He felt easier now and carried on north, well away from the town centre. It was dark and he considered going home to Cornflowers to see if it was being watched, then thought better of the idea. Not worth the risk. Instead he zigzagged through empty back streets westward and found himself once again outside Trinity Villa. The lane was empty and cold, as though no one lived there.

One last look around, then he turned the door handle.

A neighbour’s door opened and an elderly man stepped out with a dog, some sort of mongrel, on a leash. Wilde froze, the hairs prickling on the nape of his neck.

The old man grasped Wilde’s arm with a rather feeble grip.

‘Are you a burglar, young man?’

Wilde smiled. ‘No, sir, I’m a good friend of Mr Taylor’s.’

‘Ah. Is he home, then? Haven’t seen him for over a year.’

‘No, still away at the war. But he said my family and I could stay here for a few days. We’re old friends. The water tank in our loft burst and flooded the house. We won’t be here much longer, hopefully.’

‘You sound foreign. What are you?’

‘Canadian. The name’s Lycett. Peter Lycett. I’m a manager at the Pye factory.’

The old man nodded, then released his grip.

‘Never liked that Taylor fellow. Something very strange about him. I think he’s a bit foreign. Too many of you, if you ask me.’

Wilde bit back a stinging reply. ‘Not much I can do about that, I’m afraid.’

‘I’ll be watching you, young man. You better mind your step.’

‘And a merry Christmas to you, too,’ Wilde replied, opening the door and closing it behind him. The last thing he needed right now was a suspicious and ill-disposed neighbour.

Indoors, Lydia didn’t look happy.

‘You took your time.’

‘I’m sorry. I wanted to make sure I covered my tracks. And I just met our rather odd neighbour. I told him my name was Peter Lycett. I’m Canadian and I’m a manager at Pye. He doesn’t like foreigners.’

Lydia ignored the news. ‘How long is this going on for, Tom? We have lives to get on with, you know.’

‘I’ve been thinking on my long walk. Perhaps we should leave Cambridge. Maybe the highlands of Scotland or north Wales? Some wilderness. What do you think?’

She shrugged. ‘You’re the bloody secret agent, Tom. You decide. But for pity’s sake, do something.’