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worked at Number Ten?” Nigel said.
    “The papers said she was mugged,” Chuck said. “Her wallet was missing. Open-and-shut case.”
    “Of
course
that’s what the papers say,” John said. “It’s wartime. Things happen. Unpleasant things. And sometimes they aren’t as straightforward as they seem. Certainly you don’t believe everything you read in the papers, do you?”
    “So
you
think she was … murdered?” Maggie asked. “Why?”
    “Let’s just say it’s an ongoing investigation.”
    “Mercy, John,” Paige said, conjuring her best southern-belle accent and wrapping her arm around Maggie. “Just because
you’re
paranoid doesn’t mean everyone’s out to get you. Besides,” she said, sniffing, “no one’s even noticed my new hat—spent nearly all my clothing rations on it.”
    Chuck rolled her eyes; Maggie gave her a gentle kick under the table.
    John didn’t rise to the bait. “Wouldn’t be a problem if the U.S. was actually in this war.”
    “I truly believe that America will join the fight,” Maggie said.
    “Yes, one can always count on the United States to do the right thing—after all other options have been exhausted,” John said.
    Maggie was about to retort when David rose gracefully to his feet. “Right-o, then, let’s not tear each other apart when there are plenty of Germans just waiting to do that very thing. Let’s go dancing, shall we?”
    “Fine,” grumbled Maggie and John simultaneously.
    David turned to Paige. “And may I say, my dear, I love your hat. You look absolutely adorable in it.”
    Paige glowed beneath her confection of bluebells and ribbons. “Why, thank you, David.
You’re
a true gentleman.”

THREE
     

 
    A T THE B LUE Moon Club, the light was dim. Trumpets and clarinets blared through clouds of smoke and Shalimar as the group crammed into a small velvet banquette lit by a low-shaded lamp. As the Moonbeam Orchestra played a cover of Jelly Roll Morton’s “King Porter Stomp,” a group of dancers on the floor twisted and shimmied through intricate turns and lifts. There was a narrow marble bar and a small sign next to the bald, nervous-looking barman, proclaiming
NO GIN
.
    “Well, we’ll just have to drink champagne, then, won’t we?” David said. “Might as well, while our money’s still worth something.”
    Chuck and Nigel hit the dance floor, moving with more enthusiasm than grace, while the rest of the group settled into their seats.
    David elbowed John. “Look—over there. Is that …”
    John squinted. “Simon Paul? I think it is. Heard he’s been working for Halifax.”
    At a table across the dance floor was a young man, tie askew, a distantly amused expression on his pale, fleshy face. He reminded Maggie of a painting of a young Henry VIII at the National Portrait Gallery, a big fellow, good-looking in a slightly paunchy way. His ginger hairwas wavy, and his skin, especially around the nose, was reddish. David waved him over.
    A jovial expression transformed his features as he walked across the dance floor to the table. David rose to his feet. “Si, it
is
you, you old sod! How long has it been? Five years now?”
    Simon gave a tilted smile. “ ’Thirty-six, old boy. Graduation—spring of ’thirty-six.”
    “Ah, the infamous Simon,” Paige whispered to Maggie as the young men talked.
    “ ‘Infamous’?”
    “He was up at Oxford with John and David. NSIT.”
    “NSIT? What’s that mean?”
    “ ‘Not Safe in Taxis.’ A real taxi tiger. As opposed to ‘Very, Very Safe in Taxis, Probably Queer.’ Now, hush …”
    “… lifetimes since Magdalen,” Simon was saying. “I’ve heard what you two have been up to, working for old Winnie. Is he really as drunk as people say?”
    John’s eyes narrowed. “Hardly.”
    David remembered his manners. “Maggie, Paige, may I present Simon Paul. Oxford man—friend, scholar …”
    Simon laughed. “You forgot drunkard.”
    Paige held out her hand for Simon to shake, but