Elsie had suggested a ‘little afternoon tipple’ instead of tea at Fortnum & Mason. Now they were in a small pub tucked away along a street Elinor would never have known existed had she not met Elsie according to her instructions and at the appointed time. As before, Elsie’s motor car waited outside.

‘Meet me at the Queen’s Head – the ladies’ saloon.’ Elinor had been seated under the domed hairdryer when Elsie tapped her on the wrist and handed her a note, leaning over to be heard above the fan. ‘Any taxi driver will know where to go.’

Elinor liked the idea of a pub with a ‘ladies’ saloon,’ but was taken aback when Elsie Finch soon became tipsy. Elsie’s swift loss of sobriety surprised Elinor; she assumed anyone from the Mackie clan would be better able to hold their alcohol. However, it had not taken long before the woman’s hat was askew and she was slurring her words. Elinor wondered if Elsie suffered from a metabolic disorder of some sort. She remembered Charlotte admonishing her once for serving her grandmother a larger than usual glass of sherry for a toast before Christmas dinner. ‘She can’t take her drink, Linni – you shouldn’t have given it to her.’ The image of her grandmother face down on the table almost caused Elinor to laugh, but given that Elsie was on her way to a similar position, instead she rested her hand on her companion’s shoulder. At once she felt sorry for the woman – perhaps Elsie had let down her guard because she thought she was with a friend.

‘Elsie, are you alright?’

Elsie rubbed her forehead, knocking her hat even farther to one side. ‘You know what they call it? What they call gin? Mother’s ruin. I’m not a mother, but I should’ve had a bite to eat before I had a drink. I could do with a packet of crisps.’

‘I’ll get them, Elsie, and I’ll see if they can rustle up something more filling for you to eat – you need something inside you.’

Elsie came to her feet, swayed and grabbed the back of the chair. ‘I’ll just nip to the khazi,’ she announced in a loud voice.

Elinor cringed as she watched Elsie stagger and then right herself while making her way to the ladies’ lavatory, her crimson Robin Hood-style hat with a bright blue feather slipping farther to one side as she half-stumbled into the door. The London slang for lavatory was a word that grated on Elinor, though she knew its Italian origin was probably more familiar to Elsie – casa was, after all, the house. In witnessing Elsie’s meander across the beer-stained carpet, Elinor felt another surge of empathy for the woman. Elsie had been raised within a brutal family, an unforgiving territory where she watched her brothers trained to assume the family business as if they were raw recruits into an army. Elsie grew up in a man’s world, and the only person who had ever set any account by her was Abe Finch, and he was dead.

As she considered Elsie’s upbringing, Elinor realised why she had been so curious about the woman. They had something in common, after all. Circumstance had rendered them both outsiders from a young age, and with that understanding, she 255was filled with compassion for Elsie Finch.

Having purchased a packet of Smith’s Crisps, Elinor took her seat again and looked towards the lavatory door, waiting for Elsie to emerge. Elsie’s inebriation had put Elinor off taking even one more sip of the cream sherry, but as she pushed the glass aside, she glanced down at the floor and realised that Elsie had left her handbag. She looked towards the door leading to the lavatory again, and hoped that her companion might be a good few minutes before emerging. Making sure no one was watching – it was fortunate they were alone in the ladies’ saloon – she picked up the bag and unsnapped the clasp. There were several items inside – a purse, a lipstick, a bottle of Chanel No. 5 perfume, a powder compact and a pressed handkerchief, together with a pen and a thick notebook. She opened the notebook.

The book had been separated into sections, each with a woman’s name inscribed in small, exact handwriting. It seemed as if the writer was a girl unfledged, a young woman who had entered adulthood never having graduated to a mature script. Underneath each name was a list of clothing and other items – she suspected stolen goods – their value set alongside a figure indicating the price for which it was sold and the amount paid to the woman in the middle of the transaction; remuneration for both the shoplifter and the receiver who would take the stolen items and find willing buyers. Elsie Finch monitored the worth of each woman who worked for her. Hardly surprising, thought Elinor. A final section seemed to be more personal, though it reminded Elinor of the diary an adolescent girl might pull from under her pillow each night before going to sleep, to pen every secret thought and feeling. She had never kept such a journal, though she had once read Cecily’s, having found it while making the beds. In Elsie’s diary, the section entitled ‘Plans’ and ‘Future’ were penned as if written by someone who had not quite reached even the cusp of maturity, with all the hopes and dreams such a passage entailed – except, though written in the language of adolescence, the entries were dark.

