Lucas Standish was not asleep in his chair—not quite. The September sunlight lay in a soft, bright pool on the floor, picking out the colors of the carpet and the patches worn by the passage of feet over the years. He could still hear the soft chattering of the birds from the garden. When the telephone rang, its shrill noise startled him fully awake. It must be important for anyone to call at this time on a Sunday afternoon.
He reached for the phone and said quietly, “Standish.”
“Sorry,” the voice at the other end replied.
Lucas recognized it, even from that one word. It was James Allenby, back in England after two years in the United States. He did not bother to say that it was urgent. Of course it was. He would not call Lucas for anything less.
“What is it?” Lucas did not waste time with trivia.
“I’m afraid it’s bad.”
Lucas knew Allenby well enough to recognize how the man’s carefully controlled voice betrayed the depth of his emotion.
“John Repton is dead,” Allenby told him. “Shot and left in a ditch in the countryside. In the Cotswolds, near a private estate called Wyndham Hall. Single rifle bullet to the heart. I think he was killed somewhere else, and then moved. Not enough blood on the ground where he was discovered. Not visible from the road. In fact, it was only by chance that he was found at all.”
Lucas felt a sudden intense pain of loss. He had known John Repton for years. They had worked together in MI6 during the Great War, which had spread ruin across half the world, from the late summer of 1914 to November of 1918. That had been sixteen years ago. Now, in the waning summer of 1934, the prospect of conflict was returning. Less than three months ago, Adolf Hitler had silenced, banished, or executed thousands of his most dangerous enemies within his own country. Those who had survived were forced to live in mute obedience. The events, which had come to be known as the Night of the Long Knives, were still fresh in Lucas’s memory.
“What was he working on?” Lucas asked. “I thought John was retired.”
“There’s always the one last time. And he was passionate about this particular project,” Allenby replied. “You understand.”
Allenby was referring to the fact that Lucas had more or less retired. He was well over the age when most men sat back and relaxed, taking up gardening or beginning that book they had always intended to write. But Lucas could not leave the job alone: He cared too much; it involved every part of his life. He had been willing to be called on by those who had previously worked for him, and eventually he returned as an adviser and, sometimes, more than that. He had a good idea that John Repton had been doing something similar.
“John was looking into personal influence,” Allenby continued. “That is, people who were using their influence to back some candidates for Parliament and ruin the reputations of others. There’s a lot of sympathy for Germany, and admiration for the way it is rising to power again. So many think the Treaty of Versailles was a recipe for future disaster, punitive beyond sense, and—”
Lucas interrupted him. “We know all that, James. But it’s too late to undo, even if we could. What can we do now? Germany is rebuilding at a hell of a pace and beginning to prosper. Specifically, what was Repton looking into that got him killed? Are you absolutely sure it wasn’t personal, or even accidental?” He knew that Allenby had more sense than to have jumped to a conclusion without proof. Still, he had to ask.
There was a moment’s hesitation before Allenby spoke again, his voice completely unchanged. “He was sixty-two and lived alone, so the chances of it being personal exist, but they are unlikely. Repton had no close personal relationships. Most of his family are dead; there are a few living abroad. He has a house, inherited from his parents, in Lincolnshire, miles from the Cotswolds or Wyndham Hall.”
“Have you been there?” Lucas pressed. “That is, to his home.”
“Only once, briefly,” Allenby answered. “I’ve had no time to research what I might be looking for; it’s too soon. But I wanted to see if Repton left any kind of note, or evidence.”
“And did you find anything useful?”
“Lots of newspapers.”
“Specifically, which ones? Did he cut anything out, or mark anything? Dates?”
“It was just one whole cupboard of newspapers. A lot of them Bagby’s titles.”
Bagby was a newspaper magnate at both ends of the popularity scale. He published the exploits, relationships, and personal griefs of the social elite. The readership was small when compared to the millions who bought his other newspaper, in which the gossip and scandal often descended to the level of the gutter. At a glance, that paper featured the complaints and aspirations of the working man, and gave a loud and eloquent voice to the injustices of society and the anger that they rightly caused. It took a fairly critical eye to see how much it followed and how much it led mass opinion.
