“Did he pass through Rome on his return?”

“He did not. The next time I saw him, he was a stalwart man of railways and electric companies.”

“Yet you brought him back to train the lads.”

“He was a clever chap. I thought he’d be useful.”

Sparks paused for a second, collecting her thoughts.

“Constantine Torgos was at his funeral,” she said.

“What of it?”

“Torgos was our link to the Greek Resistance during the recent war. He worked with us. Not with me personally, but I knew who he was. What was his connection to Talbot?”

“I have given you everything you need, Sparks,” said the Brigadier, rising to his feet. “More than you are entitled to. I won’t be wasting any more time with this.”

“Sir? May I say one more thing?”

He stopped.

“Go on, Sparks,” he said wearily.

“I fully expect to outlive you by several decades,” she said.

“Impudent woman. Is that all?”

“No, sir. What I wanted to say was that despite that, I am glad that you still consider me worthy of flowers at my funeral.”

“More than worthy, Sparks,” he said. “I hope you stay in touch. We may yet find a mission you’d consider taking.”

“How is Andrew?” she blurted out.

“Can’t tell you, Sparks. Good luck with the investigation.”

He walked away. She read the paper until she heard the Bentley start up behind her.

Well, hardly likely he’d tell her about Andrew, she thought. An ex is an ex is an ex, especially the spying sort. It would be nice to know that he was safe, though.

She folded up the Guardian and walked to the office.

Gwen waved a piece of paper at her triumphantly when Iris walked through the door.

“I’ve located one of the lady’s maids!” she crowed.

“How on earth did you manage that?”

“Well, the family settled in Paris after they left Corfu. I have a friend who has an aunt who was married to a French automobile tycoon during the twenties, and she is an invaluable gossip when it comes to la société Parisienne. It turns out that her lady’s maid was a second cousin or something—”

“All right, I accept the bona fides of your investigation,” interrupted Iris.

“This involved a great deal of work,” said Gwen indignantly. “And we have to justify our information if we are going to act upon it.”

“You’re right, I’m sorry. Go on. Second cousin of the tycoon’s wife’s lady’s maid or something, you were saying.”

“Yes, I think—” Gwen glanced at her notes. “Lost my place for a moment. Right, there it is. So, her lady’s maid was a second cousin to the young princesses’ maid, whose name was Cécile Berteuil. She left their employ when they all got married, which happened within a relatively short space of time. She married a French chauffeur named Armand Bousquet.”

“Where are they now?”

“In England! They are employed by Harold Cockerell and his wife, Felicity. Cockerell’s in steel manufacturing or something and has a house in Sudbury.”