“I didn’t check.”

Bertie gently clasped Duchess’s leg. With his thumbnail, he unclipped the metal band. He held the canister to his ear and shook it.

“Anything?” She stroked Duchess.

He nodded, then began to unscrew the top.

“We mustn’t.” She touched Bertie’s hand. “We’re not permitted.”

Bertie looked at her. “This is your pigeon. She wasn’t part of the mission. And since it appears our military snatched her away, I believe that permits us to have a wee look.” He pointed to the table next to his chair. “My dear, could you get my eyeglasses?”

Susan hesitated, then retrieved his eyeglasses.

Bertie slipped on his glasses, unscrewed the canister cap, and slid a note into his hand. With arthritic fingers, he carefully unrolled the paper. As he scanned the writing, his eyes widened.

“What does it say?”

He took a deep breath, exhaled, and handed her the paper.

Susan placed Duchess on the table and held up the note. She expected to see something written in French, or perhaps an attempt at English. But it was neither.

Susan struggled to breathe. Her legs quivered. She looked up to see her grandfather hobbling to the bookshelf.

Bertie dug through the shelves. He flipped book after book to the floor. The pile grew. He stopped when he reached a copy of Rob Roy by Sir Walter Scott. Behind it, pressed against the back of the bookshelf, he retrieved a small leather-bound book. He worked his way over to Susan.

She took the book, wiping a layer of dust from a companion copy of her father’s artillery codebook. She glanced at the note. Garbled codes. It was if she were eight years old, preparing to decipher one of Bertie’s playful messages, which had sent her rummaging through the cottage in search of a hidden piece of caramel. But this wasn’t a game. And she was no longer a child. Besides her and Bertie, there was only one other person who had seen her father’s codebook. Deep down, she knew something dreadful was on that piece of paper.

They sat at the kitchen table. Duchess pecked at a piece of bread crust, then dipped her beak into a teacup filled with water. Susan shuddered as she opened the codebook.

Bertie leaned over her shoulder. “It’s all right, my dear.”

Susan flipped pages and scribbled onto the stationery. Barely through the first sentence, she stopped and reread the words. Her heart pounded. She dropped the pencil.

“What is it?” Bertie said.

“It’s from him.”

“Who?”

“Ollie.”

Bertie clasped the table. “Jesus wept!”

Susan picked up the pencil and pressed it to the paper. The tip snapped. She continued writing with the broken piece of lead rather than take time to sharpen it. As she continued to decipher codes, her brief sense of relief turned to despair. Her hands shook as she examined the message. “It can’t be,” she said.

“What’s it say?” Bertie asked.

Susan closed the codebook. She took a moment to gather her courage, then read the message to her grandfather.