“Curiosity?” Lucas wondered aloud. “Or was John following something in particular?”
“If there was something in particular, I didn’t see it.” There was a catch in Allenby’s voice, as if he knew he had missed something. “He marked some of the letters to The Times, even though they seem on the surface to be little more than a diary of gentlemen’s parties, sports, messages, and advice on the stock exchange. And, of course, the bit of scurrilous gossip that everybody despises, but still reads avidly.”
“He wouldn’t select any piece without reason.” Lucas knew for certain. “Or keep them at all, for that matter. And don’t tell me it was to light a hundred winter fires.”
He was snapping at Allenby only because the man was being careful, perhaps too careful, just as Lucas would have been. John Repton’s death hurt. He had been a good man, careful and quiet; he loved cider and creamy Lancashire cheeses and, above all, a good joke. He was gifted at telling shaggy dog stories, long and meandering, but always with a great laugh booming at the very end. He probably had no idea what a hole he would leave behind, what a sense of loss.
Allenby hesitated for a few moments before answering. Was he hiding his own grief as well? “There were several articles about Robert Hastings, the member of Parliament for the area around Wyndham Hall. Highly respected. There is even talk of him as a possible prime minister in the near future. He has the courage to face a battle, if there is one, without backing down. Next best thing to Churchill coming back from the wilderness,” he told him. “And articles about the sermons of Bishop Lamb, who’s also from around that area. Looks harmless enough, all about forgiveness and peace in our time. But then his comments would be, wouldn’t they? Coming from a bishop.” That was not really a question.
Possibilities ran through Lucas’s mind, raised by what Allenby had shared. The war was the most horrific in the history of the world. Hardly anyone was left untouched by it. No sane person wanted that again—ever.
Lucas pushed these thoughts away. This was about John Repton, a man who had been easy to see but not really noticed. He’d dressed casually. He could have passed for a law clerk or the owner of a small business, except for his shoes. His shoes had always looked well made and expensive. It turned out they had been personally made for him because his feet were slightly different sizes. He had mentioned to Lucas once that his only regret was that his job made it impossible to have a dog since he was away too often. Lucas remembered how he had stopped and spoken to other people’s dogs in the street with such joy.
And now he had discovered something that got him not only shot dead, but left in a ditch for no one to find.
“Lucas,” Allenby interrupted his thoughts. “Are you still—”
“I’m here, and I understand,” Lucas cut him off. “That’s part of what MI6 is for—to stop a plot before it is fully grown and it is too late.” Lucas paused for a moment, and then asked, “Why are you telling me this? You don’t report to me. In fact, we haven’t even spoken since the Washington incident.”
“Because John Repton was your friend. And because you have the courage to think the inconceivable,” Allenby answered. “And, if necessary, to deal with it. I know you don’t want war any more than the rest of us, but I also know that you will do what you can to prevent it by facing the possibility. And you may have friends in the aristocracy, but you have no illusions about them.”
Allenby left the rest of it unsaid. They both knew about the ties the royal family had to Germany, never mind the rest of English aristocracy, and how war weariness and grief still crippled the defeated country.
“Do you know why Repton went to the Cotswolds? Or is that the next thing to find out?” Lucas asked.
“All the land around there is owned by the Wyndham family, and has been for centuries. Repton’s body was found on Wyndham land. David Wyndham is a quiet sort of man, but he doesn’t miss much. His wife is well known in high society and has connections to everyone of influence. If we could send someone with access to Wyndham Hall, it would be the swiftest way to learn something of value,” Allenby told him. “I don’t quite know how, but we need someone within the house. The local police don’t seem to be connecting Repton’s death to anyone yet. John was left…” Allenby’s voice dropped, as if he was finding it difficult to finish his sentence. “Lucas, he was left like rubbish—dumped into a ditch. As if he were a drunken tramp, and—”
“All right!” Lucas cut him off more sharply than he had meant to. It was hard to hear. Allenby’s emotion surprised him. He had always struck Lucas as quick, loyal, clever, but emotionally uninvolved. Lucas liked him better now that he cared more than he could hide. “I’ll get someone there,” Lucas promised. “Do you know who’s in charge of the investigation locally? The chief constable?”
