Wilde breathed again. But what now? Was he just supposed to stay here in these kitchens? He supposed that’s what chauffeurs did when they took their masters and mistresses to great houses – either polished the car or sat in the kitchens being fed and watered. Not a bad job, perhaps, but a lot of waiting around. For a while he tried to converse with the German staff, but it was stilted and unproductive.

Outside it was getting dark. On December days the light was barely there before it had gone. He stood up, thanked the cook for her hospitality and stepped outside. He could feel the chill off the lakes and felt certain it would rain before the evening was out. He had visions of Sunny sipping expensive wine with Frau Göring in one of her enormous reception rooms. Perhaps Klara was playing with Emmy Göring’s little daughter. The child was only three or four, a great deal too young to be a proper playmate for Klara, but perhaps she might enjoy teaching her new games.

At least Hermann wasn’t there. Off in East Prussia with the Führer, directing the war in the east.

He felt a touch on the shoulder. Guillaume the forester and gamekeeper was standing with his hands in his pockets.

‘Vous n’êtes pas français.’ He spoke with a snort of derision.

Wilde said nothing.

The gamekeeper was silent for a few moments.

‘English, perhaps? You look English – or American. What are you?’

Wilde was considering his options. The gamekeeper was now speaking heavily accented English himself. What were his intentions? Where did his sympathies lie? Some Frenchmen had welcomed the Nazis with open arms and might have been more than happy to travel here to work.

A knife to the throat? That wouldn’t solve anything; he was still caught fast in this trap. Even if he abandoned Sunny and Klara, he would be utterly lost in Germany alone. His only hope would be to get back to Berlin somehow and find his way to the American embassy. But the chances of succeeding in that were vanishingly slim.

‘Do you have American cigarettes?’

‘Zigaretten? Ich rauche nicht.’

‘Oh, give it a rest, Mr Sable. We both know you’re not French or German.’

No, Wilde, don’t fall for it, he told himself. Keep up the pretence, even if it seems hopeless. He simply shrugged and said, in German, that he didn’t understand him.

‘Ich nicht verstehe Sie.’

Then he turned away towards the edge of the more northerly of the two lakes.

But before he had taken more than a few steps, Guillaume’s hand was on his shoulder again, this time gripping hard.

‘Don’t turn your back on me – I can help you or I can destroy you, mister.’