My brothers have under-esteemated me. They’re all the same. But they don’t know I can get one over on them any day. Abe told me I was better than the lot of them and he was right. He told me the future was in my hands. Bless him, he made me realise I could do anything I wanted and I won’t let him down when the time is right. I will show the snots who I am. I miss Abe. I’m not a Mackie any more and I will have the last laugh on them – you see if I don’t. I am Elsie Finch and five is my lucky number.

While ‘esteemated’ left Elinor wondering if Elsie meant to make such a telling error or whether it was a laughable mistake, the list following her declaration of intent revealed something Elinor had considered from the time she observed Elsie’s girls at work in Bond Street. Elsie Finch was not a woman to be underestimated – or under-esteemated – and as things stood, both DCI Steve Warren and the men of the Mackie family had viewed her as if she were no more than a related though less venomous spider crawling out from under a stone.

Hearing the door to the lavatories rattling, Elinor returned the notebook to Elsie’s handbag and set it on the floor alongside her seat again. She stood up, walked over to the door and opened it.

‘Thank god you heard!’ said Elsie. ‘I thought I’d never get out of the bleedin’ khazi.’

‘I think you were turning the handle the wrong way,’ said Elinor. ‘Do you feel better now, Elsie?’

Elsie nodded, and as she opened her mouth to speak again, Elinor could smell the sourness of vomit.

‘Let’s ask for a glass of water for you,’ said Elinor. ‘There’s a packet of crisps on the table – the saltiness will make you feel better. It’s so easy to get dehydrated under those hair dryers when you’re having your hair done.’

‘De-hy-what?’ said Elsie.

‘Your body needs some water. Here, you sit down and I’ll get it for you so you can have a bite or two of the crisps – then perhaps you should tell your driver to take you home.’ Elinor paused. ‘I don’t think you had too much to drink, Elsie – you’re probably about to go down with a cold or something, so you should rest. Hopefully it’s no more than a twenty-four hour summer sniffle, but best not to take chances.’ The lie almost stuck in her throat – Elsie Finch had knocked back several gin and tonics before Elinor had even lifted her own small glass of sherry for a second sip.

‘Yes, you’re right, my dear,’ said Elsie. ‘I’m not one to lose my insides over a drink or two.’

 

After watching Elsie Finch’s driver transport her away to her home south of the river, Elinor set off towards Scotland Yard, where she was soon ushered in to see Detective Chief Inspector Steve Warren.

‘Linni, before you start, I’ve too much on the boil right now to give your … that lead about the Mackie family any more time than you’ve had from my men already. I mean – going off to Catford dogs, and then, what was it? Down to Goodwood the following day so you could see what a doped-up horse looks like when it falls and breaks its neck?’

Elinor felt her eyes grow wider and fought to compose herself. ‘Just so you know, Steve, Bob and Charlie asked me if I wanted to go to Goodwood, and I had no idea I would see a horse with a broken neck and the vet have to do the right thing with a bolt through its head.’

Warren shuffled papers on his desk. ‘I know you too well, Linni – you probably hinted, and—’

‘Yes, I hinted more than once about seeing a horse race, Steve, and they were bloody big hints too, but I didn’t plead and I didn’t get in the way.’

‘Unlike at the dog stadium.’

‘I wasn’t in the way there either – in fact, I kept well out of the way. And had it not been for me, they wouldn’t have seen the Mackies pull out in their flash new Ford after the vet had passed.’

‘The Mackies peeled off and away when they saw one of the police cars, as you know, and I’m sure you are aware that we can’t nail them just for being at Catford Stadium.’

‘Of course they diverted when they knew there was more than one police vehicle after them, but they didn’t get the dog doctor, did they?’

Warren threw down his pen and leant back in his chair. ‘Linni, enough! I have had more than enough. You come in here with your big ideas about the family gang just because a couple of John Mackie’s boys were roughing up their brother. I mean, for two pins I’d rough up my own brother, if I could.’

‘Says a lot about you, Steve, doesn’t it?’