“You mean who’s investigating a tramp’s death?” Allenby spat bitterly. “The chief constable is a fellow called Algernon Miller. Got his eyes on a knighthood one day, if he plays his cards right. But he’s good at it, I’ll grant you that. He’s got the grip of an octopus to hang on to what he wants.”
“Don’t make a move until I tell you,” Lucas instructed. “Allenby, you’re back in England now, and you’ll do as you’re damn well told!” Again, he spoke more sharply than intended. It was fear that he heard in his own voice, and grief over the loss of yet another of the old guard, the MI6 of the past.
“Yes, sir.”
Lucas wasn’t sure if that was amusement he heard in his voice, or relief that someone else had also seen the shadows.
“Let’s continue this face-to-face.” It was agreed.
After Allenby said goodbye, Lucas stayed still for a few more moments, the sun warming the chair where he sat. He remained there, quietly turning over what Allenby had told him. It brought a sudden surge of grief that he had not expected. Despite it having been several years since he had seen John Repton, he could remember him as clearly as if it had been just last week. He had trusted Repton’s judgment many times, mainly because he had always been reliable and never jumped to conclusions.
“What is it, Lucas?” Josephine’s voice interrupted his thoughts. He had not heard her come in, and yet she stood beside him. He looked at her now. Her long hair was pinned up in a loose knot at the back of her head. She had never submitted to the modern fashion of cutting it short. That pleased him. Actually, it pleased him rather a lot.
“What is it?” she repeated, breaking him out of his trance.
“Did you ever meet John Repton?” he asked her.
Josephine had been a decoder during the war, and she knew far more than Lucas had ever realized. He had never told her that he worked in MI6, as one did not tell anybody, even one’s most intimate family, for their own protection. It took only one careless word, one person who was trusted and should not have been, and the results could be the unintentional betrayal of unknown numbers of people. He had discovered only recently that she had always known about his position, which was not as one of the many MI6 agents, but head of the entire organization. Perhaps it had been in something she had decoded or pieced together. It had been a relief when they had finally revealed all they knew about each other’s roles. He had never felt comfortable hiding anything from his wife, the woman he considered his best friend.
Yet today, he could not remember if she had ever met John Repton.
“Once,” she answered quietly. “He was a kind man. Lonely, I thought. But there were times when we all were. Has something happened to him?” She looked at Lucas with a certain softness, as if in anticipation of what he was going to say.
Was he really so transparent to her? Yes. That was the only possible answer. “Allenby called to tell me that John Repton has been killed.” He had long ago abandoned wrapping things up in soft-edged words for her.
“I’m sorry,” she sighed quietly, her eyes looking down. “In the line of duty, I presume. Did you know what he was up to?”
“No. Allenby just said he had been watching Wyndham Hall, in the Cotswolds.”
“Belongs to David Wyndham? Nice man,” she commented. “We’ve met him a few times, do you remember? Some charity events? Very gentle, and I always thought pretty straightforward. Has he changed so completely?” she asked thoughtfully. “Or was I wrong? Has he got caught up in this ‘Never Again’ movement?”
There was disappointment in her face, very slight.
As always, he told her the truth. She was the one person he could not dissemble with. “Repton was shot. His body was moved and left in a ditch near Wyndham Hall. We need to find out why he was killed, who is responsible, and what it means.”
“Knowing that is certainly important,” Josephine agreed wholeheartedly. “I suppose Allenby couldn’t be mistaken? About the murder, that is.”
Lucas did not bother to answer that.
She nodded, smiling slightly, and touched his shoulder as she passed him. She did not offer tea. That would come at four o’clock, as always. It was good to have fixed things, something certain in a time of uncertainty.
As Josephine closed the door behind her, Lucas pulled over the telephone and dialed a number.
