“And the Duke of Windsor?”

“God knows.” He shook his head. “All I know is this could be important and I found the damn boat, Jenny, me, Henry Baker. Christ, I don’t know what’s in the diary, but maybe it changes history.”

He got up and walked to the rail, gripping it with both hands. She had never seen him so excited, got up herself and put a hand on his shoulder. “Want me to come with you?”

“Hell no, there’s no need for that.”

“Billy and Mary could run things here.”

He shook his head. “I’ll be back in a few days. Four at the most.”

“Fine.” She managed a smile. “Then we’d better get back to the house and I’ll help you pack.”

His flight in the Carib Aviation Partenavia was uneventful except for strong headwinds that held them back a little so that the landing was later than he’d anticipated, around six-thirty. By the time he’d passed through customs, collected his luggage and proceeded to the British Airways desk, it was seven o’clock. He went through security into the departure lounge and the flight was called ten minutes later.

The service in British Airways First Class was as superb as usual. He had carried Korvettenkapitän Friemel’s case through with him and he accepted a glass of champagne from the stewardess, opened the case and browsed through it for a while, not just the diary, but the photos and the letters. Strange, because he didn’t understand a word. It was the photo of the Kriegsmarine officer that really intrigued him, presumably Friemel himself, the face of the enemy, only Baker didn’t feel like that, but then seamen of all nations, even in war, tended to have a high regard for each other. It was the sea, after all, which was the common enemy.

He closed the case and put it in the locker overhead when takeoff was announced and spent his time reading one or two of the London newspapers which were in plentiful supply. The meal was served soon after takeoff, and after it had been cleared away the stewardess reminded him that each seat had its own small video screen and offered him a brochure which included a lengthy list of videos available.

Baker browsed through it. It would at least help pass the time, and then he shivered a little as if someone had passed over his grave. There was a film there he’d heard about, a German film, Das Boot, in English, The Boat, from all accounts a harrowing story of life in a U-boat at the worst time in the War.

Against his better judgment he ordered it and asked for a large Scotch. The cabin crew went round pulling down the window blinds so that those who wished to might sleep. Baker inserted the video, put on the earphones and sat there, in the semidarkness, watching. He called for another Scotch after twenty minutes and kept watching. It was one of the most disturbing films of its kind he had ever seen.

An hour was enough. He switched off, tilted his seat back and lay there, staring through the darkness thinking about Korvettenkapitän Paul Friemel and U180 and that final ending on Thunder Point, wondering what had gone wrong. After a while, he slept.

It was ten o’clock when the doorbell rang at the house in Lord North Street. Garth Travers answered the door himself and found Henry Baker standing there in the rain, the briefcase in one hand, his overnight case in the other. He had no raincoat and the collar of his jacket was turned up.

“My dear chap,” Travers said. “For God’s sake, come in before you drown.” He turned as he closed the door. “You’ll stay here of course?”

“If that suits, old buddy.”

“It’s good to hear that description of me again,” Travers told him. “I’ll show you to your room later. Let’s get you some breakfast. My housekeeper’s day off, so you’ll get it Navy style.”

“Coffee would be fine for the moment,” Baker said.

They went to the large, comfortable kitchen and Travers put the kettle on. Baker placed the briefcase on the table. “There it is.”

“Fascinating.” Travers examined the Kriegsmarine insignia on the case, then glanced up. “May I?”

“That’s why I’m here.”

Travers opened the case. He examined the letters quickly. “These must be keepsakes, dated at various times in nineteen forty-three and -four. All from his wife from the looks of things.” He turned to the photos. “Knight’s Cross holder? Must have been quite a boy.” He looked at the photos of the woman and the two little girls and read the handwritten paragraph on the back of one of them. “Oh dear.”

“What is it?” Baker asked.

“It reads, ‘my dear wife Lottie and my daughters, Ilse and Marie, killed in a bombing raid on Hamburg, August the eighth, nineteen forty-four.’ ”

“Dear God!” Baker said.

“I can check up on him easily enough. I have a book listing all holders of the Knight’s Cross. It was the Germans’ highest award for valor. You make the coffee and I’ll get it.”

Travers went out and Baker found cups, a tin of instant milk in the icebox, had just finished when Travers returned with the book in question. He sat down opposite Baker and reached for his coffee.

“Here we are, Paul Friemel, Korvettenkapitän, joined the German Navy as an officer cadet after two years studying medicine at Heidelberg.” Travers nodded. “Outstanding record in U-boats. Knight’s Cross in July forty-four for sinking an Italian cruiser. They were on our side by then, of course. After that he was assigned to shore duties at Kiel.” He made a face. “Oh dear, mystery piles on mystery. It says here he was killed in a bombing raid on Kiel in April, nineteen forty-five.”

“Like hell he was,” Baker said.

“Exactly.” Travers opened the diary and glanced at the first page. “Beautiful handwriting and perfectly legible.” He riffled the pages. “Some of the entries are quite short. Can’t be more than thirty pages at the most.”

“Your German is fluent as I recall,” Baker said.

“Like a native, old boy; my maternal grandmother was from Munich. I’ll tell you what I’ll do, an instant translation into my word processor. Should take no more than an hour and a half. You get yourself some breakfast. Ham and eggs in the refrigerator, sorry, icebox to you, bread bin over there. Join me in the study when you’re ready.”

He went out and Baker, relaxed now that everything was in hand, busied himself making breakfast, aware that he was hungry. He sat at the table to eat it, reading Travers’ copy of that morning’s London Times while he did so. It was perhaps an hour later that he cleared everything away and went into the study.

Travers sat at the word processor, watching the screen, his fingers rippling over the keyboard, the diary open and standing on a small lectern on his right-hand side. There was a curiously intent look on his face.

Baker said cheerfully, “How’s it going?”

“Not now, old boy, please.”

Baker shrugged, sat by the fire and picked up a magazine. It was quiet, only the sound of the word processor except when Travers suddenly said, “My God!” and then a few minutes after that, “No, I can’t believe it.”

“For heaven’s sake, what is it, Garth?” Baker demanded.

“In a minute, old boy, almost through.”

Baker sat there on tenterhooks, and after a while Travers sat back with a sigh. “Finished. I’ll run it through the copier.”

“Does it have anything interesting to say?”

“Interesting?” Travers laughed harshly. “That’s putting it mildly. First of all I must make the point that it isn’t the official ship’s log; it’s essentially a private account of the peculiar circumstances surrounding his final voyage. Maybe he was trying to cover himself in some way, who knows, but it’s pretty sensational. The thing is, what are we going to do about it?”

“What on earth do you mean?”