

To the Fallen

Copyright © 2017 Evelyn Weiss

Murder on the Western Front

List of principal fictional characters

1. Wipers

2. Cowardice

3. The General's orders

4. Into the trenches

5. The German soldier

6. Behind the lines

7. Accusations

8. An American in Flanders

9. Poppies

10. A hole in the sky

11. The Studio

12. Rue de Fleurus

13. The city of silence

14. Strange meeting

15. Interrogation

16. Mute witness

17. A grim discovery

18. The bunker

19. The big push

20. Zero hour

21. Hill 70

22. The citadel

23. An inconvenient nurse

24. A shadow in the street

25. The amateur spy

26. Lessons in engineering

27. Figures at the window

28. Wall of death

29. Family portraits

30. The forgotten men

31. The island

32. Leap of faith

33. Operation Passover

34. The destroying angel

35. Cowardice again

36. The firing squad

Author's statement

**Principal fictional characters**

Agnes Frocester, American. A Red Cross Volunteer Auxiliary assisting the British Royal Army Medical Corps.

Major Jardine, British. An Army officer at Ypres on the Western Front.

Dr Bernard, Swiss. A Red Cross Volunteer Doctor assisting the British Royal Army Medical Corps.

Colonel Hampshire, British. An Army officer.

Oberleutnant Walther Seydlitz, German. An officer in the Prussian Guards.

Corporal Edward Tasker, British. An Army soldier.

Professor Felix Axelson, Swedish. A detective, scientist and hypnotist.

General Charteris, British. An Army commander.

Montgomery Keys, American. A photographer and journalist.

Private John Edgar, British. An Army soldier.

Sandrine Terray, French. A Parisian socialite.

Lord Buttermere, British. A senior figure in the British Intelligence Service.

Private Colin Smith, British. An Army soldier.

Oberst Otto Mannheim, German. An Army officer.

Friedrich Seydlitz, German. An engineer and inventor.

Anna Mason, American. An engineer: Friedrich Seydlitz's daughter.

Kapitan Wolfgang Kirchner, German. A naval commander.

Oberst Karlheinz Prochnow, German. A secret police officer.

**1. Wipers**

I feel faint. Looking down, I see that my hands are bathed in bright arterial blood.

"Frocester! You're wanted. Major Jardine needs to speak to you. Now."

"I'm coming, I'm coming." I'm gripping the blood-soaked dressing with both hands, pulling it tight in an attempt to seal the arteries. The soldier's knee is a mangled mess. All I can do for him right now is to stop the blood ebbing away: I'm getting him ready so he can be transferred to the Casualty Clearing Station. He lies quietly, murmuring like a child talking to himself, on the stretcher that they brought him in on ten minutes ago.

"Go, Agnes. I can finish this. I wonder what the chief wants with you?"

"Thank you, Nurse Carstairs."

Our makeshift hospital is, in fact, the ground floor of what was once a hotel. The treatment room is the former dining room, which used to look out over the medieval square in the Belgian market town of Ypres. But there is no view out of our windows any more. The blasts of the German shells raining down on the town have destroyed every pane of glass, so we have covered the windows with cotton sheets, shading our patients from the bright sunshine. Outside, it's a gorgeous spring day: April 22nd 1915. One window is uncovered, and a single shaft of sunlight penetrates the room and shines on the floor, showing a surface of dull red: dried blood. We've been too busy to clean it.

My shoes go clack-clack as I hurry across the tiles of the reception lobby to what was once the hotel manager's office. Although I'm hurrying, I can't help noticing a severe-faced woman, dressed all in black, standing at the lobby's reception desk, as if waiting for something or someone. As I knock nervously at the office door, the black-clad woman watches me, but there is no human warmth in her glance, and no greeting. She simply watches me.

I hear a shout from inside the office "Come". I open the door, and step inside.

The gaunt, khaki-clad man sitting at the desk doesn't even glance up from his papers. "Ah, Volunteer Auxiliary Frocester." He continues reading, his eyes nervously scanning the pages, but his black mustache moves as he speaks. "I just need you to know that tomorrow, you must be ready to leave here, at a moment's notice." Finally, he looks up at me. Although he and I only met for the first time three days ago, I notice that the haunted look in Major Jardine's eyes is visibly worse. Eyes that are ringed by the dark circles of many sleepless nights.

"Of course, I'll be ready, sir." There's a pause of a few seconds. As he doesn't add any further information, I ask the obvious question.

"Am I being transferred back to Poperinge, sir?"

Three days ago, five staff of the Royal Army Medical Corps and I, a mere volunteer Red Cross auxiliary, were dispatched from the main Casualty Clearing Station at Poperinge. We were sent to Ypres, and ordered to report to Major Jardine. He is regular Army, not Medical Corps, but among his many duties in Ypres is the running of the improvized Main Dressing Station here. The need for more medical staff at Ypres is horribly obvious, even in the Major's office: in this room too, the windows are empty holes, and everything is covered in the fine dust generated by shell explosions. The German bombardment of the town started five days ago, and we were sent into Ypres to support its overloaded medical facilities. Every day there are fresh casualties, both military and civilian. Mostly, all we can do for them is stop them losing blood, bandage them up until they're fit to travel, and then send them on to Poperinge, where they can be properly diagnosed, given initial treatment and sent on again to a Stationary Hospital far behind the front lines. But until we arrived here, many of them were dying of blood loss on their journey between Ypres and Poperinge. Or "Wipers" and "Pops" as everyone in the British Army calls them.

But today, there's a difference: there are no more civilians among our casualties. Yesterday the decision was taken: Ypres is a death-trap, and all Belgian inhabitants must evacuate. From dawn to dusk yesterday we witnessed a procession of despairing women, old men and children leaving the town, all with their few movable belongings piled in handcarts. No-one has any idea where they are going.

Moments pass by, and I wait for a response from the Major. My simple question about where I am to be sent seems to have unsettled him. Finally he looks up. "Not back to Poperinge, Frocester. You'll have noticed the silence."

"Yes sir." And, now he mentions it, I have indeed noticed it. A strange period of calm. Since I arrived here, the German bombardment has been intermittent. Typically, an hour or so goes by, punctuated every few minutes by the noise of shells exploding in and around the town. Then, there's half an hour of quiet before the explosions start again. We're in one of the lulls right now. But this time, the silence has lasted much longer: several hours.

I look into the Major's face, searching for an answer to my original question. He seems to wake from a momentary trance, and starts explaining to me.

"The silence is for a reason, Frocester. As you will know, Ypres is at the centre of a bulge in the Western Front. This town and the surrounding area held by British and French troops – it sticks out into the German battle lines, like a sore thumb."

"Yes, sir."

"The shape of the bulge means that there are German troops to the north, east and south of us. Now, I've received a number of dispatches this afternoon indicating that a German regiment two miles north of us has begun an advance against the French Army's North African divisions, who are holding that section of our lines."

"That sounds bad, sir."

"Yes. But for us here in Ypres, it means that the Germans are no longer using their heavy guns, because they are preparing to move them. They expect to move the guns into the areas which they are, at this very moment, capturing from the French."

"I see, sir." I stand and wait, hoping he'll explain more.

"So, Frocester – we believe that the current German attack on the French colonial troops – Moroccans and Algerians, for the most part – is only the first phase of a series of assaults against our allied forces. The Germans would like to capture the entire bulge, including Ypres town itself. Further attacks on our troops are very likely. We think their plan is to, ah –"

"Cut the thumb off, sir?"

"Exactly." He nods wearily at me. "So, Frocester, in anticipation of more German attacks, we have moved troops into the area alongside the Moroccans. Our new and totally inexperienced Canadian Division. It's unfortunate, but they are all that we can spare at the moment. If the Germans do attack the Canadians, we can expect a very large number of casualties. Their medical staff will need support. So we may need to send you there."

"When, sir? Tomorrow?"

"Ah – not tomorrow, no. The day after."

Major Jardine finishes speaking, and he's looking down again at the papers in front of him. I'm wondering why he's using his valuable time to speak to me at all: amid the scale of what's happening, the dispatch of one Red Cross volunteer to another Station hardly merits calling me away from the treatment room. But I already have an uneasy feeling about this conversation. Amid all the dust and mess of this so-called office, and the Major's extreme stress and exhaustion, I sense something unexpected, a strangeness in the atmosphere. Maybe it's the catch I hear in his voice. I have the odd feeling that Major Jardine is lying to me. Or at least, he's concealing something. There's something else, something important, that he's not told me.

"Very well, sir. I'll be ready to go – the day after tomorrow." He's looking at his papers again, and I hesitate before bothering him with yet another question. "Will there be any facilities at my new Station?... what will I need to take with me?"

"We have an Advance Dressing Station near the village of St Julien, about three miles east of Ypres, around which our Canadian troops are now based. I'm sending further medical supplies there now. And I should also introduce Dr Bernard." The Major looks down at his papers again, but then suddenly he rises from his chair, walks round from behind the desk and opens the office door. There, standing in the doorframe, is the woman I saw in the lobby earlier. Again I notice her colorless complexion, her pale eyes and hair contrasting with her coal-black dress. Most of all, I'm struck by her steady, judgmental gaze. She looks unimpressed with both Major Jardine and myself.

"Dr Bernard, may I introduce Volunteer Auxiliary Frocester? She will be assisting you this evening. And as I mentioned, she will be able to accompany you, if you are required at the Advance Dressing Station at St Julien."

Dr Bernard's eyes move between the Major and me. I'm suprized to hear an almost German accent come from her lips. "Miss Frocester. I am Eugénie Bernard, Doctor of Medicine. A Swiss citizen – but I have volunteered my services with the Red Cross."

Major Jardine motions towards the red cross hand-sewn onto my sleeve. "Volunteer Frocester is also with the Red Cross, and she too is a foreigner to this conflict. A citizen of another neutral country: she is American. I think that you two will work well together."

Dr Bernard looks at the major coldly. "Thank you for your opinion, Major. But I will judge this volunteer's performance for myself. May I meet the other staff now?"

"Of course, Dr Bernard. I'll call Military Nurse Carstairs, and she will show you the treatment room and get you a suitable uniform. Frocester, you'd better get straight back to looking after the patients."

I turn and go. But as I re-enter the lobby on my way back to the treatment room, I ponder these strange orders I've been given. The Major's instructions are completely outside my experience. Firstly, I've never had a direct order given to me by one of the officers: I'm at the bottom of the hierarchy, the most junior of all medical staff. Until now, all my instructions have come through the military nurses. Secondly, because I'm a menial assistant, all my orders are simple instructions: bind that wound, wash those bandages, make those beds. No-one has ever explained a situation to me, or informed me about the state of battle. That's the sort of information you only get from whispered rumours, or from the mouths of injured soldiers. Why was Major Jardine telling me about the fighting which, if he is correct, must right now be raging immediately to the north of Ypres between France's North African regiments and the attacking Germans? It's as if he feared me asking questions, and was giving me all those details as an explanation, an excuse. Perhaps, a smokescreen.

Most of all, I realise that Major Jardine's distracted manner, his avoidance of my eyes, was evasive – furtive, even. What is it, about the orders he has given me, that he is not telling me?

But as I cross the lobby, all these thoughts are stopped utterly dead. The hotels' doorway is darkened by human figures – two stretcher-bearers and a casualty. But it's the noise that grips me: the strangest sound I've ever heard fills my ears. Half-scream, half-burble. Like a cry of agony, blown through bubbles.

**2. Cowardice**

On the stretcher, the patient's back is arched. His head is thrown right back: I see the black outline of his bearded chin. I rush over, as does Dr Bernard. The soldier's elegant Arabic features make the blank, unseeing stare in his eyes even more shocking, but I see no blood, no obvious wound. Looking into those sightless wide-open eyes, I see that they are weeping: a flood of tears tracks down his cheeks. His head jerks, his mouth gasps for air, and his back arches further. It's as if his spine is being bent backwards to breaking point by some superhuman strength.

"Nurse! Nurse! I need a solution of bicarbonate of soda, _most_ immediately." Dr Bernard's sharp accent cuts through the patient's horrible gurgling. But then the bubbling noise increases again, and a spasm like an earthquake passes through the man's body. This time his back straightens, rigid like an iron rod. I see Dr Bernard putting her lips to those of the patient. A kiss. I stand by helplessly as the doctor breathes deeply into the patient's open mouth.

I hear Nurse Carstairs' voice. "Here it is. A solution of bicarbonate of soda, as you asked for, doctor." Even Carstairs' normally calm tones sound shaken – frightened, almost. Dr Bernard stands erect again, and holds the man's mouth open as she pours from a beaker between the trembling lips. I have no idea what we are dealing with here: neither does Nurse Carstairs.

The two soldier stretcher-bearers are still holding each end of the stretcher, as if keeping watch over the man. I'm standing too, doing nothing. We all look down at the pulsating lips and the appalled, glassy-staring eyes.

The last drops of the bicarbonate solution pour from the beaker. Five seconds pass. Then, like a bursting geyser, the man's mouth erupts, spewing a fountain of yellow froth over the stretcher and into my face, the faces of the soldiers and Dr Bernard and Nurse Carstairs. Our clothes, our hands, the floor – everything is covered in sticky foam. I smell an utterly strange, metallic smell.

I hear Dr Bernard's voice. "This froth – it is from his lungs. Hydrochloric acid is filling this man's lungs, preventing him breathing. We need more bicarbonate: he is drowning in acid."

I can't help it: my legs just move themselves: they run. I have to get out of sight of this victim: I simply can't face what's happening. I scamper towards the lobby reception desk: behind it, a doorway leads into a corridor where we keep the supplies: cupboards of bandages, sheets, drugs... I fall onto the floor next to a pile of blankets, sit with my back to the wall, draw my knees up to my face. My eyes close. I need to see nothing, to hear silence, to look into blackness. I feel my own flesh quivering like jelly.

Moments pass in blackness. In the dark, a random memory appears in my mind: the very first case I dealt with back at Poperinge, a wounded hand. After it I went into the bathroom, vomited copiously. Nothing in my training has prepared me for the Western Front: I'm not yet hardened to seeing men's injuries. Every other day, at least, on pretence of needing to relieve myself, I have to escape from the treatment room, hang my head over a basin, and evacuate the contents of my stomach.

Crouching here, hidden away, it's almost comforting, thinking about those other incidents where I've funked. I'm a coward, afraid of the sight of blood, and I know that – I'm familiar with it. But what I have just seen in the lobby goes beyond my experience, beyond the worst I can imagine. I'm in Hell, I think. All of us are. Jardine, Dr Bernard, Nurse Carstairs, that poor, poor African soldier... we are damned souls in some infernal darkness. But some of us have courage: my comrades-in-arms are coping with it, getting through each day, helping each other. I, on the other hand, am not.

Fifteen, maybe twenty minutes pass in silence. I try to get up. I say out loud to myself "Stop wallowing in self-loathing. Get back to work, now." But nothing happens. I don't get up, and I feel time passing, like a dark tunnel.

I hear my name spoken. By a man's voice.

"Frocester?"

"She's rubbish, sir. Near-useless. I suppose some of these Red Cross volunteers might help the Royal Army Medical Corps a little, when they are doing simple tasks back at the Stationary Hospitals. Even at a Casualty Clearing Station they might be of use, if they are properly supervised. But near the front line they are a liability."

"As you say, Jardine, most of the Red Cross nursing auxiliaries are unqualified, so they're kept well away from the front lines. They spend their time cooking and cleaning at the Stationary Hospitals. However, Frocester is different: she trained as a nurse – at the Radcliffe in Oxford. But rather than going into a hospital in England or America when she qualified, she volunteered with the Red Cross. That's why they decided not to keep her back with the other volunteers: instead they sent her to Poperinge."

"Sir, I have to be honest with you. If Frocester trained at the Radcliffe, it doesn't show in her work. She's a joke, sir: she turns pale at the sight of blood."

"You must remember, Jardine, that civilian nursing training is mostly about patient care. Frocester's training won't have covered wounds and surgery."

"With respect, sir, the lack of surgical training you speak of – isn't that good reason to simply send Frocester away from here? If she did train at the Radcliffe, it hasn't prepared her for front-line medical work." I can hear Jardine growing more confident as he speaks. "Anyway, sir – whoever heard of a squeamish nurse? I wouldn't be surprised to find she'd forged that nursing certificate. She's not even British. This is not her war. I think she wanted to see it, to take a closer look at the horrors. A kind of hysterical female voyeur. That's why I strongly recommend to you that we don't use her for this."

"I hear what you're saying, Jardine. But this is no time for debate. It's time for action."

"Of course. I don't mean to appear insubordinate, sir. I have followed your orders to the letter. As you asked, half an hour ago I gave Frocester notice that she may be needed at St Julien the day after tomorrow. So she's ready to go."

The voices, I realise, are coming through the cracked walls of Major Jardine's office. He is giving his candid opinion of me to another, superior officer. But I can't stay to listen: I must get back to my duties. I start to get up: my legs are wobbly, my knees weak. My head spins: the corridor, the piles of supplies, seem to whirl around me in a blur. I hear Major Jardine's voice again.

"In my opinion, the same goes for Dr Bernard as for Volunteer Frocester. The battlefield is no place for women, sir. Too emotional and unstable. I've heard that at Poperinge another female – a military nurse, not a volunteer – fell in love with a Frenchman and just walked away with him, leaving men dying in their beds. I've even heard a rumour that a female note-taker at central command has recently deserted her work, despite the messages that need to be sent hourly to the front. Put bluntly, sir – war is no place for women."

"Needs must when the Devil drives, Jardine. All males who can must fight: women must take on every possible task, to support them. It's modern war."

"But sir – the risks that Dr Bernard and Frocester pose are not just due to their sex and their temperament. To speak plainly, I don't like taking responsibility for these foreign nationals. An American Red Cross volunteer – and now a damned Switzer. The Swiss are half-German, aren't they? Excuse my language sir, but given what you have told me, the security and secrecy of this operation is..."

"...the security and secrecy of this operation is so paramount that it is better to use medical staff who know _absolutely_ nothing, Major Jardine. And, as you have seen, Dr Bernard is exactly what we need. She saved that Moroccan soldier's life just now."

"I would rather trust British medical staff."

"And I wouldn't. Not for this particular job. Neither would Field Marshal Sir John French, or General Douglas Haig, both of whom have given a specific mandate to use foreign Red Cross medical personnel for this mission. I'll remind you: this operation could be the key to victory. Victory, Jardine."

The unknown voice pauses for a few seconds, as if for effect. Then he speaks with crushing emphasis. "But if we get this mission wrong – both you and I know the consequences."

"Yes, sir."

"We will lose the war."

"Yes, sir. I do understand."

"I'm glad to hear that. Neither of us want to see the Kaiser parade in victory at Buckingham Palace, do we?"

"No, sir."

"Now, Jardine, you know that as well as the medical staff, the Field Marshal has also mandated the special armed unit that I told you about. Have you recruited the four men yet?"

"I have, sir. I followed your instructions exactly. The unit is already together, billeted here in Ypres. Tomorrow, they will march out to the front to join the Canadians. Just as you have instructed, they will go out thirty-six hours ahead of Bernard and Frocester, so that they have ample time to locate our target, before handing over to the medical team."

"Good work. And –" There's another dramatic pause, as if the mystery speaker is delivering a speech. "– think about it, Jardine. We may be within weeks of ending this war, if we get this operation right. But – you saw the Moroccan they brought in on a stretcher. You know how the Germans did that to him, don't you?"

"Yes sir. The rumours – they must be true. The German Army has started using poison gas against the Allies. Chlorine, probably."

"They gassed him, Jardine. Barbaric. And this latest German atrocity follows on from what everyone is calling the Rape of Belgium. Thousands of civilians, including women and children, massacred in Belgian villages by the German hordes. We've been fighting only a few months, but the Kaiser's troops have already broken every single rule of civilised warfare. We can't let them win, Jardine, _whatever_ the cost."

"No sir."

"You see what I'm saying, don't you? Getting this operation right is the most important thing either you or I will ever do. I can see your nerves are bad, Jardine. But please – hold it together, for just a few weeks more."

"Of course, Colonel Hampshire. You can depend on me, sir."

I'm standing up, at last. I take a single unsteady step: my sight feels blurred, my head reels, but I realise that I have to open the corridor door, cross the lobby, go back into the treatment room again. I must apologize, and offer to do whatever the nurses need me to do. "They need me. Do it _now_." I say to myself. As I grasp the door handle I hear a jeering voice in my mind, calling out names. "Cowardy-custard Agnes. Cowardy, cowardy-custard" the voice says, and I see again in my mind the custard-like yellow froth erupting, splattering over me. I look down at my chest, and see that the froth has now become dried, part-bleached stains on my uniform. I open the door, step forward, and enter the treatment room.

**3. The General's orders**

A hand is shaking my shoulder, waking me from sleep.

"Miss Frocester. Please wake, dress and be ready to accompany me in five minutes."

The voice is Dr Bernard's. A few minutes later, I'm waiting in the lobby of the hotel. It's now the 24th April, one o'clock in the morning, but every few minutes the night is cut by a scream of agony from one of the twenty-seven Moroccan soldiers now occupying almost every bed in the treatment room. After that first casualty, another was brought in that evening. We treated both with the bicarbonate, and put them in a sitting position in the hope that at least the upper parts of their lungs might drain of fluid and continue to function. Then the following morning a stream of others arrived in ones and twos. All through yesterday, Dr Bernard, the other staff and I worked to treat them all, and I collapsed into bed about nine o'clock: a single military nurse remains on duty overnight. We've now run out of bicarbonate, but each of the gassed soldiers is now sitting up in bed, and they are breathing more easily. But their pain is still extraordinary.

I look out through the entrance into the moonlit town square, its cobbled surface covered with star-like glints of broken glass. Yet something makes me glance back at the reception desk. There's a figure standing there, exactly where Dr Bernard stood the day before yesterday, when she watched me cross the lobby.

"Hello?"

"Hello." A voice speaks from the shadows, then a man's figure emerges towards me. "Good to meet you. You must be Auxiliary Volunteer Frocester? I'm Colonel Hampshire."

"Good to meet you too, Colonel." He's several inches taller than me. The light from the entrance catches on the buttons of his uniform, and his eyes shine too, looking at me with curious interest. He seems remarkably young for a colonel – perhaps only a few years older than me. In war, I guess, promotions come quickly.

"You're American. Your country is, happily, at peace. What made you come here, to the most hellish place on earth?" In the gloom, I sense a slight smile on his lips and a warmth in his voice.

"If you mean what made me come to Ypres – I was sent here, Colonel. If you mean why am I involved in the Great War, then the reason is: I was in England when the war began, and I wanted to help. To do something of use."

"A noble motivation. If I were you, I would have been tempted to head back to Connecticut. You could work in a civilian hospital, or better still nurse some rich old lady for a fat salary."

"Well, I'm here now, so I may as well do my best. I'm being sent to the St Julien Dressing Station. But I have a question for you, Colonel, if it's permitted."

"Ask away."

"How do you know I'm from Connecticut?"

"I – happened to see something. Some documentation about you. You are highly recommended, you know. Most Volunteer Auxiliaries have no medical background."

"Sitting nursing examinations is one thing. Being able to cope on the Western Front is another."

"Have confidence, Miss Frocester. I'm sure you'll be invaluable at St Julien." And then, the most unexpected thing in the world happens. The Colonel looks down at me from under his cap and in the dim light I see his mustache curving in a smile. He stands close to me and takes both my hands. His fingers caress my palms – gently, but I sense the strength in his hands. As he continues to hold on to me, his lips move, close to my face, and his words are even odder than his actions.

"Come back safe – Agnes."

"I will, Colonel." As I speak, I pull my hands gently from his grasp. I take a step back, but I smile at him: I don't want him to think I'm offended. I just don't want anything personal to happen. I've never been kissed in my life, and I'd like the first time to be with someone I know enough to trust.

As I pull back from Colonel Hampshire, I hear the harsh edge of a very different voice.

"Miss Frocester! Come with me. As you've been told, only you and I are involved in this mission to St Julien. I will be driving us."

The voice barks from behind me: I turn to see Dr Bernard's mannish figure silhouetted in the hotel entrance. I smile goodbye at Colonel Hampshire, and turn to join Dr Bernard: we descend the hotel steps to the town square. In front of us is a motor-ambulance, and in the moonlight I see the large red cross painted on its side. I open the passenger door and climb into the cab. Dr Bernard gives the starting-handle a few turns: the engine jerks into life. She steps up into the driver's seat.

"Thank you, Miss Frocester. You have had a few hours' sleep?"

"Yes."

"Good. All staff here must get some sleep, or they will start to make mistakes. And mistakes will kill people. I have had to leave detailed written instructions for the other medical staff, even though I am no expert in this gas poisoning. I have no idea whether any of those soldiers lying in the hospital are destined to live or to die."

She puts the ambulance into gear, and we start to move off through the deserted streets. Ypres is a ghost town: the dead bones of a once living community. Every building is ruined: piles of brick, stone and wreckage are lit like skeletons by the stark moonlight. The main road out of town is completely blocked by a collapsed house, and we turn down a side street.

"So, Dr Bernard – we are going to the St Julien Advance Dressing Station?"

"Yes. Just you, me, and this motor-ambulance. It is three, maybe four miles away. I have checked inside the back of the vehicle. It's nearly empty of medical supplies, but I hope there will be proper supplies at St Julien. That spineless idiot Jardine told me he had ordered a dispatch of medical equipment to the Advance Dressing Station."

"I don't really understand..."

"I feel exactly the same, Miss Frocester. You and I, we volunteered for this stupid foreign war, in order to treat the sick. But now, we have both been ordered away from a ward of dying men, in the middle of the night. What greater priority could there be, than trying to save those men's lives? I have no idea why we are being sent away, or what the British Army expects us to do in St Julien."

"Neither do I. Except –" I hesitate. I realise that I dare not tell the Swiss doctor about the conversation that I overheard between Jardine and Hampshire. Dr Bernard continues.

"I did not know what to expect when volunteering my services to the Red Cross team serving the British Army. I tried to be ready for whatever the war might throw at me. But I did not expect this. From the start, I have been kept utterly in the dark about what I am supposed to be doing. But that is the way that the British Army seems to operate. They have told me literally nothing, except this."

Her fingers on the steering wheel jab towards a piece of paper stuck onto the dashboard. I can see that it's a map of the roads around Ypres, marking the location of the St Julien Advance Dressing Station. The ambulance rumbles along: we've rejoined the main road, and I look ahead of us. Our headlamps shine feebly in the gloom as we leave the ruins of the town behind. The road is now barely visible, a darkened dirt track across open fields. We judder along over bumps and ruts in the blackness. Despite Dr Bernard at my side, I feel desolate and alone. I think about the whispered rumours of the Rape of Belgium: horrors beyond imagination. I suddenly feel a huge pang of longing for my home in Putnam, Connecticut: my parents, my brother, my friends and family, my neighborhood. In my mind I see a troop of soldiers coming into Putnam. They go into every home, take the men outside into the village square, and ready their rifles. Now the soldiers are coming into our drugstore, they take hold of my Pa. They are taking him out into the village square too. Ma clings to him, screaming, but a soldier pulls her away, and starts, almost methodically, to tear her clothes apart. She shrieks, but an officer stands in the middle of our shop, pointing his revolver at her face. He pulls the trigger.

Dr Bernard drives differently from anyone else I've seen. She hunches over the wheel and her head is in constant movement, checking the road ahead, the mirrors behind. Despite the uneven, muddy road, we speed along, rattling and bumping. But then we jolt to a halt.

"Miss Frocester. There's a hole in the road."

She opens her door and gets out, and I do the same. She switches on a flashlight. On the verge of the road there's a crater, maybe a foot deep, made by an exploding German shell. One of our wheels is in it. It would be easily avoidable in normal conditions, but in this mud the ambulance must have slid across to the edge of the road. I make a suggestion.

"How about if I push while you drive?"

She looks at me, as if assessing my physical strength.

"No. Your arms look thin and weak. I will push: you drive."

"I don't really know how to, but I guess it's easy." I think to myself: you've tried untried things before, Agnes: let's give it a go. I step up into the cab, Dr Bernard shows me what to do, and as the engine roars I let the clutch out slowly. I can feel the motor ambulance straining its way out of the hole, but then it slips back down again. I push the clutch in, to stop the wheels spinning uselessly in the mud.

"Agh!" I hear the frustration in the doctor's cry as she pushes. But then I see something else. A light in the gloom ahead of us, like a tiny moving glow-worm. Out here, in the loneliness of the night, with my only company this harsh, critical woman, I peer at the moving light and feel a stab of fear.

"Dr Bernard! There's a light out there. Someone is coming towards us."

"What of it? Probably a farmer. Operate the clutch again, Miss Frocester." I think to myself: it's two o'clock in the morning, we're near a battlefield: all the farmers abandoned this area months ago. But I do as I'm told. I hear, above the engine, Dr Bernard's strained gasps of effort. The ambulance gives a jolt and moves forward.

"We're on the road again! Miss Frocester, push the clutch back in; stop the ambulance. And – well done." A moment later I see her standing outside my door, looking at me through the cab window. There is almost a smile in her eyes. "I'll take over the driving again."

She settles into the driver's seat, and is about to set off again. But she hesitates when she sees what's ahead of us. We look forward at the road, lit by our lowered headlamps. The spot of light is closer and clearer now. Then two feet, thickly clagged with mud, walk into the beam of our lights: then two legs, then the body of a uniformed man, spattered everywhere with dirt. In one hand the figure holds a dim, shaded lamp. Moments later, our headlights shine whitely onto the dirty, haggard face of a man. He stands in the road in front of us, blocking the way, and calls to us.

"Ahoy there! Are you medical staff?"

"Yes. Red Cross."

The man steps forward and comes up to the side window of the cab. His face looks questioningly at us. "Have you been sent from Ypres?"

Dr Bernard looks into the man's eyes, which, I see, are not just tired but bloodshot. His face is dirty, but it's also scuffed and grazed: there are spots of blood under the mud.

After a moment, Dr Bernard replies. "We have indeed been dispatched from Ypres." Her words are curt, with an edge of doubt – even fear, maybe. She looks doubtfully at the soldier. "Do you have identification, young man?"

"Yes of course." Then he adds "Ma'am." He fishes some papers out of a pocket, hands them to the doctor. She looks at him, her eyes still shaded with suspicion.

"Corporal Tasker. So, why do you come alone, to accost us on this road in the middle of the night?"

"I came here, ma'am, to find you."

"Have you been sent to guide us to St Julien?"

"More than that, Dr –"

"Bernard. My name is Bernard. This is Miss Frocester, a volunteer auxiliary."

"Dr Bernard. I was given special orders to come and find you. I have been instructed to give this to the medical staff."

The soldier holds out an envelope, sealed like an old-fashioned letter with a blob of wax. It looks like a love-letter from a Victorian novel. The rectangle of white paper looks oddly small and out of place in this lonely darkness.

Dr Bernard opens the envelope and reads aloud.

"Classified: Top Secret

To the chief of medical staff, St Julien Advance Dressing Station

You will be given these instructions by one of our regular troops. Please accompany him. He will lead you to your casualty.

Please treat the casualty with your utmost care and skill. It is strictly forbidden to speak to the casualty. The extent of his injuries is not known and he may appear to be perfectly well. Please give him, and only him, your full attention, even if others are severely injured.

Your only tasks are, firstly, to make sure the casualty is well enough to travel, and secondly, to transport him to Essex Farm Casualty Clearing Station on the Diksmuide road north of Ypres. At Essex Farm you must ask for a Professor Felix Axelson, and the casualty must be transferred to his care. Ensure you personally hand the casualty to Professor Axelson, who will conduct the initial interrogation of the casualty.

A pass contained in the glove compartment of the dashboard of your motor ambulance will enable you to pass all military checkpoints.

You must proceed with all haste.

General Douglas Haig."

While she's been reading, Dr Bernard's face has been changing – from puzzlement to surprise, and now, to rage. She looks at the soldier as if she would like to hit him.

"What on earth, Corporal, is this?"

"I don't know, ma'am. I was given that sealed envelope this afternoon and told to give it to the medical staff, when they arrived."

"Who gave it to you?"

"A dispatch courier, ma'am. He said he was not at liberty to say who had instructed him."

"I can't obey this, Corporal. It goes against my Hippocratic oath to follow these absurd instructions. According to this, we are to treat only one person at St Julien, this so-called 'casualty'. What if scores of men are badly injured? Do we leave them to die, and simply drive to the Essex Farm Camp with a single soldier? This must be a joke, Corporal."

"I'm afraid it can be no joke, ma'am. You'll see that that is General Haig's signature, and – see this stamp here. This has been issued by British Army central command. You must follow these instructions."

"Well I won't. _We_ won't." She glances at me. "I'm not a British citizen, and neither is my assistant. Most of all, I make my own medical judgments. I'm a doctor, not some mindless foot soldier. Now, stop this nonsense, and let us go on our way to St Julien. We can offer you a lift there in the ambulance, if you wish." She smiles faintly, as if to show Corporal Tasker that her anger isn't personal against him. But he ignores her expression, and carries on explaining.

"You can't get to St Julien, ma'am. Shell craters have destroyed the road, a hundred yards further on from here. You must leave the ambulance right here, I'm afraid, and accompany me on foot. Our troops are not in the village of St Julien, you see. We are dug into defensive positions, about two hundred yards' walk from here."

"No. Absolutely not. This is wrong, Corporal! I will complain to your stupid General Haig, if necessary."

"Ma'am, please – you don't understand the situation. You have no choice. The road ahead is blocked, so you must leave the ambulance here and walk with me to our position over there." He points to the horizon, and in the moonlight I see, like a low black reef, a patch of rough woodland standing up against the night sky. Corporal Tasker looks back into Dr Bernard's face. "Your only other option, ma'am, is to drive back to Ypres, and explain your actions to our commanders."

There's a pause. I sense that Dr Bernard is realising that we indeed have no choice.

"Despite what you say, the instructions are nonsense. We can't carry them out. How would we identify this single 'casualty'?"

"There's no need to identify him, ma'am. I am one of four soldiers whose mission was to find the casualty. We did that: we've captured him."

Against the night sky, Dr Bernard's face is white, her eyes wide and confused.

"Captured?"

"Yes, ma'am. We captured him. The casualty referred to in General Haig's orders is Oberleutnant Walther Seydlitz, Prussian Guards. A German soldier."

**4. Into the trenches**

Tonight I've done two things for the first time. I've driven a motor vehicle, even if only for a yard or so. And now, I'm carrying a military haversack. It's full of medical supplies: I gathered every single item that was in the poorly-equipped ambulance. I glance back along the rough track at our vehicle, sitting there in the moonlight. I think: after a month in military service, I'm nearing an actual battlefield. I recall my reassuring letters to my parents. "I will see nothing of the War, of course: the Stationary Hospitals are miles behind the front lines."

I try to concentrate on each step. My shoes are hopelessly unsuitable: they'll be ruined. Such a trivial thought – but it's something to focus on, stepping along in the darkness and the deepening mire.

"Here." Tasker indicates a set of muddy, descending steps, carved in the earth beside us. They lead down into a grave-like slot in the soil. My feet slip on slimy surfaces as I step down into blackness. After the last step down, the sides of the trench are high above my head: the moonlit night that was all around us is replaced by total darkness, except for Tasker's shaded lamp, which lights only his immediate footsteps. We walk along for two, three minutes. Then, in the light of the lamp, I see his hand raised.

"Halt here." He turns around, whispers to us.

"Yesterday morning, the Canadian 10th Battalion occupied these trenches. We are now standing in a supply trench running directly towards the front line. It's like the stem of a letter T. Ahead of us, the front line trench branches out to either side. These are not well constructed trenches: they were dug some months ago by French troops who used them only occasionally. Dr Bernard – and Miss Frocester, especially – please do not go along to the trench leading off to the right. When the French captured this area a few months ago, the German casualties from that fighting were stacked there, and have not been buried."

I'm can hardly believe what I'm hearing. I hold my tongue, with effort: I want to protest in horror at the thought of dead bodies lying unburied, for months. The moldering remains of men who had mothers, wives, children: left to decompose without a shred of human dignity. I glance at the right-hand trench branching away from us into the blackness, and shudder.

"Along the trench to the left are the Canadian troops, along with my own team, who are holding the casualty. Now, I must explain the situation to you. As you may know, German troops attacked on a broad front the day before yesterday. They used poisoned gas and the French colonial troops to the north of us fled."

"We treated those soldiers, Corporal Tasker. We saw what had been done to them."

"Yes. Our lines of defense were broken – however, luckily, the Germans did not advance as fast as we expected. Now, we have regrouped and we are holding a line of sorts against the Germans. Just over twenty-four hours ago, the Canadian battalion made a counter-attack against the Germans. There was very fierce fighting all through that night. Despite strong resistance from the German troops, the Canadians followed their orders to the letter. They captured Kitcheners' Wood, the trees of which you can see on the skyline ahead of us. We – a picked team of British soldiers – accompanied the Canadians."

Dr Bernard looks hard at him, the beads of her eyes catching the faint light. "A handful of British soldiers, accompanying a Canadian battalion? I'm no military expert, but this seems very odd to me. Is your group some kind of special team?"

"Our mission, ma'am, was to accompany the Canadians into Kitcheners' Wood, and to find the casualty. In the centre of the wood the 10th Battalion came across an abandoned gun battery surrounded by bodies. We followed them. Among those bodies, we found our casualty."

"So – why are we not going into the woods too?"

"The woods are not very defensible, so early yesterday morning the 10th Battalion regrouped in these abandoned trenches on the edge of the woods. We came back here with the Canadians, and brought the casualty – Oberleutnant Seydlitz – with us. We are a lot safer here in the trenches than in the woods."

"And what's happened since yesterday morning?"

"During daylight yesterday, the Germans advanced again through the trees. They are now gathered at the edge of the forest. We are dug in tonight, and we expect a massed German attack tomorrow morning. That is, in a few hours' time."

I'm silent, taking in this information. But Dr Bernard is bridling again at the orders in General Haig's letter. "This 'casualty' – this Seydlitz person that the note speaks of. Just one man. Now, how many Canadians lie injured after this fighting?"

"Ah – we believe many, ma'am. In fact it appears that only a small remnant of the 10th Battalion remains. Unfortunately, there may be many fallen Canadians still alive within the woods. When we retreated to these trenches, there was no time to locate all the injured."

There's a silence as Dr Bernard and I make sense of what Tasker is saying. The blackness in this trench feels tangible, like the depths of Hades. A gentle breeze wafts through the trench from the north, soughing through the woods. On the wind I hear a cry.

"Maman. Maman."

It's a young boy's voice. The cry is low, repetitive. Not loud: I sense that the injured soldier out there in the woods has little strength left. The cry goes on, repeating and repeating. Tasker looks at us.

"That voice is, we think, a Québécois. A young French Canadian soldier. There's nothing we can do for him, or any of the others in there. A rescue party would be massacred by the Germans."

We could try, Corporal."

"No. It's very simple, ma'am. We can't try. Everything depends on following the orders, Dr Bernard. Now, please accompany me down the left-hand trench."

I look at Dr Bernard. I wouldn't be surprised to see her try to climb up out of the trench and attempt a rescue herself, but we follow the corporal. I feel numb and cold inside, as if I can feel my own heart dying within me at the inhumanity of our situation. We stumble along behind the feeble glow of Corporal Tasker's lamp.

Although it's the front line, this trench seems shallower, less well dug in. Its sides are rough, sloping dirt. We turn a corner, and ahead of me I can make out a row of silent, standing figures. All the heads are bent forward, arms clutching rifles, leaning their weight forward against the front wall of the trench. A low parapet has been built with sandbags, and between every sandbag the moonlight catches a long metal barrel, pointing into the woods. One of the faces, smeared with dirt for night camouflage, turns towards us: his rifle points at us like a fencer's sword. Involuntarily, I take a step back.

"Who goes there?" I hear a strong Toronto accent.

"It's Corporal Tasker, sir."

The Canadian voice speaks again. "Thank God it's you, Tasker, and not the enemy."

"I've brought the medical team for the casualty, sir. They're Red Cross. Dr Bernard and Miss Frocester – may I introduce Sergeant Bowers."

"Pleased to meet you both. The rifle drops and a hand is extended towards us. I find myself shaking it in the dark. Sergeant Bowers speaks plainly and directly. "Dr Bernard. We have several injured men who are losing blood, fast."

"And, I have orders not to treat them. Miss Frocester and I are here on strict orders, given apparently by your General Haig. We are to treat only a single patient, and take him back to Ypres." I see the whites of the Canadian's eyes widen in the dark, but Dr Bernard carries on. "However, we have maybe three hours until dawn?"

"Four hours until sunrise. But until first light, yes – we have just over three hours."

"Well then, show us your worst cases. Despite our orders, we will do everything we can. We have some medical kit here."

"Thank you. The bandages alone will be useful. Our supply ran out yesterday: we've bound several men's wounds with torn uniforms."

I hear Sergeant Bowers speaking orders to the other soldiers, low but firm. "Every man who is uninjured, remain at your post. Those of you who are injured, please, _one at a time_ , step back from the parapet and let these medics attend to you."

I see one of the dark figures move back from his position towards us. He turns, and in the darkness I can make out his movements, like a dance. It's an odd moment of comedy, here in the blackness of the trench. He's hopping.

"Shot in the foot, Doctor." His voice is a gruff whisper.

"Show me the wound." Like a puppet when its strings are released, he slouches in a heap at our feet, one leg stretched out, pointing shreds of flesh and glimpses of bone towards us.

**5. The German soldier**

Lit by shaded flashlights, Dr Bernard and I have now treated about twenty injured men. Practically no words are said, except by the soldiers, each of whom in turn points us to this hand, this leg, this shoulder. We deal with each one in the same way: identify the wound, splash antiseptic over it, accompanied by gasps of shock from the man, and then bind the wound as tightly as possible. Each time I pull the knots tight until the soldier grins with the pain. Mostly I've done the tourniquets, while Dr Bernard directs: she has tied one or two, but her knots are slipshod and messy. She appears utterly calm and efficient – but when it comes to bandaging, I can tell that she is more used to diagnosing patients in a Swiss consulting room than tying bloodied limbs in pitch-blackness.

None of the men have injuries to their major organs. I guess all those with such wounds are still lying where they fell, in the undergrowth of Kitcheners' Wood. They lay there all day yesterday in the sunshine, and now they are dying slowly in the darkness. I try not to think about it. The Québécois boy's cries from the wood stopped a few minutes ago, and I know that we won't hear them again.

I see Corporal Tasker coming towards us, checking his watch and looking at us anxiously. "Dr Bernard. Have you dealt with all the worst cases? It's now nearly first light."

"I think there are a few more, but none life-threatening. I agree, we need to get away before the sun comes up and the Germans can see the motor-ambulance. Bring me your so-called casualty."

I look up from the soldier's arm that I'm bandaging, and in the flashlight I see a young man's face. His hair is fair and his cheeks freckled: he looks like a boy I remember from one of the farms in Putnam. I expected to see the spiked helmet of a German officer, but his head is bare and there's a warm smile on his face. He speaks in fluent English.

"I understand you are my medical assistance. You are here to take me to? –"

"To a British field hospital, Oberleutnant Seydlitz." Corporal Tasker buts in. I expected Seydlitz to be tied or restrained him in some way, but although a British soldier stands behind him and holds his arms, I see that his feet are free. Dr Bernard appears to be sizing up the situation.

"Corporal Tasker, can you accompany us to the ambulance?"

"Indeed, ma'am. The casualty has no reason to run away – but I and my men will ensure that he is put safely inside the ambulance."

Tasker's voice is interrupted; Sergeant Bowers rejoins us.

"So you're leaving us now. Thank you both, for everything you've done."

Dr Bernard looks at him. "Before we go, Sergeant Bowers, as a doctor, I must warn you. Are you aware that the day before yesterday the Germans attacked with chlorine gas?"

"I am. We were all told about it. Before we attacked Kitcheners' Wood, we were issued with these." From the pocket of his greatcoat he pulls out a small wadded white square.

"And how does this help you, Sergeant?"

"We're to use them as masks, so we don't inhale the fumes."

"A wad of cotton wool? Is that all?"

"Well – we have our instructions, too." Dr Bernard looks at the sergeant, unimpressed. He carries on explaining to her, with an air of embarrassment. "Ah... ammonia. Ammonia neutralises the fumes. If we see gas coming towards us, the soldiers relieve themselves..."

"I understand you, sergeant. A soldier sees a cloud of gas coming towards him. So he pulls out his penis and urinates on the cotton wool, and then puts the wool over his face. This is your British Army answer to chemical warfare?"

The sergeant is surprised at the language coming from Dr Bernard's mouth. "Yes, ma'am. It's all we've got, I'm afraid."

"You defend yourselves with your own piss, Sergeant! I am heartily sorry for you."

Sergeant Bowers is silent: I can tell that he feels that the Army has abandoned him and his men to their fate. Dr Bernard continues. "I can do nothing for you here, but I solemnly say: when I get back to Ypres, I will write to your generals, with extreme urgency. If you do not have more effective measures against the poison gas, the Germans will annihilate the British forces."

A dim light has been growing for the past few minutes: the outlines of the uniforms and the sandbags along the parapet seem to glow in the gloom. Dr Bernard turns to Oberleutnant Seydlitz. "It's time to be going. Come along with us."

The British soldier that was holding Seydlitz's arms leads us back along the trench. I follow him in the dark, our captive walks along behind me, then Dr Bernard. Behind her, guarding the rear of our little column, is Corporal Tasker. I can't see the face of the soldier ahead of me. He is just a dim shape, but I hear his voice; a northern English accent, but with a refined edge. He politely points out to me each of the deep puddles in the trench, to stop me getting my feet wet. Finally, I see the squat outline of the ambulance against a lightening sky. The mud-carved steps up out of the trench are treacherously slimy. I feel the soldier's hand gently taking my arm as I slip and slide.

"Thank you." I smile at him. The soldier doesn't reply, but he nervously touches the brim of his steel helmet, as if it were a cap, to acknowledge my thanks. As he and I emerge from the gloom of the trench, I catch a glimpse of his face. It's strong and distinguished: high cheekbones and a prominent Roman nose. It doesn't match his shy manners. Now that we're back on level ground, I can also see that he's very tall – perhaps six foot six – and broad-shouldered, but slim. The physique of an athlete: the face of a Renaissance sculpture. But he has no elegance now. I notice that his uniform doesn't fit properly, his sleeves and trousers are far too short, and he seems out of place, un-military somehow. A fish out of water.

"Miss Frocester." As we reach the ambulance, Dr Bernard turns to look at me. "You will go in the back of the van, with Oberleutnant Seydlitz. I will lock you both in. It is foolish nonsense, but if I lock the ambulance door, then General Haig can't say that we gave this so-called casualty an opportunity to escape."

