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be trained to risk its life like that?
    “We don’t know for certain. Miss Pendleton tells me there was a case in ’15 where it was suspected, and again in ’17, in Arras. Never any proof positive. But in combination with Connaught’s very expediently timed injury… Well. Suggestive, wouldn’t you say?”
    Roger nodded. “Do you know what happened to Connaught? Did he survive the war? I suppose he’ll have gone to ground in any case.”
    “Matthew Connaught did indeed survive the war, although he lost an arm at Passchendaele. And far from going to ground, he proved remarkably easy to locate. In fact, he works not a mile distant from here. In an advertising agency, of all places.”
    “What, here? In London?” To think he might even have passed the man on the street without knowing it!
    “Indeed. And lodging in Hampstead, quite conveniently for the Underground, I might add.”
    “And?” Roger asked impatiently, his head whirling. “What happens now? Will Connaught be investigated?”
    Sir Arthur sighed and didn’t answer for a long moment during which Roger’s spirits sank to the carpet. “You’re a good man, Cottingham, and I’m deeply sorry for the loss to your family. But the fact remains there’s no direct evidence of any foul play—and if Connaught was ever a danger to the nation, he’s most unlikely to be one now. My best advice would be to forget all about him.”
    “No. Sir, I can’t accept that. Something has to be done.”
    Far from annoyance at Roger’s intransigence, Sir Arthur’s expression showed only satisfaction. “I rather thought that would be your answer. You wouldn’t have been the man I took on in ’17 if it hadn’t been.”
    Roger hesitated, then decided to hell with it. “Why did you take me on? I’ve always wondered. In fact, to be honest, I’ve always wondered how you even knew I existed, rotting away in that gaol with the other C.O.s.” He hadn’t liked to ask at the time, too fearful that if questioned, Sir Arthur would discover he’d made a dreadful mistake and send him back to quod.
    Sir Arthur raised an eyebrow. As it was the one above his glass eye, the effect was more macabre than quizzical. “Always thought you knew. Chappie called Wharton recommended you.”
    “Wharton?” Roger asked blankly. “You mean—not Pip Wharton?” He’d been one of Hugh’s closest friends, growing up, which meant that Roger had seen him a lot but knew him not at all.
    “That’s the fellow. Went on to lose both his legs in Dover Strait—lucky to get out alive, but the damn fool would insist on going to sea and doing his bit . As if he wasn’t doing a perfectly good job at the Admiralty. At any rate, he wrote to me back before all that happened. Early that year, I believe it was. Said he knew of a man with excellent German, if I was able to use such a thing. And, as it happened, I was.” Sir Arthur paused. “He said you were the brother of a good friend, and he could vouch for you being a good man despite your principles.”
    Roger stared. “But… Pip Wharton and I hardly spoke two words to each other in our lives. Why on earth would he seek to do me a good turn? I can’t understand it.”
    “Can’t you?” Sir Arthur’s good eye pierced Roger with its gaze. “I always supposed your brother put him up to it. By the way, you’ll be taking Miss Pendleton to lunch. I’d recommend the Salisbury, just down the road. She’s rather partial to their Dover Sole. No need for her to hurry back.” He looked down at the papers on his desk, a clear dismissal.
    In something of a daze as he left Sir Arthur’s office, Roger walked straight past Miss Pendleton, still seated by the window, and had to be recalled to his duty with an amused “Mr. Cottingham?”
    Roger wheeled. “Ah. Dreadfully sorry. Sir Arthur mentioned we’d be taking lunch together?” Although why, he couldn’t imagine. He knew he was being ungrateful, but he couldn’t help feeling a little resentful.