“Good night, Mummy!”

There was a rustling, then a woman’s voice came on the line.

“Hello, Mrs. Bainbridge,” said Agnes. “Little Ronnie has been very good today.”

“I am glad to hear it,” said Mrs. Bainbridge. “Agnes, would you do me a favour?”

“Certainly, Mrs. Bainbridge.”

“Could you go downstairs to the library? I’d like you to look something up for me.”

CHAPTER 3

Sally lived in a bachelor flat in Soho, on a block largely occupied by actors and musicians because of its low rents and its tolerance for odd noises at odd times of the day and night. Before the war, Gwen would have been appalled at the idea of going to such a place unaccompanied, when even a hint of scandal might get one struck from the invitation lists to all the better parties. But the war happened, she was now a working widow, and invitations to parties were few and far between.

She looked at her directions and verified the flat number for the fifth time, then walked up the stairs to the third storey. She needn’t have checked—a group of rowdy but well-trained voices could clearly be heard through one of the closed doors. She walked to it, summoned up her courage, and knocked.

It opened a second later, and Sally filled the doorway.

Sally was a large man. Large to the point that other large men looked at him with respect and awe. Large enough that, were one possessed of a classical education and versed in the tales of the Greek gods defeating the Titans, then encountered Sally, one might think, Oh, they missed one.

Sally was possessed of a classical education. When his classmates at Cambridge nicknamed him Titan, he’d immediately say, “Clever. Which one?” And before they could wonder why they could never remember those names, he would quickly rattle them off, complete with citations to Hesiod, and be sure to mention that one of them was mother to the Muses, from whom all art derived. By that point, his nicknamers would realise they were not quite as clever as they initially thought. Nevertheless, the nickname stuck.

Gwen knew this from Iris, who had been at Cambridge with Sally. Gwen suspected some other details about Sally, stemming from his months behind enemy lines in Italy. In her imagination, these alternated between detonating explosives that brought down bridges and silently dispatching Nazis and Fascists with his bare hands or a knife. Sally acknowledged the explosions, not the dispatchings. He had a knack for appearing suddenly in places without any prefatory footsteps. Sally was whom The Right Sort called upon when they needed to collect a debt from a pair of recalcitrant newlyweds. There was no violence involved. There was no need for it. People would take one look at Sally and feel compelled to adopt a peaceful resolution to their disputes.

But that was not the Sally who loomed over Gwen in happy welcome. This was Sally, the aspiring playwright, his smile beaming down from on high. He took Gwen’s hand in his massive one.