There’s no suggestion of falseness in his voice nor his face. Though flailing inside, I summon a semblance of defiance. “Then I’ll simply spend the rest of the war in my room. And we’ll see how helpful your government finds that.”

“Or,” he says, “I could put in a persuasive word to aid your case.”

I wait, as I sense there’s more.

“In exchange for a small favor.”

I straighten. Only for the prospect of escaping this island do I ask, “What is it you want?”

“My briefcase. I left it behind unwittingly, just a short hop from headquarters.”

When he requests nothing else, I peer at him, dubious. “If that’s all you want, why not just send for it?” Then I recall its contents, the ominous memo about the “Dutch girl,” the many other documents I haven’t viewed.

“Well, you see. The errand is confidential in nature due to its rather…unorthodox destination.”

Before he can finish, my memory of such a place creeps back, one linked to Hutton in the most cryptic of ways. And already I know, even if to my detriment, I won’t bring myself to decline.

Chapter 37

The Tube calamity has decidedly reinforced my aversion to graveyards. Nevertheless, I find myself retreading a winding path from Wilton Park, headed for a cemetery. At least this time it’s by daylight, being roughly half past ten. A break in the rain allows for an easier trek over slightly muddied ground.

As I follow the familiar hedges that straggle along a field, a muffled rumbling halts me. My heartbeat skitters as I look and listen, until I recognize an RAF Spitfire flying between clouds. I blow out a breath, reminded of my goal to leave this life behind.

In a rectangular patch of land a couple acres in size, I warily pass the smattering of tombstones. Their aged inscriptions and surrounding weeds suggest a disused place of rest, not lessening its eeriness. I continue briskly to reach the meadow in which Hutton disappeared, and now I know exactly where.

A dozen yards from the last set of gravestones stands the same huge oak tree I recall. Its abundant spread of branches provides a strategic cover that beckoned first Hutton and now me to its base. There, purposefully facing the cemetery and disguised as a burial-vault entrance, await stone steps that descend to a door. Camouflaged by turf at ground level, the structure’s roof blends impressively with nature.

I try the handle and confirm what Hutton suspected: that based on the last of his recollections from several nights ago, he’d managed to lock the door before walking toward headquarters. Along the way, he apparently found himself out of sorts, his path unrecognizable. Guards found him near the mansion, pacing and carrying on.