I suppose this is what brings me out tonight, but not the only reason. If Hutton’s actions are indeed nefarious, I need to know. Lives could be at stake. Not to mention the fate of my own, should my close association be tied to any illicit affairs. Incidents from my orphanage days, of being wrongly accused and penalized, had taught me not to rely on innocence for vindication.

Hidden by trees surrounding headquarters, I wait with a view of the entrance. Hutton’s meetings were scheduled until nine. By now, it must be quarter to ten.

A droplet, fallen from an overhead branch, causes me to flinch as it slides past my coat collar. From an earlier drizzle, dampness lingers in the air, along with doubts over my judgment. After all these months of our working together, could I have really missed the signs?

At last he emerges. Alone, hat tipped low. No parcel, but his briefcase hangs from one hand and a suitcase from the other, along with a regulation flashlight that he then clicks on.

I don’t dare move.

When he continues around the building, away from the vehicle pool, my suspicions escalate. Again I trail him at a distance.

His winding path lasts a good quarter of a mile before it leads into a field. The space is several acres in size, as best as I can tell by the glow of the moon.

To prevent detection, I keep tight to a long, straggling hedge lining the property. He traipses onward through a meadow that appears desolate save for a tree. A giant oak, I’d guess.

Where is he going and why?

A dip in the soil causes me to stumble. Suppressing a gasp, I catch myself on a rock. It’s weather-beaten and lodged in the dirt. A quick scan reveals other stones varying in height and shape, all sprinkled among clustered weeds. By the time I look up, Hutton is gone, vanished once more.

But that isn’t what unsettles me most; it’s my realization that the stones below me bear inscriptions, barely legible names and dates.

I’m standing in a graveyard.

Chapter 32

For the next four days, through my errands and appointments and sketching, I debate my options. Hutton is out of the office, traveling as he often does to meet with suppliers and manufacturers around England and as far away as Scotland.

Or so he says.

I no longer know what to think.

Who takes a leisurely stroll through a cemetery, let alone at night and with luggage in tow, only to disappear? Assuming he’s not practicing the occult, what ever was he doing? Of all the places to find privacy for a meeting, a graveyard at night would certainly be among them.

Through a new lens, I consider his paranoia-tinged warnings over phone lines being tapped, his frequent insistence that nothing of importance is accomplished through letters. Have his precautions been truly for the Allies?