Lydia handed the locket back. The past of this vulnerable and rather nice child seemed lost in a fog of mystery. Tom was right; it was almost certainly better if it stayed that way. Sometimes secrets were best left secret.

*

‘Fletcher,’ Wilde said, shaking hands. He had just seen the name of Fletcher’s the butcher’s on the side of a van. ‘Ken Fletcher.’

He was getting used to adopting false names.

‘And what’s your business with Professor Wilde, may I ask, Mr Fletcher?’

‘I heard he had a car for sale. Thought I’d drop in and see if it’s still on the market.’

‘Well, we both seem to have missed him.’

‘Indeed we do, Mr Young.’

Wilde was aware that this man was studying him closely, examining him like a lepidopterist might scrutinise a new butterfly, wondering whether it merited gassing and pinning. The suspicion was mutual. Charles Young was handsome, well dressed, with slicked-back, neatly barbered hair – but who was he? One of Eaton’s agents? That had been his initial reaction and the reason he had given a false name, but on reflection there was something about him that suggested otherwise. Eaton, he was sure, would have opted for someone more anonymous.

‘Your accent, Mr Fletcher. You’re not American by any chance?’

‘Lincolnshire born and bred, Mr Young.’ He sighed. ‘And you, sir – you say you had some sad news to impart?’

‘The death of a mutual friend, an RAF hero shot down over France. His wife asked me to pass on the news in person, as I was travelling through Cambridge.’

‘Ah.’ Wilde, in the guise of a mere car buyer, could hardly ask who the unfortunate pilot was. ‘Well, yes, sad news, Mr Young. Anyway, if the professor is not here, I shall have to be on my way. Perhaps I’ll call again and hope for better luck. Good day to you, Mr Young.’

‘And you, Mr Fletcher. I’ll just write out a note for the professor and pop it through the letterbox, then I’ll be on my way, too. Wasted journey for both of us, eh?’

Perhaps, Wilde thought. Perhaps not.

He turned and walked back along the road the way he had come, aware of Young’s eyes on his back with every step. He trusted his instincts and his knowledge of humanity, and they told him that Young’s urbane exterior concealed something deeply unpleasant.

Chapter 29

CHAPTER 29