I step up into the back of the ambulance. There's a wooden bench along one side, and Walther Seydlitz steps up too and sits beside me. Dr Bernard shuts the door and I hear a key turn in the lock. I hear her talking to Corporal Tasker and his quiet companion, and then she says goodbye. The engine starts up. As we begin to move, Seydlitz speaks.

"Thank you."

"Don't thank me. I'm following orders, and I haven't got a clue what I'm doing here."

"But I must thank you, all the same. Because you've rescued me, after a manner of speaking."

"We've a long way to go yet before we are safe. The rescue is not complete yet. Don't thank me until we've taken you to the camp."

"No. I need to say it now. Whatever happens to us next, you have saved something: something very important to me."

I'm puzzled at his strange words. "Saved something, Oberleutnant Seydlitz?"

"Yes. You and the doctor – and Corporal Tasker and his men. You have all saved my conscience. Whether I live or die, I can know from now on that I have indeed acted rightly. Indeed, I feel that you've saved even more than my conscience. You have saved my soul."

It's pitch-black inside the ambulance, but all the same I stare, as if to see his face in the dark. "What do you mean?"

But there's no answer, because another jolt in the road throws us from our seats. I hear Dr Bernard cursing in the driver's cab.

"Damned, damned craters! This road is now blocked too! We can't get back to Ypres!"

I hear her coming round to the back door and unlocking it. "Both of you, get out of the van and come and see. What in God's name can we do now?"

A moment later, Dr Bernard, Seydlitz and I are standing alongside the van. The front wheels are down inside a fresh, deep crater, its lip lit by the growing light around us. The hole covers the entire road, and there is no way around it.

Without another word, the three of us bend our shoulders push as hard as we can. Bit by bit, we edge the ambulance backwards, until its wheels are out of the hole. Then I speak.

"It's getting light, Dr Bernard. We have to get back to Ypres, but there's no way forward here. But there was another road, just a few yards back there, branching off. Can you see it, over there to the right?"

We look back along the road, and across the desolate landscape all around us. The sun is not yet up, but the pre-dawn light reveals a flat country of open, hedgeless fields: bare, brown earth: no crops are growing yet, and I guess none have been sown, will be sown, this year. Here and there a broken edge of earth shows the outline of a crater. Away to our left, I see a line of sandbags, and here and there dark dots: the heads of the Canadian soldiers, crouched behind the low parapet, awaiting the German attack. Dr Bernard peers around us, sizing up the options.

"Miss Frocester, you are correct. I will turn the ambulance around and try to get onto that other road. It should lead us southwards, and then we can look for another road leading west, back into Ypres. Please sit in the cab with me and help me look out at the road; you can warn me of any obstacles you see. Oberleutnant Seydlitz, I can hardly think you want to escape us. So I won't bother to lock the back door of the ambulance."

Turning the ambulance in the road takes several tries, but eventually we set off again. We take the turning that I spotted: another road through the featureless fields. At least we're heading away from the front lines, I think. But rather than turning west towards Ypres, this road – a mere track through the farmland, really – curves further south, then east. Soon we are heading straight east, towards the lightest part of the dawning sky. We pass an abandoned farm, silhouetted black against the sky, and then we see a crazy outline of shattered buildings directly ahead of us. I can tell that as well as concentrating on the road, Dr Bernard is pondering our situation. She speaks, as if thinking aloud.

"Look at all those ruins ahead of us. We must be heading into the village of St Julien. We're getting further away from Ypres, not closer. We will have to take Oberleutnant Seydlitz to the St Julien Advance Dressing Station, and then send communication to Major Jardine that we have been delayed. Perhaps they can send some troops out to accompany us on foot back to Ypres. If we are lucky, the troops could take Seydlitz to Ypres, without us. Then, you and I can do some useful medical work at St Julien, where we will be away from Major Jardine and the rest of them, and their ridiculous orders."

Her voice sounds almost hopeful. But I look to the right of the ruined village, and all along the horizon there I see low, broken silhouettes, shapes and dots against the early morning sky. I can guess what those shapes and dots are. Trenches, fortifications, and the helmets of soldiers. We've crossed the whole width of the Allied bulge in the Western Front, the 'thumb' that Major Jardine spoke of. Now, all around to the east and south of us is the front line. The soldiers must be the other battalions of the Canadian Division. As Dr Bernard continues to drive towards St Julien, I gaze at the long line of trenches, stretching southwards as far as the eye can see, I forget for a moment to look at the road immediately in front of me. I hear Dr Bernard's voice, swearing yet again.

"Another – _damned_ – crater. Did you not see it, Frocester?" I look out of the side window of the cab. One wheel has gone right down into a muddy hole. I hear Seydlitz's voice from the back.

"Why have we stopped? Are we there yet?"

Dr Bernard's voice has a playful edge. "You sound like a child on a family outing, Oberleutnant. No, we are not even near 'there'. We are stuck in a shell crater, and nowhere near Ypres. Can you get out and help us push?"

Although this crater is much smaller than the last one, and there are now three of us pushing, we can't shift the ambulance. After just one minute Dr Bernard pauses, out of breath. Then she gasps at me. "Miss Frocester, please get up into the cab again, into the driver's seat. Let's try with the engine, like we did last night."

I get up into the cab. Through the windscreen, I gaze eastwards into a blaze of light: the sun is coming up, a glorious sunrise. It looks extraordinary: a ball of orange fire rising above strange green mists that hang all along the horizon, beyond the Canadian trenches.

I let the clutch out, slowly. But even so, the ambulance doesn't move: I can feel the wheels spinning in the mud.

"Try again!"

I try a second time. Slowly, slowly. As I let the clutch out again, something else, something completely different, is registering dimly in my brain. Again the wheels spin: we're still stuck. Dr Bernard shouts furiously. But I'm not listening, because I'm realising what has been disturbing my thoughts. Long ago when I was a little girl, I got up early one morning and the sun was rising. Like now, the orange disk was too bright to look at, but somehow I sensed something was unusual. I got a coloured glass bottle and looked through the glass at the rising sun, and there was a big bite out of it. An eclipse.

But this time, it's not the sun itself that looks wrong: it's the mist.

A mist that was not there five minutes ago. And I notice a brisk, steady breeze, blowing towards us from the direction of the rising sun.

"Dr Bernard! Oberleutnant Seydlitz! I think there is gas. Poison gas, coming at us from the east."

Dr Bernard steps up into the cab alongside me and looks out. "Where?"

I point. "That line of mist." And indeed we can now see wisps and skeins of yellow-green fumes, weaving like blurry serpents into the lines of the Canadian trenches.

"Oh Christ. Oh dear Christ, Miss Frocester. We have to get away from here. Try the engine again." She leaves the cab door wide open, running round to the back of the ambulance and shouting at Seydlitz. "Don't push any more. Get into the back of the ambulance instead. Your weight there might tip the balance, help us pull out of the crater. It's worth trying. Hurry."

The engine is still running. I start to let the clutch out again, and as I do I see movement all along the horizon, like ants scattering. The Canadian troops are abandoning their trenches in a desperate effort to escape the torture of the gas. And I also see, among them, other figures, emerging from the green fog, striding towards us. Dark uniforms: strange, heavy helmets. Their faces are masked in white, but with glassy black circles for eyes. For all the world they look like an army of skeletons rising from the earth.

I let the clutch out a little further, feel the bite of the transmission.

Crash! The windscreen shatters in my face, glass flying into my eyes. What's happening _now_?

I open my eyes again, and I realise I can still see. I can feel fragments of glass sticking here and there into my face. I see a blur of blood colouring my vision, in the corner of one eye. The entire windscreen is shattered.

"Frocester! We're being shot at!"

I see Dr Bernard's face at the side window of the cab. Her eyes look at me in terror. "Try once more, for God's sake, Frocester."

"How about reverse?"

"Yes, yes. Anything."

So this time I try the reverse gear. I lift my foot so, so slowly off the clutch pedal. And then my ears explode, with the sound of another rifle shot.

I see Dr Bernard's face again, at the window of the cab. But this time, she's standing a couple of feet back from the ambulance, and I see her shoulders, her arms. Her whole lower left arm is drenched in red.

I must concentrate on controlling the clutch pedal. But I look up, and I see an extraordinary, utterly unexpected sight. I see, in the field to the right of us, two British Army uniforms, crouched maybe thirty yards from us. I realise that I recognise the strongly sculpted face of one: the tall soldier who accompanied us to the ambulance. I can't see the other soldier well. But what I do see clearly is that both soldiers have their rifles out. The muzzles point directly at us.

"Dr Bernard! Please, shelter in the back of the ambulance. They're shooting at us. _British soldiers_ are shooting at us."

Then I hear the crack of a third shot.

"Oh God! Oh God, Frocester!"

I let the clutch pedal out fully, and I feel the gears biting, the movement of the ambulance – backwards. We're moving in reverse gear, and the front wheel is out of the crater.

I can hear Dr Bernard opening the door at the back of the ambulance so that she can see where we are going, as we start to trundle backwards. I hear her shout.

"Left a bit!"

" _Your_ left? Or _my_ left?"

She calls back to me. "My left. Not yours, Frocester!"

I'm no car driver: and steering a vehicle backwards feels weird, counter-intuitive. I need clear instructions. But at the same time I glance across at the two British soldiers. They are now tiny khaki dots against the brown expanse of the field. We're moving fast, away from them. I think: it's harder to hit a moving target.

I concentrate on processing the instructions from Dr Bernard, turning the steering wheel to the left, then to the right, then to the left again as the van reverses along the twisting lane. No more shots have been fired. But as I turn the wheel again, I sense my tongue pushing against the roof of my mouth, involuntarily. An odd, metallic taste, and I feel a choking sensation in my throat.

Keep going. My hands grip the wheel, and I attend to Dr Bernard's shouts. "Left! A bit more, left! Now right!" My eyes smart, blink, then I shut them as I feel a hot, jabbing sensation in my eyeballs. I blink, then I look behind us again through the shattered windscreen. I see the greenish fog creeping along the ground, skeins and tendrils of poison gas wrapping around the stones and clumps of earth.

Dr Bernard calls again. "Right a little!" I listen for instructions, move the wheel. _I might as well keep my eyes shut, I think._ All I can do is grip the wheel, hold my breath, and listen to Dr Bernard's instructions. We're still moving, still reversing down the lane, and I just keep listening and steering, listening and steering. There's a massive jolt: have we hit another crater? If so, we're finished. But no, we keep moving. I'm still holding my breath: can I inhale yet? I try to half-open my eyelids to look, but the stinging is like fire, my sight is blurred with fluid, and I daren't open my eyes wider.

I hold my mouth shut, as long as I can – but no, no, I have to take a breath. I inhale. This time it's like a flame searing the inside of my mouth and nose: the pain explodes inside my head and I shake like a leaf. But I must keep gripping the wheel.

"Right! Now left, left!"

White-hot pain: never, ever did I imagine anything could feel as bad as this. I just must keep control of my arms, that's all that matters. Turning the wheel to steer the ambulance right... now left. I feel my whole head and chest are incandescent, but I hold that one thing: keep control of my hands, my grip on the steering wheel, and I process Dr Bernard's instructions as they keep coming. "Left again, Frocester!". Another bump in the road, and yet another, a bigger one, and I think this must be the end, this is the end of me, Agnes Frocester. Eyes shut, blind, nothing but black agony. An image appears among the pain: my Ma and Pa, getting the news that I'm dead, gassed to death, a horror they will live with for the rest of their lives. But I keep my grip on the wheel, I hear "Keep straight now!" and we're moving faster. It must be a straighter stretch of road. I can't look, I can't see anything, I keep listening. But now I have to take another breath, and thank God in Heaven, it's slightly easier. I breathe again, more deeply, and keep listening for Dr Bernard's instructions. And now I can hear other voices. Like last night, they're Canadian accents. They're coming from alongside the ambulance.

"Nurse! You there, driving the van! Stop, stop. We'll help you."

I still can't open my eyes, but I think: whoever is speaking to me, they can see, they can use their eyes. I want to carry on driving, carry on moving to escape the gas, but I bring the ambulance to a halt. The voices speak again.

"Thanks, Nurse. We're from the First Canadian Field Artillery. We're escaping the gas."

"I can't see you."

"Yes you can. Open your eyes."

I blink: the stinging in my eyeballs is still fierce, but yes, I can make out the shapes of men, three of them, standing around the ambulance. I blink again, and I see Dr Bernard.

"Miss Frocester. These soldiers will help us turn the ambulance around. One of them can drive it. So, we can all drive back to Ypres, if we can find the way. The gas is still moving this way, but it's thinned out, the wind is dispersing it as it advances. But we need to get back to Ypres, fast. Because we are in the middle of a full-scale retreat."

I start coughing and spluttering. Dr Bernard's voice carries on. "Miss Frocester, take my hand, step down from the cab. I'm afraid I have some other bad news."

Everything suddenly seems strangely calm: there's a silence, and Dr Bernard leads me past the soldiers to the back door of the ambulance. The morning sun is shining, and I hear the birds singing. And I can hear Dr Bernard too, speaking.

"Those British soldiers back there..."

"Yes, Dr Bernard. They were shooting at us."

"I know. Now look."

I blink again, and I see blood, the red shadow all down Dr Bernard's arm. Even now I don't understand what has happened, but with her other arm, Dr Bernard is pointing at the ambulance's open rear door, and my gaze follows her fingers. Through the stinging in my eyes, I can see into the interior of the ambulance. Everywhere – sides, floor, ceiling, is splattered with red drops: they are scattered evenly, almost deliberately, like a crimson polka-dot pattern. The pattern radiates from a single point, and I gaze at a blackened hole, the size of a bullet, in the forehead of the fair, freckled face of Walther Seydlitz.

**6. Behind the lines**

It's an oddly familiar voice.

"Miss Agnes! You are feeling a little better, I hope."

My last distinct memory was the sight of Walther Seydlitz, dead in the back of the ambulance. Then I recall seeing daylight, through the canvas of a tent. There were figures moving above and around me – doctors, nurses. Then I heard a nurse's voice this morning, saying that this is now the third day I've been lying here. Each time I awake, the blurring in my eyes and the rawness of my throat gets less. I open my eyes. Yes, I can see in focus again. It's like I have woken up, very slowly, over the course of three days.

I look around. I'm shielded by a screen from the main part of the convalescence tent. My camp bed is narrow but comfortable and snug. I feel like a caterpillar in a cocoon.

The person who is speaking pushes the canvas screen aside, and enters my compartment of the tent. I see a face that I know very well, although there's a touch more gray than I remember, around his balding temples.

"Professor Axelson! How?..." I recall reading the professor's name on the letter that Corporal Tasker gave to Dr Bernard. But even so, I'm surprised to see him here.

"It has been two years, Miss Agnes, since we last saw each other. I was shocked when I heard of your chlorine gas poisoning in the Battle of Ypres. Most horrible."

"I seem to have survived it. I was lucky."

"The field hospitals are finding that most casualties are surviving the chlorine – including, you'll be pleased to know, all those men you nursed in Ypres. But the victims need to be closely monitored: medical staff are worried about damage to lungs, the risks of infection and long-term breathing disorders. I was glad to find out that you have been brought here, to the Essex Farm Camp. There are some excellent doctors here. And you seem to be recovering well."

"What is Essex Farm?"

"A major camp; part-medical, part-military. We are surrounded by the tents of the First Canadian Field Artillery Brigade. Now, I sense that you are curious to know how am I involved in this business."

"It's good to see you. And I was intrigued to see your name in the written orders we received."

"I will tell you." He looks around theatrically, as if to check if anyone might overhear us. We are alone in here, but of course there could be anyone on the other side of the canvas screen. However, the professor nods to himself as if satisfied that he won't be heard. "I was asked to be involved, Miss Agnes, by a mutual acquaintance of ours. Lord Buttermere."

"I don't understand."

"Neither do I, fully. I will explain what I do know – if you feel well enough to listen to my story."

"Yes. I'm well enough. Please do tell me."

The professor's voice assumed the tone of a storyteller.

"Since last summer I have been in Davos, Switzerland. While I was there, I became involved in treating a number of patients who had been psychologically damaged, victims of war trauma, but are now interned in Switzerland. My Hypnotic-Forensic Method of probing the hidden psyche of patients was proving very successful, and I was making good progress with them. Then the patients were repatriated by the Swiss government. I felt, as the English say, at a loose end. Davos is a holiday town, and it was the height of the winter season, but I am no skier."

Despite the pain in my throat, I have to suppress a laugh at the thought of the professor's stocky middle-aged figure hurtling down a ski slope. He carries on in his usual serious way. "But even for someone of my international reputation, the letter I received at my hotel one day surprised me. It was a personal letter from Kaiser Wilhelm II."

"The Kaiser? How on earth?"

"Now, as you will know from our conversations two years ago, I am deeply mistrustful of the so-called German Emperor. My opinion of him and his government has sunk even lower since the beginning of this war, which is as unnecessary as it is terrible."

"So?..."

"The letter was extremely odd. I have it here: I will read it to you.

"Dear Professor Axelson

I write to you as the German Emperor and King of Prussia. Yet despite my exalted position, I find myself in some respects very alone. For that reason I write to you, and request your assistance.

I must begin by telling you that on two occasions I actively sought to stop this war, which ironically I am now being blamed for. I will begin by relating those occasions.

Firstly, in July 1914, when I returned from my summer cruise in the Baltic, I saw that Serbia had given in to the demands of our ally Austria. I sent word to Emperor Franz Josef that there was no longer any need for Austria to go to war with Serbia. Unfortunately, Austria had already mobilized its forces against Serbia and sent a declaration of war. This led to our conflict with Russia, Serbia's ally.

Secondly, despite this turn of events, I then sought to prevent the war spreading to the West. When it became apparent that France might follow Russia into war against my German Empire, I spoke to Field Marshal Helmuth Moltke and asked him to direct our armies not against France but against Russia. I still hoped to avoid war with France and England. The Field Marshal told me that our troops had already been dispatched to the western borders of Germany, and that the military plan to invade France through Belgium could not now be halted.

As you will know, that invasion brought not just France and Belgium but also England and its Empire into the war, as the defenders of Belgium.

In the midst of those dark times, I felt that England, France and Russia had plotted among themselves and planned this all along. For a time I believed that they used the crisis between Austria and Serbia as the trigger for a gun they had long ago loaded.

However, I then reflected upon the sequence of events that have already led to the deaths of hundreds of thousands of young German men, and the total ruin of German economy and culture. As I have explained, my part in all those events was to seek to prevent war. Why did war happen, when all along the German Emperor was seeking peace?

It then occurred to me that there might be a conspiracy – not amongst my dear relatives King George of England and Tsar Nicholas of Russia, but much closer to home. In fact, the conspiracy may be wrapped tight around me, among my most senior ministers and advisers.

For this reason I write to you, as an entirely impartial person and a citizen of a neutral country – and, as the foremost hypnotist and psychologist of our modern age.

What do I seek from you? I have to confess that I am unsure of my recollections of the events of summer 1914. All my advisers speak as if war were inevitable, what we all planned and wished for, and that now we must fight to the death to achieve a victory that will devastate Europe. In the midst of such discussions, I have to confess that I doubt my own memories. I can no longer clearly recollect my exact actions during July 1914 to try to prevent war. In short, I doubt myself and the integrity of my own memory. If the truth be told, I am seeking reassurance from you that I still have control of my own mind.

Whom can I trust, when surrounded by the voices of war-mongering generals? I can still trust my own, strong character, the character of the German Emperor. I believe that under your hypnosis I can recall all my thoughts, beliefs and actions during last summer's descent into the European War. Strengthened by such recall, I will then be in a position to evaluate my advisors, and dismiss those who plot against me. To take a bold step, to remove Germany's high command, and appoint ministers who will have the courage – and the humility – to approach England, France and Russia, in order to seek an end of this War.

Yours sincerely

His Imperial and Royal Majesty William II, by the grace of God, German Emperor and King of Prussia."

I look at Axelson: his face is blank as he holds the shred of white paper, this extraordinary letter. After a few moments the professor speaks again.

"I was at a quandary as to how to proceed. My personal view is that the chief cause of this war is the Kaiser's imperial ambitions. But I could read something else in this letter: something written, as it were, behind the lines. My long experience of working with mentally disturbed witnesses makes me believe that the Kaiser may be a victim too. This letter – it could be a cry for help. It also occurred to me that if I could in some way help the Kaiser come to his senses, he might seek some kind of settlement with the Allied Powers, and the senseless slaughter might end."

"I can see you were in a difficult position. What did you decide to do?"

"I pondered the matter during that day, without trying to come to an instant decision. But that evening, a porter knocked at my door and told me that I had a visitor. I descended to the lobby, and I was surprised indeed. My visitor was Lord Buttermere.

He asked me a favour, which he said was personal and entirely without obligation. He told me that he knew – how, I don't know – of the Kaiser's letter. Lord Buttermere asked me to agree to the Wilhelm II's request, and travel to Berlin – but, to then report back to him personally, and tell him about the Kaiser's mental condition."

"Why?"

"Lord Buttermere hoped – still hopes – to use any information I might gain from hypnotizing Wilhelm II. So, Miss Agnes, if I found that the Kaiser was insane, and insistent on continuing the war, Lord Buttermere could then send a message to Generals Ludendorff and Hindenburg to say that the Kaiser was evidently unfit to rule, and propose that the Generals meet Prime Minister Asquith and agree a ceasefire.

On the other hand, if the Kaiser should prove to be sane, and genuinely keen to seek peace, then a similar message could be sent to the Kaiser himself – to suggest that he should dismiss his military advisers and hold talks with the Allies. Either way, there would be a hope of an end to the carnage."

"How did you respond to Lord Buttermere's request?"

"A chance to bring peace in Europe? What man would not grasp it with both hands? But I felt very uneasy about working with the Kaiser under false pretences, as Lord Buttermere's spy. The life of a 'double agent' as you say in English, is not for me. Never in my life have I felt so undecided. Even now, I am still considering what to do. It revolves constantly in my mind, Miss Agnes, like a hamster on a wheel.

But, I will finish my story of what happened in Davos. Lord Buttermere went on to ask me a further favour, of a very different kind. He asked me to travel with him to the Allied front lines, and undertake an interrogation under hypnosis of a witness. An informer. A person who might be telling the truth, or might be lying.

The witness, Lord Buttermere said, claimed to have information which would decisively alter the entire balance of power in the war. So, in a way, this interrogation would be as important as the hypnotic session with the Kaiser. Lord Buttermere asked me to conduct the witness interview first, so that, if and when I meet the Kaiser, I will know how the balance of power lies: whether Germany is on the brink of defeat, or of victory."

I decided to accept Lord Buttermere's request to interview this witness. So I came here, to interrogate Walther Seydlitz, by means of my Hypnotic-Forensic Method. But as soon as I arrived at Essex Farm, I was told that he is dead."

"I was there when he died."

"I know you were, Miss Agnes. And, I have conducted an examination of Seydlitz's corpse. I have also met Dr Bernard, and she told me that gunshots hit your ambulance. She also said that before the gas fumes forced you to close your eyes, you told her that you had seen two British soldiers with rifles."

"I did. They were shooting at us."

"Miss Agnes, I believe you. Because I removed, from Seydlitz's skull, a bullet from a British Lee Enfield rifle, standard British Army issue."

"Professor, I recognised one of the soldiers firing at us. I don't know his name, but he was one of four British soldiers who were in the trench with the Canadian battalion. I didn't get a good view of the other soldier. The second soldier could have been Corporal Tasker, whom we met, or another member of his team."

"Like Seydlitz, Dr Bernard was shot – but fortunately, she was only injured. She did not see either of the soldier's faces. But in all other respects, your narrative and hers match exactly. You are both excellent witnesses, despite the extreme danger of the situation you were in."

"But why were they firing at us? Tasker and the other British soldiers who were with the Canadians – they had gone to such lengths to capture Walther Seydlitz. It seems inexplicable that two of those soldiers then killed him. Have the soldiers been arrested?"

"That is something I hope to learn more about, soon. But, whoever they were, I think it is unlikely that they acted on their own initiative. Someone must have given them instructions."

"Major Jardine selected Tasker for the job. But Tasker also had a letter from General Haig."

"Everything I know about this matter suggests that the British Army command placed great store in capturing Walther Seydlitz alive. They also hoped, through my hypnosis, to establish whether he did indeed carry vital information, or whether he was simply a German ruse to dupe us. If I had been able to hypnotise Seydlitz, I could of course have given them absolute assurance on that question."

I smile to myself: Professor Axelson hasn't lost his slightly absurd self-importance. He carries on. "So – it is very unlikely that any instructions to kill Seydlitz would have come from General Haig. Indeed, the shooting caused massive risk to two citizens of neutral countries: yourself and Dr Bernard. Even if he had no moral scruples about killing Seydlitz, General Haig would hardly risk antagonising two key neutral Powers, unless there was a great benefit to be obtained. So there is no doubt about it: the British high command wanted Seydlitz alive."

"Which means..."

"The plot – and I smell it, as sure as a dog smells rats, that there is a hidden plot here – seems to lie at Major Jardine's door. And that is the door at which we shall knock first. Walther Seydlitz was a prisoner of war, being transported in a marked Red Cross ambulance. Under the Hague Convention, his death at the hands of those British soldiers is not a battlefield casualty."

"I agree, Professor. Those soldiers – they were aiming carefully and shooting to kill, I'm sure. They knew exactly what they were doing."

"Walther Seydlitz's death is, purely and simply, _murder_. And –"

The professor's voice is interrupted by a call from outside: a boyish voice. "A message for Professor Axelson and Volunteer Auxiliary Frocester."

I answer. "Come in."

A very young soldier with bright red ears pushes through the canvas screen. He looks at me lying in the bed as if he has never seen a woman before in his life.

"Message, Sir and Madam. You re both requested as a matter of urgency to attend a meeting."

"And where and when is this meeting, young man?" Professor Axelson looks at our visitor with an air of mild annoyance. I can tell that the soldier is squirming with embarrassment.

"In the officers' mess tent, Sir and Madam. Please proceed there as soon as possible."

I give the soldier a slight smile. "I can see that my clothes are here in my travel bag: I'll get up, and get dressed."

"Message has been delivered, Sir and Madam. Permission to depart." The young man's face is now as red as his ears. The professor nods and the soldier leaves us: the professor takes his leave, too, adding "I will leave you in privacy, Miss Agnes – shall we meet outside in ten minutes?"

"Five minutes will be enough. I thought that soldier was going to faint when I said I was getting up and dressing."

**7. Accusations**

Snaking through the mud of the Essex Farm Camp are pathways made of duckboards. The khaki of British uniforms is everywhere: men sitting, chatting, smoking. Several of them wave cheerily at us. They all seem to be enjoying their time; making the most of this interlude of peace and companionship, before they are sent to the horrors of the Western Front. The dun-white canvas of the tents seems endless, like a vast temporary city. There's only one oddity: a black tent. Dr Axelson gestures to it.

"Sometimes, Miss Agnes, it is the little things that strike me about this senseless war. That tent belongs to a photographer; it is blacked out so that the negatives can be developed in darkness. The photographer takes pictures of the regiments before they set out for the front. I am thinking that these photographs will find their way home, to Britain, Ireland, India, Canada, Africa, Australia. Those photographs will be the last sight that many parents will ever see of their sons. Ah now, there it is. The officers' tent."

The strangest sight greets our eyes. A turbanned soldier stands guard outside the entrance of a large tent. His only function seems to be to stand there. What on earth is he guarding, and why, when we are inside a cordoned British camp? The professor extends his hand in greeting.

"Sirdar Gobindh Singh – good to see you again. This is Miss Agnes Frocester. I hope your duties are going well today. We're here for a meeting with Colonel Hampshire."

"Yes indeed, Professor – please, go into the officers' mess tent: the Colonel and the others are waiting for you." I smile at the man, who must be bored beyond words. "Thank you."

"Thank you, ma'am. I am Private Singh, at your service."

Inside the tent, a wooden camp table is covered with papers, but oddly, in the centre of it sits a bottle labelled 'Old Tawny Port' and a collection of crystal glasses. The pretense of gracious, colonial living. Around the table sit three men, two of whom I recognise – Colonel Hampshire and Major Jardine. The third, a portly man with a ponderous face and heavy manner, wears a long line of medals across his chest. I don't know all the Army ranks yet, but I think I'm looking, for the first time, at a general. The man stands and extends his hand to me and to the professor.

"I'm General Charteris, Deputy Chief of Staff of the British Expeditionary Forces in France and Belgium. I understand that you are Professor Axelson, and you are Nurse Frocester?"

"That's correct, General. Except I'm not a nurse, just a Red Cross volunteer."

We sit, and Colonel Hampshire nods in welcome to Professor Axelson, and smiles reassuringly at me. Major Jardine nervously touches one of the glasses on the table. He seems uncertain of the protocol: whether he should offer a drink to the professor, and if so, should he offer one to me too? I realise that there's no script for this occasion, where a general sits to meet with a volunteer medical auxiliary like me, the lowest of the low. I think of the absurd pretense of having Private Singh standing outside.

General Charteris coughs. "We are waiting for Dr Bernard?"

The tent entrance ripples, and a black-clad figure, with her arm in a white military sling, pushes her way through it. "I was told to come here. I'm Dr Eugénie Bernard."

"Good to meet you, Doctor." General Charteris introduces everyone around the table, and as Dr Bernard sits, he says "Let's crack on. We all know why we are invited to this meeting. This is a debrief of an operation that went wrong. Not a witch-hunt. But we do need to know exactly what happened, and why."

"I can report first, General." Professor Axelson explains the outcome of his examination of Seydlitz's corpse. The mention of a British bullet seems to send a ripple of shock around the table, and the General splutters, almost choking. The professor, however, looks at me.

"Miss Agnes and Dr Bernard. I will hand over the story to you now. Tell us your account of what happened. Can you describe what you saw, from the ambulance?"

We tell them what we saw. The General takes it all in, and his face hardens with every word. He looks around the table at us all.

"So. Two British soldiers, shooting at the ambulance. It seems that we have a traitor somewhere here among the British armed forces. I'm shocked. But given the high stakes we are playing for, I suppose it is understandable. In every era of history, military operations have had to contend with treachery. Major Jardine, you recruited these four British soldiers who went out to the Canadian trenches. Please, tell us about them."

Major Jardine has been looking paler and more alarmed all the time that the professor and the general have been speaking. Now, he stares blankly and speaks as if into empty space.

"I have to confess a failing sir. I was under strain, running the Main Dressing Station at Ypres. I asked Corporal Tasker to undertake the mission..."

"And?"

"Sir. I left it to Tasker to recruit the other three men. He told me that he had selected a good team. I didn't ask names. He was a very experienced soldier, sir, and I trusted his judgment."

Both General Charteris and Colonel Hampshire stare at Major Jardine. There's a stunned silence. It's broken only by an outcry from Dr Bernard.

"You stupid, stupid man. You sent me and this little girl out to collect some mystery person, an enemy soldier. You sent another team too. You made no provisions for the safety of anyone. And now you tell us you don't even know the names of the men you instructed!"

General Charteris is more measured. "Major Jardine, given what happened, the immediate responsibility falls on you."

Colonel Hampshire leans over towards the General and whispers to him. I catch the words 'court-martial'. But General Charteris continues to look impassively around the room: his mind is not yet made up. Major Jardine glances at the General, and I catch an odd sense in his face. I'm reminded of when he spoke to me at Ypres. Like he's concealing something. Then Jardine starts speaking again, but his tone is different. Strangely, he sounds more assured.

"Sirs. I confess I made a serious mistake. I have already tried to rectify it. When they captured Seydlitz, the four British soldiers were with the Canadian 10th Battalion. Afterwards, when I heard of Seydlitz's death, I contacted the 10th Battalion. This morning I have received a message in reply from Sergeant Bowers, the only surviving officer from the Battalion. He has just returned to this camp from the front line."

The general looks at Jardine impatiently. "Well? What did Bowers say?"

"Sir, when the Canadians were in the trench at Kitcheners' Wood, Sergeant Bowers only had dealings with Corporal Tasker. Unfortunately, that is the only name he knew."

Colonel Hampshire can't resist attacking the major. "This isn't helping us, Jardine."

"But, Sirs, Sergeant Bowers' message did confirm that, after escorting Seydlitz to the ambulance, Corporal Tasker returned immediately to the trench with the 10th Battalion, and remained there. Tasker was away from the trench for ten minutes, at most. So – Corporal Tasker cannot have been one of the two soldiers who were allegedly seen firing at the ambulance."

He pauses, as if for dramatic effect, before carrying on. "Very unfortunately, Sergeant Bowers' message also states that, when the Germans attacked the trench that morning, Corporal Tasker was sadly killed."

General Charteris speaks heavily and slowly. "That is indeed regrettable. But this is a bad show, Jardine. It seems to me that your negligence is the root cause of this unfortunate business."

"I agree, General, that I was negligent in my duties. I apologize. But Sir, my failings are not the reason for Seydlitz's death. There is a simple explanation for what went wrong. Colonel Hampshire, you will recall our conversation when you first arrived at Ypres. What did I say, Colonel?"

"I recall it well, Jardine. You said that you were unsure..."

"I expressed my grave doubts about using the two women that sit at this table for this vital operation. Not on grounds of their gender, but of nationality. Neither has any natural loyalty to the British Empire. I also spoke of the inexperience and lack of competence of one of them."

General Charteris is listening carefully to the major. But after a few moments, he replies.

"I don't see how that's relevant, Jardine. The instructions to use neutral medical staff came from General Haig. He was keen to use unbiased personnel. Professor Axelson here – he is Swedish, so he's in the same position as Dr Bernard and Miss Frocester. General Haig wanted to make use of his neutrality and his dispassionate judgment." The general looks around the table at us all. "If we had captured Seydlitz alive, it would have been absolutely imperative that we established the _objective_ truth of what he would have told us. We didn't want Seydlitz handled by British troops, any more than was strictly necessary."

Jardine speaks again. "Sirs – please, hear me out. Corporal Tasker's team captured Walther Seydlitz. If they meant to betray their mission, why did they not kill him at the battlefront, in the dark and confusion of Kitcheners' Wood? Why did they take him back to the trenches and look after him there for a whole day? And why did they wait to shoot him, at a distance, inside a moving ambulance?"

"So that they could kill him without witnesses seeing them, perhaps?" Colonel Hampshire raises an eyebrow as he says this, and I sense him trying to catch the general's eye. But the general avoids Hampshire's gaze, and looks at Jardine, who continues to talk.

"Tasker is – was – a loyal soldier. Prior to the war, he was the first mate of a fishing boat on the Northumberland coast. He was a respected young man in his local community, but from a humble background. He had never even travelled outside his own county, until he joined the Army. How on earth could he have any connection with German espionage? Neither would any other soldier that Tasker recruited for this mission. Sirs, may I suggest an alternative, simpler explanation?"

The general nods. "Fire away, Jardine."

"Dr Bernard and Miss Frocester drove the ambulance away from the Canadian 10th Battalion trenches. Neither of the two ladies was familiar with front-line battlefield conditions. They even found driving the ambulance hard to handle. And neither of them has a good sense of direction, so they got lost. After all, there was a chlorine cloud over that whole area, Sirs. Visibility was practically zero.

German storm-troopers were advancing. There was indiscriminate shooting, and Walther Seydlitz died. How can these two women – who would have been in a state of terror and mental confusion – be sure that the man they saw with a rifle was one of the four who were with the Canadian battalion? It's much more likely, sirs, that the soldiers who fired the shots were unknown to them."

There's an impassive expression on the general's face, but his eyes look to Jardine, encouraging him to continue his explanation.

"Those unknown soldiers, sir. Whoever they were, they were facing a gas attack in the chaos of battle. They would have been shooting at anything they saw moving, including a Red Cross ambulance that they would hardly have expected to see in the middle of a German attack. The soldiers, whoever they were, fired their weapons in panic, at something they saw moving." He looks at General Charteris and Colonel Hampshire and pauses, to let his words sink in. "Sirs. Walther Seydlitz's death was an accident in the heat of battle."

The General nods again. And Major Jardine has recovered some of his colour. He adds a few more words. "Just because Seydlitz was so important to us, it doesn't mean that there has to be a treacherous plot to cause his death. Anything – _anything_ – can happen out there on the battlefield, sirs."

I look at General Charteris, and I realise that he understands what Jardine is saying. But does he believe him?

Jardine carries on, more confidently now. "I think Seydlitz's death was an accident, sirs. A disastrous accident – but an accident nonetheless. And if any blame at all can be attached to anyone, it should attach to whoever took the decision to involve two inexperienced, female, _foreign_ persons in the operation."

Dr Bernard has been silent all this time. Her pale face is as white as a skull. Suddenly she starts spitting words.

"So, Major Jardine, you blame me for your failings. Miss Frocester and I, we know exactly what we saw in that battle. We saw two of the English soldiers who we had met before, in the trench with the Canadian battalion. Miss Frocester recognised one of them."

"Did you yourself recognise either of the two soldiers, Dr Bernard?"

"I was in the back of the ambulance most of the time. And, as you can see, I was injured by their shooting. So no – I didn't see their faces. But I trust Miss Frocester's judgment. In fact, I think that she has better judgment than any of you gentlemen around this table."

Major Jardine ignores her anger. He speaks to both of us. "Ladies, you saw what you thought were two British Army uniforms, thirty yards away, with a chlorine cloud approaching. Those two soldiers might have been anyone. Now, you say the soldiers were shooting. Naturally they were shooting: a battle was going on."

Dr Bernard looks like she's been hit in the face. It's a moment before she can speak. "General Charteris. What do you think of these – _lies_?"

The General is thinking hard. After some time, he says "Although Major Jardine should have checked Corporal Tasker's team more carefully, accidents do occur on the field of battle. If this were a civilian court of law assessing Major Jardine's culpability, a jury would acquit him and he would walk free."

Colonel Hampshire looks perturbed. British Army tradition, I guess, means that he has to be diplomatic when disagreeing with his superior. "Sir. This operation was designed so as to minimise the very serious risks of something going wrong. I think that the duty to personally select every member of Tasker's team was a very important one."

"I agree, Hampshire. But what went wrong with this operation was that the ambulance ended up in the middle of a German attack. That's how Seydlitz died."

Dr Bernard stands up. Her one good arm is rigid, the palm of her hand planted on the table. Her eyes blaze accusation at every one of the men sitting around the table. "So. You, Colonel Hampshire, with your mealy-mouthed way of explaining that Major Jardine was really to blame. You, Major Jardine, so desperate to avoid taking responsibility. And most of all, General Charteris, listening to Major Jardine – a man who has already proved himself negligent and incompetent! Professor Axelson, do you have anything to say?"

"I think that we have to consider the evidence very carefully..."

"Carefully? All you mean, Professor, is that you cannot make up your own mind! Cowards and fools, every one of you. You all abandon me. I am your scapegoat, yes? So you can pin the blame for failure – this _murder_ – onto me, and walk away and say none of it was your fault. You all disgust me! Your ridiculous army, your officers' club, protecting each other like a lot of public-schoolboys. You even have an Indian man standing outside your tent, like a servant in one of your bloody colonies!"

General Charteris looks coldly at Dr Bernard. "Please, madam. Calm yourself."

"I had a well-respected medical practice in Switzerland. I am a successful professional woman – not an easy thing to achieve in my country. I volunteered for the Red Cross. I came here to help the British Army, General. And this is how I am rewarded."

Major Jardine speaks up again. "General Charteris. May I add a comment from my – admittedly brief – supervision of these two ladies at the Ypres Main Dressing Station?"

"Of course, Major."

"Frocester, first of all. Not competent as a nurse, and weak nerves. No more to say about her, really: she was out of her depth. But Dr Bernard – we know, sir, she is Swiss, and there is no blame in that. But to British ears, her accent sounds German, and her manner with both staff and patients is hectoring and brusque. She raised a lot of alarm among our casualties at Ypres, sir. One man, who was regaining consciousness after the gas poisoning, heard her voice: her accent made him think that he'd been taken prisoner by the German Army, and he went into a panic. She is bad for morale, sir. Very bad."

Dr Bernard is still standing, looking down at us all. This time she can't control her words.

"Major Jardine – you are an idiot! From the beginning, you have tried to disrupt my medical work, with your ridiculous mission to capture Seydlitz rather than letting me treat the gas casualties. I should make the medical judgments! I should be running the Main Dressing Station, not you!"

The Major looks at her. "Dr Bernard – I can see that you are over-wrought right now. I hope you and I can still work together in the future, if you can follow instructions and moderate your words – and your unfortunate accent."

"This is my accent! This is my voice! And, it should have been my Dressing Station!" Then she adds in an undertone "Perhaps I should have gone to help the German Army instead."

General Charteris scratches his head. "Dr Bernard. The events of the past few days – your injury. I think you should take a few days' rest. Then, we will seek your redeployment to the Royal Army Medical Corps in a different sector. We do appreciate your volunteering for this work. But there appears to be a – clash of cultures – between yourself and Major Jardine."

"I knew it would come to this. You soldiers, you get together, you gang up on me, you blame the foreigner. And because you are all men, you blame the woman."

Major Jardine touches the General's arm. "Sir. If Dr Bernard is to be redeployed – I suggest Miss Frocester goes with her. Perhaps something less front-line for them both?"

"No. There I don't agree, Jardine. Firstly Dr Bernard – she needs rest. And she clearly can't treat patients, with her arm in a sling. After a few weeks, we can consider her redeployment – or, possibly, her return to Switzerland, if she has not recovered well. On the other hand, I gather that Miss Frocester has nearly recovered from the effects of the poison gas. She will soon be fit to continue with duties." He looks at me. "Miss Frocester, you may have one more day's rest, and then please report to Lieutenant-Major Knight of the Medical Corps here at Essex Farm. You will not be needed back at Ypres; there is a new medical team there now. But here at Essex Farm, the Dressing Station is desperately short of staff."

**8. An American in Flanders**

Professor Axelson and I sit side-by-side on my camp bed. It seems so frail that I wouldn't be surprised if it collapsed under us.

"I think your English phrase, Miss Agnes, is 'whitewash'."

"Well – you could have spoken up more yourself, Professor."

"All I could have done to defend you, Miss Agnes, would be to accuse Major Jardine. And I have no real evidence that he is to blame. Morally, all I could do was to remain silent."

"Well, I feel awful that they are blaming me. I did my best, you know."

"You saw what they were like. Their concern seemed to be to find someone, anyone, to blame. Someone outside their 'gentlemen's club'. And they don't blame you – you are an incidental part of the picture: apart from admiring your pretty face, they hardly noticed you. No, the person they really sought to blame was Dr Bernard. As she said, she is a scapegoat. I would wager a thousand pounds that she will not be allowed to return to duties in the Army. They will make sure that she is sent back to Switzerland, despite what you told me of the excellent care she gave the gas victims at Ypres."

"Perhaps we ought to speak to her."

"I agree. Let's try to find her."

Again we walk along the duckboards, the countless tents of the camp stretching before us. Soldiers march past us, young faces: boys, really. One face I see looks older. Then I realise that I've seen it before.

"Sergeant Bowers! You remember me? From the night in the trenches?"

"Indeed." The Canadian accent is accompanied by a handshake. I introduce Sergeant Bowers to the professor, who smiles warmly at him.

"You are heroes, you and your battalion, Sergeant Bowers."

"Thank you. But I don't feel very heroic. None of us do. We're just glad to be out of the front line. The German attack came just an hour after you left us. To speak plainly, Professor, it was a slaughterhouse. And Miss Frocester, I'm sorry to tell you that Corporal Tasker was among those killed."

"I've just heard that news myself. I'm so sad; he seemed a very decent man."

"We lost a lot of decent men that morning. Because of the casualties we'd suffered in Kitcheners' Wood, we were hopelessly outnumbered by the German attackers. We did the only thing we could – we retreated to another line of trenches. But then British reinforcements came up to help us. I could hardly believe it when we managed to hold that line against the Germans. Then, we had two hellish days of them shooting at us and shelling us. Finally the word came that another battalion could take our place, and we could leave the front line. I felt like I was in Heaven."

The professor nods. "Never was a rest better earned, Sergeant Bowers."

"We're here at the Essex Farm Camp maybe a week, then we'll be back into the front line. It feels so strange to be back here. A quarter of our battalion are dead. Nearly half of us were injured, so that leaves just one-quarter of us still on our feet. Very different from the cheery group of Canadian boys who first came here two months ago. Most of them had never been to Toronto, let alone across an ocean to a foreign land. We all had pictures in our heads: gallant charges, capturing German soldiers, raising the flag of victory. It seemed like one big exciting adventure. We all had our photographs taken, just in that tent over there. Before we were sent to the front."

I look across at the photographer's tent. An idea is forming in my mind.

"Sergeant Bowers – I'm sorry to hear about Corporal Tasker. But the other British soldiers with him... I've been told that you didn't know their names. But – when did they join you?"

"They joined us in the trenches near Kitcheners' Wood just before our attack on the Germans. But that wasn't the first time I met them. I first met Ted Tasker and his team in the Essex Farm Camp, right here on this spot."

"Really?"

"Yes. It was just as we were getting ready to march out to the front line. When the photographs were being taken. The photography session was the last thing we did, you see. So that all us boys would have something to send home."

As before, the black tent stands out oddly from the pale canvas of the rest of the camp. Professor Axelson is looking at it, taking it all in. As Sergeant Bowers goes on his way, I step forward to the tent. I lift the flat, and call out.

"Hello! Anyone there?"

"Good morning! Nice to hear a lady's voice in this bush-league campsite." It's odd to hear a familiar accent: the man is a New Yorker.

"There are two of us here – myself, Volunteer Auxiliary Agnes Frocester, and Professor Felix Axelson. May we come in?"

"Feel free. But watch where you put your feet: the ground is covered with trays of silver nitrate solution. This is supposed to be a darkroom. But it's a British Army style darkroom, which means I have to do most of my work crouching on the floor."

We step inside, and I hear the voice again "Pull the flap back across. No light must get in."

The interior of the tent is not totally dark. A red-shaded light hangs from the central pole, casting shadows into the gloom. I can make out the trays, glistening faintly with fluid. But ahead of me stands what looks like a ghost against the blackness: a white-clad figure, fastening sheets of paper to a line of twine. A spectre, pinning out the washing. And then I hear the voice again.

"I'm nearly done here, in fact. So we can all step outside to talk. I can hook up a great deal for you: a double portrait for the price of a single. Are you father and daughter?"

"We're not here for a photograph. Although..." It occurs to me that it would be nice to have a picture to send home to Ma and Pa. But that can wait.

"Well, let's get out of the Black Hole of Calcutta and chat. I'm sure I'll be able to help you, whatever you're looking for."

Although we've only been in the tent a minute, the glare of the sunshine outside hurts: I screw my eyes up I gaze across the sea of white tents. Professor Axelson shakes the man's hand. He's tall; a gangly frame that stoops over us. Piercing blue eyes look at the professor.

"I'm Montgomery Keys. But everyone just calls me Keys. Former New York journalist, turned Great War field correspondent, turned photographer, turned chameleon."

