‘Knut, the world is not your playground,’ the man panted as he came around a boulder. He stood up straight when he saw me. ‘Guten morgen. I’m sorry to intrude.’
‘Good morning.’ I choked, strangely tongue-tied.
Even standing on a rock, I had to look up to meet his eyes.
He studied me curiously. ‘I know you,’ he said in a pleasingly low tenor. ‘You’re the woman who defended Herr Neumann.’
‘Herr Neumann?’
‘My lieutenant.’ A faint emotion crossed his face as he clarified, ‘The one with the scars.’
My own anger burned that I would have to defend that poor soldier to this man.
‘We all have scars. Just not all of them show.’
I turned to leave, disappointed.
‘Thank you. For what you did that night,’ he said, surprising me. ‘It was very kind.’
‘Kind?’
I looked at him over my shoulder. He hadn’t moved, watching me with deep-set eyes. At his feet, the dog’s tail wagged less exuberantly. He whined, looking between the man and me. And then I noticed the man’s bare legs below his shorts, long and muscular, but scars were still visible above the tops of his socks. He’d also been burnt. My tongue stuck to the roof of my mouth as I understood that his revulsion wasn’t for the lieutenant’s scars – it was for the people who couldn’t see past them.
Fascination curled around me and I hated myself for it. Not only did he belong to another woman – the Canary, no less – but he was German. And an officer. I could see past his scars, but how could I see past his nationality? His allegiance?
Solange Verin was a Nazi sympathiser; she would feel comfortable in his company. But what about Elisabeth de Mornay?
The man closed the distance between us and held out his hand.
‘My name is Graf. Eduard Graf.’ The dog rose to his feet, barked and danced about in a tight circle. He was a beautiful beast, with long lanky legs and a dark pelt. Graf’s eyes crinkled at the corners as he stroked the dog’s head. ‘And this show-off is Knut.’
I stammered my name, blinded as the sun broke through the clouds. The dog slobbered a wet kiss on my arm.
‘It would seem he likes you. Well then, Madame Verin, I wish you a good day.’
He was halfway to the beach when he stopped.
‘Solange? That means Sun Angel, doesn’t it?’ He put his hands on slim hips and grinned. ‘Somehow, that suits you.’
The butterflies in my belly lasted long after he disappeared from sight.
*
‘Sun Angel, indeed.’ I stood in an empty public lavatory and glared at my reflection in the looking glass. ‘How he thinks I look like a sun angel when my hair is dyed the colour of a dead mouse, is beyond me.’
I mashed the sun hat on top of the blonde wig, straightened the dark sunglasses and made my way to the gardens near Matthew’s safe house.
Matthew had always been a strong proponent of an after-lunch stroll to clear his head. I chose a bench with a good view of the entrance on the chance that he’d retained that habit. A copy of Blake’s poems lay open on my lap as I watched the crowd filing out of the doors, with their lunchboxes and paperback novels.
Two women frowned as they drew near. I recognised the bulldog immediately, although it took her a few moments of chewing her lower lip before she made the connection.
‘I remember you. You’re the new girl who was bringing the file to Sir Matthew.’
I remained seated, hoping my rudeness would send her on her way.
‘You have an excellent memory.’
‘That’s what I’m paid for.’ She shimmied past the other woman to sit beside me. ‘I’m Mrs Nicola Langston. And this is Betty Jury.’
The other woman was younger than Mrs Langston, her long face framed with mousey-brown hair and jowls. Her eyes were a pretty blue, albeit set too close together. Surprised, she perched beside her friend, twisting around Mrs Langston to maintain the semblance of a circle.
‘How do you do?’ I didn’t offer my own name.
‘Wonderful hat. I almost didn’t recognise you under it.’
‘The curse of fair skin, I’m afraid.’
Would the woman not take the hint and leave?
‘Have you been here long, Miss . . . ?’ Mrs Langston leant forward, blocking Betty’s view. And mine.
‘A few weeks.’
‘Ah, Veronica, old girl. Fancy seeing you here.’
A newspaper was folded under one of Matthew’s arms while his walking stick tapped the outside of his leg impatiently. He had a collection of them, but I’d never seen him actually use one.
‘Hadn’t expected to see you today, my dear. Not that it’s anything less than a pleasure, of course.’
‘And you, Sir Matthew. Have you hurt yourself?’
My barb found an unexpected target; Mrs Langston’s eyes widened and she jumped to her feet, waving Matthew into her seat.
‘Thank you, Nicks.’
He rested one hand on the silver knob and the other on the back of the seat as he stretched out his perfectly normal-looking right foot. He could have been a gout-ridden eighteenth-century lord. Minus the gout. He shook his ankle, wincing a little.
‘Twisted the damned thing. Little more than an inconvenience, and,’ he added, winking at Betty, ‘marvellous for eliciting a bit of sympathy from the pretty girls.’
She giggled and batted her eyelashes.
‘Seems more likely it’s hiding a sword, like a swashbuckler from the films.’
Across the park, I spotted Adam’s Apple leaning against a tree, watching us.
‘Now, Veronica,’ Matthew smiled beatifically. ‘Don’t give my game away. Too early in the day.’
Betty cleared her throat. ‘So that’s your name, then? You didn’t say.’
‘Jolly good, I’ll do the introductions,’
Matthew flashed a shark-like grin. If he said Pond, or some other variation of Lake as my surname, I’d thump him.
‘Do forgive me for not standing.’ He shook the ankle again, ever the showman. ‘Ladies, let me present Mrs Veronica . . . Ah, old girl, remind me what your married name is.’
It was almost anticlimactic.
‘I must remember to make a stronger impression next time,’ I stalled, casting about for a suitable surname. My hand brushed Alex’s
