Today, he could do nothing to prevent the atrocities in Lebatu. But if he identified the person or persons selling UK arms to those foreign insurgents, he could spare many lives. That helped ease his smarting conscience when he left his son so often. The boy was happy, positively thriving at the priory with his grandparents.

Birdsong filtered through his window. A steep hill rose on the left. At its zenith stood Ashford Priory, an Elizabethan mansion built of local stone, its mullioned windows winking in the early evening light. Home. The last of the tension drained from his body.

Rain-filled ditches on both sides of the tarmac reflected the azure sky dotted with puffy white clouds. Taking the roundabout, he passed the Slurping Monkey, an old Tudor pub, its car park jam-packed with vehicles.

He nodded toward the Tudor structure. “Marcus sure knows how to fill the lot. I wonder what he has going tonight?”

Elise craned her neck to read the marquee. “Celtic something or other. I can’t read the rest.”

“His cèilidhs are the best in the region. Have you ever attended one?”

“Cèilidhs? You forget where I’m from, Benson. Cèilidhs were part of my upbringing.”

“One forgets. Your accent’s hardly discernible.”

“I’ve been in England since university. It comes back when I return home.”

The 4x4’s treads hummed as they crossed an arched bridge over the River Rue. On hot summer days, children splashed in the shallows to cool themselves. Harry had been part of that merry lot once. He made a mental note to ask Sammy if he had ever taken a dip in the River Rue. Once more, he berated himself for not having a clue what his son did when Harry was out of the country.

Harry downshifted and eased onto High Street, where honey-colored cafés and shops built of local stone lined the village green. St. Sebastian’s, the parish church with its twelfth-century bell tower, anchored the far end of the square. He rolled down his window and waved at the vicar, the Reverend Mr. Brown, a pink-cheeked man with a Santa paunch and spectacles.

At the opposite end of the green, Bascombe Hall, a small manor house, finished off the town square. The manor had been constructed by a wool merchant two centuries past and now served as a four-star restaurant and bed-and-breakfast.

Half a dozen muddied teenage boys charged down the green, jostling one another for possession of a ball. Harry grinned when one of the boys landed rather spectacularly in a giant puddle of filthy water. Rugby at its finest.

“Good to be back?” Elise asked.

“Yes.”

This charming Cotswold village, with its ancient traditions and quirky neighbors, was part of him. He couldn’t imagine living anywhere else.