Keys sees Axelson's puzzlement at his idiom. "I adapt, Professor, to my surroundings."

"So you were a journalist?" The professor seems intrigued.

"I used to report on news. The streets of Manhattan. Everything that can happen under the sun, it happens in New York. Then I had a bust-up with my editor. Rather than show me the door, the paper had the fancy idea of sending me here to be a war correspondent. News from the front line. Especially any stories showing the Germans to be barbaric Huns. Popular prejudice sells newspapers – whether the stories are true or not."

"So why the photography? Shouldn't you be gathering information?..."

"It turns out that the British Army is very touchy about front-line journalism. Their Mr Kitchener has banned independent reporting. News is reduced to one thing: official press releases which are designed to raise British morale. They're sent direct to New York by telegram; the papers get them and print them word-for-word. So I was kinda redundant. My newspaper contract got terminated. I thought about my options. I could go home, start again at the bottom of the ladder..."

"But you're still here."

"I know a little about photography from my Manhattan reporting days. In fact I started out as a street photographer's assistant. I decided to give it a whirl. I stood here, spent the allowance that I'd been given on some photography kit. I take photos of all the brave boys heading to the front. And they _all_ want their picture taken. The money's good: I'm pulling down twice what I used to earn in Manhattan."

The professor nods. "What we want to know, Mr Keys, is about the Canadian 10th Battalion. They came to you for photographs on April 20th, we think, just before they were despatched to the front line near Ypres."

"I keep good records. Hold there a minute, and I'll get my book. A lot of my customers, you see, they don't ever see their own photographs. Quite often, they don't have time to wait for the prints. They give me their home addresses. Then they leave for the front line. I develop the print, and for a small extra fee I send it off to the address they've given me, usually along with a note or letter they've written. So their family gets the print, but the soldiers themselves never see it. And I mean never, in a lot of cases."

I glance at Professor Axelson as our new acquaintance disappears into the tent, but before he can speak the man is back with us, with a large ledger in his hand. "So, who were you looking for?"

The professor explains. "Along with the 10th Battalion, there were four British soldiers. They left with the Canadians, and we think that they were here with them, when the members of the 10th Battalion had their photographs taken."

Keys opens the ledger. "I'll take a look. Any of them might have joined the Canadians in the queue. And there was quite a queue for portraits. I'll look for forwarding addresses... ah. Here's the Canadians...and the addresses... Ontario, Quebec, Saskatchewan..." he leafs through the pages, and looks up at us. "Sorry. I've got no entries for four British soldiers on that day. But you have raised something."

I look at him. "Raised what?"

"My hackles. My investigative journalism hackles. For a start, both of you seem totally out of place in a British Army camp. And you – Miss Frocester – unless I've lost my ear for accents, you're from New England. Now, why would you two be here, sniffing around asking questions? You yourselves are the oddest thing that's happened to me during my entire stay in this camp. You've made me very curious."

Professor Axelson replies cautiously. "We have – some official business. It's not important, but it's confidential. We need to trace those four British soldiers. But, as you can't help us, we'll continue our search elsewhere."

"Wait." I can see the fascination, like a fire, in the American's eyes. "How about I go through the images from that day? I've already sent off all the prints to the addresses I was given, but I can look through the negatives. I can tell a British regimental uniform from a Canadian, even in a negative image."

"Very well." The professor speaks patiently, but with an edge of irritation. It's clear he thinks there is nothing more to be done here. We stand in the sunshine as Keys dives back into the tent, and after five minutes the professor snaps his fingers with an air of annoyance. He's just about to lift the tent flap again, no doubt to tell Keys that we're leaving, when there's a noise from inside the tent.

"What do you know, I _do_ have something. Now what do you think of that?" He emerges with a piece of paper and proffers it to us.

I hold it and feel a shudder. Four faces look out from the print at me. I hear Key's voice, explaining.

"These four – they had a group picture taken. No forwarding address. I guess they just wanted to collect their photo when they were back in camp."

"So... the names?" The professor is alert again. But his tone is brusque, and I sense that he's taken against the personable American.

"I'll check the ledger. Ah, here. I have just one name: Corporal Edward Tasker. No home address. And I recall now what happened with these guys. Tasker said don't send it, no need to develop it immediately either. He said that they would pick up the print when they came back from the front."

"So you have no names to help our enquiry. But maybe we can make out something from the uniforms?" The Professor doesn't give Keys a glance, but, unexpectedly, he pulls a magnifying glass from his coat pocket and scrutinises the print. "We can see some uniform insignia here, but none of the badges are clear. This is not a perfectly focused image, Mr Keys."

"So what? Maybe it's not ideal for your purposes – but those four guys weren't paying me for technical perfection."

The professor looks annoyed, but I take the photo from him and peer at it. True, it is slightly blurry, but the faces are in better focus than the uniforms, and I look into each pair of eyes in turn. They're smiling, a group of four young men with their arms around each other's shoulders. They look like a close-knit group. Tasker is easy to recognise: he looks a couple of years older than the others, and he's in the centre of the group, looking out confidently. To his left is a very tall, strong-boned figure that I instantly recognise. A diffident manner, but an unforgettable face. On Tasker's right are two faces I don't recognise: a smaller, more sallow man, with a lined forehead and dark brows, but again he's young, perhaps twenty years old at most. Finally, to his right is a more stolid figure, broad shoulders and a rounded face, almost like the puppy-fat of childhood has not left him. He smiles too, but more awkwardly. As I'm looking, connecting with the eyes of each soldier, I hear the professor speaking to Keys.

"If you didn't get the names of any of these soldiers, the photograph is of little use."

"But all the same, you'll want to take a copy. I think five shillings is reasonable."

"No, we don't need a copy. We can't use this to find these men. We're hardly going to walk around every British Army camp in Flanders, looking for likenesses."

"Okay, three shillings."

I get my purse out. "Three shillings, you said? I'll pay for it."

The professor looks on, unimpressed, as I count the coins out into Keys' hand. But as I put the final shilling into his palm, a shadow falls across it. Someone else has joined us, unannounced. I look up.

"Major Jardine."

"Good morning, Volunteer Frocester, Professor Axelson."

"And I'm Montgomery Keys. Photographer here at this camp."

The Major doesn't even bother to introduce himself to Keys. He speaks curtly and to the point. "Professor, we need you to join myself and Colonel Hampshire for a meeting. To discuss what we do now, since the operation's – regrettable outcome. So could you come along with me right now?" The Major's invitation doesn't include me, and he doesn't give me a glance: I feel the force of his disregard, and remember his words that I overheard in Ypres "she's rubbish". But as he and Axelson walk away in the direction of the officers' tent, he calls to me over his shoulder. "Frocester! You're well enough to resume duties. Tomorrow, you must report by 8.00am to Lieutenant-Major Knight at the Casualty Station at this camp."

Keys grins at me: I can tell he's amused by Jardine's dismissive tone towards me. "He treats you like some kind of parlormaid. A stupid parlormaid, if you don't mind me saying."

"Major Jardine and I are not on the best of terms, Mr Keys. His opinion is not important to me."

"I can see that. But what is important to you is – this photograph. Now, tell me, how do you plan to use it? You've gotten me intrigued, you know."

"I – can't say. The professor and I..."

"Yeah, I know. You're both on 'official business', right? That's a line I've heard a lot since I got here. But you're American like me..." He looks along the lines of tents, then back at me. "Okay, I'll drop the questions. Except, where are you from? Massachusetts?"

"Putnam, Connecticut."

"Well. To find a swamp Yankee here in Flanders. The last thing I expected."

"I guess this war surprises us all."

"It sure does, Miss Frocester... Agnes, if I may." He shakes his head, still smiling,

"Of course you may. But – I must get on now. Thank you for your help."

**9. Poppies**

I've finished work for the day. The pains in my chest have continued, and every night I'm racked by coughing. Lieutenant-Major Knight, the leader of the Royal Army Medical Corps team here at Essex Farm, has only spoken to me once, briefly. He seems to be a dutiful, caring man, and he told me he was a surgeon in England before the war. He told me to come back and see him for an examination if the coughing continued. The coughing has indeed continued – but both he and I have been far too busy for him to see me.

This is my first real break for a week. There has been a constant stream of wounded men, as the relentless German assault on the Ypres area continues. But I now have two hours free: two hours to wander away from the tents towards a patch of green meadow. It's beautiful, but along its edge are row upon row of hastily made wooden crosses. The virgin field behind them seems like it's waiting to receive countless more graves.

All around me, the larks are singing. The sky is a dome of blue air. As I gaze up I feel it is close above and around me, like I'm looking up into the holy space of some vast cathedral. I look out across the rows of crude wooden crucifixes. The spring has come so early, and so strongly, this year. The primroses and even the bluebells are over: I see the scarlet of new-blooming poppies among the crosses. I look into the red sunlight shining through the petals, and in my mind's eye I see blood. I make a deliberate mental effort, trying to see the poppies for the innocent, unknowing flowers that they really are.

My eyes are drawn by a written name, roughly carved into a cross. My heartbeat seems to pause: I read 'Corporal Edward Tasker, 1st Battalion, Northumberland Fusiliers. Fell in Battle 24th of April 1915'.

So, here he is. The man whom Dr Bernard and I met in the dark at Kitcheners' Wood. We meet again, I think – but now, you're underground.

"I buried my friend yesterday."

The voice comes from beside me. A man has come away quietly from the treatment tents, and he stands with me, looking across the field of graves. I turn to him, and see a distinguished-looking figure in early middle age. I recognise the insignia of a Major.

"I'm John McCrae, by the way. Canadian Field Artillery. But they've pulled me away from the front line, they asked me to take a look at some of the wounded soldiers at Essex Farm."

"So you're a medic as well as an artillery officer?"

"After a manner of speaking. But I'm in the Army as a gunner. We were supposed to set up an emplacement for our cannons, down near the Yser Canal. But we ended up just digging a bunker, for survival, while shells exploded all around us. We dug an eight-foot square hole in the ground. We were in there for seventeen days, sheltering from the German bombardment, and I spent all my time trying to staunch wounds. So now, this seems like luxury. But my friend Alexis... he was killed the last day that we were out there in the front line. He was twenty-two – half my age. Now I'm standing here alive, but his story is over. He's buried, just there."

"What happened?"

"I asked him to go down to the canal bank, to check on our gun positions down there. He'd only walked a few yards from the bunker when a shell exploded right next to him."

"I'm sorry."

"I conducted the burial service, just here. We buried... something. We gathered up bits... fragments of what had once been a man."

I don't say anything, but wordlessly we walk alongside the crosses, passing name after name. All gone, never to return. For each one, I think of the families back home, suffering a loss that can never be healed. I also think: Major McCrae's a gunner. His shells are doing exactly the same thing to the German soldiers.

At the far end of the rows, a motor ambulance, just the like the one that Dr Bernard and I used at Ypres, is parked and empty. I'm tired, and I sit in the rear doorway. Major McCrae sits beside me. Neither of us needs to say anything. I get out the photograph, and look into the sepia-brown eyes of Corporal Tasker and his comrades. As if in silent sympathy, the Major takes out a piece of paper and a pencil, and starts quietly writing. Letter-writing is the main hobby, it seems, of all the soldiers. He writes for five minutes, then he says

"You're from New England, aren't you? I'm originally from Ontario, but I worked for a while in Vermont."

"What work did you do there?"

He speaks modestly. "I was professor of pathology, at Vermont University. So, you and I have New England in common. But I know something else about you, too."

"What?"

"I can tell that you're struggling to work. When I walked here just now, from ten yards away, I could hear you wheezing. I think you have bronchitis, possibly pneumonia. You need rest, for a few weeks at least. To let your body fight the infection."

I don't say anything to him. Working here at the Casualty Station gives my mind something worthwhile to concentrate on. I don't want a holiday: too many bad thoughts would crowd into my mind. Major McCrae seems to sense what I'm thinking, and changes the subject.

"That photograph in your hand. Your friends, or brothers perhaps?"

I don't answer him directly. "You're holding something, too. Are you writing a letter home to Canada?"

"No. I'm writing a poem, about Alexis. But it's rubbish." He screws the paper up as if he hates it.

"Don't do that, Major. Keep the paper, at least. Because whatever your poem is like, even if you think it's no good, it is your effort to remember your friend. So – it's worth something."

"I guess you're right. A poem is something, whereas despair is nothing. But – I've told you about my piece of paper. What of yours?"

I show him the photograph. He looks at me "So – is one of these men?..."

"A sweetheart? Oh no, not at all. No. One of these four men is Corporal Tasker, who is buried, as it happens, just over there, next to your friend. The sight of Tasker's grave reminded me of the photograph. I'd like to find these other three men."

"You'd like to find them?... so they can tell you more about Corporal Tasker?" He looks puzzled.

"Something like that. I'm sorry, but I just don't feel I can talk about it. As soon as I stop working, Major McCrae, I'm afraid my brain goes to pieces."

"Give yourself time. The worst wounds, I know from my own experience, are in here." He taps his head. "And they take much longer to heal than any bodily injury."

"Thank you, Major. That's a useful thought. I'll tell myself that, when I get frustrated that I feel so stupid and confused."

The Major is looking at the photograph in my hands. "Could I see that?" I hand it to him without a word and stare blankly out at the graves, while he peers at the image. I hear his voice again, as if talking to himself. "Well, well. How strange, how very strange."

"What?"

"I know him. This one, here. I treated him."

I follow the line of his finger, pointing at the finely sculpted face of the tall soldier.

"His name is Private John Edgar. He was brought in to Essex Farm, just two days ago. He was the first case they asked me to look at when I came back from the front. A very strange case: he had completely lost the power of speech. And he seemed oblivious to all other people. He wasn't disobeying orders: rather, it was as if he simply couldn't hear other people any more."

"Deaf and dumb?"

"Yes, like the man that Jesus healed in the Bible. I had no idea how to treat him, but I advised that he needed complete rest, rather than the court-martial he was facing for ignoring officers' orders. Indeed, the mood our commanders are in these days, he might have ended up being stuck in front of a firing squad."

"Really? Where is he now?"

"Well, neither I, nor those who wanted to prosecute him, got what they wanted. Because he deserted. He ran away from the camp, just after I saw him."

"Where to?"

"I guess if we knew that, we'd have recaptured him. But – strictly between you and me – I have my guesses. Please don't tell anyone: if he is recaptured, he'll be tried – and possibly executed."

"Of course. You have my promise. Please tell me more about him."

"Well – I'd talked to him. That is, I did all the talking. All he could do was point and make noises, but he couldn't – or wouldn't – actually say anything. But I know a little background, from talking to a Lieutenant Vickers who is in his regiment. Vickers told me that Edgar was originally from the north of England, but that he was living in Paris when the war broke out. I wonder if he may have been an artist there."

"Why do you think that?"

"Private Edgar had only one photograph with him, and funnily enough it was of himself. Standing in front of a painting. The painting was very modern, not my taste at all. I had the impression that the painting was done by him, or that he had some connection to it."

"Major McCrae!" The call has a sharp urgency. The brief moment of respite is over: we are back into action. Major McCrae goes round to the front of the ambulance, calling back to the unseen voice. "I'll be with you right now. What type of injury is it?" And then he's gone.

I notice that he's left his piece of paper, screwed up in the back of the ambulance. I pick it up, flatten it out, and read.

"In Flanders fields the poppies blow

Between the crosses, row on row,

That mark our place; and in the sky

The larks, still bravely singing, fly

Scarce heard amid the guns below.

We are the Dead. Short days ago

We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,

Loved and were loved, and now we lie

In Flanders fields."

I follow the Major back towards the treatment tent. Inside the tent entrance, I can see that he's talking to two men. Two men that I recognise. They're Professor Axelson and Colonel Hampshire.

As I step towards the tent, the air is cut by the sound of a scream from the treatment room. Major McCrae hastily takes his leave of them, disappearing behind another sheet of canvas just as I enter the tent. The professor and the colonel turn to me and smile. Colonel Hampshire speaks first.

"Major McCrae has to treat a soldier who has had a sudden attack of extreme pain." He holds his hand up, as if to stop me following the Major. "But – you're not needed in the treatment room, Agnes."

"Why not?"

"Major McCrae says you need to rest, with immediate effect. Incidentally, he gave us some useful information, too – he had time to tell us that he recognises one of the faces in your photograph. Apparently, it's a man who has deserted. Vanished into thin air. The Major said it was pointless trying to look for him."

"That's right."

The Colonel looks at me. I don't quite like the smile on his lips. "Agnes, you do need rest. Major McCrae told us that you have a lung infection, and need to take time away from here, to recover. Indeed, even I can see that those bright eyes are a little dimmed today."

Professor Axelson nods in agreement, although he doesn't bother with flattery. "I think you should follow Major McCrae's advice, Miss Agnes. He is a distinguished medical man, after all. So please – take a few weeks off. Go to Paris or London. Take a room in a hotel, rest, and take short walks in the park."

"It sounds like you have written a prescription for me, Professor!"

"It is McCrae's prescription, not mine. But I also wanted to reassure you that there is nothing more for you to do here at Essex Farm Camp, in relation to the investigation of Walther Seydlitz's death."

"What about Dr Bernard? Has she been found?"

Colonel Hampshire answers me this time. "We've searched the camp, Agnes. Dr Bernard has gone. Someone saw her at Remy Sidings, the main military railway station near Poperinge. She was standing on the platform, and appeared to be waiting for a train to Paris. They noticed the sling on her arm. So it's very unlikely to have been anyone else. I suspect that Dr Bernard has travelled by train all the way back to Switzerland."

"I think it's worth trying to trace her."

The professor nods. "I agree, Miss Agnes. But not now. You need rest. If necessary, I will travel – alone – to Geneva. But for the moment, I will try to trace the other soldiers in Tasker's team. While you take your time, and recover your health."

The colonel, meanwhile, gestures back towards the camp. "Well, that's all, really, Agnes. I'll give you this." He hands me a card. "These are my contact details, should you wish to write to me while you're on vacation. I'd love to hear from you. Letters are quite a solace to us soldiers, you know. Now, I'll take my leave of you both."

He salutes me gallantly, and smiles broadly. And then he turns on his heel and he's gone. The professor and I are left alone in this section of the tent.

"So, Miss Agnes. We are all agreed, you should take a holiday. But where?..."

"Well, I have one idea. I'll write to you, professor, when I'm there."

"And where is this holiday place, Miss Agnes? Because I think there is something you're not telling me."

"I promised not to say anything. I can trust you, of course, Professor – but I couldn't say anything in front of Colonel Hampshire. He's an Army man, and his duties will include capturing and punishing deserters."

"You see, Miss Agnes! My hypnotic powers are based, of course, in a deep knowledge of human nature. I could instantly tell from observing both Major McCrae and yourself – your manner, the intonations of your speech – that both of you knew more about this runaway soldier than you would tell us. I knew that neither of you wanted to tell me while Colonel Hampshire was present."

"You're absolutely right. Yes I do know more. Major McCrae suspects that the deserter, Private Edgar, can be found in Paris. He also told me that he saw a photograph of Edgar, taken before the war, which might indicate that Edgar has a connection to Paris's artistic community."

"So you are planning to go there, ask questions, try to trace Private Edgar?"

"Yes. I'd rather do that than – nothing. I'm not going to Paris just to take a walk in the park, as you think I should."

"I would prefer that you rested properly and recovered. I can simply instruct a private agent in Paris, because Lord Buttermere has given me a generous budget for this investigation. But – I can see you are determined to be involved. So yes – please make enquiries. As you know, I trust your judgment, just as I did two years ago. Major McCrae recognised the picture of one of the soldiers. That proves that you, not I, was correct about the usefulness of the photograph."

"Thank you."

"So, I will speak to Mr Keys, and ask him to provide me with a second copy of the print, for me to use here at the camp. Tasker is dead, Edgar is gone – but I will search for the two other soldiers here, while you are in Paris."

"I need to talk to Major McCrae and Lieutenant-Major Knight, and explain that I'm leaving."

"Very well. Let me know when you plan to depart for Paris."

I go into the treatment tent, and see Major McCrae bent over an unconscious patient. The Major turns to me.

"This is the chap who was screaming. I've given him morphine – far more than is good for him. But I've seen this kind of wound, often. Shrapnel deep in his abdomen. His liver is too damaged for him to live long. So morphine is the best I can do for him."

"Major McCrae, I'm leaving – to take a holiday, as you advised. I'd like to work for a day or two more while I arrange transport, then I'll travel to Paris."

"I'm glad to hear you are taking time off. But your holiday starts right now; I don't want to see you in the treatment tent again. And – don't hurry back. Fifty years from now, your health may still be affected, if you don't take time now to recover properly from this lung infection." He smiles wryly. "I'm glad you're taking the advice of a professor of pathology."

"Thank you. But also I wanted to say – your poem. You threw it away. Don't. I've brought it back for you: here it is."

As I pass him the crinkled paper, he looks at me. "It's not a very good poem."

"I'm no judge of poetry. But I think you should keep it, Major McCrae. After all, as you said, despair is nothing: a poem is something."

I'm waiting at the Remy Sidings railway depot at Poperinge. Sharp sunlight filters through the smoke from a train pulled up alongside the platform. Through the soot, the light casts bright halos around hundreds of bobbing heads – new, fresh troops arriving. A French regiment to reinforce our front line at Ypres. The Gallic voices ring out across the platform – cheerful, happy to be here, ready for their chance to fight the hated invaders. I stand with my back against the station wall to let all the soldiers pass, and their voices die away amid the smoke. Soon, the platform and carriages of the train are deserted. When it leaves here, the train will carry only three types of people. About a hundred seriously wounded soldiers on camp beds, bound for long-term care in Stationary Hospitals deep inside France. A few military nurses who are travelling with them. And one solitary, convalescent Volunteer Auxiliary – me.

"I hope you enjoy your holiday, Miss Agnes!" I'm not totally surprised to hear Professor Axelson's voice hailing me from along the platform. He's come to see me off on my journey – a kind gesture. I notice there's a tall, thin figure alongside him. They walk over to me, and the professor smiles sagely.

"As I told you, you must not over-exert yourself. So I have arranged..."

Twinkling blue eyes look down on me. I greet the professor's companion. "Hello again, Mr Keys."

"As I said, just call me Keys. Get used to the name..."

"Get used to it?" Realisation dawns. "You mean, Mr Keys, you're coming with me to Paris?"

The professor nods. "I have discussed it all with Mr Keys, and he will assist you. A companion in your mission. After all, he has the skills of an investigative journalist. Lord Buttermere's funding for the investigation extends to recompensing Mr Keys for lost income from his photography business, to cover the time he spends in Paris."

I don't want to appear rude to Keys. But I can't help narrowing my eyes at Axelson. "I'm capable of this, Professor. It is hardly going to be physically strenuous, asking a few questions at art galleries and studios in Paris."

Keys grins. "The Professor's trying to help you, Agnes. After all, a swamp Yankee alone in Paris – anything might happen to you... And I could use a little _joie de vivre_ , as they say round here. You never know, Agnes. You might find me useful."

**10. A hole in the sky**

Our hotel in Montparnasse, south of the Seine, is a little down-at-heel. There seem to be few guests, and the décor is tired, the carpets worn. The elderly lady who greets us appears to act as manager, concierge and maid: there's a mop and bucket behind her desk. But her smile is friendly, and I thank her sincerely as she leads us upstairs. My room is comfortably appointed but the walls are shabby, the bed lumpy, the drapes faded in horizontal lines from years of light through the shutters. The hotel restaurant where Keys and I eat is almost deserted, patrolled by only a single, sullen waitress, and the silent atmosphere dampens even Keys' flow of chatter.

I wake in the night and sense my unfamiliar surroundings, the slight musty smell of this hotel. The bedclothes around me feel clammy; I throw them off me and sit up in the dark, sensing the shape of my unseen room around me. It feels a little airless, and I'm aware of my breathing, the slight wheeze of the lung infection. But there's something else I feel too as I sit there, seeing and hearing nothing. An odd sense of dread, something I can't put into words.

I reach out and touch the switch: the hotel's one up-to-date feature is its electric lighting. But the lights don't come on.

I can't just sit here in this bed in the dark, afraid of – what? I feel along the dressing-table for the lamp – the hotel has retained oil lamps in each room, not having full faith in the new-fangled electricity. After a minute's fumbling I get the lamp lit, casting a little pool of yellow light around me. Everything else is blackness, including the square of the window, where I would expect to see the glow of the city's lights. I don't know what it is – but something is strange, something is wrong.

I hear a gentle knock at the door, and a voice. "It's me, Keys. Are you awake?"

"As it happens, yes. I'm just dressing. I'll join you in the corridor in five minutes. Something seems wrong..."

"I've noticed two things, Agnes. The first is an odd humming noise. It's very faint, but then I opened the window, and the sound is louder outside. The second thing is that every light in this hotel is out."

Minutes later I step out of my door. Keys is there, but so are other people. Other guests – a man in his sixties, still in his dressing-gown, a middle-aged couple, and a young couple with two wide-eyed, wondering children – are all in the darkened corridor. Each little group holds a lamp. For some reason they look to Keys: perhaps they think he's the hotel manager. They ask him questions in French: he holds up his hands and tries to respond in broken words. "Je ne parle bon la Français. Nous devons appeler la Directrice." He looks at me and rolls his eyes. I raise my voice and speak to them in French.

"No-one knows what is happening. We can stay here and wait, or we can find the hotel staff."

The older man responds: he seems to speak for everyone. "The loss of electricity: it could mean there is a fire, perhaps, in some part of this hotel? We would be safer if we went downstairs to the lobby."

"Yes, I agree, Monsieur." I nudge Keys to hold up his lamp, and he leads the way. Our little group descends the stairs cautiously, the swaying lamps casting odd shadows around the stairwell.

The lobby is equally dark. All we can see ahead of us are dim squares: the hotel's front windows. I whisper to Keys. "How odd. The street out there seems nearly as dark as in here."

One of the children cups her hand to her ear. "Listen!" she says. We're all silent for a moment, and we all hear the strange humming noise. It's coming through the front windows, a low, deep buzz, as if the window panes themselves are vibrating. The little girl says what we're all thinking. "There's a noise outside, a bad noise, and it's getting louder."

Keys flashed a glance at me in the lamplight. "I'm gonna go and take a look. Agnes, can you keep everyone else here? Don't let anyone wander off. And keep a lookout for any staff that can tell us what the hell's going on." He makes his way towards the front door while we all stand in an anxious silence. Two minutes go by, but no hotel staff appear. I see Keys' shape silhouetted against the front windows. Then his figure moves back towards us.

"I've been out the front door. The little kid was right. The humming noise is way louder outside – but I can't see where it's coming from. There are lots of people in the street, all looking clueless. I called to a couple of them but they just gestured at me. I think we should all go out there – and ask some questions. In French."

Still no staff appear. Our little procession of lamps makes its way across the lobby towards the front door. We're all silent, listening to the humming. Is it getting louder, or fainter?

My ears split with a crash that shakes me like a leaf: the hotel rocks to its foundations. Something hits me hard in the back, and I stumble forwards, but I don't fall. Our lamps drop, casting wild shadows before they go out. Plaster and splintered wood fall from the ceiling. The two children start screaming: a constant sound, like fire sirens.

Keys calls out. "Is – everyone – OK?"

Only one lamp remains lit; in its light I see billowing clouds of dust swirling around us. Keys holds the lamp aloft, shining whitely on our dust-smeared faces. The parents tell their children to hush, and I hear every voice in our little party responding to Keys. "Oui, oui, Monsieur."

It seems we're all unhurt. The blow to my back was the older man, falling against me. He's on his knees on the carpet, but he tells me he's all right. I help him to his feet, as Keys tells us all in his broken French to get out into the street. With only a single lamp to light our way, we trip and slide on unseen debris. Someone gets the hotel door open. Amid choking plaster-dust, we spill out onto the Boulevard de Montparnasse.

I've barely got my feet onto the sidewalk when there's a second explosion, down the street. I feel the blast, and moments later we're showered in tiny fragments of brick, wood and glass. Our little group is now among the crowds in the street, and there's shouting, screaming: a wave of panicking faces. The shouts are louder than the explosions. Keys looks at me grimly, as we hear a new voice.

"Quiet, everyone. Panic won't help. Just stand quietly. This will soon be over." The speaker doesn't shout – but he has a tone of mastery and command. The yells and screams of the crowd die down: people are trying to control their fear, in response to the voice.

"Thank you, Messieurs, Mesdames. You see, all we can do is stand still and wait."

A woman cries out hysterically. "Wait – for what?"

The answer comes back calmly. "This will very soon be over. Look up: you may even see our enemy."

I look at Keys. "What's going on?"

Keys shakes his head. "I have no idea. There's a constant fear in Paris that our front lines will break, the German regiments pour through. Some say that they could reach Paris in two days. But you and I only left the front one day ago. And the Germans have no guns long-range enough to bombard Paris."

We look up, as the strange voice suggested. All the faces in the crowd, too, are upturned to the skies. There are no lights anywhere: everything from the street to the sky is black, except the stars. There's no moonlight: it seems to make the Milky Way glow and sparkle even more brilliantly, like a diamond necklace strewn across the heavens.

Except that there's a gap in the necklace.

Above the rooftops of Paris, we can see the stars everywhere, except directly above our heads. It's as if the stars in that one place have been extinguished: a black shape, a hole in the sky. I touch Keys' shoulder, and point upwards.

"What – is – _that_?"

Others too have now spotted the black shape above us. The crowd is now silent – but not because of the man who spoke. It's silent in terror. One, two seconds pass and then another fearful crash is heard behind us, down the boulevard.

This time the panic can't be controlled. I feel people pushing, jostling me from all sides. I cling to Keys' arm and we manage to sidle through the throng until we're alongside the wall of our hotel. After all, the building is still standing. Its walls seem reassuringly solid. There's broken wood and countless shards of glass under our feet. We stand and wait, while the crowd goes by, and the scuffling feet and shouts of alarm die away. One minute passes, and I realise that Keys and I are alone, except for the voice that spoke before in the darkness.

"There is little point in running. The next explosion could happen anywhere. It's a simple matter of fate." I hear a chuckle in the voice as it speaks, as if these strange events are somehow amusing. The voice has strength, but I notice an odd quaver behind it. As if the speaker is weak or unwell. I also notice again, now the shouts have died down, the strange humming noise I first heard in the hotel. Like the buzzing of a giant bee. It seems to come from directly overhead. I ask my question again. "What is that?"

"The Germans, of course. They are flying directly above us in an airship. A Zeppelin. The first one was two months ago: it seems that they are trying it again."

I hear a shocked anger in Keys voice. "They are dropping _bombs_? On a civilian city?"

"The rule book of war has gone out of the window. They will do anything they can to hurt us. But the last time they did this, back in March, we were surprised, and powerless. This time..."

I hear another sound: a single gunshot.

"This time, the Paris authorities must have cut off the gas and electricity, plunging us into darkness – but, giving our enemies up there nothing to aim at. A blackout. Last time the city was lit up like a Christmas tree, and the Zeppelin could pick its targets. This time, the Zeppelin doesn't know if it is dropping bombs on the Eiffel Tower, or straight into the Seine."
"But they're still dropping them."

"Yes. But they can't cause much damage. What they want to cause is terror: to make every civilian in Paris afraid of them. But – they should be afraid of us, too. You see, we now have long-range military rifles kept in police stations around the city. The police have been trained in using them, and can go up to the rooftops and attack the Bosch. As you can see, our enemies do present a very large target."

We look upwards. The black shape seems to block out half the sky: cigar-shaped, the humming of its engines is louder now, a growling roar. Another shot rings out, and yet another.

Suddenly we're bathed in light, like a sunrise: the black cigar erupts in a fire that fills the sky from rooftop to rooftop. The ball of flame is hideously incandescent, like a burning sun. Even down here we can feel the heat. Despite what they have been doing to us, I cast my mind to the crew up there. Will they burn, or will they fall to their deaths?

Our new companion looks up at the burning sky. "I suggest we get indoors. If the airship is indeed a Zeppelin manufacture as I understand most of them are, then it will have an aluminum frame. Once all the hydrogen has burned, the airship's frame will fall in pieces. It would be ironic indeed to be killed by a falling piece of metalwork. Come into the Café de la Rotonde with me. It is five o'clock in the morning, but the café remains open through the night, often with me as their only customer. They'll soon be serving morning croissants and brioche. I can even buy you breakfast: for once in my life I have a little money. I've finally sold a painting, you see."

"Thank you. I'm Montgomery Keys, and this is Miss Agnes Frocester. And you are?..."

"I'm nobody. A ghost who haunts the Café de la Rotonde. But my name – it is Amadeo Modigliani."

**11. The Studio**

Despite the blasts, the café's glass doors are intact, but covered with dust. The interior is black as night. But as we open the doors, as if by a piece of theatre, the lighting is restored.

We see an ordinary Paris café – a low ceiling, an array of small tables, dark-stained walnut chairs, a long bar lined with bottles of beer, wine and brandy. But from eye height upwards, I see paintings, hung beside each other frame-to-frame, jostling for space on the crowded walls. The colours are a shock after the dark streets: vivid scarlet flowers, cobalt-blue skies, fresh green grass, the almost-too-real flesh tones of nudes.

"Monsieur, Mademoiselle. Coffee?"

We're greeted by a dark-eyed waitress, who seems to know Modigliani's habitual table. Within a minute she comes back with two coffees, and a small glass of green fluid, which she hands to him. He looks at us both: his eyes are curiously intense, as if drinking in everything he sees. He smiles genially, but there's a melancholy behind his mouth.

"Miss Frocester, I am charmed to meet you, but I am a little worried. Are you one of those young ladies who, when she sees a man in the street these days, gives him a white feather? A message of shame, that the man should not be here in Paris, but enlisted and on the front lines, fighting the Bosch?"

"No indeed. Nothing could be further from my mind."

"But I do feel compelled to explain my situation. Why I am sitting in a Paris café instead of a trench in Flanders?... You see, I am an Italian citizen. But I have lived in Paris for several years, so when war broke out I asked to enlist in the French army. I was determined to fight against this appalling invasion of Belgium and France, just like any French-born citizen."

Keys looks at him. "Italy is to join the Allies. They are expected to declare war on Germany, any day soon."

Modigliani gives a shrug. "We are all allies, either in force or in spirit, against the Kaiser. I was born in Italy – but, I am Jewish. So in any country, I am simultaneously an alien and a native. I wanted to fight on the side of justice and freedom."

"That's commendable."

"I'm no hero. Perhaps, like any young man, I just wanted to be part of something... But, as the war drags on and I hear stories of life on the Western Front, I realise that I've had a lucky escape. I was given a medical examination, you see, and rejected for military service. Tuberculosis. The doctors were probably right." He coughs, and I hear a choking rattle in his throat. He covers his face with hands while the noise continues. But when he looks up again, he is smiling.

Keys rubs his chin as he looks at the man's gaunt figure. "If I may speak frankly – you sound seriously ill. I think the French Army was right not to let you join."

"I have to agree. Living in a trench on the front line, or even in an army camp, last winter – it would have killed me off. Modigliani would have troubled the world no more. And, many people do regard me as trouble. Modi, some people call me. As in the French word 'maudit' – cursed."

I look at him. "It sounds an unlucky nickname."

"My friends prefer to call me Dedo. You too, if I may count you among my friends. But enough of me: what about you? What brings you Americans to Paris? I thought the war had put an end to tourists and sightseers."

I'm surprised at how open Keys is about our mission. "Well, ah – Dedo – we're looking for someone. We don't know much, but we guess the man we're trying to find might be connected to the artistic community here in Paris. His name is John Edgar. So, meeting you – an actual, real artist – it's fortunate."

Dedo looks at us over his glass, the lifts it to his lips. The green liquid has an oily sheen. "I don't know any John Edgar. Is he a painter?"

"We think he was here for a few years before the war, and that he knew some people in the art world."

"Tell me more. Is he a modernist? – a Fauve, or a Cubist perhaps?"

"I have no idea what a Fauve or a Cubist is. And we don't actually know anything more about John Edgar. We were wondering if he might have worked in Paris, or sold his paintings here."

"Ha. Selling. A rare thing. Supply and demand, monsieur and mademoiselle. There are many, many artists in Paris; American, Spanish, British, Russian... they come here from all over the world. All are trying to sell. Each one hopes to become the next _enfant terrible_ , the next darling of the critics and the dealers. But for most of us, that will never happen. I don't paint to please the public. Indeed, sometimes I feel that I paint only to please the demon that whispers in my ear. And the pictures I create – well, they don't 'sell'."

"You told us that you've just sold a painting."

"The usual story. A woman of my acquaintance wanted to model for me. We did a few works together, and she and I are very pleased with them, but the dealers and galleries tell me that the pictures are not suitable for public display."

Keys looks questioningly at him: Dedo carries on. "In this modern age, it is considered right and proper to send thousands of young men every week into battle. There, they are shot dead, blown limb-from-limb by bombs, burned by incendiaries, and now even gassed to death with chemicals. All that is considered necessary, even heroic, simply because the Kaiser wants to show the rest of Europe that he is in charge. But on the other hand, people are shocked and call it 'degenerate' if you dare to exhibit in public a few daubs of pink paint that show a woman's naked body as it actually is."

Keys sticks to his point. "But you did sell a painting."

"Ah yes. The painting. Contrary to rumours, the woman and I are not lovers. She does have a secret lover, however – she brought him to my studio, and I painted his portrait for her. And then, she persuaded her husband that Modigliani is going to be the next great artist, and that he should buy this portrait – as an investment! So, I sell to this husband, a rich banker, a painting of his wife's lover. I believe it now hangs above their dining table, where she can look at it every day."

Dedo chuckles hoarsely, as if life itself is a hollow joke. I look across to Keys, and I can't help rolling my eyes at him. We seem to have entered a different moral world. But despite the story, I can't help liking this dark-haired, tousled young man who, judging from his racked breathing and haunted, deep-set eyes, is only a step away from a sanatorium. It must take huge defiance of spirit, I think, to keep going.

"After we've eaten breakfast, both of you come and see my studio."

Keys looks at him suspiciously. "We're not here to buy art. We're not rich, whatever you Europeans think of Americans."

Dedo laughs again, a laugh that shades into a low, harsh cough. "Of course not! I invite you to my studio, my flat, my home. I am not inviting you to a _shop_. Unlike your New York, this is not a city where everyone thinks only of money. I gave up on that idea long ago. I was born poor, and I'll die poor. I live to paint, whatever the public think of my work."

Keys smiles in apology. "I'm sorry."

"No need to apologise. Life – especially my life – is too short to take offence at anyone. No, I invite you to my studio because I like you, both of you. I would, very simply, like you to see my work. In fact, there is an example here at the Rotonde. I gave one of my paintings to Alphonse the manager here, to pay for a meal when I had no money left."

He points at one of the hanging pictures in the café: it shows the head of a young woman, an elegant ellipse-shaped face crowned with a tall, fashionable hat. It's just a few simple, sinuous lines and colours, done in broad curving swathes of paint, and to my untrained eyes it looks unfinished. But curiously attractive.

It's mid-morning as Dedo leads the way, threading a path through the labyrinth of Montparnasse. Beyond the boulevard we enter a narrow street: I'm enveloped in the harsh smell of French tobacco. The smokers are old men sitting in tiny sidewalk cafés that line both sides of the street. They thumb through newspapers and chat in gruff voices, pointing out to each other the usual news headlines about gallant French soldiers and cowardly Germans. Dedo nods to one or two of the men as we pass, and they raise a hand in silent welcome. We reach a black slot between two cafés: an alley off the main street. The boulevards and streets are kept clean – but as soon as we step into the alley, we have to pick our way through rubbish. I see rats scurrying among the piles of garbage ahead of us. Then we emerge into a little yard, overgrown with grass and weeds, surrounded by the backs of the houses. An outdoor staircase leads up to a frowsy little door in one of the walls.

We step up the rickety, creaking steps to the door. Age-old paint peels in curls from its surface. Dedo pushes it open, squeaking on its hinges: there's no lock. He gives us a crooked grin. "You see, anyone could come in here at any time and take all my pictures. Perhaps the citizens of Paris are too honest... But if the war drags on to next winter, and firewood gets in short supply, they might steal my paintings – to burn, and keep themselves warm." I can't tell if he's serious or not, as we push through the narrow opening into a large room. He smiles again. "Welcome. I've moved here from Montmartre, where my studio was a little dark box. Here, I have more room, and the light is better. Luxury."

We step over the threshold. Paintings and drawings are piled everywhere in the utmost disarray: the bare boards of the floor are everywhere covered with blots of paint, or smeared where Dedo has, I suppose, walked through the paint he's dropped. In places I can see there are large blobs scraped along the floor, as if he's used a knife to gather up the dropped paint to re-use it. I put my hand up, as if to lean against the wall, but he speaks sharply. "Watch out. I've been trying out colours on that wall, and they're still wet." I look, and see smears of glistening paint at shoulder height. Then I hear the trill of a voice coming from the doorway of an inner room.

"Dedo! I've been waiting an hour for you!"

"I've been at the café. All night. As you've probably heard, there was a Zeppelin raid, so I'm a little delayed. And I've brought two new friends..."

The sight that meets our eyes is shocking, to me at least. I doubt if Keys has ever seen anything quite like this, either. A tall woman appears in the inner doorway, a cigarette between her fingers. Her eyes are wide and bold in a strikingly beautiful face. But I'm not looking at her face. I see a long, loose silk gown draped round her shoulders. It's open carelessly, shockingly wide at the front. It's all that she is wearing. She smiles at us, without bothering to adjust the gown.

"Sandrine, may I introduce Mr Montgomery Keys and Miss Agnes Frocester. Would you mind fixing us some coffee? We drank at the café, but..."

"Of course." She turns and disappears from the doorway. I catch Keys' eye: yes, he too is more than a little taken aback. Dedo speaks.

"You see, I have an ulterior motive for inviting you here. My eyes catch every ray of sunlight, every glimpse of beauty in this God-forsaken world. My talent is for depicting female beauty. So I have not failed to notice _you_ , Miss Frocester. In fact, I will be bold, and call you Agnes."

"What do you mean?"

"Your pale colouring, your raven hair. Your green eyes. Your cheekbones. In short, I would like to paint you."

"Uh – I don't think..."

But Keys gives a more decisive refusal. "We are here on business, Dedo. To find our British soldier. We've not got time to sit in a studio while a work of art takes shape."

"A sketch, then? A quick sketch cannot make the difference between life or death."

I find my voice. "A portrait sketch. Yes, that would be interesting. I've never been an artist's subject before. To be honest, I feel flattered."

"Of course, of course a portrait! We have only just met this morning... so I would not ask you to pose nude, Agnes."

"And if you did ask, the answer would be no, whether I'd known you twenty minutes, or twenty years."

I'm surprised at Keys; he has a grumpy, cross air. We go into the room where Sandrine appeared. This room is bare of paintings, and a large window looks out across a scene of overgrown backyards and rickety wooden sheds. In the distance I see the Eiffel Tower piercing the skyline above the ornate rooftops of Faubourg Saint-Germain.

The room's only furniture is an easel and a chaise-longue. I sit demurely on the chaise-longue, in the spot where Sandrine and probably many other women have reclined fully nude in front of Dedo's penetrating gaze. He hunts around and finds a large piece of paper and some crayons. As he begins work Sandrine, her gown now thankfully fastened, comes out with a pot of coffee for us.

"I see you are a new subject for our artist – I have a rival. I suspect that he is tiring of me. Perhaps you are looking for a new muse, Dedo?"

He smiles from behind the easel. "Of course not, Sandrine. Miss Agnes has merely agreed to one portrait sketch." Then he adds "For the moment."

Dedo works quickly, restlessly. Keys stands uneasily at the back of the room, like a fish out of water. He seems unsettled: perhaps he doesn't want to find himself staring at the curves of Sandrine's body, which even now are barely concealed by the gown. After a moment he coughs behind his hand, then says "I'll just wait in the other room, back there."

"Of course, Monsieur Keys. Have a look at my pictures; they are all stacked in there." Dedo is chatty as he sketches. "Take a good look through them, tell me what you think of my work. After all, you too are a visual artist. I would love to have a photographer's candid comments on my paintings – the lighting, the composition..."

"Dedo, what do you think of my hair?" Sandrine interrupts before Dedo has finished speaking.

"I did notice it, Sandrine. A bob. Very modern. Are you are copying Iris? That style suits her better than you." I try to keep my head still for the portrait, but swivel my eyes across to catch a glimpse of the strangely-cropped hair. Dedo smiles at Sandrine, but he can't resist another comment. "Did you cut it with a guillotine?"

"I don't care what you think of it, Dedo, as long as you put in the new painting." Sandrine disappears again, and Dedo and I are left alone in the room. He carries on talking as he works.

"Your friend, Mr Keys. I think he may be a little jealous."

"Of what?"

"It is not for me to say... As you have told me very clearly, you and he are just two people brought together by circumstance, to take on a particular task. There is no other connection between you."

"That's right." For some reason I think of Colonel Hampshire: his smile, his eyes shining in the darkness of the market square in Ypres, his grasp on my hands. "Come back safe, Agnes." What a strange moment that was, I think, absently...

A shrill voice rings through the door. "Dedo! Time is getting on, you know! I have to go home in a while to see my husband. If I keep coming here all day every day, he is going to suspect something. And I have someone else I need to visit, too."

"Who?"

"None of your business, Dedo. But it means that today, you and I have only two hours. When are you going to stop sketching this American girl, and paint me?"

"I've nearly finished, Sandrine." He looks irritably in the direction of her voice. But he smiles again as his crayons trace out a last few lines. Then he stands away from the easel, bows theatrically to me, and hands me the paper. I look.

I'm taken aback, startled. The sketch is done in coloured crayons, and I see the green of my eyes, the pink of my cheeks, hair that looks black but is in fact done in shades of shadowy indigo, cross-hatched with flashes of silver showing where the light caught it. The lips are slightly parted, as if I'm about to speak, and I sense a powerful personality behind the lines of the face, the shadows of the bone structure. I don't recognise myself, and yet I do.

"Thank you." My words seem wholly inadequate. I stand up, shake his hand, and try again. "It's – extraordinary."

"It is indeed extraordinary. Because you are an extraordinary subject."

Flattery? Probably. Indeed his eyes, his thoughts, are already elsewhere. He calls out.

"Sandrine! I'm ready now. Back to the reclining pose we were working on yesterday."

I expected to see the gown again – but Sandrine simply appears at the door, completely naked. She sprawls on the chaise-longue, and I quickly thank Dedo again and leave the room. I'm not quite sure if Keys and I are meant to leave, now.

I'm still holding the drawing, and I can't help showing it to Keys as soon as I come into the room. "I'm just – stunned by it, Keys."

He looks at the sketch, seemingly unimpressed. "I think he's made your face too long. Like a horse not a human."

I find myself answering "It's the style. It's not meant to be like a photograph." But then, I notice Keys' eyes. He's motioning to me silently with his gaze. He doesn't want the two people in the other room to overhear us. Then, he points, and whispers.

