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crassness, but she fixed him with a stare that sent him back to his
Suprêmes de Volailles Jeannette.
    Pitt had hoped that a meal in the dining room of a hotel that, despite the shortages apparent beyond its walls, still managed a decent show, would soften Mrs Gregson. But the gilded furniture,
silk-panelled walls and pendulous crystal chandeliers seemed only to inflame her more. It was, perhaps, ill-judged to bring a woman who spent her days packing fish paste for prisoners to somewhere
quite so conspicuous in its celebration of the finer things of life. A Lyons Corner House might have been more appropriate, he thought mournfully. And a damn sight cheaper, too.
    With her glass recharged, Mrs Gregson took a generous mouthful, but appeared not to savour it. ‘You’d better start at the beginning, Neville.’
    So Pitt explained the tedious machinations of the negotiations to try and alleviate the suffering of the most vulnerable prisoners of war on both sides. How committees had given way to
one-on-one negotiations and how, at the last moment, Watson had been denied a place in the first tranche of the repatriated.
    A waiter appeared at her shoulder to clear away the neglected soup course. Like every man of his profession in London, apart from those with obvious disabilities, he was of a certain vintage.
‘Is everything all right, madam?’ he asked in a French accent that might even have been genuine.
    ‘Yes. I’m not as hungry as I thought I was. Perhaps we could have a pause before the next course?’
    ‘Of course, madam. I shall inform the kitchen.’
    She turned her attention back to Pitt. ‘You said there were three men who were struck off. Was there any common theme? Any link between them?’
    ‘I didn’t think to look,’ admitted Pitt, lighting a cigarette to stave off his hunger pangs. He hadn’t felt he could plough on with his soup while Mrs Gregson had clearly
lost her appetite. But after a few days of what the Dutch called food, he had been looking forward to a substantial lunch. He hoped she didn’t scupper his highly anticipated dish of lamb
noisettes
.
    ‘You didn’t think to investigate what the connection might be? Regiment or school or battle? The same London club? Perhaps they are related in some way.’
    He admitted, somewhat shamefacedly, that he had not thought to pursue the matter. The noise she made demonstrated her frustration to a good portion of the dining room.
    ‘And this man who denied Major Watson?’ she continued.
    ‘Von Bork? What about him?’
    ‘Yes, Von Bork. Have you looked into his background? What do you know of him?’
    Pitt shook his head. ‘Very little, I am afraid. Only that he was the nominated representative of the Imperial German Prisoners’ Welfare Command. The equivalent of me,
really.’
    ‘And that’s all you can offer?’
    He flinched at the dismissive tone she had adopted. ‘I don’t think we were too concerned about who the German representative was at the time. Just that they had one.’
    ‘And look where that has landed you.’
    Despite his years and rank she was making him feel like an errant schoolboy caught scrumping. His false eye was itching in the socket, but he couldn’t risk scratching it lest something
unfortunate happened. Fishing a rogue peeper out of the lunch was not the done thing at this stage in a relationship. If there was to be a relationship. He could sense her ardour cooling by the
minute. His own wasn’t far behind. There were plenty of unattached women in London at the moment and a majority of them were far less challenging than Mrs Gregson. And younger.
    ‘Look, Mrs Gregson,’ he said, not daring to use her Christian name now, ‘this is just a trial run, as it were. In six months there will be another exchange—’
    ‘It is January, Major Pitt. If you think London is cold, what about Germany? He is not a young man . . .’
    Precisely
.
Why all the fuss?
    ‘. . . he could be dead by spring.’
    Good