“Peter?”
“Lucas.” Peter Howard’s voice was guarded at the other end, as if he was certain that a call from Lucas at this time on a Sunday afternoon could not be good news.
Lucas could tell by the question in Peter’s voice that Allenby had not yet spoken to him, which meant he knew nothing of John Repton’s death. He told Peter briefly what Allenby had said—that Repton’s body had been discovered close to Wyndham Hall.
There was silence at the other end of the line while Peter absorbed the shock. For a moment, Lucas wondered if they had been cut off.
Finally, Peter spoke. “I see.” He swallowed nervously. “I’m sorry. Repton was a good man.”
Lucas knew that Peter was trying to keep the emotion out of his voice, but he was failing.
“David Wyndham has already come to my notice, I’m afraid,” Peter went on. “He mixes with some pretty strong Hitler admirers, although anyone in society will meet a few. Mosley and his crew from the British Union of Fascists, Unity Mitford and some of her sisters, just to name the most obvious. Even the Holy Fox is a good deal more benevolent toward them than I’d wish.” There was bitterness in his tone. They both understood whom he was referring to: Lord Halifax, a prominent member of the government and a vocal sympathizer with Hitler’s political victory and the rebuilding of Germany. “I don’t mean that they’re traitors—”
“I know that!” Lucas exclaimed sharply, cutting him off. “But the damage is the same, whether you mean it or not. Daft optimism is just as dangerous as intentional sabotage. Is it Wyndham himself? I mean, is he active or merely an enabler, deliberately turning a blind eye? Whatever he is, I don’t think he’s a fool.”
“Most people can be fools where their own families are concerned,” Peter said grimly. “We see what we need to see, what we can live with. That’s the only way it’s bearable for us. We’ve all got to be allowed to make as big a fool of ourselves as we wish, or we’ll never truly be alive. And we’ll never love anyone. It’s too much of a risk.”
That caught Lucas by surprise. It was the most tolerant thing he had ever heard Peter say. He did not comment on it, in case Peter spoiled it by backing away.
“Better look into it,” Peter continued. “Inconspicuously, of course. And you say it was Allenby who told you?”
“Yes.”
“Good.”
“What’s good about it?”
“He worked well with Elena over that miserable business in Washington,” Peter told him. “Handled it pretty deftly. Could have become a lot worse. I’m…” He paused, as if looking for the right word. “I’m sorry,” he finally said.
Peter took a breath, a moment’s silence, then continued. “I’ll send Elena to join up with Allenby. She’s the best person I’ve got for that sort of thing and…” He trailed off. He seldom wasted words. “Thank you.”
“Good,” Lucas replied, and replaced the phone on its cradle. It was only then that he noticed Josephine had come back into the room.
“Peter?” She was not really asking a question. She knew it was, just as she had always known for years when it was a business call, an MI6 call.
“Yes,” he answered. “He’s going to send Elena to find out what Repton was on to. At least it will be mostly watching and listening. That might take a little while to organize.”
“No, it won’t.”
He shifted in his chair a little to look more directly at her. Her comment puzzled him.
“Margot is staying at Wyndham Hall next weekend,” she told him quietly.
“Did you tell me?” He struggled to keep the concern out of his voice. Was he losing his memory? The thought was terrifying. He tried to cover this up by saying, “She goes to so many places, weekend parties and so forth. Dinners, receptions, theaters.”
“No, my dear,” she assured him gently. “I didn’t tell you. I am…a little nervous about it.”
“About David Wyndham in particular?” he asked. “Or that she is getting about so much? She’s looking for something, for someone, we know that. She has never really got over losing Paul.” Her grandparents never stopped worrying about Elena’s older sister, Margot. Her husband had been killed in the last days of the Great War, leaving behind a nineteen-year-old widow. “From what I’ve seen, Wyndham is a decent man,” Lucas added. “More than that, he is quiet and brave, and really very good company. The sort of man I think Margot might like to marry.”
