“He wishes he had stayed here in November,” Miss Lind translated softly. “But he didn’t want to break the link in his resistance network. After his first trip they began to watch him. They must have known what he’d done—what he left here. They sent him to bomb Windyedge himself—on Christmas Day, can you believe? But he didn’t. Althammer was his navigator on that flight, and when Althammer didn’t report his failure, Baer and Moritz disagreed about why. Moritz thought it was because he was sympathetic. But Baer suspected it was because he wanted to string them along and trap them both later.”

Miss Lind continued, listening to what Baer said and then going on again. “Baer turned out to be right, but Moritz was in charge, so when they were forced into a corner and cooked up the idea of defecting, Moritz brought Althammer along. And that’s exactly what Althammer wanted: a chance to destroy their secret on the ground.”

She and Felix Baer spoke together in quick, fluent German, nodding in agreement, comparing notes. She reached into her uniform pocket, fished out a handkerchief, and gave it to him so he could wipe his face.

I didn’t know what the German meant, but I knew what she was telling him.

Althammer failed. He’s dead. Your boss, Eberhard Moritz, isn’t hurt. My commanding officer is on his way back from Africa. Felix Baer straightened up a little. I have the Enigma machine and copies of the documents you brought, and they are safe. Beneath the bruising and the grime, his face was alight with hope. He glanced at me.

“I’m sorry it took me so long to understand,” I said. I meant it for both of them.

He said something else. Elisabeth Lind’s mouth twisted into a crooked little smile as she translated. “He asks if you would play some music.”

The gramophone was gone. If I started at the piano—Jane was upstairs waiting for breakfast, and she wouldn’t stay put if she caught wind of music down here without her. To be honest, why should she? I knew how she hated to miss anything. But she couldn’t come down the stairs.

“I want Jane to be able to hear,” I said. “I’ll get my flute and play it in the hall.”

The tea on Jane’s breakfast tray had cooled. I knew she wouldn’t care, and took it up with me.

She sat gazing out the big bay window in Room Number Four, staring far away over the rooftops of the village and the wide sea beyond.

But she turned her head as I came in and gave me a small half smile.

“I was wondering where you’d got to!” she said.