“Fakes? What do you mean, they’re fakes?”

There was a panicky desperation in Lockhart’s voice. That was what he had subconsciously feared, but had not allowed himself to address. But his rational side kicked in, calming him with the knowledge that the letters contained references to private things—there was no way they could be forgeries. And yet why would Butcher be claiming they were? He had to be buying time—that was the most likely explanation. Perhaps he thought Lockhart was about to kill him.

“How do you know they’re fakes?” shouted Lockhart directly into Butcher’s ear, as loudly as if Butcher was at the bottom of a cliff. “Who told you? Worstead?”

“No.”

“Who then?”

“Dunno. But promise…you…they’re fakes.”

“You’re lying, Butcher! You’re bloody lying!”

“I’m…not…I swear.”

This was rubbish, thought Lockhart, pure rubbish. He cursed himself for momentarily allowing himself to believe Butcher, this pathetic scrap of shit, this murderer, this rapist. Butcher would say anything to stop Lockhart beating him up, and he was cunning enough to know which of Lockhart’s nerves were the most raw.

Lockhart was now faced with the practical problem of getting Butcher out of the room. Would he be able to walk? Unlikely, but it was worth a try.

“All right, Butcher, get up!”

Butcher mumbled vaguely into the pool of bile and blood that had seeped out of his mouth.

“Up, Butcher! Get up!”

Butcher made some attempt to move, but he was evidently drifting in and out of consciousness. There was nothing else for it: Lockhart would have to drag or carry him out of here, and then find the nearest figure in uniform to help him.

The mattress. Why hadn’t he thought of it before? He could put Butcher on it and slide him down the stairs. It wouldn’t matter if the bastard took the odd knock as he went down—it wasn’t as if he was trying to rescue him. Would it work? It was worth a go.

The method, although unorthodox, did in fact work. It did little for Butcher’s condition, however, and by the time Lockhart had got the oberscharführer onto the pavement, he was out cold, but breathing. Lockhart left him lying in the doorway, next to some dog mess, which seemed singularly appropriate. But even as he hurried to find someone who could help, the dread panic that he was a widower grabbed him tightly, and stirred up his insides with an insidious churning. It was rubbish, it had to be.

Two days later, at ten o’clock in the morning, Oberscharführer Matthew Butcher was court-martialed. Sitting on either side of the head of the Haus Germanien, Sturmbannführer Parsch, were Strasser and a Danish hauptsturmführer. Butcher stayed silent throughout the proceedings. His trial was heard in camera, with Lockhart as the sole witness. After twenty minutes, Parsch ordered the death sentence to be carried out immediately.