Before dinner that evening, Elena suggested to Allenby that they go for a walk in the woods that lay just beyond the garden’s boundaries. “We’ve still got a couple of hours before dark. Changing of the guard, as it were. All the daytime animals and birds getting ready for bed, and the nocturnal ones waking up and coming out. I don’t think I’ve ever been in a woodland at dusk.”
She hoped he would agree. She could do with a good walk, but she knew better than to go alone. It would be a foolish risk to take. The falling branch was no accident, and next time she might not be so lucky.
“Then fetch your jacket,” he told her, glancing at the pale summer dress she was wearing, a blue-gray silk. It was flattering to her coloring, but it would provide little warmth once the sun set. “And sensible shoes, if you have such a thing.”
Fifteen minutes later, they set out on the path that led to the gate opening to the woods.
“I wonder why they bothered to make such a boundary,” Elena thought aloud, looking at the discreet mesh fence between the garden trees and the shrubs in the woodland itself. “Isn’t it all theirs anyway?”
“I believe so.” He nodded. “But it gives a sense of freedom to cross the boundary, and you can’t have that if there isn’t one. I suppose it might also be there to keep marauders out.”
“Marauders?”
“Not people,” he replied with a laugh. “Animals! They would eat half the garden if they felt like it. Rabbits burrow, and deer eat the leaves and bark, which can eventually kill a tree.”
“Some people keep their lives like that,” she remarked. “In compartments: There’s a place for everything, and one part never leaks into another.” She was thinking of Allenby’s life and how little she knew of it. His face was unreadable, even though it was illuminated by the sun, which was still well above the horizon, its light full and clear even under the woodland canopy.
“I think you are rather good at it, keeping things separate,” he replied. “I mean, Margot has no idea what your real life is like. The passion, the danger, the mistakes, and the sacrifices. She sees only the part she knows about, or guesses at when she looks at your photographs.”
She knew what he meant. “Actually, she made a very good offer this afternoon.” She had planned to share it with him anyway. Why not now? It was a pleasant thought, nearly a peace offering. Although, she thought, why “nearly”?
They continued walking, and Elena weighed how much she would tell him. There was an almost bitter humor in him, or at least it seemed that way to her.
She felt Allenby looking at her. Was that part of the acting, or would it always be a function of their professional relationship? Or did he actually care? Of course, she knew it could be both. She must concentrate her attention on the job. Personal emotions had no place in this. You could betray your country in other ways than by selling secrets. Incompetence, for one, was also a betrayal, because you were not giving your full attention. Another betrayal was to let emotions consume you, cloud your judgment. That was particularly dangerous when you were entrusted with a job on which other people’s lives were dependent.
“The offer?” he prompted her. His voice was sharp with interest.
“It was actually Chief Constable Miller’s idea,” she explained.
“Interesting chap, Miller.”
They were walking slowly along a path that meandered between the trees.
“Interesting to photograph?” she asked. “To try to make him look individual, impressive? Or is that an improper question?”
“It’s an improper question,” he confirmed with a slightly twisted smile.
“I don’t much like the sound of the chief constable,” she admitted. “But I could take a good picture of him. Especially if I found an imposing background. I admit to having mixed feelings. He belongs against a Cotswold landscape, and yet he doesn’t. I would look for something jarring in it that doesn’t belong.”
“You’ve already thought about it, haven’t you.” It was not a question.
“Of course,” she admitted. “I want to take a good photo of him. I might see something I’ve missed. He’s involved in this business about Repton because of Griselda, I think. We already know Repton’s death was not an accident, and it wasn’t some poacher who shot him. Miller knows that as well as we do.” She dropped her voice to a tone that reflected her anger. “What Repton was on to was too important for someone to ignore. He was a very real danger to that person…or persons. I wonder if he knew that.”
“I think he did,” Allenby said quietly.
“Well, then, he underestimated them…” She did not finish the thought. They both knew how it ended.
“We have to know more if we’re to stop them.”
“What are they planning to do next?”
