“Thank you,” Susan said, accepting the tissue. She wiped her eyes and stared at the remains inside the plastic case. “Duchess.”

“Who?” Mr. Googins asked.

“My pigeon. A pet, really.”

“Pet?” His forehead wrinkled with confusion. “See the capsule? It’s a war pigeon.”

Susan shook her head. “She was mistakenly loaded onto a plane in the autumn of 1940. It was one of the first missions to drop homing pigeons into Nazi-occupied France to gain intelligence. The plane was shot down with an American onboard.” She glanced at the coded piece of paper and thought of Ollie. Somehow, he must have managed to avoid capture long enough to relay another message. She took a deep breath, trying to contain the swells of sorrow building inside her chest. “The message is from him.”

“This seems rather unusual,” Mr. Googins said, crossing his arms. “The United States wasn’t a participant in the war in 1940.”

“Ollie was,” she said.

“Ollie?” he asked.

Susan nodded. Oliver from Maine. She dabbed away tears.

He took a deep breath and sighed. “How do we know this is Duchess and a message from Ollie?”

“Niles,” Lydia said sternly.

“I’m merely asking a question, Lydia,” he said, lowering his head.

Susan lifted her tin. She popped off the lid and spread its contents—coded and deciphered messages—over the coffee table.

Lydia took one of Susan’s coded messages and compared it to the one found in their chimney. Her eyes glanced back and forth between the papers. “It’s the same code, Niles. And the same handwriting.”

Niles examined the messages, taking more time than his wife, then nodded.

Susan noticed Lydia staring at the deciphered messages. She sensed that Lydia understood that the communication was far more than a matter of intelligence. This was confirmed when the woman touched her arm and said, “Was Ollie your husband?”

“No,” Susan said. Her chest ached, as if her torso were being compressed in a vice. “He didn’t make it out of France.”

“I’m so sorry,” Lydia said.

After a long pause, Niles turned to Susan and said, “Can you interpret the message?”

“I don’t know,” Susan said. “I used to have the codebook, but it was destroyed during the Blitz.” She took a deep breath, then exhaled. “I suppose I could try decoding it by using the other messages.”

“We’ll need to inform GCHQ,” Niles said.

“We’ll do no such thing.” Lydia glanced at the pigeon remains on the coffee table, then carefully began placing the messages back into Susan’s tin, including the one found in the fireplace.

Niles’s eyes widened. “Lydia.”

She looked at her husband. “Are you convinced that this is Susan’s pigeon and that this message was intended for her?”

Niles hesitated, then said, “Yes, but . . .”

“These belong with you, dear,” Lydia said, cutting off her husband. She handed Susan the tin and plastic case.

Susan looked at Lydia. “Thank you.”

“But, Lydia,” Niles said.