Alex would laugh at the irony; I wouldn’t give him my real name, but was happy enough to use his.
‘Ah yes. Sinclair,’ he repeated. ‘Mrs Sinclair is a secretary at Marconi. I’m sure you’ll excuse us while I question her mercilessly as to her boss’s doings.’
‘So you don’t work for us?’ Mrs Langston asked. ‘I’d thought . . .’
Matthew cleared his throat, reminding the women he’d just dismissed them.
‘Ah yes. Sorry to intrude, Sir Matthew.’ She linked her arm with her friend’s, jerking hard on the younger woman’s arm to prevent Betty’s protest. ‘Lovely to meet you, Mrs Sinclair. I’m sure we’ll meet again,’ she called over her shoulder.
‘I’m sure we will.’
Mrs Langston trudged forward, while Betty made little effort to hide her interest.
‘I’ll have a spare set of papers made up for Mrs Sinclair. Just in case.’ Matthew lit two cigarettes, handing me one. ‘Dare I ask what brings you here, Lisbet?’
With the Spider, I could have employed any number of clever build-ups. He would enjoy them, proportionate to how outrageous they were, but ultimately he would see through them and I didn’t have the time to indulge his humour. Exhaling a cloud of smoke, I opted for the direct approach.
‘There are two things I require. Let’s start with the easy question.’
Matthew looked mildly interested. He folded his arms and leant back, turning his face into the sun.
‘Proceed.’
‘What do you know of Christophe Deschamps?’
One eyebrow rose. ‘Your neighbour.’
‘Yes. He –’
‘Disappeared the other night. Yes, old girl. I am aware of this.’
‘And?’
‘And? Don’t look at me like that, Lisbet. First of all, it’s unattractive. Second, I had nothing to do with the captain’s situation.’
‘Situation?’
So there was something going on.
Matthew’s eyes remained closed as he soaked in the bright sunlight.
‘Please don’t hit me. Do remember, I’m already injured.’ One eye cracked open to assess my mood. I kept my face blank and waited for him to continue. ‘Your Frog has been playing both sides of the lily pad.’
‘Can you translate that into English?’
‘Certainly.’ He sat up and, resting his elbows on his knees, looked straight at me. ‘Christophe Deschamps was commissioned into the French army. When France fell, he jumped into Adolf’s arms.’
‘I know he’s close with the Germans. But both sides?’
His mouth twisted. ‘He passes on information to the highest bidder, presumably to fuel his gambling habit. And his expensive wife. We know he’s untrustworthy, old girl. And season whatever he dishes up with a rather large pinch of salt. Not sure the Krauts, or whoever else he’s working with, are as savvy or –’ he raised a single finger – ‘as forgiving.’
‘You’re saying they’ve got him?’
‘Nothing of the kind. Only that we haven’t. There are a lot of other players out there, not the least of which is the PVDE.’
As Martin Billiot’s death could confirm.
‘Is he still alive?’
‘No idea, old girl. No idea. Hope so. He’s likeable in his own way. Utterly rubbish at poker, but likeable. Your second question?’
‘Damn,’ I muttered, more to myself than to him. ‘What do I tell his wife?’
‘Why must you tell her anything? A very poor choice for your second question. Simply be there for her, my dear. Be a friend. Or as close to a friend as one in your position can be.’
‘My position. Is that all you can say?’
‘You’re likely to learn more from her about this than me.’ He sighed. ‘Very well. Usually missing persons are reported to the police. Not sure what they can do right now – but it’s as good a place as any to start. Now, my dear, your other question?’
He hadn’t confirmed Christophe’s death, but hadn’t given much hope for his survival. He was right: the only thing that could be done was to log his disappearance with the police and wait. And the waiting was the worst part.
Across the garden, Adam’s Apple watched us from behind dark sunglasses.
‘I don’t trust him.’
‘My dear?’
‘Your colleague.’ I made a vague gesture in his direction.
‘Nonsense. I’ve known Rupert since he was a lad. Worked with his father back when I worked with yours.’
It was a gentle reminder that we both hailed from diplomatic families, and that our loyalty to King and Country was implicit. Only it wasn’t. Bloodline didn’t destine a person for greatness. Or loyalty. It just made it easier for them to hide.
‘Shall I assume your second query deals with young Mr Allen-Smythe?’
Rupert’s surname was unfamiliar, but it had been five years since my choice of husband evicted me from my family. And before that, I’d been sent to whichever boarding school was the farthest from Lady Anne, so it was unsurprising that the name was unfamiliar.
‘I don’t care if he’s the old king’s love child. He’s your problem to deal with, not mine. Just keep him away from me and my cover stories.’
‘What’s your concern with young Rupert?’
How the devil was I supposed to answer that question? Share my suspicions about a man who shows up in all the wrong places with a man infamous for engineering deceptions? A man whom, by his own admission, he had a soft spot for because he used to work with Allen-Smythe’s father?
Across the park, Allen-Smythe’s attention didn’t waver, making me wonder if Christophe wasn’t alone in ‘playing both sides of the lily pad’.
‘I’m not concerned about him. I don’t trust him.’ I held up a hand for his silence while I explained. ‘The more people who know about me, and the work I do for you, the greater the danger I’m in. So while I’d be grateful for the Veronica Sinclair papers, I’d rather keep this, as much as possible, only between the two of us.’
‘Fair enough. And the second thing you wanted?’
‘Your friend, Bertie.’
‘I beg your pardon?’ He looked mildly scandalised.
‘What have you done with him?’
Matthew sat up straight. ‘Why must you always accuse me of all things nefarious?’
‘Because you’re usually either in the middle of such things, or directing them from the sidelines.’
‘What did you think I would do? Hand him over to