"Take a look at that. That sketch there."

Propped up against a pile of picture frames is a drawing. I realise that I've not seen it before; it wasn't visible when we first came into the flat. Keys must have found it amid one of the piles of papers. It's another typical Dedo portrait, full of the sitter's personality but done with the usual elongated, mannered lines. A young man, in the prime of life. His chin and cheekbones are those of a Greek god.

"What?"

"Not what. _Who_."

I look, but nothing comes into my mind. Keys has to say it for me, whispering urgently. "Of course, I have an advantage over you in recognising it. I got a good look at the original, because I took his photograph. A photo that you now have. As sure as eggs is eggs, Dedo's sitter for that sketch is our man. Private John Edgar."

Two minutes pass while I gaze at the sketch. I saw Edgar only fleetingly, in the dark, and then I glimpsed him from the ambulance. But I know that Keys is right.

"We have to speak to them, Agnes."

"I agree." I call out. "Dedo? Sandrine? May we interrupt you both, for a moment? Dedo, could you come in here?"

A few seconds later, both Dedo and Sandrine appear in the doorway. I'm relieved to see that she's put the gown back on. Dedo smiles at us. "Not a problem to interrupt the session. The painting wasn't quite coming together today, was it, Sandrine? I think that sketch of Mademoiselle Agnes is the best thing I will achieve today."

"We've a question for you, if you don't mind." Keys is brisk and businesslike. "That sketch there. The young man."

Dedo looks – but it's Sandrine's eyes that I follow, straight to the sketch. Her pupils widen in surprise, and she breathes in sharply. Keys hasn't noticed her reaction. He speaks again to Dedo.

"Do you know who that man is?"

Dedo nods: I can see the surprise in his face. Almost under his breath, he says "I never knew his name..." But Sandrine interrupts, and there's an edge to her words.

"Can someone, out of the three of you, please tell me what on earth is going on?"

I find my voice. "That sketch. It's of an English soldier. John Edgar. He has deserted the British Army. We've come to Paris to find him. Not because of the desertion. We have nothing to do with the British Army authorities. We want to find him, so we can ask him some questions about a different matter."

Sandrine stares at us. Her face is blank with shock. Dedo speaks for her. "As you may have guessed, Sandrine knows John Edgar. He was, in fact, her lover before the war. I made this sketch in preparation for the painting that I sold to her husband, just as I told you at the café. Sandrine, have you seen John Edgar since the war began?"

She nods. "Yes. He has left the Army and come to Paris. I am hiding him. I'm paying the rental of a flat near here... No-one knows..." She turns on us fiercely. "Do you swear, on your mother's lives, that you are not here to locate him so that the Army can arrest him?" Her eyes blaze at us. "If you lie to me..."

Keys answers her softly. "Please, Sandrine. Believe us. Why would the Army come here in the guise of two civilian Americans? It wouldn't be a very effective way to trace someone. We came here because, in fact, we are investigating the death of another, ah – deserter. A soldier who deserted the German Army, and came over to our side. But then, someone killed that German soldier."

"So? What has that to do with Johnny?"

Keys continues. "We believe that John Edgar may know who killed the German soldier. The German was a prisoner of war – so, his death was murder. If John was a witness to the crime, he may be able to point us in the right direction to find the murderer. That's all we want – information, nothing more. We simply want to speak to him, and ask him about that incident. I swear, exactly as you said on my mother's life, that we won't breathe a word to the British Army authorities about John. But if you can arrange it, we would be truly, truly grateful for the opportunity to speak to him."

"No. I trust no-one these days. And now, I trust neither of you."

Dedo looks at her. "You are wrong, Sandrine."

"You may trust these Americans, Dedo. But I don't. If I tell them, Johnny may be arrested. And what would happen to him then? It's a risk I cannot take." She looks at us fiercely. "Leave now. Don't come back."

Keys answers her directly. "With respect, madam, you can't ask us to leave. It's not your flat."

"You know very little, Monsieur. I pay Johnny Edgar's rent – and I also pay Dedo's. So you see, this is my flat. Go away, now. Both of you."

Dedo's face looks blank. I realise that he's not going to argue with Sandrine over this. I thank them politely for the coffee, and we leave.

**12. Rue de Fleurus**

The afternoon proves to be long and tiring. I hear the nagging voices of Major McCrae and Professor Axelson in my head, telling me to rest, but I ignore them. Instead, Keys and I trail around Paris, visiting galleries and studios, asking questions. Of course we don't know whether Edgar was an artist at all. Maybe his tall figure and striking good looks just got him work as a model.

We show the photo to art dealers across the city. From each well-dressed, middle-aged man we receive a blank look, a Gallic shrug. We are getting nowhere. I feel too tired even to eat. Finally, we turn a corner into the Boulevard de Montparnasse, and see again the wrecked windows, the fallen plaster, the debris from last night's bombs. Seen in daylight, our hotel is a shattered shell. We need to find out what has happened to our belongings. Despite the damage, we're greeted at the doorway by the familiar concierge.

"Monsieur, Mademoiselle! I have been waiting, waiting for you!"

"We're sorry. We thought it would be impossible to get back into the hotel today."

"Of course, the hotel is closed. So, we have moved your cases and clothes and so on. Our sister hotel – just across the road. Please, please, come with me." As we cross the road I glance behind me. I'm amazed, and very grateful, that someone has dared to venture back into the wreckage, just to get our things for us. I thank the lady profusely. The interior of the new hotel is a mirror image of the previous one. Even my clothes are laid out in my new room, exactly as I left them last night. Keys leans in my doorway.

"Well, that was one hell of a long afternoon. I never want to see another painting in my life. I need a drink – care to join me?"

Tired, I walk down to the lobby with him. I can't face sitting in the bar: I ask the bartender for a bottle of plain water, to take up to my room. As I'm passing the reception desk on my way back up, a voice calls.

"Mademoiselle Frocester! A letter for you!" It's the concierge again. I tear open a small envelope. The little card inside it is scented with roses. Art nouveau scrollwork surrounds a message written in a fine, strong hand.

"Mademoiselle Agnes Frocester and Monsieur Montgomery Keys

Invitation

Mademoiselle Gertrude Stein and Mademoiselle Alice B. Toklas invite you to a soirée tomorrow, 8.00pm, at 27 Rue de Fleurus, Montparnesse, Paris.

RSVP"

I go back into the bar. Keys is chatting to the bartender and holding a small glass with the now-familiar green liquid.

"I thought you were tired, Agnes. Pierre here, he recommended me to try this absinthe. It tastes like poison. These painter guys must really have inner demons, if they drink this."

"Look at this." I show him the card.

"It's an invitation."

"Well yes, I can see that, Keys."

"Look, Agnes. We know nothing about these people, or why they've sent an invitation to us. But I'll tell you one sure-fire thing. We know exactly what that little card is."

"What?"

"It's a lead. So, we follow it."

I feel overdressed – or rather, with my neck and shoulders bared, underdressed. At Keys' insistence, I've hired an evening gown. It was surprisingly cheap, but I guess the market for evening wear has declined since the war started. For the first time in my life, I'm glittering with paste diamonds: a brooch, a necklace, a bracelet. My hair is done up with a cloisonné comb. But I have a feeling that, however grand I try to look, it will not quite match the style of the gathering at Rue de Fleurus.

We walk up a flight of stairs, Keys presses a doorbell, and a maid shows us into a vestibule and takes our coats. Eyes look down on me from the wall: two black almonds in a mask-like face. It's a portrait of a woman, made of slabs of colour and geometric shapes. I'm not sure whether I like it or not. At my first glance, the subject's hands seem to be painted with the subtlety and tenderness of Rembrandt, but I look again, and the fingers are like crude bunches of sausages. The paint looks like it's been put on with a builder's trowel. Noticing my gaze, the maid informs me "That's the mistress. Miss Gertrude Stein. The painting is by Monsieur Pablo Picasso. He and his friend Mademoiselle Eva Gouel are here this evening."

I'm starting to learn the language of this bohemian community. "Friend" means model, possibly lover. The maid carries on. "Or, Mademoiselle Frocester, you may prefer to chat to Alice, Miss Stein's friend. She is in the parlor room: Miss Stein and the artists are in the gallery."

"Thank you." Keys casts a glance at me, and I at him, as we step into the "gallery". There are twenty or thirty men, standing in twos and threes, speaking earnestly to each other. Keys' hired formal costume stands out like a sore thumb among their casual jackets; several wear only open-necked shirts. The room itself reminds me of the Café Rotonde: paintings are hung everywhere, frame-to-frame. Many of them are like the portrait in the hall: angular blocks of acid colours. Almost a deliberate ugliness. As I stare at them, a sallow man with dark hair slanted across his forehead speaks to us.

"It is perhaps chaotic to see so many images together. Especially when each image is a prism which itself contains many visions."

Keys answers the man directly. "They're not quite my taste. I like a picture to show something beautiful. By the way, I'm Montgomery Keys. This is Miss Agnes Frocester. We're from the United States." I sense the edge of a smirk, a knowing smile, from our new acquaintance, who glances back towards the paintings.

"Beauty, ugliness. Perhaps these are two masks of one face? I am Pablo Picasso. The ugly paintings are mine."

"They take some getting used to" I say. "But then, I don't know anything about art." I don't feel obliged to be polite for its own sake – but we need to get along with these people, if we are to find out anything tonight. Right now, Keys and I don't even know why we've been invited to this event. But Picasso seems to like our candour about his paintings, and smiles broadly.

"Let me introduce our host. I say 'host' because she would deny the word 'hostess', a mere bourgeois label of gender. Monsieur Keys, Madame Frocester –

this is Miss Gertrude Stein."

I look at the woman who has joined us. Yes, the distorted portrait in the hall has captured something about this woman: keen eyes that look at me like an eagle picking over its prey. Her gaze turns to Keys, then to me.

"Monsieur Keys, Mademoiselle Frocester. I too am an American exile here: I grew up in California. I invited you at the insistence of our dear young Dedo. Pablo and the rest of us have quite taken Dedo under our wing. We believe he will be a great artist, one day. And any friend of Dedo's is welcome here. Dedo and I, you know, are Jews. We both stand a little apart from the tides and currents of normality, looking in on society from the outside." She casts a glance at me, then at Picasso. "Pablo, what do you think of our Miss Frocester? A little gaunt, perhaps?"

Picasso looks at me. "Bone structure. Shoulders, spine, hips. Small but dynamic. There is an African curve to her neck."

It's odd, being discussed as if I were a mere physical object. I speak for myself. "Dedo wanted to paint me. He contented himself with a portrait sketch."

Picasso's eyes continue to roam up and down my body. "Women are either doormats or goddesses. Which are you, Mademoiselle Frocester?"

"Neither of those options. So perhaps your theory is wrong, Monsieur Picasso."

Keys buts in. "I can testify she's not a doormat."

Gertrude smiles enigmatically. "Is a goddess a rose? A rose is a rose is a rose..." While Picasso is thinking of an answer to her remark, I grab the brief pause, and change the subject.

"Your friend Alice was mentioned?..."

"Alice and I share this flat. Against the stupid conventions of this age, she and I are lovers. She is in the parlor room, through there."

I think Stein intends to surprise me with this – and Keys raises an eyebrow at me – but I just smile politely. After the things I've seen at Ypres in the last few weeks, two women in a relationship isn't going to shock me. Meanwhile, Picasso and Stein seem keen to engage Keys in conversation. He's holding his own with them: I hear him say "I knew a Brooklyn girl who looked like a rose..." as I tell the three of them that I'll seek out Alice, and go alone into the parlor room.

It's like any conventional dinner party. In the room behind me are the men – and Gertrude Stein – smoking, drinking, discussing. And here in the parlor, dainty chairs line the walls, and women chatter to each other. These must be the wives, lovers and models of the artists in the other room. A small woman moves among them, asking each of them if they would like coffee: her dowdy hair is flattened around her ears, and in a fringe over her forehead. She's quietly feminine, and somehow I warm to her straight away. She turns to me and smiles.

"You must be Mademoiselle Frocester. I'm Alice. Alice B Toklas – people seem to like to say my full name, for some reason. I gather than you know our friend Dedo?"

And then I see him, at the far end of the room. Dedo is the only one of the artists to come in here with the women. He's standing with his back to us, chatting with a group of seated ladies. Unlike Picasso, he's genuinely listening as they talk. One of the women is Sandrine, resplendent in the richest of evening wear. Her silk gown contrasts oddly with her boyish haircut. Then I notice the person sitting next to her. Even seated, the man looks tall, yet his figure and face seem to blend into the wallpaper: that's why I didn't notice him at first. It's Private Edgar.

He's wearing a dinner jacket, but I'm reminded of his uniform out on the front line. Like then, he's looks like he's been dressed in it against his will. I know that Sandrine has told him to wear it. Her hand is on his knee, and she's trying to involve him in the group, but he seems to retreat from the others, back into his seat. The group is all talking, laughing at something that Dedo has said, but Edgar is silent. There's no time to waste: I step over and introduce myself.

Sandrine's face turns white. She looks at Dedo, then at me, and there's ice in the polite edge of her voice. "This is a surprise, Miss Frocester. I did not know that you were connected to our society. Dedo here, he must have invited you. And not told me."

Dedo's smile is controlled but calm. "I did suggest to Gertrude that Mademoiselle Frocester and Monsieur Keys should come along this evening. There is nothing wrong in that. We are all friends here, bound by respect – and trust. What do you say, John?"

He looks at Edgar, who tries to smile in acknowledgement, but nothing happens: there's a frozen blankness in his sculpted face. Dedo speaks again.

"Sandrine – you and John can talk to Agnes tonight, should you wish to. Then, John may return to his lodgings, and Agnes need never know where he is living. So you need have no fear that the British Army will come and take him away." He looks hard at Sandrine. She returns his gaze as if she wants to kill him.

"Look at him. _Look at Johnny_." Her tone is raised, and the other women in the group glance at each other. But Edgar stares forward into emptiness, and winces as if cut by her voice as she carries on. "Johnny, you cannot speak, can you? This war, this hellish stupidity of our age, has made you dumb. You are physically incapable of telling this lady whatever secrets she wants to find out."

Two or three women nod apologetically and smile at us, and leave our little group with a sigh of relief. Soon only Edgar, Dedo, Sandrine and I are left. She hisses at Dedo. "So – your little trick of getting Gertrude to invite your new American girlfriend – it was futile. Johnny can tell her nothing. And you talk about trust, Dedo. Bringing this woman here, to Rue de Fleurus. That's a betrayal of _my_ trust."

I try to calm the situation. "Look, Sandrine. I have no more knowledge of where John is living than I did before. Just as Dedo says, John can leave here tonight, go back to his lodgings, and I'll be none the wiser. All I need to do is to show him a photograph. As I didn't know he would be here, I've not brought that photograph with me. But, Mr Keys and I can leave this party, right now. I hope we haven't spoilt it too much for you. And then tomorrow – I could pass the photo to you, though Dedo?"

"What use would that be to you?"

"It might be very useful. You could show it to John, and then return it to me, at your convenience, along with anything, John, that you are able to write or say about it." I try to catch his eyes, but he's looking at the floor. I carry on. "All I am looking for is information. Honestly, I'm not interested in you deserting the Army, John."

Out through the doorway to the gallery, I hear a loud rapping on the outer door of the flat, but I carry on speaking. Sandrine may be beginning to believe me. I keep talking, my voice gentle, trying to persuade her. "Without an address to trace him to, Sandrine, I am hardly able to turn John over to the British."

I hear the outer door opening, and louder voices. I glance through the connecting door: I see Keys, Stein, Picasso and the other men parting to let a group of newcomers into the room. The strangers are brisk: they come straight through the crowd into the parlor room.

As they come through the door, women around the room gasp in shock. Amid the evening dresses of the ladies, the glitter and sparkles, there are dull harsh shades of khaki. Standing in the middle of the room are three British Army soldiers. Two of them wear the distinctive uniforms of Military Police. The third soldier has a face I've seen before. It's Colonel Hampshire. He looks straight into my eyes, but doesn't greet me. His speaks sharply to the whole room: a voice like a trumpet blast.

"We have a warrant for the arrest of Private John Edgar, a British Army deserter, who has fled to Paris. As part of our search for him, we have come here to question a Madame Sandrine Terray, who, we understand, is a guest at this party. We believe that Madame Terray is sheltering Private Edgar."

I realise from Hampshire's speech that they don't yet realise that Edgar is actually here at Stein's flat. I turn instinctively to look for Edgar, but I don't see him anywhere. He's vanished, as if by a magic trick.

I hear Dedo's voice: calm, assured and relaxed. "Messieurs, Madame Sandrine is not here this evening. We received a note to say she had a headache."

There is disbelief in the colonel's face. His eyes cast around the room, staring at each woman, wondering if she is Sandrine. Sandrine herself looks down at her hands, and I see her shoulders shaking. I wonder what she thinks of me now.

Colonel Hampshire ignores Dedo, and speaks directly to one of the women, seated near the wall.

"Who are you? Tell me your name. We need the names of each and every one of you women. I need definite confirmation that Sandrine Terray is not here tonight."

The woman stands up. It's an effort for her to rise from her chair; her face is strong, but pale and bony. She's clearly not in the best of health, but she holds the colonel's eye.

"I am Eva Gouel. I've come to this party with Monsieur Picasso, and I know every single person at this gathering. Except for you three uninvited guests." She takes a step towards Hampshire and the two policemen. Despite his bold stance, Hampshire steps back a little. The little woman continues to look at him, levelling him with her eyes. "I can confirm that Sandrine Terray is not here this evening. So, you can leave right now. And an apology, too, would not be amiss."

Alice too, in her quiet way, challenges Hampshire. "Sirs, you may as well leave. You have nothing to gain by staying. Madamoiselle Stein and I received Sandrine Terray's apologies earlier this evening, sir."

The colonel looks from one woman to another, and around the room. He realises that even if he asks every one of them in turn, it will get him no further. He looks sharply at Alice. "So – how do you suggest that I find Madame Terray? If you received her apology, you must have invited her. You must know something of her."

"I have no suggestions, sir. I have met Madame Terray only once. She is a friend of Monsieur Modigliani, this gentleman here. But I have no home address for her. And I am completely unaware of this Private Edgar that you mention."

"Mr Modigliani." Colonel Hampshire glares at Dedo. "You seem to have knowledge of Sandrine Terray. Perhaps you know about Private Edgar too. Get your coat. Under the military laws now prevailing in France, we have the right to take you away for questioning."

Dedo answers him cheerfully. "Of course, sir. I am very happy to help you in any way I can. As you suggest, I will get my coat." He turns, opens a door behind him and steps through it.

Moments pass. Like all the other women, I stand, saying nothing, and occasionally glance at our intruders. I expect the colonel to speak to me, but he continues to act as if he doesn't recognise me. Seconds, then minutes, tick awkwardly by, and nothing happens.

Colonel Hampshire twists his hands together. Again he looks around the room. At least two minutes have now passed. He looks sharply at Alice. "There is only one entrance to this flat, isn't there? The door we came through into the flat – that's the only way in?"

"Indeed, Monsieur. There is no other way to get out of the flat." But even as she's answering him, the colonel pushes past her, to open the door Dedo used. Through the opened door I see a small corridor, ending in a wide-open window. The drapes blow in the gentle night breeze. Colonel Hampshire rushes to the window, looks out, and calls back to the military policemen.

"Come here, both of you! That damned Modigliani fellow has escaped through the window!"

Both policemen follow the colonel, their bulky figures filling the little corridor. As they do, a different door at the other end of the parlor opens, revealing Dedo, a finger raised to his lips, with the tall, quiet figure of Edgar behind him. He gestures to me, and I follow them out of the parlor.

Every woman in the room is silent; we can hear every word spoken by the three men in the corridor.

"There's a side door here, Sir. Shall I take a look behind it?"

"No, no. He's clearly gone out through the window."

I motion to Keys: he's not seen what has happened, but he understands. Quickly, quietly the four of us step through the front door of the flat. Under his breath, I can hear Dedo suppressing a laugh. "Who would have thought that the great British Army could be outwitted, simply by my knowledge of the layout of Gertrude Stein's flat?"

As soon as we reach the stairs we break into a run, and in moments we're down on the ground floor and out onto the sidewalk. The effort has hurt my lungs, but I hear Dedo breathing even harder. We take a few paces away from the entrance to the flat; every step takes us further into the sheltering darkness. Keys is looking behind us, keeping an eye on the doorway. Dedo holds his hand up, and we pause. The exertion is visible in his face. "Leave me here. I am too weak to run, even if Satan were after me. Instead of which, we are chased by far less frightening foes. A bullying Army officer and two stupid policemen." He wheezes, bending his back, then straightens up. "I will face up to these buffoons, talk nonsense to them, delay them for a while. You three can escape."

I speak quickly. "Dedo, Private Edgar – there's something you must know. Please believe me. We didn't betray you. Those soldiers – they are nothing to do with us. It's just an awful coincidence, that's all."

Dedo manages a smile. "Of course I believe you. If I didn't believe you, why would I have involved you in this escape? Now, you three must get away from those idiots. Leave me here. I will enjoy wasting their time, while you make your escape."

Keys speaks. "No, Dedo. We need you with us. You know this area: we don't. I'd rather go slower, but with the help of a guide, than run and lose ourselves in these streets. We'll end up in some blind alley with the soldiers right behind us."

"Very well. Yes, your idea does make sense. Let's go, as quickly as I can manage to walk. Alice and Gertrude will, I'm sure, delay our pursuers leaving the flat if they can – but in two or three minutes, they will be following us. But I have a few tricks up my sleeve. I know where we can go."

**13. The city of silence**

We hurry along the street, as fast as Dedo's breathing will permit. I'm glad to see that the streetlights are dim in this area. Away from each lamp, our figures disappear into blackness. Ahead of us is a looming, unlit area.

"Le Jardin de Luxembourg." says Dedo. "They won't find us in there."

A wrought-iron gate guards the park, but it's not locked. Dedo lifts the latch, and we enter the dark of the garden. I can tell by the grassy rustle on my shoes that we're on a lawn, and around us I can dimly see the pillar-like trunks of scattered trees. After two minutes, I glance back towards the Rue de Fleurus. From here in the darkness, the street now appears well-lit – and, still empty. Maybe Hampshire and his men have yet have not emerged from Stein's flat? We've eluded them, I think. I say it out loud, so Edgar can hear. "We're safe."

"Quiet!" A hiss from Dedo. "Look."

I follow his pointing finger and see the beam of a flashlight on the grass within the Jardin de Luxembourg, maybe fifty yards off to our left. I can hear my heart beating. Dedo pushes me, rightwards. Then I feel Keys take my hand. He and Dedo lead the way, but I glance back to make sure Edgar is with us. Yes, he's behind me. I reach out and take his hand. His tall figure looms against the night sky above me as he follows me, away from the direction of the flashlight.

Keeping close together, we creep like mice into the densest area of trees. Branches loom out at us, and my feet brush against last year's fallen leaves. I place my feet nervously: a single snapping twig will give us away. I can see nothing, but I feel the pull in Keys' hand, and I follow as silently as I can, trying to shuffle my legs silently through the undergrowth. Edgar stumbles behind me, but I don't let go of him. Slowly, the beam of the flashlight behind us fades to a glimmering spot on the other side of the park.

The blackness of the trees opens out, revealing a starry sky above us. We've come to a wide, wooded avenue. "The Avenue de l'Observatoire" whispers Dedo. I hear the exhaustion in his voice.

We keep close to the trees along one side of the Avenue, moving at a slow walking pace. Dedo's breath comes in spasms. But we're still far ahead of the dim beam of the flashlight. Dedo leads the way, Keys behind him still holding my hand, and we walk along wordlessly. Time has slowed down: each second seems stretched to hours. We step along, seeing nothing, hearing only the faint rustle of our footsteps on the grass and Dedo's repetitive wheezing. Now and then he suppresses a cough with a strangled sound.

At last, we reach the end of the Avenue and step out onto a wide road. There's more streetlights here, and we keep to the shadows and corners of buildings, following Dedo as he leads us towards a dark dome outlined against the sky.

"That's the Observatoire. The astronomers will be working in there, and there's nowhere to conceal ourselves around here. But don't worry. I know somewhere, not far away, where we can hide. A place where God himself couldn't find us."

I wonder at his curious phrase. In the passing streetlights I catch the curve of a smile in his face. He glances back at me, and adds "I know the keyholders, you see."

We reach a wide thoroughfare, but fortunately it's not well lit. It's easy to keep to the inner edge of the boulevard, where there are deep shadows. I dare a single glance backwards, and I see the flashlight again, sweeping from side to side but not moving towards us. Dedo whispers. "They're making a thorough search of the Observatoire gardens. We should have time to reach our hiding place. No-one in there will betray us to our pursuers."

"No-one? Who is there, in the hiding place?"

"Many people." Dedo grins. "But I can vouch for every single one of them. Not one of the inhabitants will breathe a word to the authorities." He puts a finger to his lips to silence my questions, and we cross the road where the lights are dimmest. On the other side, the sidewalk is bounded by another small area of parkland, and I see Dedo running his fingers along the edge of a low wall, in the shadows under some trees. His voice rasps in the darkness.

"At last. Here it is. Keys, can you help me?"

Keys looks at Dedo doubtfully, but he helps Dedo lift up one of the capstone slabs that line the top of the wall. With effort, Keys holds the heavy stone vertical, and Dedo feels underneath. I hear him again. "Ah, yes. Here it is." Then, I see Keys lowering the capstone, but as it slides into place, the stone scrapes. In the silence, the grating sound can be heard all around.

I see the flashlight beam start to move towards us, rapidly. "There's still time" gasps Dedo. He points to something I hadn't noticed: a kind of black sentry-box, with a single small door. Dedo now holds a key: he turns it in the lock and we're through the door in seconds. He hastily locks it behind us. As the key clicks shut, a furious hammering breaks out on the other side of the door.

Dedo pays no attention to the noise; he strikes a match, and speaks quickly.

"Those soldiers have brute force on their side, and that door is a flimsy affair. It will not hold long. We must descend into the ground. I will lead: we go in single file. Hold hands and follow me."

The flickering match-light illuminates an unexpected sight, like a scene from the Middle Ages. We're in a bare stone chamber, a dungeon. In front of us, a spiral staircase of rusting iron twists downwards into a stone-lined vertical shaft, like an ancient well. Dedo takes Keys' hand and he holds mine. I take Edgar's limp hand in mine just as the match goes out. The hammering is worse now: a heavy, rhythmic thump. They're doing something to break the door down.

I feel the pull of Keys' hand and move forward; my feet feel the lip of the first step. There's no time for hesitation: I step downwards, dragging Edgar behind me. The iron steps clang under my feet, but I hear Dedo's voice again. "Don't hurry. We cannot afford to trip here. Just step regularly, smoothly." I try to respond to Keys' pull, and somehow we get into a clattering rhythm. The blackness accentuates the noise of our feet ringing on the stairs, which spiral dizzyingly, round and down and down. We seem to be descending a deep mine shaft. I'm wheezing badly and my thighs are aching as we finally step on a solid stone floor, and I hear Dedo's hoarse voice "This way. Follow me, through here – then wait, just beyond me."

Keys pulls me forward in the dark, but can hear that the hammering above us has stopped. Have they given up? Then I glimpse behind me in the blackness the flash of a light, shining down the shaft. Seconds later, the thundering of feet begins on the stairs above us, and I hear Colonel Hampshire's voice, echoing hollowly down the shaft. "Give up now. You have nowhere to go: you're rats in a trap down there."

Dedo strikes a second match. He says nothing: there's no time to explain. I see that we have just passed through a gate, made of a grille of solid iron bars. Dedo clangs it shut, and I hear a key grind painfully in a lock. Then he speaks. "We must move on, quickly. This grille is stronger than the door at the top of the staircase. It should hold them for a while – but when they reach it, they may shoot at us through it. I'm putting this match out now: carry on holding hands, and follow me."

The clanging footsteps on the spiral stairs echo in our ears as we set off into blackness. I might as well be blindfolded: are we in a cave, or a tunnel? I'm holding hands ahead and behind, but as we walk my knuckles scrape on stone walls. We're in a narrow passageway, and I sense that it's twisting and turning, left, then right. Good. Our pursuers won't be able to see us, to shoot at us. Dedo's voice comes through the dark. "We're well ahead of them now. The iron gate should hold them for several minutes. Enough time for us to reach our hiding place." Despite the harshness of his breathing, he still sounds calm. Our little procession advances steadily down the tunnel. Occasionally I touch the walls, which are now horribly wet and slimy. In places our feet splash through unseen puddles, and then I hear a gurgling sound. Quickly, it becomes a roar.

"We're crossing the path of the Medici Aqueduct, a tunnel to bring water into Paris. It was dug in the seventeenth century, so the engineering is rather primitive. The water leaks everywhere." My feet slither along on the slime-covered floor. I concentrate on holding onto Keys and following where he leads. We seem to be crossing a kind of subterranean bridge over a river. I can hear the water roaring on either side of me, as if it's pouring through my ears. Nightmares of rushing water run through my head, but I focus on gripping Keys' hand. Edgar is still behind me, his feet slipping and sliding. I grip his hand hard too, we take step after step, and little by little the roaring recedes. At last, the air seems drier again. But it's somehow mustier, more choking, as if full of chalk dust. I feel it in my lungs, and Dedo's breathing too, sounds louder ahead. Five minutes more pass in darkness, threading our way along the tunnel like blind worms, hearing my wheezing and Dedo's racked gasping. Finally, he speaks.

"I think the iron gate is holding them – for the moment. So, we have a few moments to stop. We need to pause here while I get my bearings." There's the sudden flare of a third match, and I see the black outline of Dedo's hand holding it aloft. Above us, carved into a stone lintel above the passageway, is a sign.

"Arrête! C'est ici l'Empire de la Mort."

Keys translates it, as if speaking to himself. "The empire of the dead."

I look at Dedo. "What on earth is this place?"

"You wonder at me knowing of the key to these catacombs. From time to time I have been invited to certain – gatherings. Friends who have keys – illegally, of course – to this place. They like to come down here in the darkness, carry out certain rituals. Now, I know where we need to go from here."

We walk through the stone portals below the strange message. As we do, Dedo explains. "This empire down here – its inhabitants are those who have died in Paris, over hundreds of years. The city of silence has six million souls. The remains of every single one are stacked here. So, you see why I said that no-one down here would betray us to our enemies. They will be – as silent as the grave."

I look – and there they are. Shockingly, nakedly, everywhere. The flickering matchlight plays on walls made of clean, shiny human bones. Dedo leads us forward on an avenue lined with glistening skeletons. I gaze into the sockets of polished skulls that watch us from both sides as we pass deeper into the grave. Then the corridor widens into a chamber with a central pillar supporting the roof. The entire pillar, I see, is made of carefully stacked skulls and femurs.

"We must follow the passages to the right. I'm putting the light out now."

We're moving in darkness. My hand holds Keys', and my other holds Edgar's. We trace our way through corridors built of bones, a strange little cortège. Soon I hear the clank of a chain.

"We are leaving the decorated areas of the ossuary. We have to step over this chain: it's a barrier for visitors. No-one normally goes beyond this point." Each of us in turn feels for the cold iron chain, and steps carefully over it.

"Now" whispers Dedo. "We should be able to hide in this corridor."

We take just a few more steps and I can feel the passageway curving round a corner. "Watch out. This area is not maintained." I feel my feet grazing against objects on the floor. "Tread carefully. Bones have fallen from the stacks along the walls." My foot feels the round shape of a skull, like a hard soccer ball. Then my head grazes against stone.

"Bend down here. This area is partly collapsed: the roof is very low. Bend, but move as quickly as you can. And move your feet carefully too: you may trip over a fallen skeleton."

Each footstep now is cautious, probing with my toes as we move at a snail's pace through the tunnel. Was that echoes of human voices that I heard behind me? Or, just the sound of our own movements, bouncing off the bony walls of the catacombs?

The tunnel constricts into a low, thin slot around us. We have to bend still lower, and in the dark I feel bones jutting out from the walls on both sides, rubbing against my shoulders, my elbows, the sides of my head. There's dust suspended in the air; tiny fragments of humanity, I guess. I force air in and out of my lungs, but between breaths, I hear my heart beating like a drum. Despite the fear of pursuit, I'm starting to feel something worse – a choking claustrophobia, a sense of being drawn in among the dead, of suffocating in a bony embrace. I don't believe in ghosts, but I sense the millions of dead lives, the men, women and children all around us. It's a crazy thought, but I feel like we are joining the ranks of the dead, becoming like them, sharing their dark entombment.

Suddenly I'm knocked over, the breath punched out of my chest. My face hits a floor thick with gritty dust: I can feel it in my eyes, taste it on my tongue. Like gray ashes. Edgar has knocked me over: he's tripped on the bones behind me and fallen onto me. I'm breathless, dusty, but unhurt. But the noise of his fall...

A voice echoes in the passages.

"Private Edgar! We know you're hiding there! Come out now!"

I get to my feet and whisper to Dedo. "Can we go further down this passageway?"

"There's an iron gate, just a few years ahead of us. But I don't have a key to it. The area beyond is permanently closed off: it's unsafe."

Keys whispers. "I'll try the gate." I hear him rustling past Dedo: then, in the dark. I hear him pushing at the gate, hard but as quietly as he can.

The voice again. "Edgar! We will shoot, if you don't answer us now and give yourself up."

Dedo whispers to me. "The sound is magnified. They're a long way behind us. Only when we see their flashlight beam will they be near us." There's a thunder of blows on the gate from Keys, and I hear a cracking noise. Dedo speaks again. "Careful, Keys. The rocks here are just like old bones themselves – porous limestone, crumbly and weak. Don't bring the roof down on top of us." We stand for a moment, hoping the gate will open, hoping not to see the flashlight advancing along the tunnel. The roof here is higher: I can stand up again, and I glance behind me. And now I see light, shining on rows of skulls: they seem to chuckle at us as the beam flickers. Suddenly there's a harsh white ray. It floods, like sunlight, through the slit of the passageway behind us. Silhouetted against the flashlight is Edgar, his hands raised in surrender, but he says nothing. I realise that the passageway behind us is so low that the soldiers can't see his arms.

""Private Edgar! Do you surrender to us?"

I can see his Adam's apple working, trying to speak. One, two seconds pass, but nothing happens.

A shot rings out.

It's hit the wall, not Edgar. And I hear grinding ahead of us, the opening of a metal gate. There's no time for thought: I grab Edgar round the waist and pull him along the corridor into the darkness.

I can hear the soldiers coming closer behind us, and the corridor ahead is now lit by their waving flashlight. Our own shadows loom up starkly ahead of us, huge and grotesque in the light. Dedo's arm points out more steps, another spiral of stone leading downwards. My feet slip on the ancient staircase, down and down... but not far, this time. We're at the bottom already, in total darkness.

I hear voices from above. "Down here, sir?"

"Yes, but go carefully. That iron gate back there means that this section was closed off, for safety. There's probably been no-one in this area for a hundred years."

We try to step away from the stairs, but the floor moves beneath us. I realise that we're treading on loose piles of bones, and they're moving under our feet. Not just a few bones – the floor is covered with them, several feet deep. I feel forward, touching cold edges of stone around the mouth of a tunnel. It's narrow and low: stacked to within maybe three feet of its roof with mouldering remains.

Keys speaks. "Into this little tunnel, Dedo?"

"Yes. It's our only option. All we can do now is hope that we'll reach a place where they won't dare to follow us."

I hear footsteps coming down the stairs behind us. They're only a few feet from us. I crawl into the hideous hole, shuffling forwards. I'm maybe five yards inside the tunnel. Just behind me, Edgar's tall frame is struggling to move along the passageway. His legs kick in an effort to push himself along, but his jacket is caught on a projecting stone. He pulls it free, and the stone comes down. Dust falls everywhere, like white drops of rain caught in the harsh glare of the flashlight that is now shining in on us, illuminating the silhouettes of a thousand bones.

"Edgar. Give yourself up. Now!"

Another stone falls.

Edgar mouths something: mumbling, incoherent. His legs are still kicking out wildly behind him in the tunnel, like a frog. But then I hear Keys' voice, coming from behind us. He must have stayed back at the foot of the stairs, to safeguard our escape.

"Listen to me, officers. This passage beyond me is full. Stacked to the top with bones. There is crawling room only. And the top of the tunnel is falling in. If you try to catch Private Edgar in there, you might bring the whole roof down –"

Colonel Hampshire ignores Keys, and interrupts loudly. "Edgar – we don't need to come into that hole to get you. We can see you. We will shoot to kill. Or, you can surrender. Your choice."

Ahead of me, I see the outline of Dedo's face in the glare of the flashlight. Beyond him, the light shines to the far end of the tunnel, where it's completely blocked by piled bones: there's no way forward. Dedo realises that the soldiers have a direct line of sight to Edgar – indeed, to all three of us. He calls out. "Very well, gentleman. You have caught us. In your military language – we surrender." He adds, with a wry grin "Please don't shoot poor Mr Edgar in a very sensitive part of his anatomy."

But Edgar himself hasn't understood that we're captured. I feel him frantically scrabbling and pushing behind me. Bones clink hollowly all around us. Despite what Dedo has said, Hampshire's voice rings out again.

"Edgar, stop moving, now. You have one second to stop, or my men will fire."

Edgar jerks again, convulsed with terror. Suddenly there's a clatter of stones, then a deafening noise. Like an earthquake, breaking the rocks around us. The light of the flashlight behind us is snuffed out. I feel hard blows on my head, my back. Bones are falling on me. I feel the press of skeletons, all around and above me, and everything goes quiet.

**14. Strange meeting**

I open my eyes, but nothing changes. As before, I see only darkness.

But everything is different. I realise that I'm sitting – slouched, really – in a well-padded chair. I must have been sleeping. My shoes rest on a thick, soft rug, and instead of the foul atmosphere of the ossuary I sense the warm, pleasant air of a domestic room.

I try to rise from the chair. But I can't. There's something tied around my waist, holding me to the chair. But in this seated position, I'm not uncomfortable. My arms are free, and I feel my waist, trying to work out what's tying me down. It feels like a long, soft pashmina scarf. My fingers find the knot, and discover that it's tied very securely. But I have plenty of room to breathe, and to move.

Where on earth am I? It seems I'm imprisoned, but in comfort. And suddenly there's the flicker of a match, and I see a ball of soft light: a lamp is lit, on a table next to me. My eyes are well-adjusted to darkness; I can make out the dimly-lit furnishings of a large room. I see the curls and scrolls of elaborate rococo plasterwork, and the shine of woven silk: luxurious tapestries hang on the walls. I call out.

"Who are you? You, there, lighting the lamp?"

There's no reply. I hear the click of a door closing: whoever lit the light has left me. The lamp stands on an ornately carved oval table: the finest of waxed veneers shines in the glow. And also, catching the light, is a delicate porcelain cup of coffee, and a plate of croissants and pains-au-chocolat. A glass of water stands next to them, the fine etching of the glass sparkling like a jewel.

I pick up the water and take a sip. More and more, I am thinking: this is a strange imprisonment. I don't feel overly thirsty, or hungry – but all the same, I will enjoy this treat that's been laid out for me. Next, I taste the coffee. It's delicious.

I'm wiping a crumb of the last croissant from my lips when I hear a voice speaking in the darkness.

"I must apologise, Miss Frocester, for the restraint. You can understand that although we wanted to ensure your comfort, we could not have you getting up and wandering the corridors of the château."

"I'm in a château. Where? Am I in Paris?"

"You are in France. More than that, I cannot say. We call this Château Niobe, but that is a name of convenience. The real name of this château, and its location, you will never know."

"And who are you?"

"You and I have met before, Miss Frocester. It is strange that our paths have crossed again. But this time, my respect for you is increased. For that reason, I have decided to share information with you, rather than conceal it from you, as I would have done with anyone else. I think that if I tell you the truth about this affair, it might satisfy your curiosity – and ensure your future co-operation. Because, when you leave this place, we need you to forget this whole matter, as if it had never happened."

"Lord Buttermere? Is that you?"

For answer, the man sitting in the chair across the room stands and throws open the curtains. I blink as sunlight floods into the room. I also hear the door open, and a middle-aged woman steps into the room. The elegantly dressed man sits, and says a few words to the woman in French: she bends over me, and the scarf is untied.

"Would you like any more coffee, or something to eat perhaps? Madeleine can get you anything that you wish."

"I'm fine, thanks. But I'd like to understand what is going on. And, where are Mr Keys, Monsieur Modigliani and Private Edgar?"

I look across to the chair opposite me. Despite his small stature and elfin features, Lord Buttermere's presence seems to fill the room.

"Firstly, Miss Frocester, I should tell you that the British Army personnel took all of you away from the scene of the catacomb collapse for your own safety."

"They were about to kill Private Edgar."

"A single word from him to Colonel Hampshire would have kept him safe."

"And is he 'safe' now? What have you done with him? And with Keys and Modigliani?"

"Let me begin at the beginning, Miss Frocester. You need to understand the wider context, the immeasurable importance of this matter that you are involved in. Please, read this. This is today's news. As you will see, a large number of your countrymen have died."

Lord Buttermere proffers a newspaper towards me. I see the familiar masthead of the New York Times, and I read.

" _Lusitania sunk by a German Submarine, Probably 1,000 dead including hundreds of US citizens._

Luxury liner twice torpedoed off Irish coast; it sinks in 15 minutes. Washington believes a grave crisis is at hand. Bulletins at White House: President Wilson reads them closely, but is silent on the nation's course."

I read every word on the page, scouring the newsprint, trying to comprehend the horror. Buttermere is quiet as I read. Finally he says softly "You see?"

"I see that America may enter the war against Germany. But most of all, I just feel the world's gone crazy. This was a civilian passenger ship: surely there must be..."

"Rules of war? Yes – just as there were rules under the Geneva Convention preventing the use of poison gas. You know first-hand how the Germans broke that rule at Ypres. And, you witnessed another German atrocity too. A Zeppelin attack on the civilian population of Paris."

"I did. I couldn't believe what was happening."

"There seem to be no boundaries to our enemies' savagery. Personally, I hope the United States does enter the war, to help us bring an end to these atrocities."

"Why are you telling me all this?"

"As I said, Miss Frocester. I am providing you with the context to this affair. I am telling you these things so that you understand that our enemies must be beaten, _at any cost_." He pauses, and looks into my eyes.

"Now – let's go back in time a little. In January, our agents behind the German lines received a message from a German Army officer called Walther Seydlitz. The name Seydlitz would be unfamiliar to most people – but to British Secret Intelligence it was of intense interest."

"Why?"

"Friedrich Seydlitz, Walther's father, is a rare combination. He is – or rather, was – Germany's foremost mining engineer, a man with nearly a hundred patents to his name. But he is also known as an ardent pacifist."

"You say 'was' – is he dead?"

"Friedrich Seydlitz is very much alive. I say 'was' because he is no longer German. On the outbreak of war he left Germany, and he has applied for American citizenship. He is practically American already: he has spent nearly half his life in mines in the Rockies."

"Is he in America at the moment?"

"Right now, he is in Switzerland, but he is shortly to move to the United States permanently. His daughter Anna lives in Colorado: she is married to an American mining engineer."

"So Seydlitz left Germany because of the war?"

"Yes. You see, most of his inventions are detonators and explosive devices used in mining. During the years leading up to the war, the German government put increasing pressure on him to help develop their weaponry. Given Seydlitz's personal views on war, he naturally resisted their demands, and eventually escaped them."

Buttermere pauses, and rings a bell-pull that hangs alongside his chair: Madeleine reappears and refills our coffee cups. Then he carries on.

"Friedrich's son Walther worked as a young man with his father. But when war broke out he was torn between his father's pacifist beliefs and a natural desire to serve his country, and the latter won out. He became an officer in the Prussian Guards."

"If he joined the German Army, why did he try to come over to our side?"

"We don't fully understand his motivations. But as I mentioned, in January this year he contacted one of our agents working undercover behind the German lines."

"How did he find and contact British secret agents?"

"That's information you don't need to know. But I can tell you that our agents were naturally wary, being approached by a German Army officer. At first they thought it was a trap. You see, our network of agents in German-occupied France and Belgium have been very active, smuggling Allied troops and civilians over to our side. They suspected that the Germans were trying to infiltrate them. So, for some weeks, coded messages were sent between our agents and Walther. Both sides were very cautious.

But in March, one of our agents met Walther. The meeting convinced our agent that Walther was genuine. In short, he wanted to betray the Fatherland, and to come over to the Allies. He offered us all his knowledge of Friedrich Seydlitz's inventions. Due to his involvement in his father's development work, that knowledge was considerable. So, we had to find a way to get him across the front lines to us."

"I guess that would be pretty difficult to arrange."

"First, we considered smuggling Seydlitz through neutral Holland. But then, four weeks ago, we obtained intelligence that Walther's regiment were deployed near Ypres. At that time we had no idea about the German plan to attack Ypres. On both sides, the troops were just staying in their trenches, either side of no-man's land. A quiet part of the Western Front. So we prepared a night raid on the German trenches – to capture Walther and move him under cover of darkness across no-man's land. We waited for intelligence from our agents – but none came through. Without knowing Walther's exact whereabouts within the Prussian Guards' battalions, there was no point in attempting a night raid. All we could do was wait to hear more about his location.

Then, on 21st April, the day before the German attack, we received a message from Walther, relayed by one of our agents. His battalion was stationed north of Kitcheners' Wood, east of Ypres, and it was preparing for an immediate attack. Shortly after, we received news from the British Army that the Prussian Guards had indeed captured the wood.

We had to put a plan of action into place very quickly. We knew that if he was still alive, Walther Seydlitz would be in Kitcheners' Wood on the night of April 23rd-24th. Our most urgent priority was recapture of the wood, to find Walther. The Canadian Division's 10th Battalion, stationed south of the wood, were commanded to recapture it. They were inexperienced troops, but there was no time to deploy anyone else."

Lord Buttermere pauses again. I look for a moment through the window: a view of fresh, sunlit spring leaves in a garden. As I did at Ypres, I hear birds singing. I recall the voice of the Québécois boy, crying in the dark.

"I contacted General Charteris, and he appointed two officers. Colonel Hampshire would oversee the operation, and a Major Christopher Jardine, who I understand was actually based in Ypres, would select four experienced British soldiers for the mission. They would follow the Canadians into the wood. Walther, as you saw, was fair-haired. He let us know in his message that he would be recognisable by us because he would not be wearing his helmet. That night, among the other German soldiers, he would have been relatively easy to spot. He would also have been seeking a position away from his fellow soldiers if he could, so as to make his capture easier.

I had already met Dr Bernard: in fact, I interviewed her here at Château Niobe. I told her nothing of the task ahead of her: I was simply interested in whether I could trust her character. Meeting her confirmed to me that she was a person of integrity, a neutral whose interest in the war was purely humanitarian. And she had no family connections to Germany, as some Swiss do. So, I gave orders via General Charteris and General Haig. You and Dr Bernard were commanded to join the Canadians, take care of Walther and transport him to Essex Farm Camp for interrogation. And I personally selected Professor Axelson, as the best person to interview Walther."

