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jealous husband?’
    ‘She might be a widow.’
    ‘Oh, I don’t think so,’ said Marmion, turning the photo over so that he could read the writing on the back. ‘See for yourself.’
    Taking it from him, Keedy read the message.
    Until my husband is on night shift again – think of me
.
    In place of a signature were several kisses.
    ‘You were right,’ said Keedy. ‘He was a secretive little so-and-so, wasn’t he?’

CHAPTER THREE
    The day started early for Gordon Leach. While most of Shoreditch was slumbering quietly, he was helping his father to bake the daily assortment of bread. The one saving grace of a job that rousted him out of bed in the small hours was that it kept him warm on a viciously cold day. The pervasive aroma of bread was always pleasing and a world away from the industrial stink that so many Londoners had to endure at their places of work. Leach’s father was a big, taciturn man with a walrus moustache who left him to get on with his work in silence. He’d inherited the bakery from his own father and expected his son to take it over in time. Franklin Leach was no pacifist. Indeed, he was a man with few opinions on any subject and was content to live his life in an intellectual vacuum. He simply wanted to keep his trained assistant beside him throughout the war. When they heard a loud knock on the shop door, he looked up and spoke for the first time in an hour.
    ‘Tell them we’re closed,’ he said.
    Leach wiped his flour-covered hands in a cloth and opened the door to the shop. Through the glass, he could see the familiar outlineof Mansel Price. On his way to work, his friend had come in search of information rather than bread. Leach unlocked the shop door and opened it so that Price could step inside.
    ‘Is there any news?’ asked the Welshman.
    ‘No, there isn’t.’
    ‘Something must have happened to him.’
    ‘That’s my worry,’ admitted Leach. ‘I mean, Cyril is always so reliable. If he said he’d be somewhere, he’d never let you down. When I called at the house last thing at night, his father said he wasn’t at home.’
    ‘And he still isn’t, Gordon.’
    ‘How do you know?’
    ‘Because I’ve just been there,’ said Price. ‘Nobody is in. I banged on the door for ages but got no answer. In the end, someone in the house next door opened the bedroom window and told me to clear off.’
    They were deeply concerned. Ablatt was not merely their leader. He was their focus, their moral support and their communal voice. The meeting they’d held without him the previous evening had been a shambles. They’d been too busy trying to imagine what Ablatt would have said to formulate any views of their own about what they’d seen and heard. At first, Leach had been grateful when he didn’t turn up at Fred Hambridge’s house. The young baker was spared the verbal whipping he’d have received from Ablatt for not attending the second session of the No-Conscription Fellowship. As the evening slipped into night, however, Leach became increasingly alarmed. They’d expected Ablatt hours ago. If he’d been unable to come, he would have sent an apology by some means or other.
    ‘There’s only one explanation,’ decided Leach.
    ‘I can’t think of one.’
    ‘They must have talked Cyril into going off with them. After all, he made the best speech by far at the meeting. They’d be mad not to usehim again. Yes, that’s it,’ he went on, vainly trying to reassure himself. ‘Cyril’s been taken on to the committee or something. They want him on the platform. See it from his point of view, Mansel. He’s got what he always wanted – a chance to make a name for himself.’
    Price was unconvinced. ‘So he forgot all about us. Is that what you think?’
    ‘Yes, it is.’
    ‘That’s rubbish and you know it. He’d never forget his friends.’
    ‘It’s unlikely, I know.’
    ‘It’s bloody impossible, mun.’
    ‘Then where is he and where’s his father? Mr Ablatt should