“Ruin the people most likely to stand in their way by implying some scandal,” he guessed. “Once they’ve acted, it may be too late to help. Any action, or even the seed of doubt planted, only multiplies the public’s interest. But if we react too soon…” His voice trailed off for a moment, and then he said, “That’s a decision no one can make until we see who they attack next.” He lowered his voice a little, even though there was no chance of their being overheard. “If they are clever enough, and the victim is vulnerable, there may not be anything we can do.”
Even in the fading light, as the sun slid down the horizon, Elena saw that he looked different. Not frightened, but aware of danger closing in around them.
“Have you ever been to one of Mosley’s rallies?” he asked after a few moments of silence.
She was surprised because she had never considered it. But it was a reasonable question, and it showed a gap in her knowledge that should not be there. He was looking at her closely, as if he had read her answer before she admitted it. “No, but I should, shouldn’t I? Know your enemy and all that.”
“But without drawing attention to yourself.” There was a stern warning in his voice. “Some of the people who don’t like him, or who fear him, dismiss him as a fringe lunatic no one takes seriously.”
She did not want to believe Mosley was an actual danger. There was too much danger in the world already. But only children thought that if you couldn’t see something, it wasn’t really there. It wasn’t until they were older that they learned the difference: that a story disappeared only when they closed the book and would stay safely between the pages until the book was opened again.
But then there was the reality of the adult world.
“Anyone who doesn’t take Mosley seriously is making a terrible mistake,” she said in a grave tone.
Allenby exhaled loudly. “He’s been a member of Parliament, and he could be again. Some people think he’d make a great pacifist prime minister. It’s not impossible. To paint him as a clown is a fool’s mistake. He is, above all, a gentleman and a wealthy aristocrat. He owes nobody money. And he’s a friend to several branches of the royal family, not to mention a dozen other dukes, earls, and social climbers who would like to be dukes and earls in the future.”
There was an expression that she had never seen on his face before, and it disturbed her. And yet, if he had been able to reply flippantly, that would have worried her even more.
“He’s a focal point,” Allenby explained, choosing his words carefully. “All kinds of people find some sort of a vision in him. From straight-out militarists all the way—even including people who don’t want war again, at any price—to those who were too young for the last war and feel as if they didn’t do their part. They resent the fact there was no time to find their heroism, masculinity, whatever you want to call it, and they are looking for their chance to shine. Many of them have no real idea what they’re talking about. The tales people tell are made up of all sorts of things: some true and some that they wish to be true, or perhaps need to think are true in order to make them bearable to live with. They forget the mud, the exhaustion, the fear, and above all, the pain.” The half-light accentuated the distress in his face.
Elena waited patiently without interrupting. If he could bear to be honest about it, then what was she worth if she could not bear to listen to him?
“It was an entire generation,” he said softly under his breath, as if speaking to himself. “Anybody who was there lost something and remembers a great deal of things that they would rather forget. But for the rest of us simply to forget, that would be the worst offense of all, a complete betrayal.”
Thoughts of what her own family had suffered flooded her mind and pained her heart, but she pushed the memories away and forced herself to focus on his words.
“I don’t know how serious Mosley is, but people see in him whatever they need to. And I think he may believe he is a militant pacifist. If that makes any sense.” He finally stopped and looked directly at her for the first time since they had raised the subject. His gaze was almost too overwhelming to hold.
“Have you met him?”
“Once.” Allenby’s face filled with regret, and she noticed the vulnerability in him. “It was a mistake,” he went on, his voice thick. “I remember him vividly. I just hope to God he doesn’t remember me.”
She hesitated. What use was she if she did not ask the questions that battered the front of her mind? “Why do you hope that?” she pressed. “Did you say something that might make him suspect you of being more than an observer? Did you argue with him?” That was a polite way of asking if he had betrayed his passionately different views.
A smile lit Allenby’s face for an instant, like moonlight on drifting clouds, there and then gone again, as if it had been only an illusion. “No. I said almost nothing, and that felt like a lie of sorts. But I—”
“Don’t explain,” Elena cut him off. “I don’t need it. Nothing about you suggests a pacifist watcher of life. And if Mosley has any intelligence at all, he would have realized that.”
He nodded in acknowledgment.
She decided to be practical, as he would have preferred. He did not want sympathy.
“What should we do about it? Personally avoid him, but what else? Is he any part of what happened to Repton?”
