‘That was my view, certainly. I have nonetheless come to accept the possibility – no more than that – that perhaps the source may be in Rodmarton Street.’

‘What do you make of Tindall?’ Gilbey was studying his Scotch as he asked the question. Webster looked uncomfortable.

‘If you’re asking what I think of him as a person… well, he’s not my type. Bad-tempered, unfriendly, not exactly clubbable, clearly has a chip on his shoulder: most of which can be explained by what happened to him in the Great War. But if you’re asking my opinion on whether he is a Nazi informant inside Rodmarton Street – no, I really don’t think so.’

‘Why?’

‘It’s too obvious, too convenient, wouldn’t you agree? He’s the man organising the dispatch of our agents to Denmark. He’s in far too exposed a position. Certainly if it was him, then he’d make an effort to be more agreeable. Being so unpleasant and openly resentful only draws attention to himself.’

‘He’s been asking questions about you, Hendrie. He’s pally with a chap he was with in the army who works in Registry, and he approached him to see what he knew about you. And it turns out he has a connection with Bentley: his brother was at Balliol with him and he contrived to bump into him at his club. All he wanted to talk about was you.’

‘Perfectly normal to ask about one’s new work colleague, I’d have thought. Hardly the kind of subterfuge I imagine a Nazi spy would get up to, eh?’

‘I agree, Hendrie, but if the source is inside Rodmarton Street then everything points at Llewellyn Tindall; after all, he’s the one person who knows every detail of an agent’s journey to Denmark. But we have no evidence. We allowed you to go in with this story about leaving the Service under something of a cloud. We suspected Tindall would ask about you, and in fact when he did, what he heard was that far from you being in disgrace, you’ve actually been transferred to the Danish section on a highly sensitive mission to send in an agent.’