“She is not Pengelly’s daughter,” said Sir Alan. It was Harry’s turn to be struck dumb. “She’s a highly trained Stasi agent. The whole operation was a setup from the beginning, which we’re monitoring closely.”

“But Giles is bound to find out in time, and then all hell will be let loose.”

“You may be right, but until then my colleagues have to consider the bigger picture.”

“As you did with my son Sebastian, some years ago.”

“I will regret that decision for the rest of my life, Mr. Clifton.”

“And I suspect you will regret this one too, Sir Alan.”

“I don’t think so. If I were to tell Lord Barrington the truth about Karin Brandt, many of our agents’ lives would be put in danger.”

“Then what’s to stop me telling him?”

“The Official Secrets Act.”

“Are you absolutely confident that I wouldn’t go behind your back?”

“I am, Mr. Clifton, because if I know one thing about you, it’s that you would never betray your country.”

“You’re a bastard,” said Harry.

“That’s part of my job description,” said Sir Alan.

* * *

Harry would often visit his mother at her cottage on the estate during his four to six p.m. writing break, when they would enjoy what Maisie described as high tea: cheese and tomato sandwiches, hot scones with honey, éclairs and Earl Grey tea.

They would discuss everything from the family—her greatest interest—to the politics of the day. She didn’t care much for Jim Callaghan or Ted Heath, and only once, straight after the war, had voted anything other than Liberal.

“A wasted vote, Giles never stopped reminding you.”

“A wasted vote is when you don’t vote, as I’ve told him many times.”

Harry couldn’t help but notice that since her late husband had died, his mother had slowed down. She no longer walked the dog every evening, and recently she’d even canceled the morning papers, unwilling to admit her eyesight was failing.

“Must get back to my six to eight session,” said Harry. As he rose from his seat by the fire, his mother handed him a letter.

“Not to be opened until they’ve laid me to rest,” she said calmly.

“That won’t be for some years, Mother,” he said as he bent down and kissed her on the forehead, although he didn’t believe it.

* * *

“So, are you glad you took the day off?” Giles asked Sebastian as they walked back through the Grace Gates after stumps.

“Yes, I am,” said Seb. “Thank you.”

“What a glorious partnership between Knott and Illingworth. They may have saved the day for England.”

“I agree.”

“Did you have a chance to chat to Mick Jagger?”

“No, I didn’t speak to him.”

“What about Don Bradman?”

“I shook his hand.”

“Peter O’Toole?”

“I couldn’t understand a word he said.”

“Paul Getty?”

“We exchanged cards.”

“What about the prime minister?”

“I didn’t realize he was there.”

“From this scintillating exchange, Sebastian, should I conclude that you were distracted by a certain young lady?”