“I don’t think so, at least not directly,” Allenby answered. “And attacking him will only strengthen his defenses. The people who support Mosley believe in him, and they do so because they want to. They don’t see a coming storm. They see a way of justifying the past—that we’ve already had the war to end all wars. That makes the sacrifice bearable, at least some of the time.”
She wondered if this was a personal belief, either of his own or from someone he cared about, close in his own family. What did anyone believe about war that was bearable? How did you deal with the shattering of the old world before a new one was fully formed? How did you avoid sinking into anger, despair, or a grief that would never heal? Why did we even imagine justifying it? It called for a different kind of courage to face reality without understanding most of it. One piece at a time. Fighting until you could see what was wrong, like individual violence or greed. So many thoughts raced through her mind, making her realize how much she still had to learn.
Allenby interrupted her thoughts not with words, but by taking her arm and beginning to walk again, silently on the soft earth. She thought about Oswald Mosley, and even more about the people who followed him, pinned on him their hopes and ambitions or the need for an explanation for things that could not be avoided. He gave them hope, even if it was an illusion. And perhaps most crusades began with an illusion.
Or maybe it was a justification for dozens of pent-up emotions and beliefs that, one way or another, had to be dealt with. Nationalism. Racism.
“We haven’t got a lot longer,” he muttered, almost under his breath. “I’ve been asking around a little, very little, because I’m afraid of it getting back to Wyndham. He’s extremely popular with ordinary people: small businessmen, local farmers. He employs quite a number of workers on his land, always local. I can’t help liking him. That’s a flaw. I know I shouldn’t make emotional judgments.”
“You have to make judgments,” Elena argued, “including emotional ones. And you can’t do that without getting to know people. Human beings are all about feelings, beliefs, personalities. And anyone who thinks it’s actually about money and possessions hasn’t the beginning of an idea of how to understand. Even I know enough to understand that it’s ideologies, loves, hates, loyalties that make people act as they do. And fear, of course. But there are very few of us who are machines driven by gain. We feel things, sense things. I guess it’s fair to say that we’re not often driven by logic, either.”
“And loyalty,” Allenby added, looking into the distance beyond her. “A lot of people do things out of loyalty, long after reason tells them to stop. Nothing brings out the idealist faster than a lost cause. That’s why even the craziest dreams sometimes live on.”
“Was John Repton a dreamer?” she wondered. It was important. Allenby had known him. He might understand his reasons far more accurately than she could.
Allenby’s eyes flickered down, and his face clouded with emotion for a moment. “He appeared to be the most ordinary man alive,” he replied. “But yes, he was a dreamer, an idealist. He thought a lot of people were better than they actually were, especially women. And it always hurt when he discovered the flaws, although he hid it well. He found it hard to forgive someone who betrayed their own beliefs.”
“Disillusion?”
“No, that he could understand. It was the sellout he could not forgive.”
“And he never married?” she asked, then wondered why she had. Was it really relevant?
“There was somebody, once,” he told her. “But I’m quite sure she died. He only spoke of her one time, and I think it would have been tactless for me to ask again. He knew I would be there to listen if he wanted to talk.”
Elena stared at Allenby in the dying light. The shadows accentuated the lines of his face, but veiled the emotions in it. There was so much about him that she did not know, and yet he seemed to know her so well. Was she such an open book? She wanted to reach out and touch him, but she knew it would be intrusive.
They walked in a comforting silence for several minutes. Finally, Elena spoke. “We still don’t know who at Wyndham Hall knew about Repton. Why is Chief Constable Miller concerning himself with Repton’s death? Is he using it as an excuse to come to Wyndham Hall? Margot told me he was paying close attention to Griselda.”
“There’s more to most of these relationships than we know.” Allenby shrugged ruefully. “That is, if we are right.”
She was startled. “You mean between Repton and someone at the Hall?”
“The two are connected, one way or another. This whole business is bigger and much more dangerous than we realized. Repton understood this, and that’s why he had to be silenced.” He took a deep breath before continuing. “Actually, the question that interests me is: Why now? What was Repton about to disclose to MI6 that was so important that someone needed to kill him? And I’m wondering if it was by chance that his body was found so soon. Did someone need to be sure he was discovered where he was? It seems likely that whoever left Repton’s body there was trying to implicate someone here.”