"Whatever Walther might have told us, it's lost now. That information was locked in his brain: it has died with him."

"We don't know what Walther would have told us if he'd survived. But our agent who met him in March told us alarming news. Walther had spoken of a secret weapon, based on one of Friedrich Seydlitz's inventions. He said 'if it were targeted at the right objective, a single attack using this new weapon will give Germany victory in the war.'"

I look at Lord Buttermere's serious face: I decide to play devil's advocate. "Has it occurred to you that Walther was overstating the importance of what he knew? He could have just been lying about his knowledge, to convince your agents that he should be smuggled over to the Allied side."

"Yes. I did consider that possibility myself. In fact that was why I selected Axelson to interview Walther – to get at the real truth, whatever it might be." Lord Buttermere gazes wearily out of the window for a moment, then briskly resumes his tale. "But on the other hand, if Walther was being truthful, then the Allies are in extreme danger. The power of an explosive mine is something that both sides in the war are keen to explore. We ourselves have only just begun development."

"Development of what?"

"Our Army engineers include many former coal miners. Recently they dug a long shaft underneath the German fortress known as Hill 60, on the Ypres battlefield. They filled the far end of the shaft with explosives – and yesterday, they detonated them. The explosion completely destroyed the fort, and our troops were able to capture the whole area easily, with no resistance from the enemy. We have now halted the German advance on Ypres, and we are recapturing the areas they took from us in April. A great success. Ypres will remain in British hands: we will hold our line on the Western Front."

"How horrible. The German soldiers in that fort stood no chance: they were attacked in secret, without warning or chance to defend themselves."

"Miss Frocester, let us focus on the matter in hand. Neither side can afford scruples in this war. Were I to die in combat, I would prefer an instant death on Hill 60 to the cruel asphyxiation that the Germans are inflicting on our troops with their chlorine gas. You have experienced the results of their barbarism first-hand..."

I nod silently as Lord Buttermere carries on. "Now, by torpedoing the Lusitania, the Germans have started killing American citizens too." He pauses to let his words sink in, and looks at me closely before speaking again. "You helped me two years ago, Miss Frocester. Now I'm trusting you again."

"Yes. I understand you, Lord Buttermere. You're not asking for a debate on the ethics of war. What you are saying is that you suspect that the Germans plan to use a similar type of explosive mine?"

"Possibly. We know this: if German troops used high-explosive mines to break through the Allied lines, they could be in Paris in two days. Walther's remark about German victory might well refer to such a plan. So my most urgent task is to try to find out exactly what Walther Seydlitz knew. What he would have told us – if he hadn't been murdered."

"But now he's dead... surely there is nothing more you can do?"

"Walther's murder shows that a German agent – perhaps several – have penetrated the British Army. We call such a person a 'mole' – burrowing his way into our ranks. The mole gave Private Edgar and his companion the order to shoot Walther. That is why we are questioning Edgar. We have to extract from him everything he knows."

"But if Edgar tells you the name of the mole, that doesn't give you the information about the German secret weapon. That knowledge died with Walther."

"I know. Unless the mole knew exactly why it was imperative to kill Walther. But secret agents are usually told as little as possible by their commanders. That's how I like to work, anyway." Buttermere almost winks at me, the hint of a smile. Then he carries on.

"In desperation, I even approached Friedrich Seydlitz directly, even though I know his views about helping the war effort. I received a response yesterday. You may read it yourself."

He passes me a letter. It's written on the stationery of a Swiss hotel.

"Grindelwald, 3 May 1915

Dear Lord Buttermere

I acknowledge receipt of your letter inviting me to meet you and discuss the dangers faced by the armies of all the Entente Powers from new high-explosive devices that the German military may be developing.

You suggest that the German Army may be planning to use my designs. To me, their intentions are abhorrent, and I would never help them. But, blueprint plans of some of my designs may have remained in Germany when I left the country in August 1914. It is possible that they have been discovered by the German Army.

Naturally, I will not inform the German command of your letter or your concerns. Germany and I have parted company. The greatest tragedy of the modern world is that the scientifically progressive country in which I grew up has turned all its expertise towards waging war.

But by the same token, I am not willing to meet you, or to assist you in any way. France, Britain and Russia are equally guilty: you have all chosen this fight with Germany. You say you only seek my help so you are forewarned about German weapons of mass murder. But to be forewarned is, as you know, to be fore-armed. I believe that any details I might give you of such devices would be used by the Allies, to develop similar weapons yourselves.

As you will know, I recently received news of the death of my son Walther on the Western Front. But may I take this opportunity to assure you that my response to your letter is not a reaction based on grief. My decision to remain entirely neutral in this disgusting war, lending no assistance to either side to commit further acts of butchery, is based on my enduring commitment to PEACE. I believe that there are better ways to resolve humanity's disputes than destroying the lives of thousands of young men. On that basis, I trust that you will not disturb me further.

Friedrich Seydlitz"

I look at Lord Buttermere. "Well that's pretty clear. You'll get no help from him. With Walther dead, the matter seems hopeless."

"Not quite, Miss Frocester. If you have had enough breakfast, come with me. Before you leave Château Niobe – and forget everything you have heard and seen here – you should meet Private Edgar, one last time. Perhaps he will speak to you."

**15. Interrogation**

Château Niobe is palatial: Lord Buttermere leads me through wide corridors, past the doorways of state rooms decorated in marble and gold-leaf. The antique grandeur is an odd backdrop to the occupants of these rooms: rows of khaki-clad military personnel, all sitting at cheap wooden desks piled with papers. I'm surprised to see one room that is identical to the others, but all the occupants are women. Buttermere notices me staring at them. "Coding staff and note-takers, recruited through intelligence testing. Women have been surprisingly successful in those tests."

We pass through a door into what must have been servants' quarters. Doors open off into kitchens and cupboards, and above us is a system of wires and bells for calling the servants. Lord Buttermere must have used these same bells when he summoned Madeleine.

We turn a corner into a long, shabby corridor lined with closed doors. As we approach one of the doors, I hear raised voices. Or rather, one voice – abrupt and forceful. I catch some words "This deaf-and-dumb act isn't going to help you. You realise what's going to happen to you, don't you?"

Lord Buttermere knocks at the door, and without waiting for a response, turns the handle. We enter a small, dim room, and I see two men. Sitting on a chair is Private Edgar, with a light directly above his face, setting all his features into harsh relief. Standing over him, in a pool of darkness, is Colonel Hampshire. As soon as he sees Buttermere, he salutes sharply. But he barely acknowledges me.

"Colonel Hampshire. How is your interrogation proceeding?" As Lord Buttermere speaks, I notice that Edgar is handcuffed to the chair.

"Nothing, sir. This silence – it must be an act. We know that Edgar was there at Ypres, when Seydlitz was killed. Either he fired the shot, or he knows who fired it."

"Who was Edgar meeting in Paris? A German agent?"

"We've found nothing, sir. Our men in Paris interviewed everyone at the party at Gertrude Stein's flat. We are still holding Sandrine Terray and Amadeo Modigliani: we've questioned them, but they've told us nothing. Modigliani is Italian. He's also a man of radical ideas, perhaps a revolutionary."

"Italy has signed the London Pact, Colonel. I expect them to join the Allies in the war against Germany within weeks. Also, I know that Modigliani volunteered to join the French Army, at the very outset of the war. He's no German agent, and no revolutionary, Hampshire. I think he led you into those catacombs out of sheer devilry."

"So what shall I do, sir?"

"Release Modigliani and the woman. Arrange for someone to shadow them, just in case. What did you do about Gertrude Stein?"

"Stein and Toklas have left Paris, sir. They are travelling to Spain. A holiday, apparently."

"Get in touch with our agents in Spain – ask them to keep a watching brief. Now, what about Mr Keys?"

"He was very helpful, Lord Buttermere. Especially when I told him the news about the sinking of the Lusitania: he said 'I'll do anything to help you get back at the Germans'. And of course, he had travelled to Paris under Axelson's instructions, to try to find Edgar. We let him go back to his photography business in Essex Farm Camp. He is ready to help Axelson with his enquiries again, if needed."

"And how are those enquiries proceeding?"

"Axelson came here today, and delivered this report." Hampshire holds up a single sheet of paper. "He's found nothing at Essex Farm, or any of the nearby camps, about the other two soldiers involved at Ypres. Without knowing their names, it's pretty hopeless, sir."

"What you are saying, Hampshire, is that we have nothing to go on – except our silent friend here." He nods in the direction of Edgar.

I can't stop myself speaking any longer. "Can't either of you see? Edgar is genuinely dumb. Something dreadful has happened to him, and it's stopped him speaking. And he ran away to Paris because he faced a possible court-martial at Essex Farm, for not responding to orders. He ran to his former lover, Sandrine Terray. That's all. Sometimes the simplest explanation is the true one."

Lord Buttermere looks at me. "We don't dismiss that idea, Miss Frocester. What you say might be true. But then again, it might not."

Colonel Hampshire looks at me. At long last, I see a hint of warmth in his eyes. "Agnes – as you said I might call you? I understand what you're saying. But I think Lord Buttermere is right about Private Edgar. In my experience, spies and traitors are good actors." He turns his gaze to his captive, and his voice is edged with focused anger. "Edgar. Whether or not you personally shot at the ambulance at Ypres, we can still prove enough to put you in front of a firing squad. Desertion from the Army is a capital offence, Private."

Lord Buttermere speaks more softly to the prisoner. "The stick and the carrot, Private Edgar. If you remain silent, as the Colonel says, you face a military court-martial for dereliction of orders and desertion. That is likely to result in a sentence of death. I can't help you once that process is in place: you will be handed over to the military police. But if you tell us now everything that you know – then, I may be able to do something for you."

Edgar seems to be trying to speak, but nothing happens.

Colonel Hampshire looks up. "A word, sir?"

The next moment the three of us are out in the corridor. Edgar's blank gaze watches us as we step outside, but Hampshire closes the door on him.

"Lord Buttermere, with all respect. This man is a deserter. We shouldn't offer him any kind of a deal. We need to be harder on him, not softer."

"This is not about justice, Colonel. Justice won't help us win the war. What I need is the truth. Miss Frocester, what do you think?"

"As I told you, I think he is genuinely dumb."

"And I doubt that. But then, I doubt everything: that is the nature of my job. But Colonel – are you suggesting that Edgar might respond to a physical interrogation?"

I look at their two faces, bewildered. "You're not really proposing..."

Colonel Hampshire interrupts me. "Just a few blows. We don't actually torture people."

I gasp in shock. "You can't allow this!"

But Colonel Hampshire is already stepping away from us. "I'll get a couple of the guards from outside, sir. We'll leave them with him for five minutes. Then we'll go back in and see if his tongue has been loosened."

I take two steps forward and grip the Colonel's arm. Then I look at Lord Buttermere.

"Lord Buttermere. You want the truth. What about another way?"

"What do you propose?"

"Professor Axelson. Hypnotism. You were planning to use it on Seydlitz – why not on Edgar?"

"A good idea, Miss Frocester. Worth trying, don't you think, Hampshire? We don't want to resort to brutality, if it can be avoided."

"If you wish, sir..."

"Axelson is here at Niobe, isn't he? You said he had just dropped off his report."

"That's right sir. Shall I go and get him?"

"No – I'll fetch him. I want to explain the situation to him. As yet, Axelson doesn't even know that you've captured Edgar. Wait here with Miss Frocester. But Hampshire – please, ask Edgar no further questions. Don't even go back into the interrogation room. Leave our prisoner to himself for a while, give him time to reflect on the position he is in. The thought of a firing squad may focus his mind. He might well decide to talk without the need for hypnosis."

Colonel Hampshire and I are left in the corridor. I try to open the door to see Edgar again – but the Colonel's strong arm stops me.

"Colonel. You hateful man."

"Sometimes it's necessary to be hateful. Have you guessed how easily I found you and Edgar? I noticed that you – and Major McCrae – had a very furtive manner in the treatment tent at Essex Farm. I suspected that both of you knew more than you were willing to say in front of me, and that you were trying to shelter Edgar from me."

"Well we were right, weren't we? The man needs sheltering. He's struck dumb because he's ill. Mentally ill."

The Colonel ignores my protests. "I knew that you would tell everything to Professor Axelson. I waited outside the tent while you told the professor about Edgar. Canvas makes a poor soundproofing. After that, it was easy to follow you and Mr Keys to Paris. I lost track of you in the Zeppelin raid – but then, when you returned to your accommodation, I overheard you both in that hotel, talking about the name Sandrine Terray. I and the military policemen then followed you to that party at Gertrude Stein's flat. So it is down to _you_ , Agnes, that Edgar is now captive and facing a death sentence."

I say nothing, and try hard to hold his hostile gaze. He speaks again, as if trying to provoke me. "You yourself, Agnes, saw Edgar firing at the ambulance. So why protect him?"

"Please, Colonel Hampshire – understand this. John Edgar is a follower, not a leader. I think those two soldiers at the Ypres battlefield were both following orders. I also think that Edgar is not the type to shoot at a Red Cross ambulance unless the other soldier with him was determined to follow those orders."

"Perhaps Dr Bernard's contempt for military authority has rubbed off on you. You took against Major Jardine – and now you hate me too."

"I don't... hate you. I hate what you're doing, that's all."

"Agnes, let's not fight. After all, we are on the same side." His words are meant to be calming, but I catch the edge of insincerity in them. I feel manipulated.

"You've tricked me and used me. Why were you so friendly to me, Colonel Hampshire, that first time we met? I think you wanted me to feel flattered, to feel pleased by your attentions. In some way I don't understand, you wanted me in your power."

"Nonsense. I was just being companionable."

"But then in Paris, you ignored me. You acted like we'd never met."

"I had a job to do."

"I don't understand you, Colonel Hampshire. That's why I find it hard to trust you."

"Well – your friend Montgomery Keys was happy to trust me, once I told him the full picture. Even your artist friend Modigliani agreed that what I did in Paris was necessary, after I explained to him that Edgar might be a traitor in league with German agents. By the way... he asked to be remembered to you."

"Keys did?"

"No. Modigliani. But between you and me, that man has an eye for anything in a skirt."

"Maybe he does. But he's a better man that you'll ever be, Colonel Hampshire."

A noise at the end of the corridor interrupts our quarrel. Over my shoulder, I see Lord Buttermere approaching. Professor Axelson is with him, smiling broadly at me.

"Miss Agnes! Well done – you and Mr Keys found Private Edgar!"

"Yes, we found him. I wish we hadn't."

"What do you mean?"

"Take a look." To Hampshire's and Buttermere's surprise, I lean forward and push open the door to the interrogation room. The professor looks inside, and his face hardens.

"So, you have shackled Private Edgar to a chair, so you can attack him with your questions. Like the medieval pastime of chaining a bear to a post, to torment him with dogs. You thought this would help reveal the truth, did you?" He looks at Buttermere and Hampshire, with narrowed eyes. Lord Buttermere is silent, but the Colonel can't help answering back.

"The man is a coward and a deserter. Probably, a traitor. It's right to treat him like this."

"I think your sense of right and wrong is flawed, Colonel. Your practical judgment is flawed too – because your methods are not effective. Lord Buttermere wants the truth, and I will get as close to that truth as I can. But this horrible mistreatment of Private Edgar has made my work difficult. Very difficult indeed. You have slammed and locked every door inside his mind – both of you."

Lord Buttermere forces a smile. "I'm sorry, Professor, for my subordinate's – ah – enthusiasm, in interrogating Edgar. What do you suggest we do? To be more 'effective'?"

"Let's take him out into the sunlight."

**16. Mute witness**

It's a gorgeous May morning. Puffs of white cloud are like cotton-wool in an azure sky above the fresh leaves on a screen of tall trees. The grass is dazzlingly green, except where smudged with the shadows of the shrubs in the Château Niobe parklands: azaleas, rhododendrons. They're ablaze with flowers.

A path leads to a glade of saplings. Edgar, freed from his handcuffs, sits in the dappled sunshine under the trees, sipping a glass of water in the central one of a semicircle of high-backed wicker chairs around a small table. Professor Axelson has commanded the arrangement: Edgar is facing away from the sunlight, so it is easier on his eyes. We take our seats around him; the professor next to him, I on the other side, Buttermere and Hampshire on the wings.

The professor says one word. "John."

Five minutes pass, and nothing happens. A warm breeze rustles the leaves of the trees above us. I hear the rattle of a woodpecker. Then, the professor's voice resumes.

"John. You hear the singing of birds. You see new leaves on all the trees. Beauty all around you."

I can't tell if Edgar hears or not. He looks blankly ahead, his eyes like empty shells.

"Now, you are walking in woodland. A little path in the grass under the trees, sunshine through the leaves. The light around you is green. The breeze moves through your hair, gently cooling your face."

Edgar blinks, once. I see a change: there's a glint in his eyes, a reflection of the sunlit lawns. He seems to be seeing his surroundings, as if for the first time. Professor Axelson says nothing, time slips by, and little by little Edgar's breathing falls into a new rhythm.

Professor Axelson repeats his words, in time with Edgar's breathing. "A woodland walk, a little path, grass under the trees. The air is green around you. Breathe in the new air, the scent of spring, fresh with the new leaves. Breathe, breathe..." The professor's voice goes on, as does the breeze in the trees and the song of the birds. The day drifts: I feel the air getting warmer as the sun rises higher in the sky. Edgar's breathing continues to rise and fall slowly, regularly, unending, like the sea on a distant shore. Half the morning has passed. Colonel Hampshire taps his foot irritably, but Lord Buttermere seems patient and relaxed, as if he has faith in the professor's methods.

"John. You are going deeper and deeper into the woods. It's darker now; no light penetrates here, deep among the trees."

As if drawing down a shutter, Edgar's eyes close.

"In the deepest part of the wood, there is darkness. The tree trunks are a forest of black pillars, going on and on without end. You don't know what is around you in the woods, lurking in the gloom. Are hidden eyes watching you, in this dark place?"

Axelson's voice pauses: he is watching Edgar's face, and listening intently to his breathing. The professor whispers to us.

"You see what I've done. I took Edgar to a place of security. Now, I have brought him somewhere he can sense a little danger, in preparation for what is to come. But his breathing remains even and steady. There are no signs of panic. I can start to explore a little more – very, very patiently."

Edgar's head jerks: a sneeze. Lord Buttermere looks sharply at Axelson, but the professor's whisper remains level and controlled. "Nothing to worry about. Perhaps a sniff of pollen, a touch of hay fever. Private Edgar is still deep in hypnosis, his mind suspended in a wakeful reverie."

A few more moments pass, and the professor resumes his hypnotic voice.

"You are deep in darkness now, deep among the trees, trying to find your way through the forest. Under your feet is a tangle of roots; you trip and stumble in the gloom. You reach out for a tree trunk to stop your fall: it's cold and damp against your fingers."

Edgar is alert and tense, but he remains still. He's listening to every word Axelson says.

"You get up again – you're back on your feet, John. You start feeling your way forward through the undergrowth in the darkness. The birdsong and the breeze have long gone: you hear only a waiting, watchful silence. You are straining your ears to hear new, strange sounds, carried to you on the dark air. Harsh, unfamiliar sounds. They are coming clearer now, more distinct, and you sense their threat. The roar and stutter of distant guns, voices and shouting, confusion. You can smell human fear."

Edgar seems to be sniffing the air, and his head quivers, as if sudden noises are striking his ears. The shaking of his head spreads like a rippling tide down his body; his shoulders tremble, his arms quake. The deep breaths are replaced by pulsing gasps, his chest shuddering. Suddenly his eyes jerk open, as if in a nightmare. I look at his pupils: they're dilated like black holes.

The professor's voice remains calm.

"Amid these noises in the woods, you're not scared, are you, John? Because you have your friends with you. Good friends. They will keep you safe. In this dark forest, you and they are on a special mission together, aren't you?"

Edgar stares rigidly ahead, but there's a movement of his head: almost a nod, in agreement with Axelson. The professor puts something on the table in front of Edgar. It's the photograph of the four soldiers. Edgar doesn't see it at first, but then Axelson lifts it into the line of his gaze.

As if moving under its own volition, Edgar's arm reaches out. He's not pointing at the photograph: he's trying to touch it.

"John, can you see your friends?"

Again I see the hint of a nod, as if Edgar is acknowledging and answering the professor. I hear Buttermere saying under his breath "At last. A positive reaction."

But Axelson says and does nothing. It is as if he is giving Edgar time to reconnect with the photograph. After a few moments, he places the picture in Edgar's hands, and turns to look at us.

"Well?" Colonel Hampshire sounds impatient.

"So far, very little. But I did not expect anything at this early stage."

"Early? We've been here over an hour."

"All I have done so far is to use my Hypnotic-Forensic Method to take Edgar down into a state of alert unconsciousness. His mind has closed every door that it can – as shown by his mutism. So, I have gently taken him into a state of deep hypnosis. At the same time, as it were, I have set his companions around him, in his mind. The four soldiers were a team, on a dangerous mission. The sense of risk I have created in his mind will help Edgar recall the bond between the four men."

Buttermere listens and nods, but the colonel's brows are knitted in frustration. "But how the hell are we going to get any answers out of him? The man is still not talking. Can this hocus-pocus really get him to speak?"

"No. One day, long-term care and hypnotic therapy may bring back Edgar's voice. But a single session like this cannot. However, there are other ways to communicate. Edgar has now had long enough in his state of suspended consciousness. I will start to explore with him this dark place, hidden deep in his memory."

The professor turns back to Edgar. "John. Can you hear me?"

Edgar is still holding the photograph, staring at it. But the shaking has stopped, his panic has lessened, his breathing is more regular again.

"If you can hear me John, blink once."

Two, three minutes pass. There's a single rattle from the woodpecker. As if answering the bird, Edgar blinks once. The professor smiles to himself.

"Now John, I am going to ask you a series of questions. Each of these questions can be answered yes or no. Blink once for yes, twice for no. Do you understand?"

A single blink.

"Very well, John. Before the war, did you live in Paris?"

A single blink. "Did you know Sandrine Terray? Were you in love with her?"

Another blink. The professor asks "When the war began, did you want to stay in Paris with Sandrine?"

This time there's a slight hesitation, then a single blink.

"But all around you, young men were signing up for military service. Did that make you feel guilty?"

After a time, a single blink.

I whisper to the professor. "Professor, these are leading questions. They make it appear as if Edgar was reluctant to join the war effort. That doesn't make him a traitor."

"Have patience, Miss Agnes. As you say, they are leading questions – but I, not you, know _where_ they are leading."

"Now John, in October 1914, you left Paris and travelled back to Northumberland, in England. I know that your family live there, in the town of Alnwick. Did you go back to your family home?"

Two blinks.

"Did you visit your mother and father, did you see them at all?"

Two blinks again. "Do your parents approve of your life in Paris, modelling for artists, your relationship with Sandrine – a married woman? Do they think their son has made the right choices in life?"

Two blinks. "Do you want to show them that you are a good son? That their boy has grown into the right sort of man?"

Again, a few minutes pass, and I sense a profound pain behind Edgar's half-open eyes. Finally, there is a single blink.

"John Edgar: you got off that train before it ever reached Alnwick. You left it at the station of Newcastle-upon-Tyne, and took a tram up to Fenham Barracks. Did you go there to enlist in the Army?"

This time, there's no reaction from Edgar. His eyes look tired, drained of life. The professor whispers to us. "It has been hard for him, to dredge up these answers from the depths of his mind. His emotions and his mental reserves are exhausted."

Lord Buttermere looks concerned. "Do you mean, Axelson, that that's all he can tell us? So far, there has been no useful information –"

"There is one last thing I can try. To reconnect him with the other three soldiers, to get the details we need."

Colonel Hampshire mutters under his breath. "I hope it bloody well works." But Axelson glances sharply at him, as if commanding total silence. We all sit, awaiting the professor's final attempt.

The professor remains calm, confident and methodical. Taking his time, he reaches into the inside pocket of his jacket. He takes out a faded scrap of paper. Clearly, it was folded up and put away long ago. He puts it down on the table, and very slowly, unfolds it.

It's worn and creased, but I can see that it's a sketch: a particularly fine drawing of a battered, ancient castle on a headland overlooking the sea. There's a boyish, innocent exuberance to the pencil work. In the foreground are three figures: youths, running on a sunlit beach.

"Did you ever miss days at school? Did you play truant?"

Edgar stares at the sketch, his eyes clouded as if in a dream. Finally, he looks at Axelson, and his lips curve, almost as if he's about to speak. He blinks, once.

"Your mother and father felt you had unsuitable friends, didn't they? Boys from fishermen's families. Boys who cared little for book-learning. Together you would skip school, explore the hills and woods, the beach, the cliffs. Was Edward Tasker one of those boys?"

A single blink. "Edward was your friend, wasn't he?"

Another blink. "When you all finished school, Edward and your other friends went to work. They went to sea in their fathers' boats. But you didn't want to follow your parents' wishes and train as a bank clerk, did you? You wanted to draw, to paint. To sense that freedom that you felt, so strongly, on this beach. You went to Paris."

The professor takes the photograph of the four soldiers, and places it over the top of the drawing. Then he produces a fountain pen and places it into Edgar's limp hand. We all sit around in the dappled sunlight, silent, waiting. And after a few minutes, Edgar's grip on the pen strengthens, his arm moves. He lifts the pen to the paper, and begins to write.

When he's finished, it's as if he's accomplished a strenuous task, and is now exhausted. His head lolls, his eyes are heavy and tired. His deep breathing is like that of a sleeping man. Professor Axelson gently takes up the photograph.

"So. Here we have the names that we have been seeking."

I look at the picture. Edgar has not named himself, but the other names are clear, written under each face. Ted Tasker. Colin Smith. Reggie Gadd. The professor looks around at us, and I sense his satisfaction as he looks at Lord Buttermere and Colonel Hampshire.

"Automatic writing, gentlemen. Part of the deep human mind can bypass conscious awareness. The unconscious brain can connect directly to the hand, to the habit of writing. Edgar has no idea that he has written these names, just as he will not remember anything of his interview under hypnosis."

A shadow falls across our little gathering. Two men have silently approached us. I look up, and see a huge bear-like man, wearing the uniform of the military police. The other man is Major Jardine.

Colonel Hampshire stands over Edgar. His arm move rapidly, shockingly. He slaps Edgar's face. "Wake up! Wake up!"

"NO!" The professor is on his feet, he tries to move between Hampshire and Edgar. But the bear-like man reaches forward, and pins Axelson's arms behind his back. I can't help it: I rise and helplessly beat Hampshire's chest with my fists. He simply ignores me. Edgar, meanwhile, is beginning to open his eyes. They roll horribly under the shock of Hampshire's smack. He staggers to his feet, but Major Jardine and Colonel Hampshire stand either side of him and grip his arms, preventing him moving. I realise the futility of my childish actions. I stop hitting Hampshire, and stand back, catching my breath.

Despite the man pinning his arms, Axelson is still protesting. "Stop! For God's sake, gentlemen, leave Edgar to wake slowly! This is terribly traumatic for a patient."

Hampshire replies harshly. "Professor – this man is not a patient. He is a prisoner. A deserter from the British Army. You agree, Lord Buttermere?"

Throughout the struggle, Lord Buttermere has said nothing. Even now his face is impassive. Rather than agreeing or disagreeing with Hampshire, he asks a question.

"Who will be in charge of Edgar's court-martial?"

"General Charteris."

"I will write to the General."

Two more military policemen are marching across the lawns toward us. I recognise them: the two men who pursued us in Paris. I can't help Edgar; neither can the professor, who is held in a vice-like grip. Colonel Hampshire looks past Edgar's face at Jardine. "Thank you, Major. I'm glad you volunteered for this opportunity to – ah – redeem yourself, after your failure to check the identity of the men who were with Edgar and Tasker. We are making progress now: we have the other two names. Two more traitors to catch."

Edgar's blank stare has resumed: he has re-entered his usual waking stupor. Perhaps it's his mind's way of coping with stress. But it's the faces of Hampshire and Jardine that strike me, in the brief seconds before the two policeman reach us.

Hampshire is smiling, almost smirking. The smile of a man well pleased with himself. But Jardine glances at Hampshire, and the glance is extraordinary. I see in his eyes a fierce hatred. A look of pure venom.

The other policemen arrive: Edgar's hands are again handcuffed behind him. Colonel Hampshire speaks formally, a voice like death. "Private Edgar. You have been arrested for deliberate and continued ignoring of superior officers' orders, for dereliction of your duties, and desertion of your post. You will be court-martialled shortly."

The two policeman march Edgar away towards the château. Between their erect figures, he looks crumpled and broken. Finally, the bear-man releases Axelson.

"Lord – Buttermere." The professor is puffing and panting. "What – will you write to – General – Charteris?"

"What I write will be related to a military trial. Legally privileged, as well as confidential. So I can't tell you."

"I helped you, Lord Buttermere. I got you the information you wanted from Edgar." I'm about to add my voice, to agree with the professor – but Axelson looks at me, a finger to his lips. He wants me to keep quiet. He's calmer now, more controlled. Yes, he may have more effect on Buttermere than I might have... The professor carries on.

"Now that you have Edgar's information, it appears that you don't care what happens to him. Can't you see that his mutism is undoubtedly caused by deep psychological trauma? All your British propaganda is devoted to portraying the Germans as brutes and barbarians. But you are tolerating this appalling injustice within the British Army."

"Professor, you have two options. You may decide that the British are no better than the Germans, and cease working for us. Or you may continue to help me, which I would prefer. I would like you to return to Essex Farm Camp and resume your enquiries. You now have the names of two soldiers: Colin Smith and Reginald Gadd. So, tracing them shouldn't be too difficult a task."

"And Dr Bernard? She is a key witness too. Shall I go to Geneva?"

"The answer is closer to home, Axelson. Go back to Essex Farm and the other nearby Army camps; trace Smith and Gadd. One of them must have been with Edgar, shooting at Seydlitz's ambulance. There is probably no need to ever involve Dr Bernard again."

Finally, I speak up. "What shall I do?"

"You have helped already in this case, locating Edgar. I'm very grateful."

"I wouldn't have done, if I'd known what it would lead to. As I said to the professor, I wish we'd never found him."

"Miss Frocester – ideally, I'd like you to continue working with the professor. My regard for your abilities is high." He looks me in the eye. "But your attitude – it is a problem. One, perhaps both of these soldiers Smith and Gadd may face the firing squad along with Edgar. We must find all the traitors within the Army. Some or all of them will die. I doubt your appetite for that task, Miss Frocester."

I look at Axelson. "Professor. Do you want to find these people – so they can be executed?"

"Miss Agnes, one month ago I was hopeful that I might help bring the end of this terrible war a little closer. Above all, I want this war to end. I can't avoid getting my hands dirty. None of us can – this war engulfs us all, combatant and neutral, European and American. The sinking of the Lusitania shows that we must end this war, or the very fabric of the civilised world will be destroyed. So – I will indeed get my hands dirty."

Lord Buttermere interrupts. "Thank you, Professor. But Miss Frocester – you have done enough. Go back to your nursing work now. You can do most good in this war by healing soldiers, instead of capturing them."

**17. A grim discovery**

The sun is setting across the sea. The water is pale, almost turquoise, translucent where the sun's rays come through it. Yellow sand runs down into the gently lapping waves. I feel the sand between my toes: I've taken my shoes off, to enjoy this brief supper-time break before I return to my evening's duties. This is, perhaps, the last day of the summer sunshine. It's September 20th, 1915.

Behind me, glowing in the sunlight, are dunes rising to a skyline of pine trees, and here and there the outlines of a scatter of hotels and chalets. This is Le Touquet – 'Paris-by-the-Sea' – an elegant holiday resort among the seaside pines. I can even see, among the trees, the distinctively French-style roofs of the Casino de la Forêt, my home for the last four months. The casino was never finished: the war ended all the great plans for Le Touquet to become France's premier smart resort, and the grand casino buildings have been transformed into a British Red Cross hospital.

I notice a shadow on the sand behind me. I turn around, and see a face lit by the sun. A face I've not seen during my time at the Hospital. Professor Axelson.

"Even amid the horrors of war, Miss Agnes, beauty can sometimes be found. I'm glad you are taking an opportunity to enjoy it."

"It's good to see you, Professor."

"I had a reason for visiting the Red Cross hospital. Which gave me an excuse to come to see you. And, I have another matter in which I'd like your help. I have already spoken to Matron O'Brien at the hospital. She is happy for you to take a few days off to accompany me."

"And Lord Buttermere? What does he think about this plan?"

"I am still working for him. And I know that he – wrongly – regards you as not reliable, a young person with too many of your own ideas. He thinks you are, like the English phrase 'a loose cannon'. But on this occasion he need not know about your involvement... and, I do need your help. You may pack tonight, and tomorrow you and I will leave and travel to Poperinge – the place that the British soldiers call 'Pops'. British Intelligence have provided me with a car, you see."

"I'm on duty tonight."

"I've explained it all to Matron O'Brien, and to your ward sister. You are now free this evening. You may pack your things and get ready to leave – and most of all, you may rest. We have an early start tomorrow, and a very long day ahead of us. But tell me: how are you enjoying your work here?"

I look out at the sun on the golden sea. "I'm on a ward. Long-stay patients."

"Crippled?"

"Ah – no. In fact, many of them seem perfectly fit, physically. But they're clearly in no state to return to military service. Half the time they don't know what they're doing..." Without thinking, I turn on my heel, away from the sun. The professor and I start to walk back across the beach towards the hospital.

"Don't know what they're doing? What do you mean, Miss Agnes?"

"Well for a start, they struggle to speak."

"Like Private Edgar?"

"No, they're not dumb. They try to talk – but they stammer and stutter. Like their brain and tongue aren't properly wired up to each other. Sometimes they trip over every word. And the slightest noise makes them jump, like rabbits."

"As if they are constantly in fear?"

"Yes. But worst of all, for me, is their faces. These are young men, most of them younger than me. But they look _old_. Their eyes are exhausted, the skin round their eyelids is dark and lined, like ancient parchment. Like something in them has died, and their bodies are left behind like empty husks... waiting to die."

"I am aware of these types of cases. Many of your medical experts say that these problems are purely down to physical exhaustion. Or possibly, to the noise of exploding shells that causes the tinnitus they often suffer from."

"I've head those ideas. Dr Myers, who is in charge of medical care here, calls it 'shell shock'. But he says the cause is not physical; it's psychological."

"I have not seen any such patients – unless Private Edgar could be regarded as a 'shell shock' case. But I have read several case histories, with very great interest. You see, Miss Agnes, meeting Dr Myers was my other reason for coming to Le Touquet. I want to know more about his diagnosis of these soldiers. There seem to be thousands of these cases – and no cure. Indeed the Army continues to treat traumatised soldiers with extreme brutality – as you and I witnessed at Château Niobe."

"What do you want to discuss with Dr Myers?"

"I want to talk about the options for treating these men. My Hypnotic-Forensic method..."

"You mean, taking a soldier back, in his mind, to the events that caused the trauma? Reliving what happened out there on the Western Front? I have to say, I don't agree." We walk a little further, our shadows stretching out before us on the beach like two dark fingers. "You see, Professor, I know that these men already relive those things. The relive them very vividly. Horrible, horrible things. They shout in the night, and scream. They say things."

"Say things?..."

"'I can't pull it out. I can't pull it out'. That's what one man says, over and over, every night in his sleep for hours. He's been doing that for three months now."

"And what has the hospital done, to treat him?"

"No-one has a clue what to do. So, two nights ago, I sat by his bed. He was speaking in his sleep, the usual phrase, again and again. I think he sensed that someone was near him... and..."

"And?"

"He reached out, grasped my wrist. He pulled my arm down so my hand was on his stomach. His stomach muscles were hard, like knotted ropes. And then he said it, like he was talking to a friend. 'I'm sorry, old boy, my bayonet's stuck in your stomach, and I can't pull it out.' Then his eyes opened, like a clockwork doll, he stared forwards for a second, then he started screaming. Nothing could stop the noise. We had to take him out of the ward, so the other patients could sleep."

"And since?"

"Back to the same. Troubled sleep, repeating the same phrase endlessly. He's no better. I don't think he'll ever get better."

"That is truly troubling, Miss Agnes. But do not give way to despair. At least these soldiers are in the best place. Dr Myers is the foremost expert on this condition. Judging by his published articles, he is determined to find a cure – even if he has to clash with the British Army leadership." We're now outside the hospital entrance: I look up and see a familiar figure descending the steps: a distinguished-looking man with a high, balding forehead and piercing eyes. The professor immediately proffers his hand.

"Dr Myers. I'm delighted to meet a founding member of the British Psychological Society."

"And I'm equally pleased – indeed honoured – to meet the famous Professor Axelson. I heard you were coming to Le Touquet."

"Perhaps we can talk over dinner? I want to find out more about your 'shell shock' diagnosis. Of course, I have read your article in The Lancet: I found it fascinating. Especially when I read the case study who was treated with hypnosis – with some success."

"Indeed. I'm deeply gratified, Professor. I can think of no person I would rather discuss this matter with. And Miss Frocester? You'd be most welcome..."

I'll let the two gentleman talk science over their meal; I excuse myself.

"Thank you, Dr Myers – but I need to pack my belongings. I have some news, you see. I'm leaving, temporarily. I should be back at work here in a few days."

It's mid-morning, and we're driving eastwards towards St Omer. It's another glorious day, and we drive past harvest fields and pretty villages, but the eastern horizon ahead of us shades into a curious gray haze. As we head inland, the professor starts to explain.

"I have some news, Miss Agnes."

"Private Edgar?..." There's a catch in my voice as I speak.

"Sadly, no. I have been told nothing about his fate. But – the two soldiers that Edgar named..."

"You've found them?"

"Not quite. I have been enquiring for months. You could not imagine that an apparently simple task would involve so many obstacles. I have to say, Miss Agnes, that British Army officers fall into two types. The first type is stupid and unhelpful; the second type is downright obstructive."

"It sounds like a struggle."

"Colonel Hampshire was supposed to help me, but in fact I've not seen him for months. I had to resort several times to invoking Lord Buttermere's help. He has now given me a written mandate, countersigned by Lloyd George, to show to these people. With that in my hand, I have finally made progress. Firstly, I have located the whereabouts of Private Colin Smith. He is alive and well. He is with the 6th Cameron Highlanders. They are currently stationed near the village of Vermelles, in the Loos Sector of the Western Front."

"A different regiment from Edgar?"

"Yes. My enquiries have shown that all four soldiers were friends as boys. Edgar was from the town of Alnwick, Northumberland: the others were from the nearby fishing village of Craster. Smith's family were fishermen: originally from Fife, in Scotland, but they lived for a while in Craster. Tasker and Gadd joined the Northumberland Fusiliers at the very start of the war, and Edgar signed up a few months later. Smith returned to Scotland, and joined up there."

"Tasker must have felt that they made a good team."

"Yes. When Jardine asked him to recruit a group of four, Tasker even made the effort to contact the Cameron Highlanders and ask for Smith's temporary transfer."

"How odd."

"Well, we shall hear more from Smith himself, Miss Agnes. But my other news is not good. Private Gadd, sadly, is another casualty of this remorseless war. Our first task is to tie up a loose end, as you would say in English. We must have final confirmation that Gadd has died, so that I can close that section of my report. Then, we can get onto our main task: to find Private Smith and get his account of events on the Ypres battlefield."

As we move inland, the weather changes: the early morning sunshine is replaced by a thin haze, then a fine mist seems to seep up from the ground. Even with the movement of the car, the air is stuffy and humid. Finally, after crossing the Belgian border and passing two military checkpoints, we drive into Poperinge, and the car rumbles on the cobbles of the town square. We pull up in front of the towering Gothic façade of the Town Hall. Like something in a fairy story, an ornately balustraded staircase runs up under stone archways to a doorway on the second floor. But the large sign is plain and modern: 'Divisional HQ'. Immediately inside the doorway is a high desk like a church lectern, with a face peering over it. "No entry, Sir and Madam. Military business only."

"We've come to make an official enquiry about British Army records." Axelson is of middling height, but he is struggling to see the soldier over the looming top of the desk.

"For enquiries you have to write to HQ. Make sure your letter is countersigned by a rank of Colonel or above."

"And how does one write to HQ?"

"The correspondence address is published in our quarterly bulletin. I don't have a copy of it, but..."

"Look here, my man." Professor Axelson is clearly used to this type of exchange. "Our enquiries are mandated by the British Government." He brandishes the letter, with the signature of Lloyd George clearly visible. "Just give us the information we need. We need to view the death certificate of a Private Reginald Gadd, 1st Battalion, Northumberland Fusiliers."

The man scurries out of view. An hour goes by: we pass the time by looking out across the town square. From this height, it presents a strange sight. It's a wide space where, I guess, markets and fairs have been held since the Middle Ages – but now it is busy with the khaki uniforms of countless soldiers, some marching in groups, others clearly off-duty, walking more casually.

A voice calls out behind us. "Apologies, sir and madam. The death certificate isn't here. It is kept at one of the nearby British Army camps."

"Which one?"

"I am not at liberty to say, sir. I've very sorry." The man's cringing demeanor is almost embarrassing. "But we will bring it here, ready for you to look at, first thing tomorrow morning. 08.00 hours."

"Thank you. We will return at exactly eight tomorrow."

Professor Axelson shakes his head as we descend the steps. "We must find somewhere in Poperinge to stay tonight. This is all very annoying. I had hoped to get on to Vermelles and find Private Smith today."

"There must be a hotel on this main square, Professor. Let's look."

Medieval buildings tower above us, but I have the bizarre feeling we are in a British seaside resort. The windows of countless little stores are full of cheap souvenirs, and on the sidewalks are racks of picture postcards and English newspapers. There's a large poster for Wills's Woodbine cigarettes. Alongside the poster is what appears to be an English pub, named The Four Crowns. Several British soldiers sit drinking brown beer at a table on the sidewalk outside it; I feel them staring at me.

"Let's enquire about accommodation in this Four Crowns establishment, Miss Agnes."

"No, let's not." I deliberately take his arm and step away. There's a sound of sniggering, then one of the soldiers wolf-whistles. Another calls out to the professor. "She's too young for you, grandad! How about letting me have a go instead?"

"I see what you mean, Miss Agnes. Let's try here instead." Next door to the pub is a café decorated with hanging baskets of flowers, and two large signs 'A la Poupée' and 'Officers Only'. Inside, several strikingly pretty girls are waiting on tables, and British officers are tucking into steaks and frites. I hear the sound of a cork popping from a bottle, and a wind-up piano is playing light classical tunes.

"A table, Monsieur and Mademoiselle?"

The professor answers the well-dressed man. "Thank you, Monsieur. We are looking for two single rooms for the night."

"This is a café and restaurant only, I'm afraid. The town is very full at the moment. But if you go to Talbot House, they will find space for you. It's basic, but a very respectable establishment. Unlike some other places in this town that call themselves hotels, Monsieur... So – you see it? Just across the square, there."

As we approach Talbot House, the professor points to a very different sign above the door. 'Abandon your rank, all ye who enter here'. He smiles at me. "That is a sentiment that I like, Miss Agnes. I have had enough of captains and majors over the last few months. And of subordinates who won't lift a finger without the permission of a senior officer."

Through the doorway I hear another piano playing, but this time the notes rise and fall with dramatic emphasis. We step inside into darkness. The place is packed with men, cheering and laughing, and I see Charlie Chaplin capering across a large screen hung at one end of the room. The pianist's fingers fly about, trying to keep pace with the movie action. But then the music stops. The pianist stands up, walks across and greets us.

"Pleased to meet you, sir and madam. I'm Chaplain Clayton, but call me Tubby. Everyone else does. I'm the landlord of Talbot House, if there's no contradiction in a military padre working as a landlord. How can I help you?"

Professor Axelson is still smiling. "I like the sign above your door, Chaplain Tubby."

"I put that up so no-one can pull rank on anyone. The lads come here to forget the war, just for a few hours. Once anyone steps over that threshold, there are no officers or men, just human beings in need of a bit of relaxation."

I feel refreshed after a good night's sleep in my cell-like but clean room. 'Chaplain Tubby', as the professor insists on calling him, was very apologetic about the lack of decent accommodation for a lady. At the professor's insistence, we ate last night at A la Poupée, and even ordered a glass of brandy each. "We are on expenses, you know, Miss Agnes." But this morning, Axelson is brisk and business-like. We climb the steps again to the reception desk of the Town Hall.

"Sir!" It's the same man we saw yesterday, but this time he salutes Axelson with a mechanical jerk.

"Soldier, please don't salute me. I'm not any kind of Army officer. A simple 'good day' will suffice. What I want to know is – have you got the death certificate we asked about?"

"Yes sir. Here it is." He hands us a piece of paper: a mere nothing that means the end of a man's life.

"British Expeditionary Force: Certificate of Death

This is to certify that the records of Divisional Headquarters show that on the 22nd day of April 1915, Private Reginald Gadd of the 1st Battalion of the Northumberland Fusiliers died of wounds received from enemy shell fire."

I look at it, and I can't help blurting out at the man behind the desk.

"This is wrong."

"No, Miss, it's verified. These records are confirmed."

The professor interjects. "What is wrong with it, Miss Agnes? All records confirm Gadd's death, I even saw the grave, which coincidentally is at Essex Farm, not far from Tasker's. There can be no possible doubt. Private Gadd is dead."

"No, professor. The date is wrong. I went out to the front line in the early hours of April 24th. But this certificate is for a man who died on April 22nd."

I peer over the top of the desk: the man is trying to avoid my eyes. "Is it possible that there is a mistake about the date?"

"We can only rely on what is reported to us, Miss. The dates and the cause of death are given to us by soldiers on the battlefield, or by medical personnel if a soldier received treatment. We make every effort..."

The professor is nodding in agreement. "If Gadd died, for example, in the early hours of April 24th, they might write down the previous day."

"But this record is wrong by _two_ days."

"Mistakes are possible. There are many reasons..."

"But, Professor, there's another possibility. We need to at least consider it. When he was hypnotised, could Edgar have wrongly identified Gadd as one of the four?"

"No, that's not possible. Automatic writing is rarely achieved, even by my Hypnotic-Forensic Method. But when I have made a patient write automatically, it has never been wrong. So – Gadd was definitely one of the four, and he is now definitely dead." He thanks the man. Then, taking my arm, he turns towards the steps down to the car.

"Are we finished here, Professor? I think we should check this out more."

"If we did that, Miss Agnes, we would have to wait at least another whole day. These people are not efficient. I think we just accept the information that Gadd is dead, until we speak to Private Smith. His testimony will help us understand exactly what happened."

"Unless Smith is in fact the traitor."

"Well, we start by going and speaking to him. Then we can judge whether or not we can trust him. Getting to Vermelles and interviewing Smith is the priority."