“He is already married,” Josephine pointed out. “It’s his wife’s brother, Geoffrey Baden, that Margot’s involved with. And before you ask, he’s definitely single, and extremely eligible. He’s in his late thirties, independently wealthy, good looking, and with considerable charm. Not to mention—”
“Really?” He leaned forward in surprise. Was it possible that happiness would come to Margot again at last? She had borne grief with considerable grace, but he knew that sometimes she found it almost overwhelming.
“Lucas?”
He brought his attention back to Repton’s murder. “Yes, of course. Best answer would be that Repton was mistaken in his interest in the Wyndham family, but we need to know as much as we can about why he was killed. We can’t leave it just because we might not like the answer.”
“Are you hesitating because you think investigating at Wyndham Hall will be too much for Elena because it’s politically complicated? Or because Margot is emotionally involved and could not bear the ugly truth, if that is how it turns out?”
He did not answer immediately. Was Josephine right that he was only trying to protect his granddaughters?
She put a comforting hand on his shoulder. “If the problem is in that place, then Margot will need Elena’s help. You cannot alter the truth, and you must not. But Margot will have to make her own decisions. Possibly David Wyndham is involved in whatever Repton was looking into, but I doubt it. Elena may be able to prove that Wyndham and those around him are misguided, but nothing worse.”
“I know.” He put his hand over hers. “I know.”
An hour later, Lucas was walking across the early autumn fields with Toby, his golden retriever. The dog was practically treading on Lucas’s heels in excitement. To Toby, any walk was good. But now the dog was clearly hoping they were about to meet with Peter Howard, who always made a terrific fuss over him. There was no such thing as too much attention.
Lucas looked at the long sweep of the land, the gold stubble rising toward the deep blue of the sky. Old-fashioned stooks stood in rows like small pointed tents. A light breeze carried the smell of grain drying in the sun.
There was a figure in the distance, walking steadily toward them. Toby stiffened. He was used to it being Peter Howard, but this time he was not certain.
Lucas put his hand on Toby’s head and patted him in reassurance. “It’s not Peter, boy. Just hang on a moment.”
Toby moved forward, then stopped, uncertain. Allenby reached the dog and offered his hand to calm him.
Lucas had recognized Allenby from a considerable distance away. He was tall, even taller than Lucas, and between one and two generations younger, which made him perhaps a few years short of forty, with no gray in his dark-brown hair. He came across as mild, with a keen sense of humor, but Lucas knew that he also had a temper, although it was seldom out of control. In all, he suspected that James Allenby was a man of deeper emotion than he had so far displayed.
“Thank you for coming,” Lucas said when they were standing face-to-face. “There are a few things about this that I would rather tell you personally.”
Lucas started to walk up the incline from which Allenby had just come. Allenby turned and followed him, and Toby, satisfied that all was well, galloped out into the field, leaping over the stubble and, to his delight, sending a variety of birds swirling into the air.
“I haven’t told her yet, but I’m sending Elena to Wyndham Hall,” Lucas told him.
“How are you going to explain her presence?” Allenby’s voice was slightly on edge.
This told Lucas that Allenby had emotions regarding that decision, and that was worrying. How much was there about the Washington business, and her relationship with Allenby, that Elena had not told him? She had been distressed profoundly. But that would have been unavoidable, whether the person helping her was Allenby or anyone else.
No one knew what this was going to involve. Lucas knew that it would not end as the Washington incident had, but it might still be awkward, even painful, especially if Margot was seeing Geoffrey Baden. She appeared assured, but Lucas knew that she was far more vulnerable than she pretended.
Allenby did not repeat his question. There was no sound as they walked across the straw; it was silent but for the faint sigh of the wind through the bare branches of the hedges.
“Lady Wyndham’s brother, Geoffrey Baden, has far more influence than he appears to,” Allenby said. “One way or another, there’s a huge amount of power just beneath the surface. I’m referring to weapons.”
“Weapons?” Lucas echoed. “Do you mean the production of them?”
