By half past eleven, six bullets had slammed into Butcher’s body. Strasser grudgingly thanked Lockhart for discovering the rape, although Lockhart got the impression that the German’s annoyance that he was one man down outweighed his sense of the rightful carrying-out of justice. For his part, Lockhart was deeply frustrated that he had been unable to press Butcher for more information about the letters.

The next night, Lockhart took the opportunity to treat Worstead to a dinner at the Schlegels Weinstube. Strasser had officially confirmed Worstead as the senior NCO, and Lockhart’s pretext was that his promotion was a cause for celebration. However, by the time they had finished their aperitifs, and Lockhart had toasted Worstead’s good health, the conversation had moved on to Butcher.

“There is one thing that niggles me,” said Lockhart, as he ended his account, “something that Butcher said as he was lying on the floor.”

“Go on,” said Worstead, leaning forward conspiratorially.

“I’ve been trying to dismiss it, but it won’t go away. Butcher said that the letters from Anna were fakes, and that she was in fact dead.”

“He said that?”

“He said that he had heard a rumor, but couldn’t remember who from.”

“How convenient!” scoffed Worstead, scratching his earlobe. “And did he say who started this rumor?”

“No. But I was surprised that he knew about the letters at all. In fact, I rather thought it was you who might have told him about them.”

Worstead looked both puzzled and affronted.

“Good God, no! John, please. I haven’t told a soul, I promise. It must have been Strasser. It wasn’t me. Really.”

“That’s what I thought, Andrew, but I needed to ask.”

“Sure, John, sure.”

For a minute or so, both men studied the menu and the wine list, exchanging small talk about its merits or otherwise. The waitress came over to ask what they wanted to drink, and Lockhart chose a bottle of Spätlese. Were they ready to order any food? No, not yet, give us a few more minutes. Fräulein.

“So you’re absolutely sure they’re real then, are you?” Worstead asked through a mouthful of thick black bread.

“What? The letters?”

Worstead nodded, reaching for more bread.

“God, yes. There’s stuff in them that only she and I know about.”

“But if you knew that they were fakes, who would you suspect?”

Lockhart frowned a little, and then smiled.

“Well you, of course. Although it can’t be you, because you weren’t at our wedding, and she writes about it. So that rules you out.”

“Phew!” said Worstead, laughing a little. “Glad I’m in the clear then!”

“You see,” said Lockhart. “It’s just as well you weren’t invited!”

The abrupt change in Worstead’s expression clearly signaled that yet again another remark had been taken to heart. Fortunately, the waitress arrived with the wine, and after it had been opened, tasted, poured and the waitress told to come back in a few minutes, because no, they still weren’t ready to order, Worstead appeared to have let the comment go past.