He opens the car door for me, and we set off. There's a cart in our way, then a marching troop of soldiers blocks the road. The professor taps the steering wheel in frustration. Finally we set off, and after a slow half-hour of traffic we reach a familiar place: Remy Sidings, the military railway station where Keys and I departed for Paris.

The road ahead of us is still busy. The car is crawling at a snail's pace, and after another minute, we halt. The Professor, exasperated, puts the handbrake on. There are several trucks in front of us, and none is moving. After a few minutes, soldiers start stepping down from some of the trucks.

"This is a serious inconvenience, Miss Agnes. I hoped to reach Vermelles by lunchtime. I would really like to locate Private Smith before nightfall."

Something in the soldiers' movement as they get out of the trucks suggests to me that they're not responding to orders – yet, they move quickly. As if they are all curious about something, something going on at the railway station, and they want to get a closer look. The professor calls out to them.

"You there, soldier! What's going on?"

"It's Stinky Siding, sir."

"What?"

"Just a name we have for one of the platforms at the railway station. There's something strange going on there, sir."

"Let us go and look, Miss Agnes."

A crowd of soldiers, all craning their necks, are gathered on one of the platforms. They are all looking towards the far end of the platform, where I can see some military police moving about. The professor elbows his way into the crowd: I keep close behind him. Our way is blocked by the broad backs of the soldiers, but the professor speaks out.

"Let me through."

"Why, are you a doctor?"

"I'm a medical man of sorts, yes. I'm Professor Axelson."

Something in the professor's bearing, his medical claims and his foreign accent seems to command the troops' respect. They move aside and let us walk down the platform, past a military policeman who is holding them all back. Further along the siding, four more military police seem to be looking down an odd, square hole in the concrete railway platform.

"Who is in charge here?"

"Sir, I'm Sergeant Nash, British Military Police. And you are? –

The professor shows him the pass that Lord Buttermere gave him. Sergeant Nash tries to give the appearance that he's checking it diligently. But I can tell that he is simply relieved that the professor, a medical person, is here. Nash wants the professor's help.

"Over there, sir. But Madam –" Sergeant Nash looks at me "– please stay back. I'd advise you not to look. This is not a good place for a lady to be."

The other military police are all peering down the hatch, and I see that they are holding ropes which go down into the hole. They are hauling something up from underground.

I see a black shape, a dress that spreads lifelessly like the wings of a dead crow. Everything is black, except wisps of white hair and a death's head face, horribly discoloured by decay. In slow motion, the corpse rises from the hole. The ropes pull it up, then sideways. Then they let it down, with a gentleness born of respect, on the concrete slabs beside the hatch. There's a shocking reek of rotting meat: my head reels.

Holding his nose, the professor bends over the crumpled remains. Time stands still. He removes some identification papers from the corpse's pocket. Then he straightens up, glances around at the men, and holds my eyes, a deep sadness in his face.

"I would look away, Miss Agnes. It appears that we have found Dr Bernard."

**18. The bunker**

"What the hell is going on here?"

An abrupt voice bursts on everyone's ears. I know the voice. If Dr Bernard had a choice about the manner in which her body would be found, this is the last man she would want at the scene. It's Major Jardine. He looks furiously at the military policemen.

"You – Sergeant Nash! Why did you carry on with this – operation – without informing me? I'm responsible for Remy Sidings Station now, you know."

It's as if the Major is taking in what's happened, piece-by-piece. First, he became aware that this crowd of police and soldiers wasn't authorised by him, and the anger is visible in his face. Now, he's trying to make sense of the facts – that a body has been found.

Sergeant Nash looks troubled, but the professor gives an answer. "Major Jardine. I'm glad you are in charge. Sergeant Nash and his men were investigating a bad smell that has been lingering in this area – for months, they say. They have, sadly, found the body of our mutual acquaintance Dr Bernard."

The lump in the Major's throat moves: his face whitens visibly. His eyeballs are staring, stunned.

"How did this happen? Did she fall down that hole?"

"It appears, Major, that the hole is a hatch into an underground bunker. I would guess that it is a coal bunker, no longer used since the railway platform was adapted to military use. But then you are in charge of the station, Major. You will know the layout better than me."

"So – an awful accident."

"Not necessarily. The corpse is so corrupted that I can't immediately tell the cause of death. I would need to make an examination, to find injuries caused by a fall into the bunker – for example a fractured skull. At this stage we cannot rule out foul play."

While the professor speaks, the Major is thinking: he's come to a conclusion. He barks orders. "Sergeant Nash. Put a cordon round this area. All of you –" he turns to the crowd of soldiers behind us "– get back in your trucks. This is not some show at the music-hall."

The men start to move off the platform, with many glances back at the spectacle of horror. I overhear their voices.

"Stinky Siding, that's what everyone calls it."

"I first noticed that smell back in May, when we transferred to Pops."

But I hear no more: Major Jardine is speaking again. "Now you, Professor Axelson. And Volunteer Auxiliary Frocester. Why are you both here?"

"Miss Agnes is assisting me on a task, Major. We are, ah..." the professor pauses "...tracing some records. We were, in fact, on the point of leaving Remy Sidings. We are on our way by car, from Poperinge to Vermelles."

"In that case, you should leave right now, and carry on with your journey. I will ensure that this tragic accident is investigated in the proper manner."

"Except that it may be no accident."

"Well, our military investigation will discover the facts. I suggest, Professor, that you get on. With your own business."

The Major's manner is forceful, but there's a brittleness in his voice. The professor and I don't move. In the slight breeze on the platform, my nostrils catch more passing drifts of the reek of the corpse. I can see the veins in the Major's neck moving.

"Leave now, please. Both of you. Resume your journey. This is not your affair."

Sergeant Nash and his men have put up a rope across the platform, between us and the retreating group of soldiers. We step away from the body, and the professor lifts the rope and holds it in the air for me to duck under it. We're leaving: we have no other option.

Axelson starts the car. The trucks have gone: the road ahead is clear. I speak my feelings.

"Professor, this is too horrible. We must do something."

"Indeed." He puts the car in gear, and drives away from the station. Soon there are no more soldiers and trucks to be seen. We reach a road junction, and the professor turns sharply to the right.

"Where are we going?"

"There is a map somewhere in the car, but I don't think I'll need to use it. See ahead there? There is another right turn... That road leads back into Poperinge. I'm sure Talbot House will be happy to accommodate us for another night."

It's two o'clock in the morning. Axelson parks the car alongside a faded, battered wooden sign 'Remi Quaghebeur'. He and I left Talbot House "to attend to an urgent military case" about half an hour ago, and drove out to this lonely location. There's no one around, and the professor speaks openly.

"From here, it's a ten minute walk along a farm road and across fields to Remy Sidings. I've brought a second flashlight, for you. See, Miss Agnes – it's shaded so as to cast only a dim light downwards. Chaplain Tubby provided them."

"Won't the station be guarded?"

"We're most unlikely to meet anyone. There are military encampments all around us, but this little area of farmland is still untouched. And from the fields, there is unfenced access onto the station."

The professor is right: nettles are the biggest hazard on the overgrown farm track. It's a bright, moonlit night: the squat buildings of Remy Sidings loom closer as we walk. We see no signs of life as we cross the shining lines of a railway track and clamber up onto the first of the platforms. It's Stinky Siding – but the smell has gone.

Axelson grabs my arm suddenly, and points along the platform. But he doesn't speak. I look in the direction of his eyes. A tiny figure: it must be a soldier on night watch, at the furthest end of the platform. The professor speaks in a hushed voice.

"Let's stand still, for a few minutes and keep an eye on that man. He may walk up and down the platform, patrolling, so he might come this way."

We watch the figure, who is looking around, scanning the darkness. But his only movement is to light a cigarette. After five minutes the professor whispers.

"That soldier regards his night-watch duties as limited to standing around and smoking his Wills's Woodbines. He can't be bothered to walk along the platform. We can start our search."

The dim beam of Axelson's shaded flashlight scans the concrete slabs. He glances at me. "As I expected, they've taken away the body."

I had steeled myself for the possibility of the professor looking at the corpse again, but it seems that is not the focus of his interest. I hear him again. "The scene of the crime, not the cadaver, is what I want to look at. We are on a forensic search, Miss Agnes. We are hunting for what your storybook detective would call 'clues'."

Looking along the platform, I see the metallic shine of the hatch where the body was discovered. But the professor doesn't seem interested in that. Instead, he shines his flashlight along the outer edge of the platform, away from the railway lines. After a few moments, he calls softly. "Yes – here. Come with me. I was looking for a way down to the lower level, and I've found it."

I see steps leading downwards. We descend into a long concrete trench alongside the platform. At the far end of the trench is a metal door: it's padlocked.

"This is just as I anticipated. I am an expert, so this lock will delay us for two minutes at most."

The professor produces a small, twisted metal tool from his pocket. He fiddles with the padlock, and indeed, within seconds, he pushes the metal door open. Just like the previous morning, a sickening stink pushes into my nostrils. The professor looks at me.

"This will not be pleasant, Miss Agnes. But if we leave the door open, the smell may dissipate a little, as we search."

Our flashlights are spots of light in a solid darkness. We take a step forward into the bunker. My feet are on a lumpy, uneven surface: chunks of coal. Our beams reveal black walls, thick with soot, and a coal-covered floor. Nothing more.

The professor takes several steps forward, and I hear the clunk of the coal under his footsteps. He stops directly below the hatch. Then he turns back to look at me. "Here, Miss Agnes. You need not look closely, but I can tell that the body lay here. There has been some exudation of fluids onto this area of coals, over a period of several months."

I deliberately look away. I don't see why we've come here: the place is a mere empty tomb, and I feel we're somehow desecrating it. But for the professor's sake, I pretend to search, shining my flashlight on the walls and the floor furthest away from where the corpse lay. Black sooty walls, black coal floor. But then, in a corner, I see something unusual. A long, narrow object.

"Professor. Come here!"

The professor picks the thing up. In our flashlights, it looks for all the world like a dark brown knitting needle. But then he shines the light closely on it.

"This colouring, Miss Agnes. This is dried blood. Not specks – but a complete, even covering." He moves the light along the object to its tip, which isn't brown, but silver. It gleams brilliantly, a pin-sharp point of light.

"I think you have indeed found a 'clue'. Well done. We will take it with us –"

There's a noise outside the bunker. Surely, I think, it can't be footsteps.

I can hear my breathing in the hushed quiet: but I can still hear the noise too. It repeat and repeats, getting louder. It is indeed the tread of boots. The stranger is stepping off the railway platform, coming down the steps, moving along the concrete trench.

Wordlessly, both the professor and I back into the corner behind the door of the bunker.

The steps come closer. A hand is touching the door, a faint creak. Fifty thoughts run through my head – but most of all, I try to quiet my own breathing.

I hear a heavy noise, then another. The stranger is stepping into the bunker, his boots clinking loudly on the coals. He too has a flashlight, much brighter than ours. I can see his back now: he wears a military uniform. Over his shoulder is slanted a rifle. It must be the man we saw at the far end of the platform.

The glowing flashlight darts around the walls and floor before steadying on the bed of coals where the corpse lay alone, all those months in the darkness. There's a slight quiver in the beam, as if the man's hand is shaking. Then the stranger takes two more steps forward, stops, and bends down. His hands reach among the coals, as if searching, while he crouches. I see the outline of his cheek and the edge of a black mustache. It's enough to tell me who this man is. Major Jardine has returned to the scene of Dr Bernard's death.

Every moment seems like hours. But nothing happens, nothing moves, except Jardine's fingers, sifting among the coals. Then his arm reaches forward, towards the wall. His finger is pointing: it's as if he is tracing out something in the soot. I try to keep my breaths faint, shallow but regular.

At last, he straightens up. Now... we'll be found, I think. Now is the moment Jardine will turn and see us behind the door. He stands, the flashlight in his hand. As he turns towards us, he switches the light off. A few seconds later, and the door clangs behind him. He's gone.

We stand, without words, for a few minutes. The footsteps fade to nothing. Then at long last, it's a relief to hear the professor's voice.

"I think in English you call that 'a close shave'. But we got away with it. I think it is safe to make our escape now."

For reply, I point across the bunker. "Jardine – he was looking at something. He seemed to be drawing with his finger on the wall. Somewhere over there."

Axelson runs the beam of his flashlight along the far wall of the bunker. Then the light returns to one single spot and hovers. He speaks, low and sharp.

"What is that?"

I look where he's pointing his flashlight. In a lit patch of wall, just above where the corpse lay, we see lines of gray in the black surface. As if a finger has traced shapes in the soot. It looks like the scrawl of a child.

"I can see it, Professor. How very strange. Major Jardine has written some letters with his finger."

I don't want to take a closer look; the letters are just above where the body lay. But the professor steps over, crouches down and peers at the wall.

"Indeed. There are letters traced in the soot here."

"Why on earth has Jardine done that?"

Axelson stands again, and looks at me. "Miss Agnes – he didn't do it."

"I don't understand."

"Major Jardine wasn't writing. He was reading. He was following the pattern of the letters with his finger, to make sure that he read them correctly."

"That writing – it was there _already_?"

"Yes, it was. I can tell, because there are the threads of a spider's web across the letters. The writing has been here a long time."

"Neither of us spotted it. But why did Major Jardine come here – alone and in the dead of night?"

"I don't know. His actions are very mysterious... but, he has done us a favour. He saw what we missed. It's written very poorly – the writer's hand must have been weak and shaking. But the letters are clear." The professor's flashlight points at the wall, one last time. "You see, Miss Agnes? Two letters. C...H."

**19. The big push**

By dawn we've driven as far as a checkpoint on the Belgian-French border. Axelson goes into a little office to show our papers. After a moment he comes back to the car, and takes our road atlas back into the office. I can see through the window that he and a uniformed man are peering at maps together. Then he returns to the car.

"Most roads are blocked. We can drive to Vermelles – but we must go the long way round. And, all road signs have been removed. The French took them down to confuse the Germans, if they capture this area."

We drive on, and stop in Steenvorde for breakfast. The professor asks the café proprietor if he can use the telephone. Then I hear him speaking to one operator after another. Finally, his voice sounds pleased.

"Doctor Knight! Do you remember me? I met you at Essex Farm Camp. I understand you are carrying out the post-mortem on the remains of Dr Bernard? Despite the condition of the cadaver, could you look, especially, in the chest region below the ribcage? I expect you to find a small wound, caused by an upward thrust of a long, sharp skewer. No – not a kitchen skewer. I think it is a purpose-made weapon of assassination, designed to pierce the heart and kill the victim instantly, before they can even cry for help."

There's a pause while Dr Knight responds. Then the professor says "When you have carried out your examination, could you leave a message for me, at the Hôtel Vieux Beffroi in Béthune? Thank you very much."

We resume our journey. It's painfully winding and slow. Every major road is blocked, and sometimes we drive for miles along potholed farm tracks. The professor tells me Béthune is only fifteen miles away as the crow flies, but it's mid-afternoon before we reach the little town. The professor is in such a hurry to travel the few more miles to Vermelles that he doesn't even stop at the hotel in Béthune to check if there's a message yet from Dr Knight. "We'll do that on the way back." But the professor does agree to my request to stop at a small café, for supper.

Supper isn't the only delay to our journey. There are three checkpoints on the road out of Béthune: each takes longer that the previous one. At each one the professor stops the car, gets out, explains carefully, and, shows our papers including his military pass and identity photograph, and the signed mandate. It's a tedious process: each time there is a long discussion, and the soldiers go to fetch a superior officer. At the last checkpoint we have to wait behind a whole troop of soldiers. Their lieutenant is arguing that they have urgent orders to move to the front line, but apparently their papers aren't in order, and they are turned back.

Night is falling by the time we finally leave the town, but the country around us in now utterly military: our car headlamps pick out tents and wooden huts lining the roads. Here and there are farm buildings, all of them converted into army offices, and we pass a convoy of field ambulances, ready to be dispatched. But most of all, I notice the soldiers. Even though it is now dark, everywhere there are khaki uniforms, columns of men marching, officers shouting, "Left-right, left-right", the crump-crump of feet on the roads. A cornet sounds a reveille. But it sounds tinny and wavering. A fine rain has begun to fall, steadily, as if it might never end.

"What's going on, professor?"

"You have been living in seclusion in Le Touquet. So, you may not have heard the rumours about a decisive effort by the Allies to win the war. They are calling it the Big Push."

"I have heard that phrase, yes."

"Even on the streets of England, people are talking about it. I am hardly an expert in warfare, Miss Agnes, but I have heard that it is good tactics to surprise the enemy. If an attack is indeed to be made, General Falkenheyn would have to be deaf and blind to be unprepared for it."

The crowded roads continue all the way to the village of Vermelles, and darkness closes in on us. We've passed four more checkpoints in the night, and the rain is now a relentless drumming on the canvas hood of our car. Finally we stop at a building that was once a farmhouse. A gate, labelled 'Vermelles Field HQ', leads into a walled farmyard. Axelson and I step across the cobbles and splash through puddles. All around us are low, brick-built shelters that look like pigsties. I'm surprised to see soldiers' faces peering from all the little doorways. They're sheltering from the rain.

At the door a soldier checks the professor's pass, and we're ushered into a dimly-lit room. The farmhouse kitchen table is still there, but in the light of a lamp I see that it is covered with maps, plans and lists of army battalions. The customary bottle of port is on the table too, glinting like a ruby in the lamplight. Around the table are the uniforms and faces of senior officers. The one in the middle looks familiar: he glances up at us, and Axelson speaks to him.

"General Charteris. It is good to see you again. We were asked to report to this field headquarters, before we proceed on our mission."

The General doesn't seem annoyed by the interruption to his meeting. Instead, he smiles at me and the professor. "I've not been involved in this matter for a while. But, I gather that you have traced Corporal Tasker's fellow soldiers? Well done: a jolly good show."

"Yes – we have traced them, General. Two of the four are dead, I'm afraid – Tasker himself, as you will know, and Gadd. Also dead is Dr Bernard, who witnessed the murder of Seydlitz by the soldiers. And another of the four, Edgar, deserted from the army but was recaptured."

"I know all about Private Edgar. Colonel Hampshire gave me a full report. The man is not just a deserter but a traitor. But there are other traitors too. Rotten apples, Axelson. I wish you good luck in hunting them down."

"We are trying now, General, to find the fourth of Tasker's men. I suspect that he knows crucial information."

"Excellent. A very good idea."

"General, that is why Miss Frocester and I are here at Vermelles. The fourth man is a Private Colin Smith, who is serving, we understand, with the 15th Division – the Cameron Highlanders. I believe they may be stationed in the vicinity?"

"Yes, they are nearby. But you would have to approach the front lines to find him. That's impossible, I'm afraid."

General Charteris smiles again, and leans back in his chair as if waiting patiently for us to leave. The other officers too are all waiting for us to go: they want to continue their meeting. But the professor stands his ground, bristling at the general's refusal. "What on earth do you mean? Why do you prevent us proceeding?"

"As of today, no civilians whatsoever are allowed east of Vermelles. Not even with the mandate that you have."

"It is signed by Lloyd George. You know the importance of this matter, General."

"Let me see the mandate." General Charteris holds his hand out, and the professor hands him the slip of paper, grimy from the hands of the many soldiers who've peered at it today. The general barely glances at the paper, then hands it back.

"As I said, your instructions are countermanded by more pressing orders. You need to turn your car round and leave. I'm sorry that you have both had a wasted journey."

"This can't be right, General! My investigation is sanctioned at the highest level. Lord Buttermere spoke personally to Lloyd George about it. You understand what that means."

"I know what that means in Government offices in London, Professor. But here we are on the field of battle, where things are a little different."

The professor is only just holding his temper. He tries to speak steadily and evenly. "Throughout my investigations I have been hampered by military personnel, including yesterday that most unco-operative of all officers, Major Jardine. But the Major is an ignorant man of limited understanding. I did not expect to find you, General Charteris, among those who are trying to stop me."

"I understand that your work is important, Axelson. I'd help if I could, old boy. But there is absolutely no way that I can allow you to travel onwards towards the Western Front from here."

I find myself speaking out. "Professor, I'll go back to the car. If you and I leave now, we could get back to Béthune – you mentioned a hotel there?" I smile my goodbyes at the officers and step back out into the pouring rain. As I make my way back through the farmyard to the car, the watching eyes of the soldiers follow me. Are all those men staying in the pigsties overnight, I wonder?

Inside the car, I don't wait for the professor. I check that no-one's looking, then I open my suitcase. There is practically no room to move, but somehow I manage to get my skirt and blouse off, and pull on my Red Cross Volunteer's uniform. I'm just tidying myself up when the professor opens the car door.

"They are idiots! We must contact Lord Buttermere immediately..."

"It won't help, Professor. I think we should do things differently now. Why don't we just look for Private Smith ourselves? A Red Cross Volunteer Auxiliary on the battlefield – well, I may attract some attention, but everyone will assume there's a legitimate reason for me to be here... You must call yourself Doctor. After all, you did have medical training."

The professor looks at me. "You mean, we tell lies to everyone?"

"Yes. Now start the car. If anyone stops us, show them your pass. You never know, it might work. General Charteris says that the pass is countermanded by more important orders – but will everyone in the Army know that? Communications around here seem to be pretty poor."

Indeed, the whole area seems to be in chaos: in the gloom we see groups of soldiers marching in different directions, some towards the front, some away from it. We come to a crossroads, and a soldier there directs us, without asking to see any papers at all. But he sends us the wrong way along a one-way road. The headlamps of a transport lorry loom ahead of us. We pull over and it races past us, hooting its horn angrily. Then a long column of soldiers follow the lorry. We wait for them to go by. As soon as we set off again, the professor smiles at me.

"There is an English nursery rhyme, I believe, called The Grand Old Duke Of York. He marched ten thousand men up to the top of a hill. Then he was not sure what to do. So he marched them all down again."

"Maybe there's some organisation behind it. There must be a plan... but all these soldiers, in the middle of the night. It's very strange."

Without warning, the road ends. Peering into the dark on either side I see that the tents and huts around us have also come to an end. In front of us is a blank, open space: in the car headlights I can see a few yards of bare, sodden earth, then the black blanket of night. It's like we have come to the end of the world: in front of me is literally nothing.

The noise that shakes the darkness throws me forward onto the dashboard: my ears explode with the sound. I see a blast of light, and I get the car door open. I've seen a car burn: I don't want to be inside one when it's hit by an artillery shell. I run, then stop myself. I'm twenty yards from the car, blackness is all around me, and the deafening explosions continue. Between the blasts I hear a voice.
"Excuse me, Miss. Are you looking for the Medical Corps?"

It's a strong Scots accent, and I look into the face of a young man in officer's uniform, although rather than a military cap he wears the usual front-line steel helmet. Rather than saluting, he bows, as if asking for my hand at a dance. "Lieutenant Gordon, at your service. You don't happen to be lost, do you?"

"No, Lieutenant. But – shouldn't we be taking cover?"

"Cover from what? We're not under fire, you know. This noise is our own guns, Miss."

"Oh."

"We're bombarding the enemy lines. The Germans are over there, beyond No Man's Land."

He points his arm out into the night. I see bursts of illumination in the sky, bright as sunshine. Like a photographer's flash, they freeze the scene: a stark, pancake-flat horizon. Except here and there I see odd towers of ironwork, and abrupt black hills stick up from the plain like molehills.

The gunfire ends as abruptly as it started. The Scots voice repeats. "So as I asked, Miss, is it the medical team you're looking for?"

"Ah... I'm Volunteer Auxiliary Frocester. I'm here with Professor Axelson. He's a doctor as well as a professor."

"Where is he?"

I look back towards the car, and see the professor walking towards us. He hails the lieutenant. "Officer! We are looking for someone. A Private Smith, 6th Cameron..."

"6th Cameron Highlanders. That's us, sir. I know Private Colin Smith. In an English army unit there might be twenty Private Smiths, but in a Scots regiment, they are few."

"Indeed. Thank you, Lieutenant." The professor shows him Lord Buttermere's mandate, and Lieutenant Gordon hands it back to him with a smile. Evidently the orders banning civilian personnel have not filtered down to the front-line troops. "No problem at all, we'll be happy to help. I'll take you to meet him, Doctor – or Professor – Axelson."

"Thank you."

"But be careful, both of you. It's gone quiet for a few minutes now, but our bombardment is due to resume. Be ready to cover your ears."

**20. Zero hour**

The torrent of gunfire starts again as we step down into a deep trench. It's now just before dawn, and there is enough light to see that, compared to those I saw at Ypres, this trench is wide, and walled and floored neatly with wooden planks. It's also much drier than I expected, after the all-night rain. As we descend below ground level, the noise of the guns lessens. Here and there, doorways are cut neatly into the sides of the trench, leading to underground rooms. Glancing into them I see bunk beds, tables, chairs, even cups and teapots. But every room is deserted.

I can't help making a foolish remark. "It's like a rabbit warren. All this must have taken an age to dig out, Lieutenant."

"It took us one week, Miss, when we first came here. Hundreds of men with nothing else to do. And enemy gunfire whizzing over the open ground at us. We all became very good at digging."

The professor looks at him. "Where are they now? Your men?"

"Here." We turn a corner in the trench. Ahead of me, as far as I can see, stretches an orderly line of helmeted soldiers, each holding a rifle. They're waiting, as if queuing to see a football game. Each head turns, sees me, and smiles.

"Excuse the men, Miss Frocester. The sight of a pretty girl is a surprise for them."

"It's not a problem at all, Lieutenant." And indeed none of the men dare speak to me; they just go on smiling, shyly. Professor Axelson asks again about Smith, and Lieutenant Gordon goes forward and talks to the men. Then he returns to us.

"Private Smith is out ahead, I'm afraid. In the Russian saps." We look blankly at him, and he explains. "A sap is a shallow trench in No Man's Land, beyond our main front-line trench. We've dug them as an advance position for some of our troops, ready for going forward towards the enemy lines. As you will know, an attack across the whole Loos Sector is scheduled for later this morning."

The professor looks sharply at him. "For when, exactly?"

"The original plan was 0630 hours, but it depends on the state of the weather. Right now, it's a dead calm. It's not safe to attack until the wind rises. Our weather forecasters tell us the wind will increase at some time this morning. So we are waiting – perhaps for several hours. In the meantime, I've asked for Smith to be recalled so he can talk to you. You should be able to talk to him, and get away from here, before the action starts."

Professor Axelson looks bemused. "Why is the wind important?"

"We're using a screen of black smoke to hide our troops as they advance across No Man's Land. We need the wind to blow the smoke ahead of our men. And we're using an accessory gas, too. Our soldiers will wear masks to protect them, but the Germans will be taken by surprise. The gas should scatter the enemy. With luck our men can walk unscathed towards their trenches. But the whole plan depends on a prevailing wind to blow the accessory towards them."

I'm taking in what Lieutenant Gordon is saying. "You say 'accessory'. You mean chlorine gas? Like the Germans used?"

"It's modern war, Miss Frocester." That phrase again, just like I overheard Colonel Hampshire say. I can't help myself.

"Does 'modern war' justify any atrocity? I thought we were supposed to be better than the Germans."

Lieutenant Gordon doesn't speak: it's obvious that he has no time for a discussion of ethics. He looks at his watch. He's hoping that Private Smith returns soon, so that the professor and I can be sent on our way.

A harsh, urgent voice bursts on my ears from above. Someone is running along the top of the trench and shouting down to us. "Accessory and smoke cover was released at 0550. Attack to commence as planned at 0630."

I look at the lieutenant, but all I see is his steel helmet and the back of his neck. For him, Professor Axelson and I have ceased to exist. He's going along the line of men, issuing orders, and I see a forest of hurried movements: tightening belts, picking up rifles. The men are all facing away from us: I can see only one face now –

a man who walks towards us along the line of troops. To each soldier in turn, he gives a piece of white sacking material, like a canvas bag.

The operation is not quite slick. Each man takes the bag that's handed to him, but then I hear the lieutenant's voice again: "Fix bayonets". Now there are trembling fingers, hundreds of them, gripping long, horrid blades and fumbling to try to slot them onto the muzzles of their rifles, while their hands are still holding onto the canvas bags. Sickeningly, the bayonets are fitted, and stick up into the air like a forest of black spikes. But now the men, holding their bayoneted rifles, have to put their canvas bags on.

The bags, I realise, are gasmasks. Again there are shaking arms and fingers everywhere, and the bayonets wave like blades of grass in the breeze, as each man pulls a bag, like a loose white sock, over his helmet and down over his head. The bags have black glassy eye holes, like I saw on the German soldiers at Ypres. Now though, seen close up, the gasmasks look comical, not sinister. Like clown's outfits. But the bristling bayonets send a chill down my spine. Again, I can't help speaking out, and I hear the fear in my voice as I call.

"Lieutenant. What shall we do?"

"You're a doctor and a nurse. You can assist our medical unit. They are on standby to deal with our casualties. Just wait here for a few minutes so as not to get in anyone's way in the trenches. Then when the trenches are empty, go back along this trench, turn first left, you'll see them. Thank you."

The lieutenant turns and walks along the line of soldiers. He is going through the motions of inspecting the men's kit. But all he does is say the same thing to each one. "Brave boy". As if each one of them is ten years old, and has fallen off his bicycle, but is refusing to cry.

I hear a whistle blow, and scampering footsteps. Ahead of us, the queue inches forwards: ahead of us must be the front trench, and the men are shuffling towards it. As they move forwards I can glimpse, between the moving masses of canvas gasmasks, the front wall of the forward trench, walled with wooden bars. The bars act as the rungs of ladders, leading up a parapet of sandbags. Above the sandbags, the morning sky is lightening, clear and bright. I see no smoke, and no 'accessory' gas. Man after man moves forward. Another whistle blows. The men at the front start, mechanically, to clamber up to the top of the trench. The operation is perfect, almost choreographed. Each man copies the one before him: he puts his hands, his feet, in exactly the same spots. It's like an exercise on a climbing frame in a school gym. The men's movements are jerky, nervous but controlled, as they grip the wooden rungs and climb.

So: this is it. The thing that, above all, every soldier dreads. Going 'over the top'.

After fifteen minutes, it is all over. The trench ahead of us is empty, and the professor and I stand alone on the wooden planking. The roaring of the British guns has ended, and there is a strange, dead silence. I feel struck dumb, but Axelson speaks.

"Assist the medical unit, that's what the lieutenant said. Our hunt for Private Smith is over, at least for now; there are more pressing duties." He walks along the trench and takes the left turn as we were directed. Cluelessly, I follow him.

The professor points towards a sign on the trench wall. 'Royal Army Medical Corps'. A moment later we are standing in front of a deep dugout, an underground cavern.

The place is brightly lit, and crowded. I see the uniforms of doctors, nurses and medical orderlies. All of them are men. A gray-haired man looks at us, taking in my uniform and the professor's suit. "Reinforcements? Thank you."

The man introduces himself as Lieutenant-Colonel Withers. "But, just call me Doctor. It's quicker." He shakes the professor's hand and smiles briefly at me before introducing his team. I'm not taking in what he's saying. His voice sounds like a bee buzzing inside a bottle. Maybe I'm just tired, but I feel like the noise of the bombardment has shaken my head until my ears don't work. Instead of trying to listen, I look at my surroundings. There's a low beamed ceiling, supported by wooden pillars like pit-props. Against every wall are wide benches at the height of kitchen tables. Ready to receive the stretchers which I see piled in one corner.

Dr Withers' voice rouses my attention. "You, Miss! If you're a Volunteer Auxiliary, there may not be much you can do, until later on. Then, you can assist with bandaging."

"Yes, sir." I nod meekly.

"But in the meantime, Miss – can you assist Orderly Mitchell? He will help any walking wounded who return to our trenches."

Mitchell stands against one wall: a tall, heavy-set man. He steps forward and shakes my hand, towering over me. But his face is kindly, and he explains slowly to me,

"What the chief means is this. You and me, we go back to that front trench. Then, if any soldiers come back and can't get down the ladders, we help them and bring them back here. If any of them need carrying, I can do that. All you need to do is talk to them. Tell each man that he is going to be alright."

"Yes. Of course. Sorry, my mind went blank there for a moment."

"Don't worry about it. To be honest, you're the first female nurse we've ever seen. I'm surprised that they've started using women for this work. But then, this war is full of surprises." He looks at me gently. "Is this your first time at the front?"

"No... but..."

"I know. It's impossible to get used to it. Just focus on the simple bits of the job. We walk to the front trench, we look for injured men coming back. We try our best to help them. That's all you need to think about."

I follow Mitchell's broad back out of the medical dugout. A quavering noise sounds overhead, like an animal whimpering in pain.

"Cover your ears, Miss!"

A blast fills the air: choking black smoke blows along the trench, then passes us in a moment. I open my eyes again, blinking in the sooty air. Mitchell looks at me. "Whizz-bang. That's our name for the German artillery shells. You hear that whistling noise... then, you know a bang is coming. Looks like the shell has hit the front trench."

Ahead of us, I see the now-familiar ladders. The sandbags are disordered, lumpy. Then I realise that not all of them are sandbags: I see the shape of a fallen man up there. A single leg dangles towards us over the edge of the parapet. In seconds, Mitchell climbs onto the top of the trench and immediately lies flat, stretched out along the sandbags.

"If you have to come up here, Miss, _don't stand up_. Don't even crouch. Just lie flat. This man – he doesn't look like a whizz-bang casualty. So, there may be German rifle fire as well as the whizz-bangs. And that white nurse's uniform of yours will be visible for a mile. Don't give the Huns any easy target practice."

He's touching and patting the body whose leg still hangs, swinging lifelessly, over the edge of the trench.

"Somehow, we've got to get this man down from here." He raises his voice over the strange, uncanny whistling of more shellfire. There's a sickening crash, and again the black smoke roils over us. Coughing and choking, I pull clumsily on the leg. Mitchell shouts "No, no! I'll push his body, you get ready to slow the fall, if you can. Look out for his head. Keep it safe from hitting the ground."

With a huge heave, Mitchell pushes the body, plus several sandbags, down into the shelter of the trench. I grab the lolling head, still in its canvas bag, to stop it banging on the floor of the trench. The man lies on the ground, and as Mitchell jumps down to me. I wrestle the gas-mask off his head.

It's Lieutenant Gordon.

His eyes are open, but he looks dreamy, like a contented baby. He smiles gently at me. "Miss Frocester. You seem determined to follow me today."

He closes his eyes as if falling asleep. He's not in pain and I can see no wounds. I pull his shoulders up from the floor.

As I lift the lieutenant, my hands feel wet, as if in warm water. I look, and they're shining red. Hot blood is spilling through my fingers, all across the floor of the trench. And now I notice a tiny round wound in his chest, like a little red button.

Mitchell's voice cuts through the whizzing shells. "Half his back is blown off, Miss. Exit wound of a rifle bullet. We must leave him."

"Leave him?"

"Well yes, of course. We have the living to attend to. Lieutenant Gordon is dead."

Mitchell climbs back up onto the parapet, lying flat again alongside the sandbags. He looks intently out into the distance. I stand up: I need to keep busy, to focus on the job in hand. I look up at him.

"What can you see?"

"Nothing, Miss. The troops have all moved ahead, across No Man's Land." I realise that he's no longer shouting over the noise of the whizz-bangs, and the billows of black smoke have stopped. It's gone quiet, and Mitchell is speaking normally. I try to avert my eyes from the sprawled body of Lieutenant Gordon, and look up at Mitchell, who is scanning the view ahead.

"Are there any injured men out there?"

"I can see one – no, two. But they are far ahead of us. It won't be safe to cross No Man's Land to get them."

Something has taken hold of me since looking at the Lieutenant's dead, peaceful face. I climb up the ladders to the sandbags and look out. Until now, I haven't seen the battlefield of Loos: what a strange sight it is.

I expected a wilderness of craters and skeletal trees among a sea of mud, especially after last night's rain and the hellfire bombardment. Instead, I'm looking across an open grassy meadow, spangled with the lavender-shaded flowers of late summer: harebells, scabious, late clover. The flowers, growing so profusely all summer on untended farmer's fields, are fresh and vivid after the night's rain. Above them, the early-morning sun shines in a cloudless sky; I shade my eyes to see. The sunlight pours through the carpet of flower petals, endless tiny prisms of violet light.

I scan our surroundings. Far away to my right and left, black smoke-clouds hug the lines of the British trenches. But my own view ahead is clear. Perhaps two hundred yards ahead of us, the ground curves gently downwards, and beyond it are the shapes of small, neat houses: a village. Most oddly of all, the iron structures I glimpsed last night stand up above the village: the elaborate winding gear of a large mine. To its left I see the angular outline of a bank of spoil that must have been dug out from the mine. Between us and the village are two, only two, figures in British Army uniforms, lying flat in the field. The rest of the soldiers have disappeared. I look at Mitchell's sweat-soaked face. The black soot gathered around his eyes is like theatre make-up. I speak, without thinking.

"Let's go out to those fallen soldiers. The gunfire has stopped."

"It won't be safe, Miss. The German shelling is bound to start again in a minute, and there's the snipers too..." As he speaks, Mitchell gazes out, peering at the open field and the strangely quiet village. Two minutes pass, then he looks at me again.

"Maybe the rest of our lads did get across safely. I can hardly believe it, but –perhaps we've won. Perhaps the Germans are on the run from us."

"Perhaps the Germans are too busy running to shoot at us. You will know better than me what we should do. But, I think we should go to those two wounded men out there."

We set off. We crouch as we run, trying to keep low, but there is no more gunfire. The grass is so long it brushes my face; I can't see the two casualties any more. But then we see several shallow human-shaped pits, scraped out of the soil. These must be the 'Russian saps' where Private Smith and the rest of the advance party lay low until dawn. We stop, cowering in the saps, peering out for signs of danger. I catch my breath, and we listen for any sound of battle. But all I hear is birds singing, like I did at Ypres. They're skylarks, I think. I look up, and I see one of them, soaring, a speck in the infinite blue.

I look at Mitchell, and he nods. We stand up again and step out of the saps. We take a few more steps, and reach the two bodies.

Bodies they are. One has no head, and I try not to look for the bloodied ball which must lie somewhere near us among the grass. I can't look at all at the other body, because the figure has no legs, except two gleaming white sticks of thigh bones which point at me across the meadow.

"There's nothing more we can do here, Miss. We must return to the trench. Let's get back to the Russian saps, rest for a moment, then get back to safety."

I'm fixated, wordless. It's an age since I've eaten, but my stomach convulses to empty itself. The spasm bends me double; I look at my feet, and I taste my own bile, dripping through my lips. Then I stand up, but my eyes disobey me. They won't move: they fix rigidly on the two white sticks.

With an effort I turn away, and see Mitchell already heading back to the saps. He looks over his shoulder at me.

"Come on."

I hear another voice.

"Water. Please."

My mind fights disbelief as I take in the sound I'm hearing. It's the man with no legs speaking. Averting my gaze from his lower half, I look at his face, and I see pleading, sky-blue eyes. I find myself speaking.

"Yes. I have some water." I've got a small water bottle with me: I just focus on what I have to do: I step over to him, and hold it to his lips. He sips, looking at me and blinking, his breaths deep and slow, before speaking once more.

"Mary."

"I'm sorry, but I'm not Mary."

One of his hands moves feebly towards a pocket on the front of his jacket, and I understand. I feel inside the pocket, and I take out a little silver locket and unclasp it. Inside the locket there's a tiny, cheap photograph of a woman. Her shoulders are wrapped in a Highland shawl, and she wears a straw bonnet. I hold it in front of his eyes. He looks, and I can sense that the rest of the world has gone away from him into blankness. There is nothing left in his mind, except the photograph. The eyes look and look, drinking in the image of Mary, and then after about five minutes, they are still.

21. Hill 70

I hear a different voice. "Madame?"

I look up. I must be dreaming: Mary, the Mary in the locket, is standing there like an angel on the battlefield. It's still quiet, apart from the larks singing. The angel has cast a spell of peace over the carnage.

"Madame? Do you hear me?"

The angel is real. A young girl, perhaps sixteen, in the simple dress of a French villager, is standing looking down at me.

"That young man – he is dead, I think? But you are a nurse. Your work is with the living, not with the dead. Can you come and help us?"

Without a word, I stand and look into her eyes. For a moment I wonder if I am dead too. I fell next to the young soldier, back on Earth. Now I'm standing in the fields of Heaven. Mitchell has disappeared: the girl and I are alone. The lavender flowers all around me, the blue sky above. But I look down and see the blood and bones again. No, this is real. I tell myself to wake up, stop dreaming, and start acting. The girl's voice cuts through my head.

"Madame, I am sorry to hurry you, but we need your help. I have little time to spare; we are very busy in the village. Please, come with me."

"I'm sorry. Of course – please guide me."

As the girl leads me across the field, she chats away happily. "Your soldiers, they came this morning! We are free at last of the Bosch. They have been in our village one whole year. I know one English word for them. _Bastards_." She motions her face, as if to spit on the ground. We reach a tangle of barbed wire, but it's been cut down and trampled by the advancing British troops, and we get through it without difficulty. Beyond it is the a line of a deep, wide trench, abandoned by the Germans. We cross the trench on a bridge made of wooden planks. The whole place is deserted. There are no wounded German soldiers, no abandoned equipment. The trench and its surroundings are empty, like they've been swept clean. It's as if the German troops planned to evacuate the area.

"The Germans – they have gone, then?"

"They ran away. But not all the way back to Germany!" She smiles at me. "They have more lines of defense – two, three kilometres to the east. They have all gone back to those defenses, I think. But that means that Loos has become French again."

I can see the village ahead of us. As we approach the streets, I realise that its neat appearance from a distance was an illusion. It's a scene of colossal destruction. Terraces of little cottages are smashed like eggshells: a random jumble of loose bricks, wood and tiles covers every inch of ground. The road ahead of us appears completely blocked with wreckage. But the girl, who introduces herself as Émilienne Moreau, clambers up over the tumbled mess. "Here, Madame – step here. Put your foot on that wooden beam! And now your other foot, just there..." She points to one side. "Now look there, Madame. Over on your left, that is all that is left of the village school. The invaders shut it down, so I opened a classroom in the basement of my house. To teach the little ones, you see."

"Your school is gone. So's your church." I point ahead to a random pile of stones. Only the remains of an arched window show what once stood there. "The British bombardment must have done that. We've destroyed your village."

"Bricks and mortar. They are nothing, yes? It is the people who matter. In Loos, we are a community. Before the Bosch came, our men worked in the mines, our women raised the families. Everyone helped everyone else, it is our way. But we would not work the mine for the Kaiser, oh no. And now... _liberation_. We are free again. We will rebuild. Ah, here we are! Welcome to the Moreau family home."

She steps through a doorway, stooping below a dangling wooden joist. There's just as much wreckage inside the hallway of the house as there was in the street. We pick out way through to the kitchen. This house is larger than the little cottages we passed, and the kitchen is like that of a farmhouse: wide and high-ceilinged. It's escaped the devastation. But it's dark, and my eyes haven't adjusted from the sunshine. A few seconds pass before I realise that the floor is covered with bodies. They're British soldiers; all alive, but all wounded. One of them speaks.

"Nurse! Nurse! I can see you, standing there in the light. Émilienne, thank you for bringing the nurse."

The rest of the morning is a blur of action. I start examining the men, deciding who is worst injured and what I can do for them. A middle-aged woman, who introduces herself as Madame Moreau, brings me torn-up bedsheets, and I bind the wounds. Other women come and go, bringing bread and apples for the wounded soldiers. Émilienne is busiest of all, tirelessly fetching buckets of water and giving it to the men with a ladle. Every one of them is desperately thirsty. I simply do every task that appears in front of me, like a machine.

After a time, I notice another pair of hands working beside me, and then another. I hear British voices. Dr Withers and some of his medical team have arrived, although there's no sign of the professor, or of Mitchell. But Dr Withers smiles at me.

"You've done a first-rate job, Volunteer Frocester! You set up the beginnings of an Advance Dressing Station, right here in this house."

"It was her who did it." I point at Émilienne. "She told me to come here and help."

"Whoever did it, it's a splendid start. What we need now is to set up a second dressing station, at Hill 70. You see, there's a backup Medical Corps on its way from Vermelles. By this afternoon, we should have enough staff to run two Stations. Would you be able to go up to the hill and assess where we can site the second Station?"

"Uh – yes. If you need me to, sir."

"Good girl. In the meantime, we'll treat these patients, and await your return."

"What's Hill 70?"

"I'll show you." Dr Withers leads me out into the street. A bizarre sight greets my eyes. Above the tumbled wreckage of the houses, a vast iron structure towers into the sky against the noonday sun: two black towers, linked by a metal arch. He points up at it. "That's the winding gear for the Loos coal mine. The soldiers call it Tower Bridge, because it looks a bit like the one in London. It's damaged by the bombardment, so it might fall over at any moment. But that's not what I want to show you." We turn a corner, and beyond the last houses of the village I see a gently rising meadow of grass and flowers, just like the one I crossed earlier.

"Not much of a hill, I admit. But that's Hill 70. The Germans set up a strong-point at the top of it: trenches, walls, sandbags. This morning, our troops captured it and they're now advancing in full force beyond it. The Germans have been decimated by the bombardment: they are in full retreat. We have smashed right through their battle lines. This is the breakthrough, Miss Frocester. The end of the Western Front, the start of the Allied victory."

I think of what Émilienne said. "Are there any more German fortifications beyond Hill 70?"

"There may be a few supply trenches and the like. But so many of our troops have gone forward, they will have easily captured those trenches too. Despite what went wrong with the gas, our artillery bombardment seems to have slaughtered the Germans."

"And what did go wrong with the gas?"

"The generals decided to start the attack without waiting for the wind to rise. I'm sure they had very good reasons; they do have the bigger picture, after all. Anyway, in some places the gas drifted back into the British lines. There have been some nasty casualties. But there's no time to tell you everything. I need to you go now, Miss Frocester."

"I just need to be clear, sir. Exactly what do you want me to do?"

"The Hill 70 fort should be the ideal place to set up the second Advance Dressing Station. But of course we don't know for sure: we've been too busy to go and have a look at it yet. We just need someone to look around inside the fortification, to check that it's suitable for setting up a few camp beds, maybe a canvas roof over the top of it. No need to make a song and dance of it – just make a quick, common-sense assessment of the place. Then report back to me. Now, I have to attend to the patients."

Dr Withers is gone before I can ask questions, but his message is pretty clear. I must go up to the fort at the top of the field, and see if it's suitable for a medical base. It shouldn't be too difficult, I tell myself.

A lane leads out of the village, below the shadow of Tower Bridge. Above me I hear a rhythmic squeaking. A dangling metal girder is attached at one end to the arch of the bridge: it sways like a pendulum in the breeze. More twisted metal lies fallen all around the feet of the strange structure. Ahead of me, the way is blocked by wrecked carts and wagons, a mess of broken axles and splintered cartwheels. A group of British soldiers are trying to push the wagons into a ditch that runs alongside the lane. I suppose they are trying to clear the lane, so more troops can march through. I work my way round the wreckage. Beyond them, the lane runs up to a shallow skyline where I see the rounded outlines of sandbags. That must be the fort on Hill 70.