“Eventually.” Allenby glanced at him, then at the path they were following. “Beginning with steel and other heavy industry and skilled staff, he manufactures first-quality armaments, particularly guns and tanks. It’s not Geoffrey Baden’s firm, but that of a man named Landon Rees.” He paused for a moment. “Landon Rees is married to Wyndham’s sister.”
Lucas had known about Landon Rees’s steel interests, but it was still chilling to hear somebody else stating these facts, especially those about his family ties to David Wyndham and Geoffrey Baden, the man who was linked to his own granddaughter. He was debating with himself as to how far he should trust James Allenby. He did not know him well, not personally, and Elena had said very little. Did that mean she disliked him? Or that her feelings were deeper than she wished to discuss? And could Lucas allow her emotions to matter?
“My other granddaughter, Elena’s sister, is going to be at Wyndham Hall next weekend,” he informed him, although he suspected Allenby might already know this. “Margot Driscoll.”
“I know,” Allenby replied quietly, eyes down, still watching where he was putting his feet on the rough, stubbled ground. “That’s what I want to speak to you about.”
Lucas felt the knot in his stomach tighten. “Margot? She has nothing to do with MI6. She doesn’t even know I was with MI6, nor that Elena…” His voice trailed off.
Allenby’s smile was very slight, a momentary acknowledgment of irony. “I know that, too,” he said softly. “But I believe Margot is the one they are interested in. John Repton called me. It was pretty brief, from a call box. He didn’t say much, but he was sure that Margot, although a striking woman, graceful, and comfortable in all sorts of company, might be appreciated more by the Wyndhams as a way to access her father.” After a pause, he added, “I didn’t want to tell you this over the phone.”
Lucas drew a sharp breath. His son, Charles, was a former ambassador to Berlin, Paris, and Madrid. He was well connected.
Lucas froze. “Are you certain?”
“No. But I fear it. And so did Repton. It is certain that Margot doesn’t know Elena’s part in MI6, so she is the perfect person to send.”
“Is it?” Lucas demanded. “Are we sure Margot doesn’t know?”
“Yes,” Allenby confirmed. “And as for Elena—well, you haven’t seen her in the field. She’s very good.”
“Is she?” It was a serious, demanding question.
“Yes.” No embroidery, just the one word.
Toby came back with a stick in his mouth and offered it to Allenby.
“He’s testing you,” Lucas said, pushing aside the conversation for a moment.
Allenby smiled, scratching the dog’s head. “Thank you, Toby.” He picked up the stick and flung it a considerable way across the field.
Toby galloped after it, swerving around stooks, leaping over clumps of uncut stalks.
Lucas smiled, still avoiding the subject at hand. “That was some throw!”
“Cricket,” Allenby explained, but then his smile vanished. “But Margot spent quite a lot of her youth in Berlin,” he went on. “She still has friends there, some of them rising now in the Nazi Party. I’m sorry.” His voice turned quieter, but harder. “I wish I could deny this, but it seems extremely probable that someone in Wyndham Hall wants to use her connections to strengthen their own. At the very least, she will be another easy and natural avenue of contact to some very influential people. I know her father, your son, was ambassador to Germany for a lot of her growing-up years. It’s—”
“I understand,” Lucas interrupted. “Margot is…” He felt that he was betraying her vulnerability to a man whom he knew only by reputation, not personally. He wanted to protect her from intrusion, let alone tragedy.
Allenby stopped walking. “I do understand,” he said quietly. “If Margot is being used in this way, Elena will do anything she can, even warn Margot, if she’ll listen.”
“And what are you going to do?”
“Go to Wyndham Hall as an old friend of Elena, in whatever relationship she is comfortable with. Except professional, of course.” His expression hardened. “And find out who killed John Repton. And, if possible, see that they pay for it.”
“Be—” Lucas began.
“Careful,” Allenby finished for him. “I won’t let anger drive me. It’s a lot more than that. I know revenge isn’t a luxury any of us can afford. It’s not about me. It’s not even about John Repton, although loyalty counts. It’s about finishing Repton’s job, whatever it was.”
Lucas did not answer. It was not necessary.