From the back of a shelf high on his bookcase he removed a pad of very thin paper, so thin that each sheet had to be backed against regular paper. And then he began to type, carrying on well into the night and for much of the next day, starting again early on Sunday morning. By lunchtime, he’d finished, two overflowing ashtrays, an almost empty bottle of Cognac and a dozen empty coffee cups a testament to his concentration. He packed the typewriter back in the wooden box and returned it to the shed.

He took the sheets of normal paper he’d used as backing and consigned them to the fire, watching until the last fragments were reduced to ash.

Then he brought out the trilby he’d bought the previous week. By the light of his Anglepoise lamp, he carefully unpicked the thread of the lining. He’d already folded the typed sheets of flimsy paper lengthways, which reminded him of when he and his brother made paper aeroplanes: there were two dozen sheets, and he was able to insert them almost perfectly into the lining before sewing the seam back.

He held the hat up, admiring his work. Deciding it looked too new, he ran a clothes brush along the rear porch, and soon the trilby had a well-worn appearance.

He added some logs to the fire and watched as the flames took hold of them, the occasional spark shooting onto the carpet.

He’d come to terms some years ago with the side of his nature that was too willing to please, too amenable, too keen to help out, too reluctant to say no.

It accounted for where he was now. All his instincts had told him not to agree to join the diplomatic service in the first place. Whichever way he looked at it, it was still serving the Reich, something he’d sworn not to do. He should have gone to Switzerland while he had the chance. And the meeting with Gilbey in the weeks before the war started, something that at the time had seemed like a chance meeting but was obviously not: even then he should have said thank you very much but I’m really not your man – not sure I’m brave enough, to be honest.

But he also knew that had he not eventually agreed to help, he’d never have forgiven himself.

He returned to Jensen’s bicycle shop on Monday at lunchtime. It was open, but Jensen was serving a customer, so he walked round the block before going back in.

‘How is he?’

‘He’s much improved: very keen to leave.’

Prince was sitting in the small lounge in Jensen’s rooms above the shop.