Hutton must have sent her to fetch me, as I scarcely glanced at his phone message from yesterday. Frankly, given my debacle at the Ministry, I’m surprised he would bother. The letter of resignation I left in his office days earlier gifted him an easy out.

As for his questionable behavior, whether I’ll report it and how, I haven’t the mindset to decide.

“Miss Vos?”

I’m tempted to remain silent, but all things considered, I ought to say goodbye.

On my feet, I make my way to the door. Opening it, I recall I’m in my nightclothes and thus gather the collar.

“Good morning,” she says, tentative.

I merely repeat her greeting. The normalcy of her appearance magnifies the lack in mine, causing me a resentful twinge.

“I do apologize for the intrusion, but I’ve come regarding Major Hutton.”

“Yes, I understand. And I promise I’ll ring him back at HQ.”

After a shake of her head, she pauses. That’s when I notice the foreboding in her eyes. “The major has been admitted to Woodside Officers’ Hospital. I’m afraid there’s been”—she measures how to finish—“an incident.”

Chapter 36

The drive passes wordlessly. Lenora steers the truck through the drizzling grayness, making no utterance about the ghastliness of our last outing. She could well know by now how many lives were lost, how many were children. Whether the peculiar bombs also caused any casualties. But what good would come from sharing such things?

Certainly none from hearing them.

I fidget with the identity disk that hangs along my collar. For our daunting return to London, I donned my dress and coat with no more thought than the hat over my hastily pinned hair. Through the passenger window, I survey the canopy of clouds. Dread over another air raid looms, rivaling my apprehension over what awaits at the hospital.

Hutton has requested my presence there. That he’s suffered a nervous breakdown is all Lenora has told me. It’s enough, however, to gouge my conscience. While my resigning is surely but a minor contribution, I can’t say the same of our soup mishap. Besides, his increasingly erratic pace, punctuated by his hand tremors, should have caused me some alarm.

To be fair, distinguishing the signs from an eccentric is no simple chore. And this still doesn’t explain his nighttime excursions nor passing a package in a manner that—

I squash the rest. The riddle is no longer mine to solve.

Moreover, what harm could the man do now? As treatment for his condition, he could be sedated or even restrained. Verifying as much will render the mystery moot.

Either way, I don’t plan to stay long.

***

In the military institution—formally St. Luke’s Woodside Hospital for Functional Nervous Disorders—a nurse leads me toward Hutton’s room. Down the sterile-white corridor, my shoes clack on the runway of tiles. Disinfectant permeates the air.