“The ferret still likes to get his paws dirty? You’re not letting this one go, are you?”

“No. I can’t. What’s more, I know that a clever, well-trained woman can sometimes get further down the rabbit hole than I can. Lily, I want you to stay under the same roof as our gent this weekend and just watch him. That’s all you have to do.”

“Something special about this weekend?”

“I think so. It’s an aberration in his schedule. He’s a man who doesn’t take time off. It’s out of character for him to go quietly to earth in this way. He’s booked their best suite. Under a false name. Well, not very false! He’s booked in as ‘Mr. Fitzwilliam.’ He used his mother’s maiden name, would you believe?”

“Hardly a seasoned conspirator?”

“You’d say. But that’s all we have.”

“Is Mrs. Fitzwilliam expected to be joining him?” Lily asked carefully.

“No sign of a lady. So far. It’s his contacts I’m anxious to identify. I want you to note who meets him, goes to his room, shares a drink with him, passes him a newspaper … lights his cigarette … You know all the tricks.”

There was concern in Lily’s voice as she pointed out the obvious: “Joe, you must recognise this setup? It’s a divorce case in preparation. I don’t mind mixing it with murderers or spies, and I’d cheerfully knock the stuffing out of a Blackshirt or two, but I won’t be involved with divorce cases. I’m not that sort of agent. You know that. I get enough psychological drama at home.”

“Divorce is certainly not an aspect of this case, Lily. I say again—murder may well be.”

Joe’s old officer listened to her briefing, asking a few quick questions, and he nodded in relief when she accepted the task.

“You never thought I’d say no, did you?”

“You miss the work still, Lily? Oh, I know you’re happily in the married state, but I do note the sparkle in your eye when you catch the scent of the fox! By the way, Bacchus doesn’t know anything about this.”

Lily gave him a pitying look. “Bet he does! That husband of mine knows everything about everybody. Including you, including me. Start from there. It can be frightening, but that’s how it is. You’ve conveniently sent him off to Berlin, sniffing out British Nazi sympathisers—or so I’m guessing … Bacchus tells me nothing—leaving the little wife to get up to all kinds of naughtiness.”

“The children, Lily? Can I offer …?”

“Taken care of. Aunty Phyl’s always glad to ride to the rescue and is well backed up by our Emma, who can always sleep over. Dick and Hattie send their love and wonder when they’re going to see their godfather again.”

Joe smiled broadly. “Summer holidays coming up next month! I’m planning a children’s party—or at least, my sister’s planning a party—down in Surrey. Swimming, camping, tree-climbing, cakes and ice cream … that sort of thing. They must come.”

“They’re very fond of you, Joe.” Lily looked at him with affection and concern. “You’re used to my bluntness, so I’ll say it: time you had kids of your own. Anyone on the horizon who might oblige?” She knew she was the only one who had ever been close enough to Joe to ask searching personal questions. His sister, Lydia, was very dear to him, but she received only edited and optimistic summaries of his London life. Lily, on the other hand, had never suffered from upper-class delicacy, and she reckoned that if you never asked, you never found out. He’d saved her from a nasty end in a swirling Thames whirlpool early on in their acquaintance and that had put him, paradoxically, forever in her debt. A life you’ve saved is doubly precious, and she knew he would grant her any favours. She would do the same for him and hoped he understood that—he would never have allowed her to speak the words.

She was puzzled to see that a frown and a long silence preceded the smile as he replied cheerfully enough: “Oh, yes there is. The unlucky girl is Dorcas Joliffe. She’s well on this side of the horizon, in fact. Sailing into port, you might say. I don’t believe you’ve ever met her, though I’m sure you’ve heard me speak of her?”

Eyes wide with astonishment, Lily could only nod.

“Yes! That Joliffe!” he said, answering her thought. “And before you ask—she’s twenty-one these days, soon to be twenty-two. I tell people she’s the daughter of a neighbour and dear friend of mine, which she is. She’s also by way of being my sister’s ward. She’s been away … I mean, out of my life for seven years and only came back into it again in January. We were last together in … April, I suppose it was. The Easter break before she went back up to college for her final term. She’ll be wanting to tell us all how well or otherwise she did in her finals. She’s been trying to call me with her news for the last two days, but …” His voice trailed away as he heard himself turning querulous. “You know how it is.”

“Good lord! Well, I never!” And, doubtfully, “Are you sure?”

“Well, there you have it, Lily. No, I’m not sure. I mean about the future. She loves me, I love her. Always have. We’re having a very happy time and it’s all going to end eventually in marriage. But, but …”

“You haven’t asked her yet, have you?” Lily said shrewdly.

“Hole in one! No, I haven’t.”

“Why on earth not? It’s not like you to be reticent. You can talk your way into or out of anything.” Struck by a sudden thought, she added: “Have you two …? I mean …” Lily failed, for once, to summon up words acceptable enough to disguise her intrusive question. “Er … plighted your troth?” she finished with an awkward attempt at humour.

“Troth well and truly plighted, I’m glad to say,” Joe replied comfortably, picking up and running with the euphemism. “Though Dorcas would fail to recognise the phrase—she’s a very modern young lady. She’s not your average English Miss, Lily. Something of a free-thinker. In fact, ‘bohemian’ is probably the kindest word that comes to mind to describe her style.”

“Then I can’t see what’s holding you up.”

“The problem’s not with me. It’s difficult. She’s quite the academic, you know. She won’t let me use the word ‘bluestocking’ but that’s what she is these days. She was a late starter on the degree business but took to learning like a duck to water. Most girls her age are either married or snatching desperately at the few good men left standing, but Dorcas doesn’t seem to care much about domesticity. She speaks scathingly about friends she’s made at the university, girls with good brains who work away for three years and then give it all up because they’ve met and got engaged to another undergraduate with wonderful prospects, or none. Dorcas has made it plain that’s not for her. She’s planning a few more years of research into her subject. And this is where the problems arise. Now—if she were fiddling about writing a thesis on, oh, the disputed authorship of Titus Andronicus, I’d tell her to put her pen down and let it remain a mystery, but it’s not ivory tower stuff she’s involved with. It’s scientific enquiry which could benefit mankind, she tells me. It’s difficult to set one’s unworthy self up against the Good of Mankind.”

Lily sighed. “Oh, dear! I can understand why you haven’t fallen to your knees yet then. Might as well ask Marie Curie to stop stirring that filthy pitchblend and go and put the cabbage soup on. Poor Joe. Poor Dorcas. There’s no entirely happy solution. I didn’t find it.” More hesitantly, she added, “Though I think you ought at least to put a proposal before her. Perhaps she’s just waiting for you to come out with it? You know—putting on a show of couldn’t-care-less independence in case the offer’s not forthcoming. That was my situation exactly with Bacchus.”

Joe grinned. “Was I the last one to twig that you were conducting an illicit affair for two years with my top Branchman right under my nose?”

“Yes. And the only one to object to him making an honest woman of me. ‘Over my dead body,’ I remember you said.”