Bertie pulled his pocket watch from his vest but didn’t look at it. “Oliver from Maine will be working for us for a few months.”

Susan raised her brows.

“Just until we finish the first phase of Source Columba.” Bertie grimaced as he shifted his weight to the opposite foot.

“Come inside, and I’ll get you something for your knees,” Susan said.

Bertie nodded and went inside.

Susan looked at Ollie. “You should have left the train station like I told you.”

Ollie stepped to her. “I tried.”

Susan noticed Ollie holding his side. “Did they hurt you?”

“I’ll be okay.”

“Lovely. Just lovely. How are we to finish our mission with everyone fragile?”

Ollie shrugged and followed Susan inside.

Susan retrieved some wet towels that were stored in the icebox and wrapped them around both of Bertie’s knees, his trouser rolled up to his flabby thighs.

Bertie leaned back in his tweed-upholstered chair. “Thank you, Susan. A wee rest and I’ll tend to our flock.”

“Use your walking stick.”

Bertie shook his head. “Makes me feel old, worse than the pain.”

Susan noticed Ollie looking at the walking stick propped against the fireplace. “Let’s get you cleaned up.”

Leading Ollie upstairs, Susan recognized that his climb was slow, a result of his kerfuffle with the RAF. She showed him to a spare room that had a small brass bed, a wash table, and a window overlooking a garden.

Susan pointed outside to a wooden shack. “There’s the loo.”

“The what?”

“Loo. I believe you may call it an outhouse.”

“Oh, yes,” Ollie said.

She gave him a towel, a bar of soap, and Bertie’s spare straight razor, carefully touching the edge to make sure it was still sharp. “Come down when you’re ready.” She left, shutting the door behind her.

* * *

Ollie woke when there was a knock at the door. He sat up on the bed, grimaced, and placed his feet on the floor.

The door gently opened. “Ollie,” Susan whispered.

“I must have fallen asleep. What time is it?”

“Dinner. You slept all day.”

“I’ll be right down.”

As Susan descended the stairs, Ollie straightened the bed. At the wash table, he removed his shirt and noticed that his right side, from hip to armpit, was bruised the color of beets. A series of smaller marks covered his chest; the knuckles of the servicemen made him look as if he had been pounded with a meat tenderizer. He poured water in the basin, washed, then carefully shaved for the first time in weeks, using something that looked more like a machete than a safety razor.