When the call ended, he’d turned round to face Prince, a satisfied look on his face. ‘Many congratulations, Richard, you’re getting married at Lincoln Cathedral. Apparently you need a special licence to do so, but Bunny said it would be an honour to grant it, and you can even hold the reception in the Chapter House.’
The bishop’s office couldn’t have been more accommodating, and the dean gave them a choice of chapels for the ceremony. There was some paperwork to sort out, and the Danish Embassy in London was required to come up with a letter confirming that its citizen Hanne Jakobsen was free to marry. They were a bit dilatory at first, but again, Gilbey managed to sort it.
Now, as Prince stood under the Judgement Porch listening to Henry playing with his nanny, he became aware of a silent presence behind him, like a victim of the Black Death risen from the grave where they had lain for six hundred years. He knew who it was without needing to turn round.
‘Good morning, Mr Gilbey. I’m surprised to see you here.’
Tom Gilbey was elegantly dressed in a formal black suit, a fawn-coloured cashmere coat folded over one arm and a white carnation in his buttonhole.
‘You were generous enough to invite me, Richard.’
‘I assumed you’d be too busy, sir.’
Gilbey patted Prince on the shoulder and wished him many congratulations, then shook his hand with a tight grip. ‘It’s my way of thanking you both.’
The wedding party was preparing to move into the cathedral, and Prince turned to join them.
‘I wouldn’t mind a few words with you after the ceremony, Richard,’ and with that Gilbey moved away.
Prince stopped: he had little doubt what that meant. It would account for why Tom Gilbey had come all the way up to Lincoln for the wedding of two of his agents. It no doubt also explained why he had been so keen for them to marry in the first place.
There weren’t many of them, easily fitting into the Soldiers’ Chapel in the north transept, where the dean himself performed the ceremony. Prince and Hanne were joined by Henry, who acted as pageboy, his nanny, Prince’s elderly father and a few relatives. In addition, there were various colleagues from the police force, a couple who’d been very friendly with Prince and his late wife Jane, and two sets of neighbours. And then of course Tom Gilbey, at the rear of the chapel, as if there to ensure everything was carried out to his satisfaction.
For a few minutes during the ceremony, Prince was calm and at peace with himself. He was marrying a woman with whom he was deeply in love and who until a few months ago he had feared was dead.
Afterwards, they moved into the Chapter House for a buffet lunch. Prince found Gilbey studying a painting of a seventeenth-century bishop whose beady eyes appeared to be surveying the room.
‘You said you wanted a few words with me after the ceremony, sir?’
‘I didn’t mean straight after, Prince. Don’t want to spoil your big day.’
‘You already have.’
‘Come on, now…’
‘I know the way you work, sir. You’ve come here to sign me up for another job.’
Tom Gilbey said nothing as he lit a cigarette and watched his protégé through the smoke.
‘Are you taking a honeymoon?’
‘No, sir. Henry starts school next week.’
‘Come down and see me later in the week, then. Oh, and Prince…’
‘Yes, sir?’
‘Do bring Hanne with you.’
They left the cathedral an hour later. Gilbey had long gone, and Prince and Hanne walked through the Angel Choir arm in arm, Henry holding Hanne’s hand.
‘What is that, Richard?’ She was pointing to a carving of a strange creature perched high on top of a stone column. A sunbeam piercing through the south transept window caught its face sneering at them.
‘That’s the Lincoln Imp. He’s famous around these parts.’
‘And why’s he here?’
‘According to a fourteenth-century legend, two imps were sent by the devil to cause trouble. They created chaos in the cathedral until one of the angels up there turned this imp to stone while the other one escaped.’
‘He looks as if he’s alive.’
Prince nodded. ‘Apparently it’s to remind us that evil is never far away, even in a place as holy as this.’
Chapter 1
London and Dijon, France, November 1943
‘No news, I imagine?’
‘No, sir: I did promise to let you know as soon we hear anything.’
‘I know you did, Forster, but it’s getting late and—’
‘Why don’t you go home, Major Lean, and I’ll call you if we hear anything.’
‘Remind me how late the circuits transmit these days, Forster?’ Lean was speaking from the corridor as if afraid to enter the room. Because of his height – he was taller than the door frame – he bent low to address the man sitting at a desk laden with radio equipment.
‘It varies from circuit to circuit: Tractor tends not to transmit as late as some others, but who knows, sir.’
Lean remained in the corridor, glancing hesitantly into the room but without saying a word for a while, instead watching the tiny lights blinking on the equipment in the gloom and listening to the bleeps from the radio, which sounded like dripping taps.
‘I tell you what, Forster, I’m going to put up the camp bed in my office. Call me as soon as you hear anything.’
He climbed the two floors to his office, gingerly feeling his way along the darkened corridors of Orchard Court on Portman Square in central London, the headquarters of the Special Operations Executive’s F Section. He noticed the lights on in the office opposite his. A man a good decade and a bit younger than him was sitting in an easy chair with his feet stretched out onto his