‘You know what I mean, Linni.’ He shook his head, staring at her. ‘Look, Linni, more than any other person on earth, I understand how it is for you. If you’re bored, get yourself a job. Find a nice little school down there in Wattlehurst—’

‘Shacklehurst.’

‘Whatever hurst the bloody place is called. Go back to teaching posh girls how to speak another language and take that useless blackboard with you. Forget you were ever good at anything else. I should never have indulged you in the first place. I blame myself.’

A curtain of silence lasting a minute seemed to envelop both Elinor and Warren, until she spoke again.

‘What’s really going on, Steve?’ Elinor’s voice was low. ‘You’re pulling back, yet given the information I brought to you, it’s evident that something is in the offing that should be of interest to the Flying Squad.’ She took a deep breath. ‘Elsie—’

‘Please, Linni – not Elsie Finch again. Not that little fat thing with her merry gang of shoplifters. Didn’t you hear me? I said I have enough on my plate.’

Elinor nodded. ‘I know you do, Steve.’

‘So let it go – let it go because we both know why you’re pushing.’ Another silence.

‘The thing that interests me most, Steve, is why you’re now ignoring the evidence I’ve brought to you.’

Warren pushed back his chair and stood up. ‘And that’s where we stop this merry-go-round right now. I truly don’t know how to explain this to you any more, and I’ve tried a good few ways in this conversation alone. You do not know my world, Linni. “Evidence” is more than a thought, a suspicion. Evidence is solid information, solid intelligence brought to us by people on the inside. Bob, Charlie and me, we all have our informants and they are gold dust to us. You could say it’s a bit like running an escape line, choosing the right people to usher everyone along on the way, only in this department, we’re trying to get in, not get people out.’

Elinor looked behind her and then at Warren again. ‘Just as well the door is closed, Steve. You’ve just let fly about part of what you and I did, and it’s still classified.’ She came to her feet. ‘So, would you like me to come to you when I’ve more information?’

‘Oh yes, and where might you get this valuable intelligence of yours?’

‘Don’t your people keep their sources to themselves?’

Warren ran his fingers back through oiled hair. ‘Please, Linni, stop all this and go home before you give me a heart attack. All I want now is for you to be safe, so please leave well enough alone. You’ve got a cushy life, so enjoy it. Go and work in your garden. Teach girls to natter in French, or Italian – just not bloody German, for all our sakes. And stay away from the Mackies. You’ve a nice little grace-and-favour house down there in the sticks, so go and live a quiet life furnished by His Majesty’s government.’

Elinor was about to turn away and leave without responding when Warren spoke again.

‘It was the war, Linni. It wasn’t your fault – what happened over there. It was the war.’

Elinor met the detective’s gaze. ‘And this is now.’ She stared at the man before her and went on. ‘You know, a few years ago a very wise woman told me that everyone has special talents, and in a time of war, those with unique skills would be sought out. I soon realised that she had given me a warning of sorts, because I had a special talent that was indeed sought out – and we know it was my skill with languages. But I think she knew I had something else up my sleeve, something I was blessed with since I was a girl – because without it I would be dead.’ She took a deep breath. ‘So know this, Steve – I have just enough fear in me to keep me alive. I have enough fear not to do anything stupid, but I have absolutely no fear of those who would see fit to scare me – and that means you, the Mackies and anyone else who comes after me.’

Warren was quick with his retort. ‘“Enough fear not to do anything stupid,” eh, Linni?’ He gave a half-laugh. ‘It seems you can put the past in its place after all – in fact you’ve made up a completely new story about the past.’ He shook his head. ‘Well, well, well, Elinor White doesn’t do anything stupid. Funny, I remember something very stupid that came of you and your fear during the war. It was so bloody stupid that—’

Without lingering to hear DCI Stephen Warren finish his retort, Elinor turned and left the office, slamming the door behind her.

 

Elinor stood still, as if she were another statue positioned along the Embankment, overlooking the water. The sounds of traffic, of people and pigeons, were muffled behind her, echoing as if her ears were filled with cotton wadding. She watched a police vessel motor past towards Westminster Bridge, and in the opposite direction a Thames barge showing every one of its many years was taking advantage of an outgoing tide on its journey towards the docks. Was the barge a home now? She had heard some of the remaining barges had become dwellings, and thought it might be calming to live on the water, waking to the sound of small waves lapping against the sides of the vessel and waterfowl heralding morning. She took a deep breath and tried to render her mind empty.

