Wilde lived with his wife Lydia in an old house called Cornflowers in the north-east of Cambridge. They had been married only three years having happily endured the reproachful glares of certain neighbours during several years of ‘living in sin’.

The most interesting time was the birth of Johnny outside wedlock. Wilde and Lydia laughed merrily at the pursed lips and stiffening shoulders that greeted them when they walked out with the baby. But not all their neighbours were like that. Perhaps it was the war and the loosening of stiff Victorian morality that made their domestic arrangements acceptable to more and more people. In the end, though, they had succumbed to marriage, perhaps as much for Johnny’s sake as their own.

As father and son neared home, Wilde noticed a big American car by the kerb at their front gate. It was a soft-top Packard, black with white-wall tyres and expansive running boards. Johnny was impressed. ‘Look at that car, Daddy. It’s huge!’

‘So it is.’ It was a beautiful machine, but Wilde wasn’t at all sure he was glad to see it. At a guess, the occupants were now in his house and he was thinking hard as to their identity and the purpose of their visit. Perhaps it was a social visit from one of the boys at Grosvenor Street, London headquarters of the OSS. His instinct, however, suggested otherwise. Surely, the guys he worked with would have phoned ahead to see if it was OK to drop in. Wilde didn’t much like any of the alternatives that came to mind.

Lydia was already opening the door as they climbed the steps.

‘That’s good service,’ Wilde said. ‘Very prompt. You could be a hotel doorman – or woman.’

‘I saw you through the window. You have visitors, Tom.’ Her eyes drifted up to the heavens.

‘Yes, I rather thought I might. Your expression suggests it’s not good news.’

‘There are three of them. Three men – one of whom I know. Do you want to guess?’

He detected a note of resignation. ‘Not bloody Eaton?’

‘Got it in one.’

Good grief, Philip Eaton. He thought he had seen the last of him. At times in these past years, he had seemed like a sort of harbinger of doom. There had been a time when he had arrived with welcome tidings, but in general that was not the case.

‘What does he want?’

‘You, obviously. I don’t have good feelings. One of them, the one smoking a smelly pipe, brought me a present – a box of French perfume and American makeup. What would I do with lipstick and eyeliner, Tom?’

‘Well, I suppose it was well meant. You wore some at our wedding as I recall.’

‘I think he was trying to soften up the little woman, get in my good books so I’d go along with whatever dreadful plans they have for you. But he gave me two pairs of nylons, too, so I’ll forgive him.’