice like ice. "That is the business premises of Erasmus Hill. Watchmaker. By appointment."

Notes:

The cottage is the same one Danny bought in "A Home Of One's Own". Given its condition at the time, it's probably fair to assume he will be working on it for several years.

The village of Little Worthy, including the miniature village and Crazy Craft boat race, is borrowed from the Midsomer Murders episode, "Small Mercies".