There were landmarks in her past that could never be erased, though she had made a measure of peace with all but two: her first killing, and the last. The passage of her womanhood was bookended by death, and entry into maturity had come early. With those ghosts still haunting her, how might she live until her own passing? When would it come, and how? Would she be in her bed, alone except for a nurse? Or would she fall in her garden, to be found among the roses? Elinor suspected, though, that Fate might be holding a loaded gun when she found her, when she decided it was time to pay up. There were interludes when she wished Fate would just hurry up, get the job over and done with. She was tired of the torment.

Feeling the wind against her face, Elinor turned around. She was about to take her first step in the direction of Charing Cross when she saw a chauffeur-driven black motor car draw up outside Scotland Yard – the same black motor car she had seen in Whitehall Place and on the Goudhurst road. Only a second or two passed before Detective Chief Inspector Stephen Warren emerged from the building and stepped into the idling vehicle, the passenger door barely having closed before the driver pulled out into traffic.

‘Afternoon, Miss White.’

Elinor turned, startled by the greeting. ‘Val – you made me jump.’

‘People always say that. It’s because I wear these flattie shoes. I know it’s not exactly stylish, but I can’t wear high heels at work, what with all the running about and up and down the stairs, so I wear these. They’re very quiet on the pavement.’

Elinor nodded, composing herself, ready to meet the secretary’s jaunty demeanour. ‘I’m the same, Val. Cannot abide the things a heel does to my back.’

Val nodded towards the motor car speeding off into the distance. ‘There he goes again, the boss on one of his afternoon bigwig chat sessions.’

‘Bigwig chat sessions?’

‘I’ve got a minute before I go in.’ Val took a packet of cigarettes from her handbag and offered one to Elinor, who declined. ‘I shouldn’t,’ said Val. ‘You know, I’ve read something about these things and cancer. To be honest, I can’t see them doing that much harm. Anyway, I reckon having a few puffs helped all our nerves during the war, what with the bombs dropping – and smoking probably saved the looney bins being overrun with all us nutters scared out of our wits.’ She lit the cigarette, shook out the flame on the match and threw it over the wall.

‘So what are bigwig chat sessions, Val?’

‘Oh, it’s DCI Warren and one of his old mates. They were at school together, apparently. Steve – sorry, DCI Warren – was a scholarship boy, and that bloke in the flash motor car was his best mate, the one who stopped him from getting his head knocked in by all them other posh boys.’

‘Really?’

‘I think they worked together in the war, something like that.’

‘Oh. What’s his name?’

Val cleared her throat, as if for dramatic effect when she mimicked a more upper-class accent. ‘Sah Pereh Gordon-Williams.’

‘Perry?’

‘Short for something. Probably Percival. In fact, it might be Sir Percival Gordon-Williams, but it’s the way he says it. “Be a good gel and tell Stephen it’s Sah Pereh on the line.”’

Elinor nodded. ‘A bit familiar of him.’

‘And then there’s that double-barreled name a lot of them toffs have, like they have to drag their ancestors up from the grave so we all know who they’re related to.’

Elinor laughed. ‘You should write that in a column for the Sunday Pictorial, or the Mirror, one of those papers.’

Val looked around as if to check no one else with soft heels might be approaching. ‘Actually, Miss White, I am applying for another job. At the BBC. Secretary. I reckon there’s a chance I could work my way up – and I won’t get that over the road there.’ She nodded towards Scotland Yard, drew on her cigarette, pinched the tip and pressed the unsmoked half back into the packet. ‘You see, I thought about what you said before, you know, about DCI Warren, and on the way home I said to myself, “Val, love, it’s time to get away from this lot and out into something with more opportunity. Away from all this crime and these miserable coppers”. Even if I don’t get this job, there will be another one – perhaps at Vogue. I hear a secretary can work her way up there too.’

‘If I hear of anything, I’ll let you know, Val. It’s not quite as colourful, but I have a friend who works at the university, and there might be a secretarial position open.’

‘That’s interesting. I wonder if I could get some lessons free too. You know – move up in the world, get more education to better myself.’

Elinor nodded. ‘Always a good idea to better oneself – like DCI Warren at that school he attended. What did you say it was called?’