Elena’s mind raced with possibilities. “But now you have an idea of what he was investigating?” she pressed.
“A very ugly idea.” He grimaced. “If they had killed him in a less obvious way—broken his neck or done something that looked like it could have been an accident—it would not have drawn our attention. But this…this makes no sense.” His voice trailed off. “Elena, we’re missing something crucial.”
He thought for a moment before he answered himself. “One possibility is that someone moved the body so that the authorities, or someone passing by, would find it. They wanted him to be found, and they wanted everyone to know it was murder. Or another possibility is that they had no time to kill him and hide his body in a more discreet way.”
“Or was that intentional? Does it seem like that to you?”
“Yes,” he said slowly. “Either of those thoughts narrows it down rather interestingly. But what I hadn’t considered was that someone intended that the cause of his death was clearly seen to be murder. That leads to the even more interesting question: Why did they want it known?”
“To frighten another person into silence,” Elena suggested. “Or maybe they suspected Repton was working for MI6 and thought this would make us reveal our hand. That’s a deeply uncomfortable thought. The only new people who have shown up at Wyndham Hall are you and me. They may not know much about me, but—I’m sorry—you are the more obvious choice when it comes to suspicion.” She said it as lightly as she could, but there was a lump that settled like ice in the pit of her stomach. “I have an obvious reason for being here. I’m Margot’s sister, here for what we thought was a probable engagement. But you came with me—why? We don’t seem to be a couple, so perhaps your presence is triggering some kind of alarm?”
Allenby was silent for a moment, then he spoke slowly, his voice nowhere near his usual easy cadence. “I suppose I should make it more obvious, my affection for you. But if they suspect me, that could implicate you as well. Or do they think I’m ruthless enough to use you without your knowledge? Are you naïve enough to let me do that?”
There was amusement in his face now, but Elena thought it was directed at himself, not at her. “Other people have—used me, that is—and Margot knows that. So why not you?” She said it without bitterness, at least without much of it, and certainly without self-pity.
He said nothing.
“Do you want to be the villain or the innocent dupe?” she asked. “I don’t see you as either, though these seem to be the only roles available for the two of us.” She wanted to laugh. “One of us has to survive and get the job done. So again, it all comes down to learning what Repton was after here. Even if you have no more than a suspicion, I think you had better share it with me, in case I’m the one who survives.” It struck Elena that this was a ridiculous conversation. She did not want any of it to be true. But denial only worked for so long.
“You’re right,” he agreed reluctantly. “I think we’re getting close to knowing why Repton was killed, but I have to believe it was because he was too near the truth and was likely not only to find it, but to repeat it to his superiors.”
“But…the truth about what?” she asked again, frustration building. “Nazi sympathizers? Or little Englanders who will let Europe go under? And does that mean that we have no choice but to assume that it involves someone at Wyndham Hall? I think we can exclude the servants,” she added. “I presume one of our people has already checked them out.”
Allenby nodded. “Yes, I think we can assume this is political. But that leaves it wide open to anyone. That is, anyone but you, me, and Margot.”
“But what were they doing?” She still had little idea what any of them would be involved in that was worth killing for. It felt as if they were going in circles.
“We know they are right wing,” said Allenby. “But so are thousands of people. Look at Oswald Mosley’s Blackshirts. They gather in marches and displays of loyalty, which they claim is to the king, but it’s actually to honor their own ideas of what Britain should be, which is fascist. They give the Nazi salute and have anti-Semitic ideas. They are practically a carbon copy of Hitler’s storm troopers, which in—” He stopped suddenly at the look on her face. “What?”
“I was there, remember?” she said simply.
“Yes, I know, I’m sorry.” His voice was hoarse. “But doing what, for God’s sake?” he asked, his expression as earnest as it was questioning, as if he’d been holding it in for a while. “I mean, when you were in Germany.”
“You don’t need to know.” She did not want to tell him, mainly because she did not want to relive it yet again. And also because she was not supposed to. It would be a good idea to obey at least some of the rules. “I don’t know what you do between the times we meet, and you don’t know what I do.” She stiffened and forced herself to look away.