The lane leads up a sloping meadow, green and lush except for odd dark spots here and there. They are probably more bodies, I think to myself, and try not to shudder. I steel my resolve and step forward. But as I get closer, I see they are indeed bodies, but neither British or German. They're mules, who must have got shot as our troops advanced. I look at the first one: he's dead, shot through the head. I take a zig-zag line up the slope, from one mule corpse to another, and I look at each. They are all dead. I must admit that I feel glad: I have no idea what I'd do if I found one alive.

I look ahead of me at the row of sandbags along the skyline: the German fort. Then I realise that among the bags are men's faces; several of them. They are lined with pain and exhaustion, but they look at me with intense interest. One of them summons up his strength to shout to me in a Highland accent.

"Wounded men – here... please, Nurse!"

I shout back. "Hello! I've come here to see if we can set up a Dressing Station."

As I step inside the walls of sandbags, I hear another Scots voice, but this one is larded with sarcasm. "Dressing Station, now that's a new idea! Why didna the British Army think o' that before?"

I look at the man lying almost at my feet, and he looks at me. "You can start doing that dressing right now, Nurse. A German bullet's gone through ma foot."

I look around inside the fort. It's like a repeat of Émilienne's kitchen, but outdoors. Men are lying all around, some apparently sleeping, others staring at me, occasionally groaning. "Water" is the only articulate word I hear from most of them, except for the garrulous young Scotsman with the injured foot. I find a jerry-can of water and hand it to the man who first called out to me; he is able to stand. I tell him to give some water to each of the wounded men. Others among them, too, are now standing up: it's as if my visit has given them new life, new hope. But, every one of the men is asking me to examine them.

"Look. I need to get back to the medical post. They'll be up here soon. They'll set up a Dressing Station for you."

"Yes, but you're here _now_."

"Nurse, don't leave us!"

"I'll take a quick look. But the priority is to get the Dressing Station set up." I look at the man with the injured foot first: he's the loudest. With some wriggling, we get his boot off. The stink is awful. "I've nae got trench-foot, no matter what you think. So don't turn up your nose at me. I've marched twenty miles in these socks."

I peel the bloodied sock off the foot. I can't help it: I smile, suppressing a laugh, at the sight of the man's big toenail, which sticks in the sock and comes away from the foot. There's very little blood, and the rest of the foot is uninjured.

"What the bluidy hell are you sniggering aboot?"

"Sorry. I'm laughing because I feel relieved. You're not badly injured. Your boot has been hit by a bullet, yes. But only your big toenail has come off. It looks – funny, that's all."

"Well you've got a different sort of bedside manner. I'm lying here injured, and you're laughing fit to bust! Like my poor foot is a bluidy music-hall comedy act!"

"I'm really sorry. You've lost your toenail, and that's – painful. And we must think about infection in the wound... so it could lead to something serious, I suppose..."

"You're a right ray of sunshine." He stares at me. "Can I send you back, and get a different nurse?"

"Please – I am sorry. Now look, I'm going back down to the village, to speak to Dr Withers. He'll send a full medical team up here to treat all the wounded. But you – you needn't wait here. I think that you, and the man who is passing round the water, might be fit enough to walk back to the village. A few others, too."

He looks at me doubtfully. I try to be encouraging. "If you can't put any weight on the foot, you could hop. If you put your arm around my shoulder..."

"Trying to make it up to me, are you? You'll nae get roond me, with your womanly wiles."

He sits up, then stands on one leg. I direct him. "That's it – arm around my neck, Now hold my hand, here, and that will help keep your arm in place. Do you think you can get along?"

"Seein' as we're getting so intimate, what's your name, lassie? I need tae know, so I can fill out the complaint form later."

"I'm Volunteer Auxiliary Frocester. Call me Agnes."

"And I'm Private Smith, but you can call me Colin."

I look at him. "Colin Smith? Were you at Ypres?"

"We call it Wipers, lassie. Short for Wiped Oot - like us poor soldiers who were wiped oot, by the German gunfire. And yes, I was there. I was at Kitcheners' Wood, with a Canadian battalion that got slaughtered like a flock of wee lambs. Another great British Army shambles –"

Without warning, he flops to the ground behind a line of sandbags, as if he's been shot. He pulls me down with him. A rattling noise starts behind us: it grows to a hurricane of sound. Silenced by the din, I motion to Smith to stand again. But he grips my arm like a vice. I can't get up.

"Nay lassie. Stay doon."

"Why?"

Smith is shouting at me, but the stuttering sound is now so loud I have to read his lips.

"Don't stand up. Whatever ye do, _don't stand up_."

An acrid smell fills my breath; there's black smoke in my eyes, my nostrils. I hear a different voice.

"Hände hoch! Hände hoch! Surrender, English!"

22. The citadel

It's instinct: I put my hands up as high as I can reach. So do all the wounded men, including Smith. But I hear him muttering under his breath.

"'English' indeed. I've got ma faults, but being a bluidy Sassenach isnae one o' them."

Within seconds, we're surrounded by German soldiers. One young man, just a boy, points a gun at my chest. He looks terrified. Is he going to pull the trigger, in panic? I smile into his wide, staring eyes, trying to defuse the tension in this moment. He smiles back as if he's scared of me.

I feel a hard shove in my back. "Get going. All prisoners, this way! The German Army is reoccupying the fort."

There are about twenty of us prisoners. Guns point at us, one jabbing into my side, and we understand what they want: they are dividing us into two groups. I have no choice. Smith is in one group, I'm in the other. My group, I realise, is all those who are able to walk unaided.

An officer is pointing the way down the slope beyond the fort, in the opposite direction from Loos. Four soldiers with rifles accompany us. We step over the sandbags, out of the fort. Then we see what's in front of us.

It's just another grassy slope that was once a field. But almost all the grass is covered by the corpses of the Scots regiments. I'm looking into hundreds of pairs of open, dead eyes; blue, brown, green. Pale, boyish faces above their khaki uniforms, their shining brass buttons, their polished boots. Most corpses are pierced with single, neat bullet holes, but one or two are like piles of red rags. I guess those were hit by artillery fire. And among the hundreds of Scots, there are a few German corpses too, in their slate-gray uniforms. But every young man, of either side, has the same surprised look of death in his open mouth, his startled eyes.

The officer in charge silently gestures to us to walk down through the field. He too is shaking his head in wondering horror. Us prisoners are shocked – but so are our guards, the supposed victors. We are all speechless at the carnage that we're walking through. We try not to step on sprawling limbs. Dead hands stretch out among the grass, as if reaching for our feet.

We approaching a line of sandbags marking the top of German-built trenches. This must be the line of defense that Émilienne told me about. Dozens of black machine-guns grin at us over the sandbags.

Our guards are gesturing at us to descend into the deep, plank-lined slot. Somehow I clamber down the ladder. All around us now are new faces: German soldiers manning the trenches. They look surprised at this sudden influx of people. Another officer comes forward, there's a discussion, and after a few minutes we are marched along a trench leading away from the front line. It's narrow, enough for single file only. Our little line of captives has the German soldiers at the front and rear. We seem to be walking through the trench for a lifetime. High above the slot, the sky is a blue line, patterned with puffy clouds.

Finally we reach some wooden steps leading upwards. We step up into the midst of a forest of cannons: huge gun barrels angled to the sky. More soldiers are standing around here. Many of them seem to be just loafing about, smoking cigarettes and watching us. Finally, another group of soldiers appears. They hold a long discussion with our captors. Although the cannons around us are thankfully silent, there's still enough noise from distant guns to prevent me hearing what the soldiers are saying.

The discussion ends with nodding and pointing among the soldiers. We are herded into another trench. Soldiers with rifles stand above us, looking down. We stand and wait, exhausted. Then one of the Scots says "Well, ah'm sittin' doon." He sits, his back against the wooden wall of the trench. Our guards say nothing, and moments later, all of us are sitting, staring into space. I'm stunned, trying to take in what's happened. Time goes by blankly. Then a can of water is passed around. After that, plates of potatoes are passed down to us. They're nearly raw, but we all munch them greedily. I think of the supper I ate in Béthune. It seems like a different lifetime.

Then all the potatoes are gone, more time goes by, and I watch the clouds passing in the sky.

I feel cold seeping into me. It's a chill, damp autumn dawn. All through the night, at intervals, more British soldiers have joined us in this trench, in groups of ten or twelve. There's now maybe a hundred of us down here. We're tired and confused, blinking stupidly in the first light of day.

No-one has spoken for hours. I heard a voice beside me "Are you alright, wee lassie?" But immediately, guns point at the speaker and at me. I put a finger to my lips, and smile at the man. Then more guards appear, and gesture to us to move. I get up stiffly; my bones feel fused together.

We all follow the guards' directions, up and out of the trench into a misty early morning. The guards direct us onto a farm track lined with trees: dewdrops hang from the yellowing leaves. We walk wearily for a mile or so. Then, we're hustled up steps onto a wooden platform alongside a railway line. From the platform, I see the tracks, running across brown fields into a foggy distance. We shiver in the damp as a shape approaches in the murk. The shape becomes a train: a line of cattle-trucks. It pulls heavily to a halt alongside the platform. We are herded into the dark of the trucks, and the train sets off.

I can see through a gap in the planks: fields and woods whiz by. Then I see houses, buildings, factories. We must be approaching a large town. Finally the train pulls into a siding, alongside coal-trucks. I hear shouting from soldiers outside.

"Where – is – the English nurse?"

"I'm not English, I'm American."

"Come out of the truck."

The door is opened. There's no platform. I look down on two German soldiers staring up at me.

"You must jump."

There's no point in arguing. I leap down, and one of the soldiers catches me, firmly but respectfully. Then I hear a hiss, and steam billows along the tracks. My train, and my fellow captives, are leaving me. I, and the soldiers, step out of the way of the moving wheels, and they lead me through a coal-yard, out onto a road.

A car stands on the road, and an officer leans on the hood, smoking a French cigarette. "Ah, here you are. As soon as I heard, I asked that you be brought to me. The British Army nurse." He nods to one of the soldiers, who gets a short length of rope and ties my wrists with it. The knot is horribly tight, but the soldier ignores my protests, and calls to the officer.

"Hauptmann Krause! The prisoner is tied exactly as you have instructed."

The officer comes over to inspect it, trying to pull my hands apart. He can't. He nods and grunts, happy with what's been done to me. I stare at him in shock.

"I'm American! And a non-combatant, for God's sake! You can't treat me like this."

Krause pushes me into the back of the car, and the two soldiers take the front seats. Krause goes round and joins me on the back seat, sidling up close to me. I can't believe he finds me attractive: I must look a mess, and I probably don't smell very nice either.

The car sets off through the streets of the town. The train didn't travel very far, so I guess this place must be Lille. The centre of German-occupied France. We stop at several military checkpoints, The delays and the slow inefficient checking of identity papers are identical to those the professor and I encountered behind the British lines. I say nothing, but all through the journey, the officer lolls his head at me, laughing to himself. Sometimes he smiles at me, showing too many teeth. Then the car stops outside a café.

Here there's a new humiliation. They fasten another rope to the one around my wrists, and tie the other end to a car seat. I feel like a dog on a leash. Then they all go into the café. So that's what the new rope is for: they can have a meal at leisure, without the need to stand guard over me. I watch them through the window, eating and drinking. Their lunch seems to go on about three hours.

Finally we set off again. But this time it's not a long journey. After a few minutes, the car passes a final set of sentries, who wave us through. We drive across a bridge that spans a deep grassy trench, like the dry moat of a castle. Ahead of us is a gateway of stonework, covered with baroque decoration. Krause grins.

"Welcome, my Liebling, to the Citadelle de Lille. Headquarters of the German regional occupation in France. And, home to many prisoners. Your bed for tonight."

I nod grimly. But Krause leers at me. "But of course, you do have another option. One word from me, and this car could turn round, now. And you could stay with me, in my billet in Lille."

"No."

"I could make you very comfortable." He looks me up and down. "You could start with a bath, as my guest. And then, you and I could fully enjoy each other's company... After that, I could arrange your repatriation, via neutral Holland. You can go back to the Allies. Your family and friends need never know about your stay with me... as if it never happened."

I feel a hand grip my knee. Then thankfully, it moves away again.

"My generous offer is open to you for two minutes. It ends as soon as the car stops in the Citadelle. At that moment, you will become an official prisoner of the German Empire, and you will be taken to the cells."

I don't even reply. All I do is silently hope that I'll be handed over to someone else's custody.

The car passes under the archway of the Citadelle into a wide, cobbled yard. The car stops; Krause gets out, comes round and opens my door. He grasps my arm, and I walk alongside him towards a doorway. Inside, a military clerk sits at a desk, and Krause tells him that I've been captured. The clerk looks silently at my wrists, then at Krause. Krause returns his gaze defiantly, but then seems to think better of it. He nods sulkily, and mutters "I'll untie her." I smell his breath as he unpicks the knot. He's had a lot of wine with his lunch.

Another officer comes out of a doorway and looks at him. "You're back at last, Hauptmann Krause. So, you have brought the Red Cross nurse." They both go back through the doorway, and I'm left alone with the clerk. While I rub my aching wrists, I try out my German on him, a little small talk. My efforts are rewarded: he brings me a chair and a glass of water.

Krause returns. His mood has changed: he shouts at me. "Papers! Where are your identification papers?"

"They are in a car, behind the British lines near Loos."

He switches his shouting to the clerk. "Well, get on with it, man! She's no papers, so give her the questionnaires. Quick!"

I'm handed several forms to fill in, plus sheets of paper with handwriting at the top, listing the extra details I must provide. I have to write endless information on the forms: place of birth, date of birth, school, parent's names. One of the handwritten questions even asks for the names of the senators of Connecticut. I look up at the clerk, then at Krause.

"I can't fill in any more. I'm famished, I need some food. And some more water. Then I can carry on with the forms."

Krause walks off. I think I've finally managed to bore him. The clerk brings me some bread, cheese, and rather horrible cup of coffee. I complete all the forms. Then Krause reappears, accompanied by an armed soldier. I'm led across the yard to a low stone doorway, and down two flights of stone steps into a dimly-lit, brick-lined corridor. Other corridors lead off in different directions: an underground labyrinth.

The soldier smiles politely at me, and gestures with his rifle for me to go ahead of him. "Danke" I whisper quietly. He smiles again, and says, as if he is a tourist guide "This was the powder store of the seventeenth-century French fortress. As you can see, it was huge. Today we use it for the official representatives of the city."

Krause looks round crossly at the soldier. "You can get back to your duties now. Go!" Then he looks at me. "Walk with me, Miss Frocester." I'm led past a domed, brick-walled atrium, piled high with scores of packing cases. Then a second one – but this has new, ugly iron bars fitted across it. Like a cave, made into a prison.

Inside it, bunks line the walls. There are men lying in some of them: other men sit on their bunks and read, or stare into space. One or two are writing letters. They are strangely dressed for prisoners: some wear business suits, and one even has a velvet smoking-jacket. I don't ask what this all means, because I know Krause is about to tell me.

"This, Miss Frocester, is how we treat unco-operative civilians within the German occupied territories. These are some of the leading French citizens of Lille. They are here as official representatives. They are security for the good behaviour of the people of the city. You see, the textile workers in Lille refused to make sandbags for the German Army. So, we have taken these people into official custody."

"What you mean is: they are your hostages."

"Call them what you will. We have made it clear that if we do not have co-operation, these people will be sent to Germany. From there they will sent onwards to the Eastern Front, to labour for our troops there. They will be fed and clothed – but like our own troops, they will of course face heavy fire from the Russian Army..."

One of the men is staring hard at us. Then one by one, the other hostages look up. About thirty pairs of eyes glare at Krause, and one of the men spits out four names. "Eugène Jacquet. Georges Maertens. Ernest Deceuninck. Sylvère Verhulst." Then he adds another name. "And Hauptmann Krause. The murderer."

All the eyes return to their books and letters, as if Krause is beneath contempt.

"What was that about?" I ask. But for answer Krause leads me to a third atrium, barred with iron in the same way. Here there are no bunks, and about a hundred figures are crowded, lying on the floor, crouched against the walls, resting in any way that they can. Krause speaks as if he is proud.

"This is a different group of official prisoners. We defeated a plot of resistance against our occupation. These stupid peasants, we arrested them in all parts of occupied France and Belgium, and brought them here. They thought they could organise against us to smuggle French and English troops out of the area. An action which under German law is treason."

"Treason against whom?"

"Against our Kaiser, of course! The four ringleaders were executed a few days ago. I supervised the firing squad. The executions took place over there."

On the wall opposite the prisoners is a brick-lined bay, and I see a scene of medieval horror. Against the wall are four wooden stakes. I see bullet holes and the splatter of blood on the bricks.

"They were killed in sight of all these prisoners?..."

"An example to them all."

One of the prisoners, I notice, lies on the floor. His hand is reaching through the bars. But he's not asking for help: he wants to give me something. A tiny piece of paper flutters in his fingers. Krause looks at the man and yells furiously. But I've already taken the paper.

"Give me that!"

"Very well." I hand it over, slowly. But I've already read the message of defiance written on it, and the four names that I heard spoken. It's a copy: I guess that countless copies are circulating throughout the prison, and perhaps all across Lille.

"My dear friends and comrades

We have reached the end. In a few moments we will be shot.

We will die bravely, as good French and Belgian citizens. Standing firmly, our eyes uncovered, our hands free. Farewell to all, and take heart!

Vive la Republique! Vive la France!"

Krause tears up the note. As he rips the little paper apart, he talks, as if giving me a lecture. "There will be no more undermining of our occupation. The rest of these plotters are to be sentenced shortly. If they escape the firing squad, they will be sent to prisons in Germany. Like the so-called hostages, we may use them as labour on the Russian front. There is much work there that our troops do not have time to do: burying bodies, laying barbed wire, carrying ammunition, handling the poison gas canisters. And so on, and so on."

"Hauptmann Krause. You've taken me on this tour of horrors. Is all this designed to intimidate me? I'm an American citizen."

"Only a few months ago, the German submarine U-20 killed over a hundred American citizens, on the Lusitania. But the United States did not declare war on us. So your country is cowardly, Miss. I feel very confident that your President Wilson will not dare to go to war with Germany over our treatment of one single captive. A captive who has no American identifying documents."

"None of this" I gesture to the dungeons and the prisoners "intimidates me. It just disgusts me, that's all."

Krause opens a tiny doorway. "You have seen the other prisoners' accommodation. Welcome now to your own room, Miss Frocester." He bows mockingly at me. It's pointless to try to run away. I step through the door, and shut it behind myself. I sit on the floor, in the dark. I actually sigh with relief when I hear him turn the key in the lock.

23. An inconvenient nurse

It's not totally dark in the little room. I must be twenty feet underground, below the yard of the Citadelle, but a dim light comes from a slot in the stone wall. It slopes diagonally upwards to ground level, and a shaft of light runs down towards me. It's damp and cold, like the cell of a dungeon. And there's hardly any room, even to lie down on the floor. I can tell that it's not normally used for prisoners: all around, packing cases are stacked up to the ceiling. There is nothing I can do, except sit, wait, and hope that it won't be Kreuse who decides about my future.

I sit on the floor, occasionally shifting position. Gradually, the light from the little slot dims. Evening is falling.

When you sit in the dark, you notice tiny things. After a little, I notice that a tiny area of the floor appears a little lighter, next to the packing cases, which are stacked five high.

The twilight outside turns to night. Now, I'm sure of it: there is the faintest light, coming from underneath the packing cases. I feel around them to get a sense of their shape and weight. They are rough wooden cases, each with two planks around them to reinforce them. I can feel that the planks raise the bottom of the lowest packing case slightly off the floor. I press the side of my head against the floor and try to look under the case, to see where the glow is coming from.

The light is a long line, along the far edge of the packing case. I realise what this means: there's a door, hidden behind the cases. The light is coming under the door, and it means that there is someone in that room.

Suddenly, the light goes out.

I try to move the top packing case. It's heavy, and high up. I'm at the limits of my strength, but I manage to heave it off. The others, being lower, are slightly easier. Soon I can feel the wood of an ordinary door, and the cold metal of an ordinary brass door knob. It turns easily in my hands; it's not locked.

Breathlessly, I open the door. There is absolutely no light. I take a step forward, and bump into a chair. It seems like an ordinary domestic chair. I feel forward, and my hands touch a table. I move my fingers along the edge of the table. Eventually I reach a corner, and then, after what seems like an age, a second corner. The table must be huge, but I'm now on the opposite side of it. I take a step forward, then another, and my outstretched arms touch the frame of a door. Hardly daring to breathe, I try the handle. But this door is locked.

I stand in the dark for maybe half an hour, just to be sure that no-one is coming back to this room. Then I feel around next to the door. My fingers find, and flick, a light switch.

The table is indeed very large. All across it are strewn papers: maps, plans and lists. I've stumbled into some kind of headquarters. So, I need to think very carefully about what to do. If I steal anything from here, then that's espionage. I could be shot. On the other hand, if Krause finds out that I've entered this room, that could get me shot too.

I look around. The room is lit by bare Edison bulbs hanging from stone vaulting. I can see the electric cables, crudely nailed in, running across the ceiling. It looks like another old storeroom, converted by the Germans into an underground office. Wooden shelves cover every wall, all stacked high with cardboard box files.

I go over to the table, and start to look at the papers. The maps are the first thing to catch my eye. I expected to see military maps of the front line, but in fact they are maps of the occupied areas of France and Belgium. Most of them look like they could come from any atlas. If it's not a military headquarters, I wonder what this room can be?

I look round the walls for a clue. The buff-colored box files line every wall. Each has a label on the spine with writing on it. There are a lot of French names. I look along one shelf at the names, and I notice a few names that aren't French: they are Belgian. They are arranged alphabetically by surname. I'm about half-way along the shelves, and the name on one file catches my eye: Georges Maertens. It stirs a sort of memory. Where have I heard it before? An author, maybe, whose books I enjoyed when I was at school?

For some reason, I speak the name out loud. "Georges Maertens." And I remember. It was one of the names spoken, when the prisoner called Krause a murderer. And it was written on the piece of paper that I was given. I get the box file down and open it. There are papers, notes, even a report signed by Krause. This is intelligence information. German intelligence, about one of the men who was executed.

I look for box files labelled with the other names: Deceuninck, Jacquet, Verhulst. Yes, they are all here too. This room must be the centre of operations for the German secret police in Lille. Almost without thinking, I find myself going along the shelves, scanning the files, looking for a label I hope I'll find. Because if this is German intelligence about people they suspect of so-called 'treason' then they might just have a file about Walther Seydlitz. But no, there are no Seydlitzs. All the names are French or Belgian.

Some of them seem to be company names, rather than individuals. I recall the mining head gear, the spoil heaps, all around here. I guess they are mining companies the Germans are interested in.

Then, as if wishful thinking has made a miracle happen, I see something extraordinary. One file is labelled 'Compagnie des Mines du Nord'. Under the name, scrawled in pencil, is one word. 'Seydlitz'.

I pull down the box.

There's practically nothing in it. Just a single large folded sheet of greaseproof paper, like you might use for lining a cake tin. I unfold the sheet. In the silence, the rustling of the paper sounds horribly loud.

It's a pencil drawing, bristling with complex lines and shading. There is no writing, except measurements marked out on the diagram. I look at it until my head hurts, but all I can make out is that there are two main drawings. They are a top view and a cross-section of something that looks very much like the lid of a trashcan.

I fold the paper up again, and stuff it down my nurse's uniform. I put the box back. Then I go round the table, switch the light off, and feel my way back to the door into my little cell. It's no longer totally dark: a faint starlight is filtering down the slot into the room. I pile the packing cases up again, and sit down on the floor in the dark.

Was I asleep? I hear a key turning in a lock. I realise that only a few minutes have passed; I was falling asleep, but the noise startled me. The door opens. It's Krause again, but his face no longer leers: he looks serious, and he speaks quietly. "Come with me."

He leads me back along the corridor past the prisoners, and up the stone steps into a room where groups of soldiers sit around chatting. It's the German staff canteen. Krause sits with me at a table away from everyone else. But this time he's curiously, almost ominously quiet. At the other tables, soldiers come and go. A woman brings me a plate of food, and I fall on it. The bread, cheese and horrid coffee I had in the afternoon seem like a lifetime ago. I look at Krause's pursed lips.

"What time is it?"

"About ten in the evening." He says nothing more. He sips a coffee while I gobble my food. When I've finished, he says the identical phrase that he did before. "Come with me."

We go along another passageway, but this one is above ground level, and lined with doors like a hotel corridor. Wooden German signs have been nailed to each door. We stop outside one that says 'Oberst Mannheim'. Kreuse knocks, timidly, and I hear one word "Come".

Kreuse opens the door. The seated officer who looks at me has little beads for eyes: suspicious-looking, wary. His desk is strewn with papers: I get the sense of a man battling against constant bureaucracy. He looks at me bleakly, and raps out at me.

"Why were you in the British front line? A woman, pretending to be a nurse. But no identification papers. So, you filled in our identity forms – but of course, you could be lying to us."

"Why would I lie?"

"You say you are American. Even I can tell that you do have a North American accent – but, perhaps you are Canadian really? A citizen of the British Empire?"

"No. I'm Agnes Frocester, citizen of the United States."

He grunts, and looks at the papers in front of him. I recognise the forms that I filled in yesterday. He continues to scan the papers, interrupted by glances at me, and his brow is furrowed.

I look at the other papers on his desk. They are printed in Gothic type; it's hard to read, and I can make out very little. Except one recurring word: an English name: Cavell. I've heard of Edith Cavell. The English nurse who, the Germans say, has been helping British soldiers to escape the German occupation into Holland. I have heard that the Germans want to execute her, but the United States ambassador has made pleas for clemency.

As the man reads, and I wait, a huge wave of despair washes over me. This war has destroyed people's humanity... Both sides have used poison gas. The Germans are dropping bombs on civilian cities. In occupied territories, they are executing civilians. The British Army have, I guess, already executed Edgar, as they are executing others. The Germans killed American civilians when they sank the Lusitania, and now they plan to shoot a nurse.

The officer looks at me. "You are Red Cross, you say? We could, of course, check that. In the meantime, tell me: what did happen to your identity papers?"

"Unfortunately, they are in a car parked behind the British lines near Loos. I got out of the car quickly, because I thought we were under attack. Of course, I meant to retrieve the papers. But your army has made that impossible."

"This is very regrettable." He continues to look through the forms, for an age. Finally, he waves his hand. "Dismissed".

But I'm not led back to the cells. Instead, I'm shown into a small room adjoining Mannheim's office. Two guards stands in the room with me, but there's an easy chair there too, and one of the guards gestures to me to sit in it. I wait, and after a few minutes the door opens and Krause appears again. His face looks more ominous than ever. He leads me out into the courtyard, where the same car still stands.

It's like this morning in reverse. I'm put into the car, with Kreuse again sitting on the back seat beside me. My two guards occupy the front seats. Soon we are speeding back towards the city centre of Lille, its streets now dark and deserted. But this time, we park in front of a grand façade, signed 'Gare du Lille'. Half an hour later, still accompanied by the two guards, I sit in the compartment of a train. Kreuse looks at me from the platform, then turns and goes without a backward glance. I've not been told where we are going, but I hear a voice shouting announcements, and I catch one word. "Bruxelles".

Hours later, the train still rattles on. At Brussels, I didn't find out where the train is going next. The two guards and I are in a compartment, and the curtains are drawn. There is no opportunity to speak to anyone else. A meal is brought for us. Then light seems to be dawning outside, but it hardly penetrates the thick curtains. Another meal, and an eternity of time passes. Finally I can tell that night is once again falling outside. I sleep.

A hand is shaking my shoulder. I have no idea how long I've been asleep, but the train is no longer moving. The curtains are still drawn. The two guards motion me along the corridor of the train, and I reach the door. They stay on the train, but gesture to me to step through the door. What is going on? As I step down, I see one of the guards looking through the carriage window. He's nodding to a man who stands on the platform below me; the man takes my arm to help me as I step down.

I'm in a large railway station, and there is light all around. The man smiles. "You must be Mademoiselle Frocester. I am Jean-Jacques Lullin, representative of the International Committee of the Red Cross. Welcome to Geneva, Mademoiselle."

24. A shadow in the street

I've rested, eaten, and – best of all – bathed. My hotel room overlooks Lake Geneva. From my window I see the blue lake under a blue sky, cut by a glittering white curve – the Jet d'Eau fountain. I have a bed with cotton sheets and soft pillows. It's like a happy dream.

The kindness of the Red Cross has been extraordinary. They've paid for my accommodation, meals, new clothes. They didn't care that I had no documents, and asked hardly any questions. They simply accepted that I was an American, working for the British Red Cross, who by some awful accident had ended up captured by the Germans. Monsieur Lullin's explanation for what happened was simple. "I had a phone call. It was that German officer at Lille – Mannheim. I could guess from the tone of his voice that you were an inconvenience for him, a problem he couldn't solve. So he quietly sent you away – to us."

I've talked to Monsieur Lullin about transferring back to France. I realise that what I really want to do is get back to Le Touquet, to resume my work there. I've also sent a telegram – again, paid for by the Red Cross – to Professor Axelson's contact address. I don't know whether telegrams are secure, so I didn't mention the diagram that I found, or where I found it. I simply said that I'd found something of interest. And on a more practical note, I reminded him that my identity papers are, presumably, still in his car.

Today's the start of my second week in Geneva. On the second day of my stay, I went over to the Red Cross offices and asked Monsieur Lullin if there was any useful work I could do. Yes, he said, they were very short staffed and there were some files relating to prisoners of war that I could sort out. I did that for six days. Today, Monsieur Lullin insisted that I take a break, explore the city. It was nice to help out – but I'm going to enjoy this free day. Cake and coffee in a café overlooking the lake is high on my list.

I stroll along the lake promenade in the early October sunshine: the air is clear and crisp, with a distant skyline of ragged mountains, spotted with snow. I have to shade my eyes from the dazzling shimmer of light on the water. As I do, I'm conscious of the shadow of a man behind me. It's the same shadow, I realise, that I noticed before; I saw it behind me, at the door of my hotel.

It's just imagination. My nerves are getting themselves back together after the horrors that I saw at Loos. I shut my mind to those images from the battlefield. Like the scenes on the Titanic, I realise that I must just close and lock that door in my brain.

An hour later, after my walk along the promenade, I'm sipping coffee and enjoying the sweet, rich taste of a pâtisserie. I didn't quite find a café fronting the lake, but this café sits in a beautiful yet busy street. I look at the bustle over the rim of my coffee-cup; I'm enjoying a little people-watching. Coming here from war-worn France, it is a joy to see well-stocked shops, business being done, people going about their lives in a normal way. But being a weekday, this café itself is quiet: there is only one other customer, sitting deep in the shadows at the back of the room. I sense him glancing at me, and then out of the window. Then he returns to reading the paper. I can't see his face.

I notice a sign on the second floor of the elegant building opposite the café: Société Médicale de Genève. Next to a door on the street, there's a brass plaque, with the same words on it. Under those words, there's a name. Médecin Eugénie Bernard.

I can't resist: I finish my coffee. As I pay the waitress, I notice the man at the back of the café folding his newspaper. I turn to go, but I take a last glance backwards at the man. He's unfolded his paper again, and is studying it intently. I've still not seen his face.

I cross the street to the door of the surgery. There's a sign saying that it's not open until early afternoon. So I take myself off for another stroll alongside the lake, walking until I can see the distant white blade of Mont Blanc, cutting into the sky above the Jet de l'Eau. Then I walk back slowly. Every now and then I glance across the promenade, but I see no lone figures, no-one who might have followed me. Just people ambling in pairs and groups, enjoying the autumn sunshine.

I knock at the surgery door. It's answered by a young man who introduces himself as the secretary. He runs the reception for several doctors who have consulting rooms within the building. He leads me up two flights of stairs to the reception room, and answers my questions as we climb. Yes, he knew Dr Bernard well. "She was the most senior of our médecins. She left us to work with the wounded in France, and now we've had the tragic news that she has been killed near Ypres." He says it as if she is a war casualty. I wonder whether he's deliberately concealing the fact of the murder. But I suspect it's more likely that he doesn't know how she died; that the British Army has not given the surgery the full story.

I explain that I'm a Red Cross volunteer, and that I worked with Dr Bernard at Ypres. I say that I'm sorry to hear of her death, and I'd like to see where she worked. The receptionist looks at me and raises an eyebrow. I say "Sorry, but she and I were close. It's a kinda – tradition – where I come from in America. To visit the work place of a colleague who has died."

The secretary looks puzzled. "I'm sorry, Mademoiselle. That is not a tradition I have heard of." Then he smiles. "But after all, I have never travelled out of Switzerland. And it would be an honour to help someone who knew Dr Bernard. Could I see your papers, Mademoiselle?"

I'm like a broken record. "I'm sorry, I don't have any identity papers. They were left in France. I've asked that they be sent to me... in order that I can travel back there..."

I expect him to say that I should come back when my documents arrive, but he doesn't. He takes me along a corridor to a room, and shows me in. "I'll give you a few minutes to look around Dr Bernard's consulting-room. I trust you. But even so, I should let you know that no patient files are kept in the consulting room. Confidential records, you see." He takes his leave of me, and I hear a click. He's locked the door behind me.

I guess he doesn't quite trust me, that's why he locked the door. But something about hearing the door lock makes me feel strange. Maybe the horrors of Loos and my imprisonment in Lille have taken their toll on my mind. I feel breathless. A fanciful notion drifts through my head that by locking me in the room, he has limited my air supply. Nonsense – but I do need some air. Before I search the room, I must open the window and let the breeze in.

Despite the sunshine, it's not a warm day. Outside there was a wintry breeze, blowing from the Alps. This room feels stale, unused, as if no-one has been in here for months. But when I go to the window, I see that the sash is wide open.

I rest my arms on the window sill, and gaze out. The air is indeed deliciously fresh. In the distance I see again the white-capped mountains, like some faraway magic land in a story. But as I look at the view, I find myself seeing the face of Dr Bernard. In a reverie, I hear her voice.

Wake up, Agnes. Use this time that you have, look around. I pull myself back to reality, and I see that next to the open window is the iron framework of a fire escape. It would be easy to come up the fire escape and pull up the sash. Has someone come here, before me, to snoop around? And if they came in, what did they take away?

I look around: I wish that I had some sense of what I'm looking for, what Professor Axelson would call a 'clue'. First, of course, I look in the desk. There's a single, unlocked drawer; I slide it out and see only a few simple, standard medical instruments. There's a thermometer, a blood pressure meter, a stethoscope and an odd light on a stick, which I conclude must be an ophthalmoscope. That's all. There's not even any drugs: I suppose if there were any pills and bottles in this room, they've been taken for use by the other doctors. I give up on the desk, and look around the room. It's empty except for Dr Bernard's chair, her desk, a couch, and a few cotton patients' gowns hanging on hooks next to the couch. The patients must put them on for examinations. Next to the gowns are long drapes, drawn across an alcove. Behind the drapes, I guess, is a small area for patients to change into the gowns.

I don't know why, but I don't want to open those drapes. Instead, I look around the room again for other clues. But there is nothing else to look at. There is no written information of any kind, and the only things on the walls are two Impressionist prints. They are beautiful, and I contrast them in my mind with the ugly paintings I saw at Gertrude Stein's flat in Paris. But like when I stood at the window, what I see is Dr Bernard's face in my mind, as if her spirit is haunting this room. As if she wants to tell me something.

And for some reason, the locked door of this room is preying on my mind.

I hold my breath, and listen. I can hear nothing. But the sense that I am not alone in this room is growing. Shall I pull those drapes back, and look? There must be nothing behind them, nothing at all. Yet for some reason I can't quite face doing it, even though it would show how silly my fears are. There can't be anyone there: it's just my imagination, my mind playing tricks on me.

But I still can't bring myself to open the drapes.

I must stop these silly thoughts. But I hear a tiny noise. Maybe it's footsteps in the corridor? I find myself hoping that it's the secretary come along to release me. But although I'm straining to hear, I can't tell where the noise came from. Maybe there was no noise; perhaps it was just my fevered imagination. In the silence, I hear a distant church clock chime.

I cast my eye over to the window. If there was someone there, behind the drapes, would I have time to get out of the window? And then I tell myself I'm being completely ridiculous. I go over and pull the drapes wide. I see the man who is standing there.

I look into the embarrassed, apologetic face of Montgomery Keys.

25. The amateur spy

Keys and I face each other across a table. Between us are some rather nice pâtisseries. We're back in the café opposite the surgery.

"You nearly gave me a heart attack, Keys."

"Don't be a drama queen. It's not your style."

"So, did you get into Dr Bernard's room through the window? What were you up to? Why are you in Switzerland?"

"Too many questions. Slow down, and I'll explain. I'll start at the beginning, and you'll understand. I was back at my photographer's tent at Essex Farm, and Professor Axelson came to see me. He told me that he has to travel, back to Sweden."

"Why?"

"He didn't – couldn't – say. Some hush-hush business, no doubt. But he told me that, after he left the battlefield at Loos, he sent a report on Dr Bernard's death to the chief of British Intelligence, a guy called Buttermere. You see, Dr Bernard's death has sent shock waves through the British Army command, and the intelligence service. Axelson trusts me. He told me there's a mole within the Army – a mystery person working for the Germans. Spying, digging about, pulling strings, causing mayhem. Buttermere – and Axelson – think that Dr Bernard's death, like Seydlitz's, is down to the mole. Seems like this mole is more powerful than anyone suspected. Everyone is very jumpy about it.

They wanted someone to come to Geneva, to try to find out if there was any angle on it here. Axelson told me that Colonel Hampshire, the Army guy in Paris, was the one who recommended giving the job to me. Buttermere and Axelson agreed. I'm the candy kid with all those guys."

"Did the Professor mention that he had received a telegram from me? That I was already in Geneva?"

"Yes. He told me that the instructions from Buttermere were very specific. I should travel to Geneva – and then wait, to hear from British Intelligence. Of course, they were going to tell me to investigate Dr Bernard... but I was to do nothing until they sent instructions. Especially, I was not to make contact with you – until I received instructions."

"Okay. So no-one thought to ask me to look into it. Even though I was here already, and have time on my hands."

"To be honest, Agnes – they don't trust you."

"Tell me something I don't know. So – what have you been playing at, following me? If you were told to stay away from me?..."

"I did feel it would be much simpler if I just went to your hotel and told you that I was here. But the instructions were strict."

"Let me guess what you mean by 'strict', Keys. You're being paid handsomely for this trip. Did Lord Buttermere say you wouldn't get your money if you made contact with me?"

"Ah – yes. But I did find out where you were staying. That was down to natural curiosity. All I'm doing is waiting for the message from Buttermere. In the meantime, I had nothing else to do in this town. So I occupied my time by doing a bit of snooping on my own account. I'm..."

"An amateur spy? Or, do you think you're a professional?" I raise an eyebrow to show I'm joking.

"Tracing you was pretty easy, compared to some stories I've covered in New York. Once I knew where you were staying, I followed you out of your hotel... then, this morning, I saw you knocking on the door of that surgery. I watched you reading that notice, and as soon as you'd gone, I went and looked at it. You'd found Dr Bernard's surgery for me. I thought 'It's closed. So, she'll be back, when it's open... But maybe I can get in first.'"

"You mean, you wanted to get ahead of me. In case I, not you, found something."

"I was thinking that if I found something out at the surgery, I could send a message about it to Buttermere. That would impress him, I guess. But also, I have a few thoughts of my own about this case."

"Tell me. Let's see if your thoughts are the same as mine."

"Those soldiers, shooting at your ambulance. What if Walther Seydlitz wasn't the target? –"

I interrupt. "You mean, the real target might be Dr Bernard? That was my thought, too. And then, whoever this mole is – they got a second chance to kill Dr Bernard, at Remy Sidings."

"If Dr Bernard was the target – and I'd found Dr Bernard's surgery... well, I had to do a bit of investigating. I thought I'd take a look inside."

"So did I. I just did it in a more legitimate manner than you did."

"Don't look so self-satisfied. You're the one who's off the hook here. Whereas, I'm the one who's on official British Intelligence business. Including paid expenses." He smiles, and I do too.

"But, Keys – there's nothing in the doctor's room, is there?"

"No, I didn't find any clues. The only thing I got was a sense of her – personality? Those prints on the walls – she was clearly a passionate art lover."

"She was a passionate character, all round."

"But, Agnes – we've nothing concrete to go on. Searching her room has told us nothing."

"No. Not quite nothing. But... oh, I can't put it into words! I kept hearing her voice in my ears, when I was in that room. As if..."

"She was trying to tell you something? The ghostly presence of a dead person? Sorry, I don't buy all that mystical stuff."

"No. Not that. Something – more obvious, simpler. It's right in front of my nose, but I don't know what it is."

"Well, tell me when you work that one out. But more practically – Dr Bernard must have relatives, friends? We can ask around, build up more of a picture of her."

"I've said to the Red Cross that I can do more work for them, if they need me. But mostly, I'm free here in Geneva, until my papers come though and I can travel back to Le Touquet. So yes – I can be involved. Two amateur spies are better than one."

"Good. Let's work together. Shake on it?"

We walk back to Keys' hotel. At the reception, someone hands him a piece of paper. It's a telegram.

"What does it say?"

"It's my long-awaited instructions from Château Niobe. The message asks me to travel to Grindelwald. That's north-east of here, towards the border with Germany."

"Does the telegram say why?"

"No. There's no explanation. The telegram gives details of a hotel. It tells me to stay there – and, as before, to await instructions."

Grindelwald is an extraordinary place, nestled deep in the steepest part of the Alps. Coming out of the train, I step into a black shadow reaching out across the sunlit platform. I look up, craning my neck. As far as my eyes can see, I'm standing in the shade of a towering wall. But this wall isn't built by humans, and the peak above it seems to pierce the sky. The scale of the place literally jars my senses.

"What is that?" I ask, as I look upwards.

"The Eiger."

"That translates as the Ogre, Keys. It's – like a skyscraper in New York. Except twenty times higher. A blank wall rising into space."

"That wall – it's called the Eigerwand, the north face of the Eiger. It's never been climbed. Probably never will be. Some call it the Mortwand."

"The wall of death."

Our kitschy hotel with its baskets of flowers and quaint decorations is such a contrast to this evil-looking mountain looming over us. Keys chats to the waitress, pointing out of the window. "I bet it gives you the creeps, waking up every morning and looking at that thing."

She answers him in perfect English. "If you live in Switzerland, you get used to the mountains. Us Swiss, we have a national immunity to vertigo."

Keys smiles at the attempt at humor. But the waitress carries on. "Our engineers seem completely fearless, anyway, judging by the railway."

"What railway?"

"The Jungfrau railway, from Kleine Scheidegg station. Above and behind the Eiger – you see it there? – there is that pyramid mountain, the Mönch. And to the right of the Mönch, you see the tall, slim peak, the Queen of the Alps – that is the Jungfrau. Unlike the ugly Ogre, the Jungfrau – the virgin – is a beautiful mountain. So, they built a railway going up the mountain, so that tourists can enjoy the view. It opened three years ago."

"How high does the railway go?"

"Up as far as the Jungfraujoch – that flatter area, there, just below the peak." She points. "It's two thousand metres above us. The highest railway station in Europe. The railway is tunneled through the cliffs of the Eiger. There is even a railway station halfway along the line, the Eigerwand Station, where you can get out of the train and look through the windows that the engineers have cut in the cliff face."

Keys gives a low whistle. "So – tourists can go up in the train?"

"They can, but the summer season finished last week. The railway is still running this week, for maintenance. And there is a scientist up there at Jungfraujoch station, I think he is doing some kind of experiment, blasting the rocks. He may find a way to create another tunnel, through the top of the mountain, so that the railway can be built further, all the way to the Jungfrau summit."

I look at the waitress. "Who is this scientist?"

I think his name is Seydlitz. He has come from Germany, because of the war. A very clever man. Germany's loss is our gain, I think?"

As soon as she's gone, I look at Keys. "Well?"

"Well what?"

"You heard. He's up there. Up the mountain. Walther Seydlitz's father."

"So?"

"Don't you see, Keys? Let's take the train. Let's go up there, and talk to him."

"No way! We have our instructions. We wait here."

" _You_ have your instructions. As I recall, the telegram didn't mention me. It told you to travel to Grindelwald, that's all. Lord Buttermere's not even given you the go-ahead to contact me yet. Properly speaking, I'm a free agent."

"Agnes – they sent the telegram to me, because they trust me. And they trust me because, unlike you, I'll follow their instructions."

"Stop being pompous. It doesn't suit you."

"I'm not being pompous. The instructions I've been given do not include going on a train, up a mountain, in search of a man whom I know nothing about. I thought we were investigating the murders of _Walther_ Seydlitz and Dr Bernard."

"Okay, Keys. But if we're investigating Walther's murder, then like any murder, we should talk to the family. Friedrich Seydlitz is family. We can just go up there. A day trip of our own, a little holiday."

"Who died and made you boss? What about my instructions?"

"Right now, you don't have any instructions. You've come to Grindelwald, just as you were told to. You've been told nothing more. So, you and I can pass the time while you're waiting for the next message from Château Niobe. We can take a day trip of our own. No one told you, Keys, that you weren't allowed to take a ride on a Swiss tourist train."

"Except there aren't tourist rides any more. The summer season is over."

"I can tell. You're weakening."

The train runs once a day, taking maintenance staff up and down the mountain, now that the tourist season has finished. The staff are making preparations for the winter shut down of the line. They are happy to let us travel on the train, if we pay the normal tourist fare, on the basis that we need to visit Seydlitz.

The carriage is like a quainter, cleaner version of the El train in New York: the driver sits divided from the passengers by only a wooden screen. We sit and wait for the train to start. Keys looks at me.

"Agnes, you got me all wrong, back there. Of course I want to go up the mountain, meet Seydlitz Senior."

"I'm sorry. I'm out of my depth here, as much you. And I'm sorry I called you an amateur spy, when we were in Geneva."

"I'd forgotten that. But I've not forgotten that café where you took me: the pastries were delicious."

"Well, you had been in there before, by yourself."

"No."

"You did. When you were following me around Geneva. You sat in the back of that room, reading the paper and watching me."

"I tailed you everywhere else, but not into that café. The first time I set foot in that café was with you."

"But... someone was in there, watching me. Well, he was watching something... I couldn't see his face. After you told me you'd been following me, I assumed that the man in the café was you."

"I was outside the café. I stood there for ages. I watched you go in, then I saw you come out and go over to Dr Bernard's surgery. But I never went in there."

I look at Keys. "That man in the café. If he wasn't tailing me – then, could he have been tailing you? I saw him glancing out at the street. How secure were your communications with Lord Buttermere?"