Val’s smile developed into a knowing grin. ‘I didn’t say, Miss White, but I think it was somewhere in Sussex. Down near Hove, that way. I remember DCI Warren telling me it was called something or other Abbey.’ She consulted her watch. ‘I’d better get going. I went on a late lunch break to meet my new bloke. Took your advice there as well – found myself someone my own age.’ She looked both ways, ready to cross the street. ‘And that’s another reason for leaving that lot over there. Bye, Miss White.’

‘Bye, Val – and thank you.’

‘Miss White – I’ve just remembered. Standing Abbey. That was it – the school in Hove. Standing Abbey.’ Val gave a short laugh. ‘I’ve no idea if it’s still standing, but you never know what you might find out if you hove down there.’ She laughed again. ‘Get it – hove?’

Elinor smiled as she waved to Val, and whispered as if to offer a blessing. ‘You’re a very clever young woman, Val – don’t throw it away, whatever you do.’

 

When the war ended, Elinor had promised herself that her life would become monotonous, that she would find the same rhythm to her days that teaching had provided. Once settled in the countryside, she would welcome an existence of ease in her self-styled hermitage. She would make no instant decisions. She would not treat her life as if it were a target and she a sniper in pursuit of something more.

The altercation between Jim Mackie and his brothers had interrupted the tempo she had constructed with such care, and though she was intrigued by the hunt she had embarked upon, the way she had jumped in with two feet was nagging at her, leading her to a boundary between the present and a past she had hitherto only viewed through a lens seared with pain. Now another path had opened up, and she was curious enough to follow it, beating back undergrowth along the way if she had to. She had known Stephen Warren for five years. It was not a long time, not an expansive period that would suggest the loyalties wrought by a long-term friendship, but those years of their shared war had been hard enough to flay the outer skin from any pretence. The essence of character, the good and the bad, the strong and the weak, had been laid bare. They knew one another too well.

Elinor made an instant decision as she walked away from Scotland Yard. It was so swift that it surprised her as she hailed a taxicab to take her to Victoria Station, where she purchased a ticket for Hove railway station. She realised how far she would go to bring order to the nagging doubt and deep frustration she felt when the jigsaw pieces of gathered information refused to slip into place.

 

‘It’s so good of you to see me, Father Ignatius.’

‘Anything I can do to assist you, Miss White.’ The elderly priest, headmaster at Standing Abbey School for Boys, held out his hand towards a worn leather chair in front of the cold fireplace. He did not take his own seat until Elinor was settled.

‘Father, I would very much appreciate this meeting being held in confidence.’

Father Ignatius smiled, his grey eyes soft and clouded with age, his hair silver, though the skin on his hands and face remained youthful, with none of the liver marks, folds and lines Elinor expected to see on a man of his years.

‘Miss White, every conversation in this room is conducted in confidence.’ He pointed towards the ceiling. ‘With one exception.’

‘Of course.’ She leant forward. ‘A dear friend of mine was a pupil here some years ago – he’s about forty-six now, so it would have been during the Great War. His name is Stephen Warren, and he was a scholarship boy.’

Father Ignatius drew a hand across his eyes, as if the friction might stir his memory. ‘Warren … Warren. Stephen, you say?’ He paused, then settled his hands together in his sleeves. ‘Yes, I remember now. I remember almost every boy here, you know, though sometimes it takes a little time, as if my brain were sifting through a series of folders in the filing cabinet. But I tend to recall the scholarship boys in particular, because the school’s governors award only one scholarship every year.’ He looked up at Elinor. ‘Not an easy passage of entry for some.’ He rubbed his chin. ‘Hmmm, yes, Stephen came here at age twelve. Very bright boy – taller than most, but of course they tend to even out with the years. Young boys are like giraffes – ungainly for a long time, growing in spurts that beggar belief. But is he in trouble?’

‘Mmmm, no, not really trouble. Stephen is an accomplished man, but … you know … the war.’

‘Yes, of course. The war. War inflicts such terrible wounds, most of which cannot be seen.’

‘Indeed.’ Elinor cleared her throat, wondering how to parse the lie. ‘I know Stephen – Mr Warren – had a very good friend here, and I wondered if you could tell me about their early friendship. I’m curious about it, and I have a feeling—’ She looked upward for effect, as if seeking divine counsel before bringing her attention back to Father Ignatius. ‘I have a feeling there was some element of the connection that might offer a clue to Mr Warren’s approach, his ability to … well, his ability to live a fulfilling life.’

