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three months ago, but it seemed like years since he’d heard from Clare Devereaux, Clare Somerville as she was to him, the woman he had always thought of as his one and only love. He’d had one brief note saying she was still in Switzerland but she hoped she would see him before too long. Rationally, he knew she couldn’t say much – her letter would be censored – but he was disappointed that there were no words of love, no endearments. Did she miss him the way he missed her? He’d written three letters but had no way of knowing if they had reached her.
    The music from the next room was getting slower and slower. The gramophone must be the kind that needed winding up, and Tyler wondered if the constable had fallen asleep. Frank’s voice was starting to drag as if he’d been on a drunken spree.
    “
Don … t … kn … ow … whe … re … do … kno … w wh … en …
”
    Finally, to his relief, it stopped completely.
Reminds me of myself
, thought Tyler.
I could do with a good winding up
.
    Last month he’d actually gone to the conscription board and tried to enlist. He’d even take a desk job. He couldn’t say the men behind the desk had laughed at him. They were rather kind, in fact, but his request had been turned down without preamble. “You’re much more valuable doing what you’re doing,” said one of them. He was a lean, posh-voiced bloke with an eye patch. “We’ve got to maintain law and order at home, by Jove.”
    So, by Jove, here he was. Not exactly maintaining law and order but at least trying to sort out accident from intention. His thoughts shifted to the conversation he’d had with Grey.
Common sense, really
. He hoped that was true. An investigation like this wasn’t going to be easy. Alf had said there were three fatalities. If he did indeed discover that there had been sabotage, that was three murders.
    He snapped off the light. “
Goodnight, Clare, my darling
,” he whispered. “
I hope you’re safe
.”

    Eileen sat up in bed, her heart bumping.
Tap, tap, tap
. Soft yet persistent, coming from outside.
Tap, tap, tap, tap
. She knew the windows were latched and nobody could get in, but it was frightening that at this hour somebody was at her window. She picked up the torch that stood on her table, ready for the times they had to go to the shelter, swung her legs out of bed, and walked cautiously to the window. She lifted aside the thick curtain just a crack and peeked out. Her own shadowy face reflected back at her, but as she pressed closer she could see a shape on the other side of the glass, distorted by the fog and darkness but recognizable. It was her nephew.
    Quickly, she pushed up the sash window. “Jack. What are you doing here? What’s the matter?”
    “Auntie Eileen, I’ve got to talk to you,” he whispered.
    “Why are you at the window? You scared the heck out of me. For God’s sake go to the front door and I’ll let you in.”
    “Please, Auntie. I don’t want Granddad and Gran to get up.”
    “I’m not going to hold a conversation with you through the window. It’s perishing.”
    He turned away at once, and she closed the window. She slipped on her dressing gown and, torch in hand, went out to the front door.
    Jack was on the threshold, and even in the darkness his fear was palpable. She didn’t speak, only beckoned, and he followed her into her room. She closed the door behind them and switched on the light.
    He looked terrible. His face was covered with dust andstreaked with tears. There was a large bruise on his cheek and one bare knee was badly scraped.
    “Just a minute.” She went over to her bedside table and poured some cocoa into the cup. Then she opened the corner cupboard, took out the bottle of brandy, and poured a generous splash into the cocoa.
    “Here. Drink this down.”
    He did so, coughing and spluttering as the brandy hit his throat. Even then he took the precaution of pressing his sleeve against his mouth to