Vicky, who never encouraged political talk when children were present, cleared her throat.

Her uncle was oblivious to the signal he was being sent, as, apparently, was Berthold, for he said in his habitually pedantic manner, ‘Yes, Mr Wallace. When his prison sentence was handed down to him last April, Herr Hitler was told specifically he could expect to be paroled in nine months’ time.’

Charles Wallace gave a snort of disgust. ‘What kind of a sentence is that for a charge of treason? He did make a farcical attempt to seize power from the legally elected Bavarian government, did he not?’

‘He attempted a putsch,’ Berthold responded, always a purist where language was concerned.

‘What’s a putsch?’ Hugo asked, beginning to listen with interest.

‘An attempt to seize power by armed force,’ Max said knowledgeably.

Vicky cleared her throat again, but it was too little, too late.

‘The fellow’s a madman,’ her father said, screwing up his napkin and tossing it down beside his now empty pudding plate. ‘He should have been shot—and would have been shot if he’d been sentenced anywhere else but Bavaria.’

Paul was suddenly aware that the room was no longer stifling with late evening heat. The muslin curtains at the open French windows had begun rustling in a chill breeze and the Michaelmas daisies in urns on the terrace looked more storm-tossed than milkily serene.

A small voice said stalwartly: ‘My father doesn’t think Herr Hitler a madman.’ Claus’s face was set and pinched. ‘My father thinks Herr Hitler is exactly the kind of man Germany needs. He thinks he is a new Messiah.’

There was a silence that could have been cut with a knife. It was Vicky who broke it.

Pushing her chair away from the table, she said a little unsteadily, ‘I think it’s time we went into the drawing room for coffee. And even though it’s so soon after dinner, I think it’s time the boys went to bed.’

Everyone began rising to their feet and it was then Paul saw the expression on Berthold’s face and the look that flashed between him and Claus.

He stumbled, wondering if he had read it aright. Surely Berthold, the most meek and mild of men, could not be in sympathy with the kind of ruffians supporting Hitler? It seemed so highly unlikely as to be ridiculous, but then he remembered how Berthold had always followed wherever Josef led. If Josef had become a Hitler supporter—and from what Claus had just said, it was obvious he had—then it was more than possible Berthold was also in sympathy with Hitler’s rabble-rousing tactics.

It was a grim thought and, as he walked from the dining room and as thunder rolled from somewhere across the river, he found himself hoping with all his heart that his instincts were wrong.

Chapter Ten

Berlin, May 1928

Nancy bounced into exuberant wakefulness. She was in Berlin again and she loved Berlin. It was so much more exciting than boring, uneventful Little Ridding. Jumping from the bed—it was so high she would have had to be six foot tall instead of five foot nothing not to have done so—she ran to the nearest window.