There was silence, as Father Ignatius stared at the fireplace as if he were a cat peering into flames, though there was no fire on a summer’s day. Elinor wondered if she had gone too far, if she were chasing a rabbit down a never-ending hole and would fail to find her way out again. Steve was right – this wasn’t her world. It was none of her business, an investigation was something she didn’t understand. Nor did her own lies sit well with her.

‘Yes, Miss White. I think I can help you there.’ Ignatius looked up at Elinor.

‘You can?’

‘I recall that Stephen Warren’s best friend was a boy named Peregrine Williams, though I believe he has since used a middle name and honoured it with a hyphen, so it’s now Gordon-Williams. Sadly, he was the sort of boy one could never forget, and not because he was an outstanding scholar.’ He looked at Elinor, almost staring as he made his point. ‘While we imbue our pupils with strength of character, we also counsel against hubris – a lesson Mr Gordon-Williams clearly missed.’ He smiled. ‘Oh dear, my error – I understand he received a knighthood after the war for service to his country, so is no longer a ‘mister,’ though he was in line to inherit a title when his older brother was killed at Passchendaele, in 1917.’

‘Oh dear – how sad.’

‘I don’t think the younger Williams thought it sad at all.’ The priest looked up again, his gaze direct. ‘He rather crowed about the title – that’s why I remember him. Hubris, you see. He was a boastful boy, and he was one of those I prayed for, hoping the Lord might look down and soothe a troubled mind.’

‘Troubled?’

‘Miss White, people in pain can be terribly harmful, and he could be a bully, but not in the sense of using physical might. No, Peregrine was a manipulative boy. One of those who kept an account. If he helped another pupil, then he would call upon that boy when he needed his assistance.’

‘How would he do that?’

‘Writing an essay for him when he couldn’t be bothered to do the work. Completing homework, petty pilfering in the town, telling lies.’ Ignatius shook his head. ‘He had his own little fiefdom.’

‘How did that affect Stephen Warren?’

‘Ah yes, of course – Stephen. Miss White, I don’t know what you might know of this sort of school—’

‘I was a teacher at a private girls’ school.’

‘Well, there you are. I would hope young women aren’t quite as questionable as boys of a certain type can be when it comes to their treatment of those less fortunate – those they do not consider their equal. Suffice it to say, Stephen’s first year was not pleasant for him. When we encounter that sort of situation, we tend to wait to see if the boy will sink or swim. If we see fit to act too soon, it puts them at even more of a disadvantage, and of course there is the question of character. As it happened, Peregrine came to Stephen’s rescue; his innate charisma and power over other boys became a protective shield around Stephen.’

‘And?’

‘The piper must be paid, Miss White. An old aphorism from a well-known story, but there is so much truth to be found in children’s tales, though there is always a suitable passage from the Bible.’ Father Ignatius shook his head. ‘There was an occasion when young Mr Williams had to be reminded of the First Commandment, because he appeared to think and act as if he were a god.’ The priest closed his eyes, fatigue writ large in a grey pallor without any blush to the cheeks. He sighed, opening his eyes to stare at Elinor. ‘I suspect your friend Stephen Warren might still be suffering the slings and arrows of his early years, and I can only surmise that the war has exacerbated those formative experiences of powerlessness. You see, even though his saviour’s interventions gave him a level of peace enabling him to excel at the school, it would not surprise me if he were still paying off the debt.’

Elinor was thoughtful. ‘Yes, that might well be what ails him.’

Father Ignatius came to his feet. ‘But the other side of the coin is that I do not have any instant solutions to help you in your quest to assist Stephen. I should add that Peregrine petitioned his father to give Stephen a reference so they could both study at Oxford at the same time, and he might well have provided financial assistance, as the Williams – or should I say, Gordon-Williams – family was very well-off. Stephen was of course the recipient of bursaries and so on, but still, tertiary education comes at a price.’

‘Thank you, Father Ignatius; you have been most generous with your time.’

‘Let me walk with you. Do you have a motor car here?’

Elinor shook her head. ‘I came down yesterday evening on the train and stayed overnight at a local guesthouse. I can walk back to the station.’