“Sorry,” Allenby muttered. “I’m guessing that Lucas sent you there. To Germany, that is?”
“No, it was Peter who sent me, and the mission was supposed to be fairly simple. Nobody knew that terrible things were going to happen there. And before you ask, yes, it was absolutely as awful as they say. And no, I wasn’t actually hurt. That’s all you need to know.” She took a deep breath. “I don’t know as much as I probably should about Sir Oswald Mosley, but I know a great deal about the Brownshirts.”
“Hitler liked the idea of our Blackshirts,” Allenby said wryly. “I don’t know whose idea the Nazi salute was, but a lot of the principles are very alike. Power, dictatorship, anti-Semitism. Get rid of those foreigners and everything will be all right. We don’t learn much from our past mistakes.”
“Everybody wants the last word.” She shook her head sadly. “And the ultimate power. That’s why it never stops.”
“Well, we need to have the last word in this. And try a lot harder. Are you wearing lipstick?”
Elena was dumbfounded by his question. “Yes, of course I am. I don’t come out of my bedroom half dressed!” Her eyebrows furrowed in confusion. She wasn’t at all sure why he was asking, but she thought the question impertinent and nearly stormed off.
“Good,” he said, satisfied. “Now, if you’ll excuse me.” He grabbed her arm before she could turn away and pulled her close before kissing her gently, deeply. Only after several seconds did he let her go.
Elena froze and felt suddenly alone again as he pulled away. She wanted to kiss him back, but realized his gesture had served its purpose. He would return to the house with lipstick smudges on his mouth that hopefully the others would take note of.
They walked in silence toward the light on the lawn. Illumination spilled out of the sitting room, where much of the family was enjoying the pleasant evening. The double doors were still open wide, welcoming them inside.
Elena went in, Allenby walking a few steps behind her, and he turned to fasten the door against the increasing chill as the night closed in.
Everyone was seated. Elena saw Margot’s eyebrows rise at the sight of the faint traces of lipstick on Allenby’s mouth. Elena bit back a satisfied smirk and leaned back in her chair.
Allenby, too, caught Margot’s stare and quickly took a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped away the smudge as he approached his seat beside David Wyndham.
“At dusk, with the light constantly changing—if it’s just as fine as this tomorrow, and with your permission—I think Elena should take some photographs,” he suggested.
“Of course,” Wyndham accepted easily. “I would be interested to see what she chooses, since everyone sees something different when standing behind the camera.”
Elena seized her chance to join the conversation. “In almost everything,” she said eagerly. “How we view scenes, people, that is what’s so interesting. And sometimes the camera catches a detail, an expression, something no one sees.”
Landon Rees stared at her with new interest. “All sorts of things,” he echoed, nodding in agreement. “I’m thinking of my factories. Some people view them as a blot on the landscape, while others see them as a necessary evil. And then there are those who think of them as beautiful. The results, I mean, not the actual factories, of course. To me, shining steel is certainly beautiful in its own way.”
“A symbol of power,” Elena remarked. “Shining, sinister, beautiful, and perhaps even meaningful when you know what it will be used for. Is the steel to be used for railway engines that will carry us to faraway places, or is the final product guns or bayonets, to be crushed with the men who used them under the tread of a tank or a thousand tanks? Such a monumental difference.”
Rees’s eyebrows rose. “Attack or defend.” He pondered the two options. “Or both, depending on who has them. If our enemies do, then so must we, to survive.”
Her smile returned, easing the tension. “I don’t think a photograph is going to tell us that. Do you think we will need them again, then? Another war?”
“Please God, no,” he replied incredulously. “But having them might be exactly what prevents the need to use them.”
“I wish you weren’t right.” She sighed with intense feeling. “I so hope you are.”
“Let’s change the subject,” Griselda said a trifle sharply. “This is most unpleasant.”
Allenby glanced at Griselda. “I suppose you’ve known the chief constable a long time?”
Her smile returned as she welcomed the change of topic. “Yes, indeed, and he is an excellent man.”
“Is he any closer to sorting out this miserable death of…what did you say his name was? Ripley, Ripton…?”
