Pinstripe marshalled her into a chair. He cleared his throat – his familiar little fox-cough. ‘I’m afraid it’s no use, Mrs Baron. I heard you,’ he said. ‘I heard everything you said, through this.’ And he held up the speaking tube. ‘Just as well Petra had the presence of mind to alert us by sounding the whistle.’

Pinstripe whispered something to the muddy sergeant, who immediately disappeared through the kitchen door. Then he turned back to Mrs Baron shivering with rage in her chair. ‘I heard you say that you have a contact in Germany, that you are responsible for passing on information to the enemy, that you blackmailed Petra’s father into colluding in an act of treachery, and that you have, tonight, been attempting to help stage an enemy landing. You are, in short, a traitor. And we’ve also been able to connect you directly to the acts of sabotage carried out by your son earlier in the summer.’

‘The sabotage? But how could you possibly—’

‘We have his confession, Mrs Baron.’

Everything stopped then. Mrs Baron sat perfectly still and stared at the inspector, the bones of her shoulders rising and falling with each breath. ‘His . . . What do you mean? Michael is dead.’

And then the kitchen door opened, and we all turned towards it.

It was a ghost. The ghost of Michael Baron.

His hair was long and greasy. He was as thin as a garden rake. His clothes were dirty, and there was a terrible stench as he limped into the kitchen. The sergeant followed behind him, one hand on the boy’s filthy shoulder. I saw then that Michael’s wrists were handcuffed in front of him.

Mrs Baron had not moved. Her red-rimmed eyes were staring at her son. ‘Michael,’ she breathed, attempting to get up, but Pinstripe pushed her gently back into her chair. ‘Michael – you’re supposed to be down at Dragon Bay with a lantern. What are you doing here?’

‘Dragon Bay?’ I said, incredulous. ‘He’s supposed to be dead, isn’t he?’

‘I’m sorry, Mother,’ Michael whispered, and his once-handsome chin quivered pathetically. ‘They found me. I’ve told them everything.’

‘You’ve . . .’

‘Yes.’

And then there was another voice. ‘It’s because of me,’ said Mags from the window seat. She sat up, holding her head. ‘It’s all my fault.’

Chapter 46

46

‘Ithink perhaps you ought to give us a full explanation, Miss Smith.’