‘Right you are.’ Ignatius held out his hand to direct her. ‘Along the cloister here.’ As they walked, he continued the conversation. ‘I understand Stephen joined the police.’

Elinor nodded. ‘Yes, and rejoined after his wartime service. He’s in a very senior position.’

‘I see. Yes. Peregrine Williams entered the foreign service. I would imagine he was in a sensitive position during the war – he seemed as if he would grow into the sort of man who would be tagged for that level of assignment.’

‘Really?’ said Elinor.

‘It’s just a thought, Miss White. Do not take my observations as truth, whatever you do, though by the same token, do not for a minute think being a teacher here in a boy’s school is a recipe for ignorance. No, we’re very much of the world at Standing Abbey. Our boys are tasked with going out into life to succeed, which means we must understand all prospective professional avenues to prepare them for what might come next. But Peregrine would have been suited to what I can only describe as sensitive work. You see, if anyone could pull one over on the Nazis, it would have been Peregrine Gordon-Williams. Clearly he did something of note to receive a knighthood.’

‘Yes, of course.’ Elinor stopped as they reached the main entrance. ‘I’m not sure how I can use everything you’ve told me, but at least I can be a better … a better, more informed friend to Stephen.’

The priest nodded, drew open the door and folded his arms into his copious sleeves as he bid Elinor farewell. She had reached the bottom step and was about to walk towards the main road when Father Ignatius called out to her.

‘Miss White. Be aware of one more element. Young Peregrine had the ability to achieve his aims and not look back at the detritus in his wake. He would win at all costs. I doubt it’s a trait he would have grown out of. Hubris, you see.’

 

Elinor caught the train at noon, her ticket to Shacklehurst requiring two changes. The side-to-side movement of the carriage soothed her as she considered conversations she’d had over the past two days and the things she had seen. She wondered what might still be binding DCI Stephen Warren to the boy – now a man – who had protected him at school, and what any overdue account might include. Was Warren indebted to Peregrine Gordon-Williams? Or did they just enjoy the longevity of a shared friendship? No, she thought, there was more to it. There was an air of urgency about the way Warren had rushed to join his friend; an atmosphere of risk. The circumstances of their meetings seemed clandestine.

Clandestine. There was a word she had hoped never to use again. Covert. Secret. Furtive. All words suggesting a wall, a division, a line between truth and lies, life and death, the world above ground and below. Clandestine was hell. The speed with which the chauffeured motor car had braked outside Scotland Yard suggested something to be hidden. And both those meetings she had witnessed – each requiring Warren to climb into the back of the vehicle, as if he were being granted an audience – had taken place soon after she had seen him in his office.

Sir Peregrine Gordon-Williams. She continued to stare out of the window, watching as a farmer ploughed a field, birds settling in his wake to find a tasty worm turned over with the soil. As she relaxed, studying the bucolic scene, a hawk swooped down, the sparrows and starlings scattering into the skies, flapping their wings in a fury to escape. And in that moment, as she watched a farmer continuing to plough, unaware of the melee behind him, a piece of the jigsaw slipped into place – and she wondered why she had not seen it hours ago.

Peregrine. Peregrine falcon. The falcon was a bird of prey. Peregrine Gordon-Williams was one who intimidated others. A predator.

She pressed her fingers to closed eyes. Am I right? Had she found a clue simply because she was looking for one? Were her connecting thoughts pointing to something more solid in the way of evidence ahead? She could almost hear an audible click as the piece slotted into place, though she knew there would have to be many more gathered into a frame before any sense could be made of the pattern beginning to form.

‘He would win at all costs,’ Father Ignatius had called out after her. ‘I doubt it’s a trait he would have grown out of.’

Elinor sighed, at once deflated when she realised that the jigsaw piece she had just found might be nothing after all. From the information she had gathered thus far, Peregrine Gordon-Williams was an elitist snob, so any connection between a decorated peer of the realm and a south London family of Italian extraction known to abide on the wrong side of the law would be hard to imagine.

It was later, at home in Shacklehurst, as Elinor took the pistol from her shoulder bag and slipped it into a kitchen drawer rather than return it to the safety of the locked cupboard in the garage, that she thought about Father Ignatius. She wondered what he would have said had he known he was in the company of a woman who had broken several of the Ten Commandments. One in particular.

Thou Shalt Not Kill.