“I believe it’s Repton,” Griselda replied. “And yes, Captain Miller is being very helpful. I’m not sure why you mentioned it, since we didn’t know the dead man.”
“He clearly knew someone here,” her husband corrected her.
“Nonsense,” she said sharply. “All sorts of people come to a big house like this. People we don’t know, and we don’t notice because they come to the back door.”
Before anyone could form a satisfactory reply, the butler came in to announce that dinner was served. Griselda rose to her feet, and everyone followed her lead. One by one, they went out and took their places at the dining table. It was an escape from an awkward discussion, and it would have been noticeably clumsy for Allenby to return to it.
Nevertheless, it was Geoffrey who would not let it go. “It hardly matters now,” he continued, as if he was the one who needed to determine the subject and then dismiss it. “The man is dead. And, as Griselda said, he didn’t come as far as the house. I don’t think anyone here knew him. He was found in one of the ditches at the other end of the property. About half a mile away, as the crow flies. Or maybe a bit more.”
“You mean an irrigation ditch?” Allenby said with surprise.
“All ditches are for irrigation, Mr. Allenby,” Griselda said coldly. “Even by the side of the road. The rainwater has to have somewhere to go.”
“Indeed.” Allenby faked an innocent smile.
Elena knew he was fishing for information, and she carefully watched everyone’s reactions.
“Perhaps he was an old soldier from the last war, still suffering from shell shock. They say it doesn’t get better,” Griselda suggested sadly. “That’s one of the quiet horrors of war that lingers on, long after the rest of us imagine we have healed.”
“That’s a very good reason why we shouldn’t have another war,” remarked Prudence, speaking up for the first time since they had been seated. “At any cost,” she emphasized. “I’m praying that those who remember war will be the most outspoken in keeping us out of another.” Her face was pinched with misery as she spoke, as if with a slow-burning, quiet anger.
It was the first real emotion Elena had seen in Prudence, the first time she had heard passion. Perhaps she wasn’t a crashing bore after all, and there was more to her than she preferred to show.
It put a new slant on things.
If Allenby noticed this change in Prudence, he ignored it.
Allenby was probably the only one among them who had known Repton personally—not that they knew that. She needed to learn more and decided to push the subject further. She was acutely aware that time was getting short. “If he was indeed still suffering from shell shock, what would he have come here for, if none of you knew him?” She rushed to continue before anyone could respond. “Could he have had information that he thought mattered to you? He must have been as passionately against another war as you are.”
“We don’t wander around other people’s property in the middle of the night, carrying rifles!” Griselda snapped, raising her voice with a sharp tone that indicated they should be done with this improper dinner conversation.
Elena raised her eyebrows in alarm. “Oh dear, I didn’t realize he was shot with his own rifle. Then why are the police still looking into it? I would have thought it was more likely suicide.”
“Difficult to shoot yourself in the chest with your own rifle,” Allenby cut in, as if Elena didn’t already know this perfectly well. “And very obvious.”
Elena was interested to see how the others reacted. When a reaction came, it was from an unexpected quarter.
“If you cared about Elena,” Margot said between gritted teeth to Allenby, “you would stop her from making idiotic and entirely inappropriate remarks at the dinner table!”
Allenby appeared unperturbed, as if he had remarkable self-control. “You have known her all her life. Have you ever been able to stop her from making uncomfortable or too-pertinent remarks?”
Margot’s face flushed with embarrassment. “The issues between my sister and me are none of your concern. You may be in love with her, or rather amused by her, but you barely know her. Please don’t humiliate yourself by intruding in family affairs.”
“I apologize.” Allenby blinked without expression. “I hadn’t realized Repton’s death was a family affair. This is not your family, as of yet.”
“Of course not!” Margot snapped. “And this man is of concern to us only because, unfortunately, he was shot on Wyndham land.”
“Was he?” inquired Allenby. “I thought he might have been shot elsewhere and carried to Wyndham land for someone to find.”
Elena shot Allenby a skeptical look. Where was he going with this? This was confidential information! It was clear to her that Allenby could not leave it alone. Perhaps he thought this was really his last chance. Perhaps he was right. It was a chilling thought, and it felt like walls closing in.
