‘Yes... yes... and that spoiled it for her. But the Royal Air Force is stronger now. Since they killed the great Red Baron we hardly see any German planes over the Somme.’

‘Great Red Baron?’ Colette Fletcher said, and raised her fine eyebrows in surprise.

Sergeant Grimm sniffed through his pointed nose. ‘One of the rules of warfare, Madame. Respect your enemy. He was a brilliant pilot, a brave man and a noble man too.’

Mater DuPont clutched the edge of the table and pulled himself to his feet. He spoke in a low voice, which the children in his class knew meant he was hanging on to his temper like a child hangs on to a kite in a gale. ‘He shot down eighty British and French planes. Some of those planes had a pilot and an observer. So let’s say he killed around one hundred of our men. How many wives and mothers have been left to grieve? How many children have been left without a father? He was a murderer and the world is a better place with Baron von Richthofen in his grave.’

Grimm’s large ears were red as he flushed. ‘You’re a teacher. You know everything, I suppose.’ He leaned forward so his stale breath blew in the teacher’s face. ‘When the Germans return you had better keep that opinion to yourself, teacher.’ He spat the last word like a pistol shot.

Master DuPont opened his mouth to reply but Colette stood and said sharply, ‘Well, Sergeant, you’ll be wanting to get back to your duties. You must be busy?’

Silver Hand stood up straight and his small dark eyes glinted in the light from the smoke-smutted windows. ‘I have a top-secret message to deliver from General Bruce.’

‘Where to?’

‘I can’t say. It’s top secret.’

‘Ah. It must be Amiens then,’ she said with a smile. ‘Maybe you’ll see Aimee there? Offer her another balloon ride, eh?’

‘I won’t see her,’ the sergeant said. He spun round on his heel and marched out of the door.

Colette Fletcher looked at the teacher – still shaking with rage – and said, ‘He’s not going to Amiens.’

‘Neither is Aimee,’ the teacher said. ‘That’s what worries me.’

26 August 1918: The road to Peronne

Sergeant Grimm stepped on to the rutted road to Peronne and raised his silver hand, and the steaming lorry stopped. The red-faced driver glared at the man with his backpack. ‘What do you want?’

Grimm’s eyes narrowed and he pointed to the three white stripes on the sleeve of his jacket. ‘I am a sergeant. You are a corporal. You will salute me and ask, politely, how you can help me.’

The driver’s mouth looked as if he were chewing a slug. ‘Yes, sir. How may I help you?’