“Such an important and powerful family as this one must have enemies, even if only because of envy,” Elena suggested, ignoring her sister’s glare.
Griselda was momentarily at a loss for words.
“I’m afraid that is true,” Wyndham said quietly. “But a beastly thing to do, as if the poor man were expendable.”
“Everybody’s expendable if your passion is all-consuming,” Allenby pointed out. “It would have been explained as ‘the greater good.’ That is, if whoever was responsible was forced to justify it.”
“You must know some extraordinary people,” Griselda remarked.
“As do you, Lady Wyndham.”
Elena knew that Allenby was not about to let this go. The death of Repton was too fresh for him, and too painful. And they had much to learn, with too little time before they returned to London. But still, she worried he was going too far.
“I believe you know Sir Oswald Mosley,” Allenby continued, keeping his voice casual. “He is a man capable of stirring great passions and loyalties that some men would die for.”
“Or die because of,” David Wyndham put in bitterly. He turned to Allenby. “What was his name again? The man who was shot?”
“John Repton, according to the papers,” Allenby replied.
“Did you know him?”
Allenby did not hesitate, the lie slipping easily off his tongue. “No, I don’t think so, but I knew a hundred, or even a thousand, like him.”
“Are you old enough to have fought in the war?” Wyndham asked with surprise.
“Just. But I saw a lot of men who returned home. It’s not something you forget, especially if you knew them before they went.”
Elena noticed that the knuckles on Allenby’s hand were white, and she hoped that the others in the room didn’t see how personal this was for him.
“I’m sorry.” Wyndham bowed his head.
“And Margot and Elena lost their only brother. But I expect you knew that,” Allenby continued. “No sane man wants war,” he added. “But there are worse things.”
“Like what, for God’s sake?” asked Geoffrey incredulously.
Allenby drew in his breath, and then let it out again.
Elena imagined she knew exactly what was going through his mind, and he was pausing to weigh the danger of speaking with too much knowledge.
“Becoming just like our enemy,” she answered for him. “An enemy is a lot less likely to attack if you join in willingly and become just like him because you do not want to pay the cost of a fight.”
“The last war was against the Kaiser,” Geoffrey pointed out. “He’s vanished from the scene. This new Germany is rebuilding, and it is led by Adolf Hitler. That’s hardly the same thing. You must give them a chance to rebuild. Or do you want them all shot? Shall we just get rid of Germany altogether?”
“Geoffrey!” Wyndham interrupted, his voice raised in warning,
Geoffrey ignored his brother-in-law. “This is a new country, nothing like the Kaiser’s Germany, and we pretty well drove them into the ground. Hitler is giving them back their purpose, their self-respect. Work, food, rebuilding, that all equals hope. Don’t get stuck in the past, David. It’s not the same now. When were you last in Germany?”
“Nobody is disagreeing with you, Geoffrey,” Wyndham cut in. “Rebuilding Germany is necessary, and the Treaty of Versailles was full of faults and injustices. But we don’t want or need Nazis here. We can rebuild in our own way, and in our own character.”
“A bit of German energy and organization wouldn’t hurt,” Griselda said, she, too, now unwilling to leave it alone. “We need organization. We drift along, hoping it will be all right, but that’s not enough. Geoffrey is right. We need to take notice. Edward will be king soon. The old king is weakening rapidly. A couple of years, perhaps less.”
From the corner of her eye, Elena saw Allenby’s fist clench tighter.
“And Mrs. Simpson?” Prudence pressed.
“She will have to go, of course,” Geoffrey answered. “The prince will have to marry someone suitable and keep Mrs. Simpson quietly somewhere out of sight. Weekends or whatever. As long as he’s discreet, it will be all right. The last thing we need is a scandal.”
“That’s stopped a few, I suppose,” Griselda remarked wryly. “But certainly not all.”
“Some people are a damn sight more discreet than Edward,” Landon Rees said bitterly.
“Pressure will be brought,” Griselda said calmly. “I’m not at all sure it will work.”
“They’ll make it work well enough,” Geoffrey said.
Elena remained silent, but words of warning raced through her mind. She looked at Allenby and saw that he, too, was struggling to look engaged and calm.