An odd rattle begins: the movement of the cogs that grip the rack rail which runs up the middle of the track and enables the train to climb the mountain. As we move out of the station, picture-postcard views unfold immediately. We see the trench-like valley leading to Interlaken below us, and above, sheets of ice sweep up to the sail-fin summit of the Jungfrau. Then the railway curves to the left, revealing first the sullen pyramid of the Mönch, then the black walls of the Eiger. And then the train enters the tunnel. We are inside the Eiger.

After climbing in the darkness, the train pulls up at a platform inside a yawning cavern. "Eigerwand Station" announces the guard. But we don't get off the train. This station stop is not part of the tourist itinerary; it's just a halt to allow two engineers to disembark. The two men stride onto the platform in their boiler suits. Then the train pulls away, and we move on into the tunnel, accompanied by the steady rattle of the cogs gripping the track. After the next station, Eismeer, the noise stops and the train seems to glide along quietly, except for the humming of the electric motor. The guard passes our seats, and smiles at us. "This top section – it's not so steep up here, so there is no rack for the cog wheel to grip onto. Just ordinary tracks, like an ordinary train."

Keys grins at him. "Just like any ordinary train – except we're at eleven thousand feet, inside a tunnel, and the train is powered only be electricity."

The train slows and stops, and a few minutes later we emerge from the station onto a wide balcony. I look over the railing into a new world. After the tunnel, the light is too much; I shade my eyes and try to take in the scene. Violet-blue sky around me: bone-chilling glacier below. We look over the tops of clouds, like tiny balls of cotton-wool. The sunshine is warm, but the air tastes of ice. We walk on a short waymarked trail through the snow to the observatory, and knock at the door.

The face that greets us is a surprise. It's a woman with flaxen-blond hair, pink blooming cheeks and blue eyes. She's a few years older than me, but her face is fresh and youthful. I'm almost surprised she's not wearing a dirndl and carrying a stein of beer.

"Wilkommen?"

"Guten Tag – and we're pleased to meet you. I'm Montgomery Keys, and this is Miss Agnes Frocester. We're American citizens. We'd like to see Friedrich Seydlitz, if that is possible, Miss...?"

I'm even more surprised when the woman answers in English – in a broad Midwestern accent.

"I'm not a 'Miss' – not any more. I'm Mrs Anna Mason. Welcome to my Papa's temporary laboratory. He and I are doing some experiments inside. I'm afraid there are a lot of rock particles. Silicates are not great for the lungs."

In this pristine high-mountain world, it's strange to walk into a room that's full of dust. I sneeze. A dignified, white-bearded man looks at us.

"Apologies for the dust, Fräulein und Herr."

Keys extends a hand. "Herr Friedrich Seydlitz? We're Montgomery Keys and Agnes Frocester. We've come to see you about..."

"I know your names. And, I appreciate you coming up here to visit me. You see, we've been expecting you."

26. Lessons in engineering

The father and daughter look at us, seeing the surprise in our eyes. It's the daughter who speaks first.

"We knew you were coming to Grindelwald, Mr Keys. If you had not found us, we would have found you."

I think: time is precious. We have half an hour until the train departs, and if we miss it, we're stranded up here. I take out the tracing that I stole from the Citadelle de Lille.

"Herr Seydlitz, does this diagram belong to you?"

Seydlitz looks at the paper in my hands, his sharp eyes taking in the lines and shapes even as I'm unfolding it. Together, we spread it out on the table. His eyes travel over every pencil line on the sheet, and he sighs. Anna looks at her father anxiously, then back at us. We all wait, a suspended moment in time. Then he speaks.

"This confirms my worst fears."

Keys looks at him "Fears – for what?"

"For the future of Europe – indeed, of the world."

"Can you explain?"

"I'll begin at the beginning, Mr Keys. Before the war, I – and many other engineers – were learning the lessons of problems encountered when constructing the Panama Canal. In Panama, blasting was a serious issue. In order to blast hard rocks, deep holes have to be drilled into the rock, to hold the explosives. It's a time-consuming and dangerous method.

There were two possible solutions. You could drill the holes into which you pack the explosives using harder drill-bits, that could cut more easily through the rock. But experiments in tungsten carbide have not yet yielded a suitably strong compound. I still hope for breakthroughs in that area.

The other alternative is, simply, not to drill the hole. That would not suit a project such as Panama, but it could be used in many other situations. For example, in opencast mining. Simply dig a tunnel through the soft soil, place an explosive device on the bedrock... I see you are looking puzzled, Mr Keys."

"Yes. Because you wouldn't damage the bedrock. The main force of the blast would be directed upwards, against the softer soil, not the rock."

"You know your Newton, Mr Keys. The third law of motion: equal and opposite reactions. Blast tends to dissipate through softer substances – soil, water, air – rather than be directed into the more resistant rock. I believed the same as you – until I actually started experimenting. By careful study of blast patterns, I found that if the shape of the metal casing of an explosive device was altered, the force of the blast could, to some extent, be directed.

Mine owners in the French coalfields were very interested to try out my new device. You can imagine the reduction in costs for a coal mine if my device could successfully be used. Instead of laboriously drilling and blasting the coal, my device could simply be attached to the face of the coal seam. So in 1913 I went to Lille, and met Monsieur Gasquet, the director of the Compagnie des Mines du Nord, to discuss trialling the device.

But of course, when the war came, the Germans occupied the Lille area. I hoped that my design for the device would remain hidden in the Compagnie's vaults. But my son Walther was stationed in Lille, and his commanders asked him to help find my design for them. He wrote to me in January, and was very concerned. He had seen how the German Army was conducting its occupation of France and Belgium, and it sickened him. He was afraid of the consequences for the whole of Europe, if Germany was able to use my design to develop a fearfully powerful weapon."

I look at the faces around the table. "That fits with what I heard from Lord Buttermere. Walther must have decided that he could no longer serve in the German Army."

Seydlitz nods. "I know about my son's shifts of conscience. Sadly for me and Anna, talking about Walther won't bring him back to us... So, let us concentrate on the matter in hand. The German Army must have decided that they could find the designs without Walther's help, and he was transferred from Lille to the Western Front. Then, Monsieur Gasquet received a warrant for a search. They Germans lied to him: they told him they were looking for lost title deeds to land, and gave him an assurance that they would not take away any company property. But Monsieur Gasquet was not allowed to be present during their search of the company safe.

Afterwards, he found that nothing had been removed from the safe. But knowing that the Germans would have seen the plans, Monsieur Gasquet sent a telegram to me, to warn me. I cannot thank him enough for taking such a risk. If the Germans discover his message, they will probably execute him."

Keys looks at Seydlitz. "It looks like the Germans had more than just passing sight of the plans."

"Indeed. This drawing here, it is a tracing that they took of the original plans. So they were able to get the design – but they put the original drawing back in Gasquet's safe." As he speaks, Seydlitz is following the lines with his eyes. "I must admit, they've done a good job with this tracing. It's my design, in every detail. Thank you for bringing it to me."

Anna looks at him. "We have the tracing, Papa. But the Germans will already have used this tracing, won't they? They'll have used it to make new blueprint plans that they can work from. They have the design: they'll use it."

I look at them both. "Where will they use it?"

Seydlitz sighs. "A series of these devices could be placed against the bedrock relatively easily, using tunnels dug through the soil. They would have immense destructive power. Whole sections of Allied trenches on the Western Front could be exploded at once."

Keys looks at him intently. "So what you are saying, Herr Seydlitz, is that the Germans could use this to break the deadlock on the Western Front?"

"Undoubtedly, Mr Keys. And, there may be other applications for the device that I have not foreseen. The way that the design allows the blast of an explosion to be directed means that other targets could be at risk. For example, a dam could be blasted. If the device were attached to the surface of the dam, some of the force would go outwards, into the water, but much of it would be directed against the dam itself. The flood from a dam-burst could cause huge damage."

"Well, I guess the Germans have the design now, and we can't stop them. We just need to give a warning that they can develop a weapon from it. I'll tell my contact, Lord Buttermere."

"Lord Buttermere already knows. You see, he and I have corresponded before. After my son was killed, Buttermere tried to recruit me to work for the Allies, but I refused. But when I received Gasquet's message, and realised that my design was in the hands of the Germans, I sent a telegram to warn Lord Buttermere."

"So." Keys nods. "That's why Buttermere sent me to Switzerland."

"Lord Buttermere told me that a person called Keys would come to Grindelwald, and, since I am not willing to meet or co-operate with Lord Buttermere, that this Mr Keys would relay information from me to British Intelligence. But I will give you information about the device for one reason only: to save the lives of Allied soldiers. No doubt, Lord Buttermere would like to have this tracing himself – so that the Allies may develop and use a similar weapon against the Germans. In this war, both sides are equally guilty."

I interrupt. "Time is short. What are we to do right now?"

Seydlitz smiles at us. "Our work up here on the Jungfrau is finished: Anna and I are packing up. As you will have seen, even the Jungfraujoch station is now unmanned, as the line is about to close for winter. So we are taking today's train, down to the valley. We can talk further to you on our journey down the mountain, and in Grindelwald, about what we do now." He looks sternly at Keys. "But I must warn you, as I warned Lord Buttermere. Despite my son's death in this war, I remain committed to neutrality. I will give you information only in order to give you foresight of the dangers it presents. I will help you save lives – that's all."

"Herr Seydlitz, I do understand. But, can we help you with the packing and carrying to the train?"

This has been a strange, fleeting journey into this other-world of ice. The train, as before, slides gently out of the station. Keys looks around as we start moving.

"This is one amazing train journey, Seydlitz. Does it travel down by gravity?"

"No. The electric motor pushes it, just the same as on the way up."

"But..." We all notice it at the same time: as the station lights fade behind us and we slide into the narrow tunnel, it goes silent, and completely dark. The train's interior lights aren't working.

"That's what I mean, Seydlitz – about it travelling by gravity. The electric motor can't be running. Look how the lights went out. None of the electricity in this train is working."

"It must be. The train set off from the station with the motor running."

"But it's not running now. It's stopped. Listen."

We all listen. And hear – nothing. Keys is right.

I feel we're in motion, despite the silence. "But we're still moving... are we?"

Anna speaks low and firmly. "Oh yes, we're moving. Can you feel it?"

I feel something, a sense in my stomach. Then I hear Seydlitz, speaking in the factual tone of an engineer.

"That feeling – of movement. It's not just movement. It's acceleration. The train is sliding down the tunnel. As it slides and gains momentum, it will slide faster."

"But what about the brakes? The driver will stop the train accelerating too fast using the brakes, surely?"

"The brakes, too, are powered by electricity."

The beam of a flashlight illuminates our faces: it's the guard. He looks around at each of us, and smiles reassuringly.

"Don't worry. I'm afraid we've lost power. But we are quite safe: the driver has a manual brake. He'll bring the train to a halt. Unfortunately, we will have to leave the train and walk down the tunnel, at least as far as the Eismeer Station."

Keys looks at the guard. "Has this ever happened before?"

"No."

Seydlitz and Anna switch on flashlights too. The three beams catch on the rocks of the tunnel walls, which whiz past the train windows. More strongly now, I feel we are sliding, falling, faster and faster.

We're in the front part of the carriage, just behind the driver's cab. We hear a shout from the cab – and seconds later we see, white in our flashlights, the shocked face of the driver. He says two words.

"The brake."

Keys' voice sounds calm in comparison. "We know. The electric brakes aren't working. But the manual brake –"

The three flashlights, in a strange moment of silence, all focus on a long, metal bar held in the driver's hands. It has a shaped handle at the top, but the other end is ragged, as if torn away, or cut with a hacksaw. The guard's voice speaks again, sounding oddly flat.

"The train's manual brake. There it is – in the driver's hands."

Keys speaks urgently, clearly. "Does anyone know what will happen? And, what we need to do?"

Seydlitz answers. "I was a consultant advisor to Jungfraubahn Aktiengesellschaft on the construction of this railway. So I know the layout well. In this upper section of the line, we are on a shallow incline, but we're accelerating. At Eismeer Station the track steepens, and that is the start of the metal rack between the rails, which engages with a cog under this train."

"So, the cog will engage with the rack – and slow us down?"

"No. By that time, we will be travelling at maybe thirty or forty miles an hour. The impact of the cog on the rack will throw the train off the rails."

Anna looks at him. "What will happen then, Papa?"

"I'm sorry, Anna. We will all die."

Only five seconds has passed since the Professor spoke, but it feels like time is standing still. The movement of the flashlights, the sick feeling in my stomach – they go on. I speak, without thinking.

"What if the train's cog hit the rack at a slower speed?"

"Then – the cog and rack might engage. If it struck at, say, fifteen or even twenty miles per hour. Once engaged, the rack would help regulate the speed, and the train would carry on – slowly – down the track. But I'm an engineer, and I know this railway. We'll hit the rack fast."

"Unless we can brake the train in some other way."

"We can try..."

For the next few moments, I hear Seydlitz's voice directing us. "Someone must lean outside the train, they must get their head and shoulders well below the level of the carriage floor, next to the wheels."

Keys' face is set. "I'll do that."

"The rest of us must hold Mr Keys. The forces on his body will be very great. Now, we need something to jam between the wheel and the rail."

Keys is already opening the door: he pushes himself out, into the dark. As we move, the jagged edges of the tunnel sides loom up, faster and faster.

"Watch your head, Mr Keys! Or, you will – literally – lose it."

Anna, the guard and the driver hold Keys' legs as he strains to lean out, his head just inches from the whizzing wall of the tunnel.

"I can see the wheels and the rail. Yes, I can lodge something in there. Pass it to me."

In our haste, we've not thought what to use. I look at Seydlitz. "The brake?"

"Broken, as we know –"

"No – the _brake_. The broken-off metal brake lever."

"Yes, yes, of course!" Seydlitz hands me the metal bar. "You're the lightest of us, Miss Frocester. Lean right out, as far as you can, and pass Mr Keys the bar. I'll hold you... Now, with your other hand, hold the flashlight, so that he can see what he's doing."

I lean out into the swirling blackness of the tunnel, and push the bar towards Keys' waiting fingers. He's nearly got it, but then a lump of rock looms from nowhere. It scratches the bar, nearly whips it from my hand. I grip the bar for dear life, and try to keep control of the flashlight. It must be an absurd spectacle, six people jammed into the open door of the train, all desperately holding onto each other, and lowest of all is Keys, his head waving about underneath the carriage. His hand gropes for the bar again, and this time I manage to hold it out straight, where he can grip it with both hands.

I'm leaning out too, and I can see the bar, where Keys is pushing it towards the rail and the whirling wheel of the train. Seydlitz shouts. "Gently! Push the bar in too hard, and the turning wheel will knock it aside like a feather."

I can see, stark in the flashlight, the ragged metal at the end of the bar, next to the gleaming surface of the rail. The end of the bar touches the rail, dragging and scraping. I hear Keys gasp with pain as the friction drags the bar back along the rail, towards the wheel, pulling his gripping hands away from him. Then, a mass of sparks fly as the bar grinds against the turning edge of the wheel.

The end of the bar drags along the rail, and the sparks fly again as it rubs the turning wheel. It has no effect at all on the speed of the train.

Keys' outstretched arms hold the bar, keeping it at the point of maximum friction. A squealing, grinding sound fills the tunnel. The train doesn't slow, but Key's arms are stretched, as if they're elastic, and as the wheel rubs harder on the bar, a huge shower of sparks erupts. Both Keys' arms are being slowly dislocated. I see his open mouth, blobs of saliva streaming, and he utters a scream like the sound of torture.

But the agony doesn't stop. The shriek echoes along the tunnel as we fly through the darkness. I lie, Seydlitz's hands like an iron grip around my hips, holding the flashlight, illuminating the scene below me, and the screaming goes on and on, horribly, like an unending nightmare. I hold the flashlight for Keys, but I close my eyes. I don't want to watch Keys' arms being ripped from their sockets.

As I close my eyes I'm aware of light ahead of us. Eismeer Station... and the start of the rack-rail.

This is it: this is the end of us.

I'm flung upwards by an impact, as if kicked in the face by a horse. I feel my back striking Seydlitz in the face, the crunch of his nose against my backbone. Then gravity pulls us down again, into the heap of bodies. The train is jolted off the rails: in moments, we'll hit the wall of the tunnel, and everything will be over.

Vaguely, I see a square of light passing in front of my eyes, then another. There's a blast of fresh, cold air, as if we're looking out of open windows. I see a momentary, distant vision of high mountains, a celestial kingdom, like a glimpse of Xanadu.

I hear Seydlitz's voice. "We're passing the windows at Eismeer station."

I'm alive. And I can feel that Seydlitz is pulling me back, up from where I've been flung on top of the bodies of Anna, the driver and the guard. His voice is breathless. "It's worked. That jolt was the train hitting the rack. The cog has engaged. We're still on the tracks."

"Keys!"

Under us all is a crumpled body, still lying half in, half out of the train. Then the head turns. I see a face and a lopsided grin.

"Can someone help me up out of here?"

Suddenly there's a burst of light, as if fireworks are going off. All around us are sparks, exploding like stars, bouncing off the rock walls, casting flickering lights on our dazed faces. It's like the whole tunnel is celebrating our survival.

"What's going on?..."

"The cog on the rack is now turning...which is turning the train's electric motor. Transforming it into an electric generator. The electricity has nowhere to go – except back up into the cables above us. Where it makes lots of sparks."

The train is still moving, but steadily. The tunnel walls loom past us, slower now as the gravity pulling us downwards evens out against the friction of the turning cog and electric motor. As the movement slows, I look around, and looking around, I see a yawning cave.

"What's this?"

Seydlitz smiles at me. "You came through here on the upward journey. This is Eigerwand Station, in a cavern inside the north wall of the Eiger."

The train grinds to a halt alongside a concrete platform. It seems unreal that we are stationary again. We pause, as if we are all giving thanks for this moment, this stillness.

27. Figures at the window

Around us, Eigerwand station is a black cavern. The only light comes from what looks like the yawning mouth of a cave; beyond it is the blue sky. The guard peers into the gloom, shaking his head. "Nothing in the station is lit. The electricity supply for the whole line has been cut off."

The driver nods in agreement. "You're right, Hans – how strange. Let's go and talk to Georg in the station office." They turn to us and explain. "There is only one person, Georg, manning this station. But, two electrical engineers were on this train on the way up. They got off at this station. Hopefully they can restore the power supply for us."

"Thank you. We must get Mr Keys to a doctor."

As I speak, I hear a quiet click. Slowly, the door at the far end of the carriage is opening. There's the footfall of someone climbing onto the train. Then the air is cut by a harsh voice.

"We need to know the names of everyone aboard this train."

Two men are standing at the far end of the carriage. They wear boiler suits with the logo of the Jungfraubahn company, but they are looking intently at us, like inquisitors, awaiting our answer.

Seydlitz answers them. "I'm sorry sirs, but before we start introductions, there is urgent business here. Did you see our train coming into the station? There is no electricity in the overhead wires. We all nearly died."

The men ignore him. "We are looking for one person. A Mr Montgomery Keys, according to our records."

We say nothing, because we all know now who we are looking at. These are the men who cut off the electricity supply and sabotaged the manual brake. But Seydlitz responds to them.

"I can confirm that I am not the Montgomery Keys that you ask for. Neither are any of those here present."

The two men look at Seydlitz, then at the elderly guard and the broad, rustic face of the driver. I can tell that they're thinking: none of these men is Keys. Our standing group conceals Keys himself, who is still on the floor behind us.

One of the men motions to the other. The second man steps out of the carriage. He's going round to the door behind us, where Keys is lying. He'll find him... I turn and look behind me in alarm. I see the empty floor of the carriage: Keys has gone – where?

The second man boards the train behind us, blocking our escape. The first man reached into his pocket: he takes out a gun.

"We have no time to stand about. Where is Mr Keys? We know he got onto this train."

Seydlitz's eyes travel from the man's face to the revolver. I hear contempt in his voice. "Perhaps the man you are looking for got off at Jungfraujoch Station and he's still up there. None of us know anything of this mysterious Mr Keys. Now, put that ridiculous gun down."

For answer, the man points the gun at Seydlitz's face. I hear the crack of a shot.

Anna screams, but her father is still standing. The shot was aimed just above his head.

"Now, start talking. At least one of you knows something."

None of us speak, except the driver. He looks at the man and asks "What have you done to Georg?"

"Your station master? He was very co-operative, when he saw this gun. He is still sitting in his office. Unfortunately for you, he is tied to his chair." As the man speaks, an idea seems to occur to him. Keeping the gun pointing at Seydlitz, he reaches into his pocket and throws a short coil of rope – to me.

"Young lady. Now, I'll shoot this annoying old man dead. Unless you show yourself to be more helpful than him. So – will you please tie up the wrists of the train guard?" He then throws a second coil, which falls on the floor in front of Anna. "And you, too. Do the same to the train driver. We have no business with either of the railway staff, and they will not be harmed. In fact none of you will be harmed – if we find our Mr Keys."

I finish tying the knot. There seems no point in not tying it properly and trying to deceive these men. I look at the man holding the gun. He's trying to appear in control, but his eyes stare, too strongly. There is sweat on his fingers that grip the trigger. He's trying to keep his voice strong and assured, but he's on the edge of panic.

The guard and driver, their wrists tied, stand passively. Then the man standing behind us orders them to sit down in the carriage seats, while the one in front of us shouts a command.

"Now. You three passengers. All of you, walk off the train. At least one of you knows Mr Keys, and you're going to tell us about him."

Seydlitz steps down onto the platform first, followed by me and then Anna. The man waves the revolver at us, directing us across the concrete floor towards the cave-mouth. An iron railing, three feet high, extends the width of the cave, to stop people falling down the mountain.

"You – get along." The second man shoves Anna forward. Still pointing the gun at Seydlitz, the first man too steps ahead to the mouth of the cave, and grips Anna's arm, pulling her hard against the railing.

Something suddenly strikes me – the cold. It's freezing at the cave-mouth, we must still be very high up on the mountain. Anna and the two men are now all standing at the railing, and beyond them is an immense blue expanse. It's like we're in space, staring out of the cave into infinity. The rock edges of the cave-mouth, and indeed the concrete floor below the railing, are sparkling like stars: Anna's feet are slipping on the floor. Everything is coated in a glitter of ice.

"Now, you people." The gun is still pointing, and both men are now gripping Anna's outstretched arms hard: she writhes and chokes, as if crucified against the railing. "We will throw this young woman over this balcony, down the mountain. Unless you co-operate."

Alongside me, Seydlitz stares in horror. The voice rings out again. "We'll start with my original question. What are your names? _You_." He squeezes Anna's arm in an iron grip, and spits the words into her face. "Tell me, now."

"Anna Mason."

The man nods in satisfaction. Then he swivels his arm, and the gun barrel points straight between my eyes.

"Uh... I'm Agnes Frocester. American citizen."

"I don't care if you're the President's daughter." But the man's bravado is clearly an act. These men hoped to kill Keys on the sabotaged train. Now, they are barely in control of the situation – and they've failed to find Keys. Where is he?

"Now you, old man." The gun is now pointing again at Seydlitz.

"Friedrich Seydlitz."

The man's eyes widen. His feet, like Anna's did, scuffle briefly on the ice before regaining his grip. He seems stunned by the name he's just heard.

"Repeat that name."

Seydlitz complies. His low, firm tones contrast with the man's sharp voice. The man nods: it's a name he knows.

We're standing maybe six yards from the three figures silhouetted against the railing, with the dazzling blue of the sky like a huge screen behind them. It's like we're in a cinema, watching the people in front of us acting out a silent drama. First, the man looks across at his accomplice, and they glance at each other in mutual recognition of the name Seydlitz. Then, their grip on Anna's arms tighten. She's trying to muster her courage, but I see tears streaming down her cheeks.

"You, young woman." The grip tightens further, and she winces in pain. "You said your name was Anna Mason. Is your husband Charles Mason, the mining engineer?"

She doesn't speak: again, it's like watching something in a movie. She just nods, her face strained.

"If you're Mason's wife, you must be the daughter of this man here. The Nobel prizewinning explosives expert, Herr Friedrich Seydlitz."

This time, the men don't even look into her face for an answer. I suddenly notice that the second man too holds a gun in his free hand, and that both men are smiling. The first man speaks, and for the first time, his voice is calmer, almost happy.

"Well, well. As you might guess from what happened on the train, my companion and I were trying to dispose of Mr Keys. We know that he is a mercenary spy, working for British Intelligence. We trailed Mr Keys from Geneva. But although we have now lost him, he has – rather stupidly – led us to something more important. Not something, in fact, but _someone_."

There's a shriek; a momentary blast of freezing air. The man waits for the noise of the wind to subside, then he grins at Seydlitz. "We have won first prize in a lottery. Not just one person, but the two people that Imperial Germany most wishes to find. So – we will restore the electricity supply, and we will board the train. And then, Herr Seydlitz and Frau Anna Mason, both of you will accompany me and my compatriot on a train journey to Germany."

Seydlitz's voice remains level and controlled. "You seem very pleased with yourselves. Your own leaders have written to me several times, to try to persuade me to help you in your obscene war. To help them work out more efficient ways to kill people. Then, my own son was killed – which shows me, more than ever, the idiocy of this conflict."

The noise of the wind is rising again, as Seydlitz carries on.

"I am a man of peace, and I no longer consider myself German. And my daughter, like Miss Frocester here, is an American citizen already. I too am to become an American. We want nothing to do with you. Especially now, when you have given up persuasion and are trying to force me. You actions on this railway are not just criminal: they are self-defeating. Because any thoughts I might have had of helping the Fatherland have now gone forever."

"That's a very noble speech, Herr Seydlitz. But we are the ones with the guns. And we won't hesitate to throw your daughter off this balcony either. She is no doubt a competent, valuable engineer – but I know that you understand all her work fully anyway. So she's expendable. It is you that we are really after."

I see, again as if on a movie screen, a new, silent moving figure. Very slowly, almost comically, a hand reaches out from behind the rocky left-hand edge of the cave. It grasps the top of the railing. Then I see a foot at the base of the railing, feeling tentatively for a grip on the layers of rimed ice. The person, I realise, is outside the cave, on the far side of the railing. I hope my face doesn't betray my surprise: the two men are completely unaware of this new figure.

Seydlitz continues to parley with the men, but I glance at a change in his face: yes, he too has seen the moving figure. "Very well, gentlemen: let's imagine that we go along with what you want. Suppose we all peaceably board the train, and descend the mountain. How do you propose to get me and my daughter from Grindelwald to Germany? Do you plan to point your gun at every Swiss official between here and Basel?"

I can now see the whole person, edging along outside the railing. Keys moves silently, sliding his fingers along the rail, his feet along the icy edge of the balcony. He's two feet away from the first man.

"A gun pointing at your daughter will ensure your silence whenever we have to deal with anyone on the railway. If both of you keep sensible and silent, then we will all travel safely to Germany. Where you will both be handsomely rewarded for your help in our war effort. Better than watching you daughter die, Herr Seydlitz."

"Very well. I will come with you – I will help Germany. But I must know I can trust you. Let Anna go. You will still be in control: as you say, you are the ones holding the guns. If you let her go, we can all walk safely to the train."

I can see the men glancing at each other. Their entire focus is on Seydlitz and Anna, while the high Alpine wind wails through the cave mouth. They still haven't noticed Keys behind them.

"Herr Seydlitz, you have a deal. We will let Frau Mason go. But remember, we have two guns: one will point at you, the other at your daughter, throughout our journey down the mountain."

I see the men's grip on Anna's arms relax. She, of course, is still unaware of Keys, who is now behind her. They let her go, and she takes a step forward.

Keys is over the railing in a moment: as he lands, he kicks out, knocking one of the guns to the floor. It slides across the ice, out of reach. His fist strikes the other man's chin, the head reeling back. I'm stepping forward, and so is Seydlitz: there are three of us and only two of them, and now they have only one gun between them. Seydlitz's wiry but strong arms reach forward to grasp one of the men.

At that moment, both men's feet slip on the ice; holding Keys, they tumble back towards the railing. The wind howls through the mouth of the cave, carrying a hail of icy shards like broken glass.

The men steady themselves: they both have Keys in their grip now, and they're trying to push him over the top of the railing. I reach out to stop them, but a kick from one of them sends me flying, sprawling across the floor of the station. The other man pushes Seydlitz, knocking him to the ground.

The men turn their attention to Keys. One of them has him by the throat; limbs writhe and flail around the top of the railing. Keys pushes back, fighting for his life, but with a final effort the two men push him over the railing. He holds onto them: both men's feet are off the floor, gripping the top of the railing as they try to free themselves from his grasp.

The wind stops for a moment. A strange silence, in which the three bodies, tangled together, tip over the edge of the railing and disappear from sight.

28. Wall of death

Two seconds have passed since the three men fell. Seydlitz, Anna and I reach the railing. We look over the edge, and my head reels.

Below us is a tiny fringe of ice at the mouth of the cave: then, a bottomless drop in space: an infinite void. Grindelwald is a speck below us: everything else is a vast nothingness: empty air and the arctic blast of the wind.

Seydlitz looks at me. "A very brave man, your Mr Keys. He has given his life to save us."

I feel stunned: like a punch in the face. I don't know if the sick feeling in my stomach is overwhelming vertigo, or physical grief and loss. I try to speak. "Let's – get away from this edge."

But Anna looks at me. "I can hear a voice, I think."

I can't quite believe what she's saying, but I strain my ears in hope. We try to listen through the wind. Seydlitz is grim-faced. "There's nothing there, Anna."

"Yes there is. Listen, just a moment more." And then we all hear it. Someone is shouting for help. But it's not Keys. It's a German accent. Seydlitz, too, can hear it now. He looks from Anna to me.

"Despite what he's done – we should try to help him."

Anna returns his gaze. "I agree, Papa. I don't care about the moral arguments – but we should get that man to the police, if we can. They need to investigate what has happened here."

In a moment, we're back at the train, untying the driver and guard, asking them too many questions. "Is there any rope? Those men fell down the mountain, but one of them is still alive. We could lower a rope over the railing?..."

The guard disappears to look for rope. The wait is agonising. If one of the men has survived... maybe Keys has, too? I try not to hope.

The guard reappears with a third man, who's rubbing his arms and still wincing. "I'm Georg. Those men tied me up in my chair. Using a very long piece of rope: here is it." Despite his ordeal, he smiles at us. "I think I will laugh very loudly, if I now have to use that same rope to rescue them."

Seydlitz looks at the three men. "Can we lower the rope over the railing?" We all go over and look down again into that dizzying space. But we can see nothing, and the voice can no longer be heard. Anna says "The voice was very faint, we could hardly hear it. But we did definitely hear something."

George looks at us. "We can see nothing from here. Let's try the door instead." He leads us back away from the cave mouth and along the railway platform. As he does, his matter-of-fact voice tells us. "In the summer there is a rescue kit kept at the station. It includes karabiners – metal loops to clip ourselves onto the fixed wire rope outside this door. But yesterday, the train took the rescue kit down to Grindelwald, because the station is closing for the winter."

I interrupt. "So if there's no rescue kit – does that mean we can't help those men?"

"No, young lady. The contents of the rescue kit – they are for _our_ safety. Without it, we can still attempt a rescue, using this rope. The lack of a kit just means that the next few minutes will be a little – alarming. But follow my instructions and we can be reasonably safe. We still have a chance, a small chance, to rescue anyone who is out there."

We follow the three men away from the platform, down steps into a slot-like passage cut through the stone of the mountain. In front of us, Georg opens a door.

It's like something in a fairy story. Around and behind us is a dark, cramped cave: in front of us is a different world. An endless empty space. Georg steps out, seemingly into the open sky. The guard and driver follow him, and I'm the fourth in the queue.

My heart is in my mouth as I step onto a narrow ledge, exactly one foot wide, that leads sideways across the wall of stone. Georg shouts back at me. "Hold the wire safety rope: it's bolted to the rocks. It goes all the way to the end of the path, below the viewing window. Hold it with both hands, and don't let go of that rope for a second. And watch for ice on the path, too."

I grasp the fixed wire rope, which passes through a series of iron rings bolted into the mountain face. I take one step, then another.

Georg shouts again. "We don't need all of you out here: it only makes things more dangerous. The two of you at the back – the gentleman and his daughter. You stay back in the passageway, behind the door." He looks at me. "You, young lady – unfortunately for you, you're the first passenger out here, and four is the ideal number for this kind of rescue. If you could come with us, very carefully, and listen out for the voice, it would be good. It is hard, out here on the mountain, to hear human voices. Your young ears will be more acute than ours."

I nod in reply, because I can't speak: my throat is choked with sensations of vertigo. Georg's instructions continue. "We will go to the end of the path, below the viewing window, and listen... for two minutes only. After that, we go back: the wind is rising out here, and it's not safe."

'Not safe' must be some kind of extreme Swiss understatement. I grasp the wire rope in both hands, moving along it hand-over-hand as I step along. 'Path' is another Swiss phrase, for a thin, slippery shelf leading out horizontally across the blank face of the mountain. Below my feet, a vertical wall plummets to unseen depths. I shuffle along, watching for patches of ice.

Georg calls again. "We're now below the viewing window. Directly under the railing where the men fell. Stop: listen." Ahead of me, I see him tying one end of the rope onto one of the iron rings.

I focus on my hearing.

Yes – there it is: a faint voice, calling for help. I glance down: instead of bare rock at this point, there's a slide of blue ice. And below it, a tiny snowy area, like a white pillow. Georg flings the tumbling coils of rope downwards, and shouts into the empty air.

"You, down there! I've fixed a rope. Grasp it and wrap it around yourself. If you know how to tie a bowline, do that. Then you will need to kick steps into the softer parts of the ice slope, if you can. To help us as we pull you up. Because three old men and a young woman will not be strong enough to haul a dead weight vertically up the mountain. We ourselves only have the fixed wire rope alongside the path for our own protection."

I hear an inarticulate cry in answer. Georg shouts louder. "Do you understand my instructions?"

This time, I hear a distinct answer. "Ja!" But just after it, I hear a different accent. "Can you pull me up too?" The new voice is even fainter, but the accent is unmistakeably New York.

In surprise, all four of us on the ledge grip the fixed rope tighter, then we lean out and look down. And I glimpse, on the edge of sight, a second little pillow of snow, beyond and below the first. There's a human shape outlined on it.

Georg shouts: his instructions are starkly clear. "We will pull you up one by one. But the lower man, he is on a ledge of soft snow that could crumble at any moment. We will pull the lower man up first."

I can hear something vague from Keys, but his voice is fainter now. He must be at the very limit of his strength. Georg shouts again. "You, the lower man! I need to know that you can help us to rescue you."

We hear a muffled "Okay."

"I need to know that you are holding the rope, and that you will step with your feet to try to push yourself up, as much as you can. You must do that as we pull you; we must all work together. We can't just pull up a dead weight."

There's a pause, as the wind whistles around us. Then a voice answers us – but it's not Keys. It's the German.

"Listen. You rescue me first, do you understand?"

"Sir, you have to follow my instructions. Wait your turn, and you will be safe." There's not a hint of emotion in Georg's voice, even though he knows that the man below him tied him up forcibly in his own station. Now, he's dispassionately rescuing that selfsame man, with the rope that they used to tie him.

The voice comes again, harsh on the wind. "No. I have gathered up all the coils of the rope here. I'm not throwing it down to the American. You pull me up first. After you have rescued me, we will decide what to do."

"As you wish." Georg realises there is no point in arguing in this situation: every second is risking all our lives. The wind shrieks around us, harder than ever. More sharp shards of ice blow into our faces, and suddenly we're plunged into a blank white world. A cloud has hit the face of the Eiger, and we can see nothing. Voices are all that we have. Georg calls to me, the guard and the driver.

"Now, all of you. Wrap one arm around the rope that's bolted to the mountain. Take the free rope in the other hand: wrap it once around your forearms. Pull if you can, but mainly, each of us must make sure that we ourselves are safe."

I can feel a weight in the rope, and I pull as much as I dare. I can barely see the driver's straining figure in front of me: everything else is a gray nothingness. But the rope is passing through my hand. Bit by bit, we're helping the man up the mountain.

Then I hear a shout through the mist. It's Georg. "Sir, you need now to let the rest of the rope drop down to the man below you. You can't hold on to the coils any more. Please do this. Then we can safely pull you up the last few metres to the path."

"No." I hear the voice in the blank white air. "Pull me up. I am not helping the American."

"This is not a discussion, sir. Follow instructions."

"No. _You_ follow _my_ instructions."

Suddenly the mist rips away like a torn veil: the whole sweep of mountainside is revealed. I see the driver, the guard, and then Georg's figure, like tiny insects on the endless wall of rock and ice. I see the man below Georg – but only one of his arms grasps the rope. The other hand is free, and I see that he must have been the man who kept hold of his revolver. The gleaming barrel is pointing straight up, at Georg's face.

"Do what I say, you stupid Schweitzer!"

"The slope above you is vertical, sir. While you are holding the gun in one hand, you won't be able to grip the rope. Now follow my instructions. Drop the free part of the rope down to the other man, and drop the gun down the mountain. Then wrap the rope around you, and use both hands and feet to help us pull you up."

The wind drops for a moment, and I hear the click of the gun. But Georg knows that the man won't shoot him: that would be certain death. He calmly repeats his words.

"Drop the rope to the other man. Drop the gun. Use both hands and both feet as you climb."

The man stretches his arm as if aiming the gun, but as he does, the grip in his other arm slips. The gun falls, spinning through the air. It hits the slope of ice, then disappears into empty space.

The man clutches at the rope to secure himself, both arms whirling, but he's moving too wildly, his fingers don't grip, and the rope slips away from his grasp. It's looped round his waist, but I see him helplessly twist as the loop unravels around him, spinning his body, just as his gun did. Legs and arms flail like a windmill: his head swings back, out, away from the mountain, and falls. He hits the slope of ice, bouncing out into the scream-filled air.

I'm still shaking, partly from cold, partly from shock, as the train slides alongside the platform at Kleine Scheidegg. But Keys, wrapped in as many blankets as can be found, is shaking more. After what he went through on the train, and then on the mountain, he has no strength left, and the shudders rack his body. Seydlitz looks at Keys, but speaks to me.

"It's hypothermia, I suspect. Plus badly torn muscles and ligaments, the effect of him stopping the train. I wonder if the fall has caused other injuries too. We need to get him immediately to a doctor."

The train finally halts: it will seem like bliss to step onto solid ground again. I look out and up, back at the ice-world of the mountains – and shudder, thinking of that man's scream, his heart-stopping fall down the endless walls of the Eigerwand. My eyes move away from the Eiger, onto the station platform in front of me, the people standing there. I look into the face of Lord Buttermere.

"I came here to meet you all. This train is officially requisitioned: it will be needed immediately, for a criminal investigation." I now see, standing behind him, several Swiss policemen. "And the police will need to interview each of you. But, a word from our ambassador in the ear of the Swiss president means that, before the police talk to you, I can."

We sit with Lord Buttermere in the bar of our hotel. At a table behind us, a policeman waits, ready to interview each of us in turn. He is one of a large team; some of them have gone up in the train to the Eigerwand station, two of them are interviewing the guard and the driver, and others are asking questions around Grindelwald, trying to find out about our attackers.

Buttermere orders a brandy, and suggests that we all have one. "I recall, Miss Frocester, that you drink brandy occasionally, especially after a shock."

I smile at him: that's the closest Lord Buttermere ever gets to joking. Then he looks around our little group.

"Herr Seydlitz, Mrs Mason. Do you mind if, in discussing what happened, I speak openly about your son, your brother?" He looks closely at each of them in turn. "From what I know of him, I have only good things to say. Some in Germany may regard him a traitor to his country, but I think he was a young man of conscience. He wanted to warn us of a potential weapon in the hands of the German Army. To do that, he tried to come over to our side."

Seydlitz holds Buttermere in his gaze. "That plan failed – and my son died because of it."

Keys, still wrapped in a blanket but no longer shivering, buts in. "I'm not a professional spy like you, Buttermere. But Herr Seydlitz is right. The operation to get Walther over to the Allies went wrong. To use an American word, someone along the line snitched to the Germans."

"I am aware of that, Mr Keys. I'm also aware – and, please accept my apologies, Herr Seydlitz and Mrs Mason – that Walther Seydlitz's death was the result of that – snitching – as Mr Keys calls it. So was the death of Dr Bernard, and now this attack on all of you. Whoever killed Walther is still trying to stop you helping us."

I see Seydlitz and Anna look at each other. I realise what's happening. Lord Buttermere hopes to use Walther's death as an emotional pawn. To persuade Friedrich Seydlitz to give his support to the Allies.

Keys knows what's going on too. He catches my eye as Lord Buttermere looks closely at Anna. "Mrs Mason, I'm not asking you to help us avenge your brother. Nothing can bring him back. What I'm asking you to do is to help us stop the Germans using this weapon."

She looks at Lord Buttermere, unconvinced. "How? Neither my father or I is in any position to stop them. They already have the design."

"Mrs Mason. This summer, you travelled to Europe from the United States. Braving the torpedoes of the U-boats that threaten cross-Atlantic civilian ships. A long and stressful journey, I'm sure."

"I and my husband were at our home in Denver when I heard of my brother's death. Then, I received a telegram from Papa saying he was planning to emigrate to the United States. We travelled here, in order to meet him and accompany him back to America. We also came here so that we could wind up our family's remaining business interests in Europe. My husband isn't with us right now because had some business to finish in Zürich. I may as well tell you that he has gone there to transfer our remaining shares out of German companies. Papa and I are joining my husband in Zürich tomorrow."

"And after your business in Zürich is finished, the three of you are travelling back together to the United States?" It's more of a statement than a question: Lord Buttermere appears to already know their plans.

"Yes."

"You're aware, aren't you, that if you were unlucky enough to lose your passports, the Swiss authorities could provide you with replacements within two days? Quicker, in fact, if necessary."

Anna looks puzzled. "I don't quite follow you, Lord Buttermere."

"You may not be aware that since February, British passports must include a photograph of the bearer. Military passes too, since May. It's because a German spy was discovered; he was using a fake British passport. But United States passports – they don't require a photograph."

He looks around the table, smiling, then looks back at Anna. "Mrs Mason, your and your husband's current United States passports could, in fact, be used by any two people of a similar age to yourself. Mr Keys and Miss Frocester, for example."

I stare at Lord Buttermere: Keys and I are starting to grasp what he's saying.

"Now, Mrs Mason, I have a question for you. If you and your husband travelled to Germany, do you believe you would both be welcomed?"

Friedrich buts in. "Of course! The Germans would love to have Anna's help. Her knowledge of mines – specifically, of mine detonators – is among the best in the world. And my son-in-law is a renowned mining engineer."

Buttermere continues, looking pointedly at Anna. "But, to make full use of your expertise in mine detonators, you would need to know how the Germans plan to use the detonator. You would share your knowledge with them – but they would also need to share with you information about the secret weapon they are developing."

She looks at him. "Yes. Your thinking is correct."

"Exactly. I think we all know what I am proposing. Especially, Mr Keys and Miss Frocester. You understand me, don't you? But the choice is yours."

I stare at him wide-eyed. But Lord Buttermere is still speaking. "I will tell you very frankly. If you undertake this mission, you need to fully understand the risks." As if to frighten us, he carries on. "I know, Miss Frocester, that you think me amoral and unfeeling. That's because I face enemies who are much worse than amoral. To make the dangers clear: I have some sad information to tell you all. And though you think me unfeeling, I myself cried when I read this news."

I look into his face. He reads from a piece of paper.

"The Foreign Office are informed by the United States Ambassador that Miss Edith Cavell, lately head of a large training school for nurses at Brussels, was arrested on August 5th by the German authorities, and was executed on October 12th after sentence of death had been passed on her."

Lord Buttermere looks arounds the room, then back at Keys and me. "So, if you did both travel to Germany on the passports of Charles and Anna Mason, but were found out, you would undoubtedly be treated in the same way."

29. Family portraits

"What are you looking at?" Keys asks me. We're sitting facing each other in the glass-fronted dining room of the Cafe Vaterland, one of the vast hotels fronting onto Potsdamer Platz, at the very heart of Berlin. The huge windows look out into wintry darkness, and I feel a damp chill in the air of the room. The meagreness of our food – scraps of stringy meat, chalky-tasting potatoes served with sauerkraut – contrasts with the cavernous grandeur of the dining room.

I glance at Keys, then my gaze returns to the window. "I'm looking out there – do you see? There's a man loitering in the shadows across the street. Is he watching us through the window?"

Keys answers me with a question. "Do you think they're onto us?"

So far, we have avoided detection. We spent two weeks in Grindelwald, along with Friedrich and Anna, who postponed their journey to Zürich. They spent every possible moment with us, to tell us everything our heads could take in about explosives and detonators. During that time we also sent a telegram to Germany, to say that Mr and Mrs Mason were able to help advise the German military, if they wanted to make use of us. The expected positive reply arrived almost immediately, and two days later we took the train to Berlin.

We were greeted at Lehrter Bahnhof by Dr Ernst Weber of the engineering company Pfeil Aktiengesellschaft. He seemed almost too grateful to have our help. Our accommodation is in "the finest hotel in Europe" as he put it. He then added that its name was changed patriotically, on the outbreak of war, from Hotel Piccadilly to Cafe Vaterland. We've now been staying here six weeks.

Keys peers out through the glass into the December murk. "Yes, I see that man. He's hanging around and watching this hotel – it's obvious. In fact, if he's an agent, he's not a very good one." But then Keys seems to relax a little. "I guess we are under surveillance anyway, regardless of whether they suspect us. In fact, everyone in this goddamned city seems to be watching everyone else."

I point out of the window. "Look. The man is crossing the road towards us." We've been told that, before the war, Potsdamer Platz was the busiest spot in Germany. Now it's a yawning empty space, with only a few lonely figures going about their own business in the gloom. Every single person we've seen in this city seems to move slowly, as if deeply tired. But this man strides forward across the cobbles. Something in his walk is oddly familiar.

There's not enough time for us to make our escape from the dining room. The way out from it is through the hotel lobby, and indeed the man is already at the doorway of the restaurant, speaking to a waiter. And now I can see him properly. I sigh with relief, nodding to Keys. "Now this is a surprise. Professor Axelson is here."

"Herr Mason, Frau Mason. It is good to see you!" The professor sits with us, and after a few minutes another mess of scrawny meat and potatoes is served to him. He continues talking, chatting merrily as if he's known the Masons for years and as if he takes an interest in industrial explosives. Gradually our food gets eaten. Then Axelson says with a smile "I have a slight headache, after my journey. I think I will take a stroll."

Keys answers immediately "We'll join you."

Outside, the night is bleakly cold and dark. As we walk, the professor is silent for a few minutes until we reach the unlit edge of the Tiergarten, Berlin's central park. Then he raises a hand, as if to stop us talking, while he looks up and down the sidewalk of the Lennéstraße, the road that edges the park. Again, the only people about are distant, desolate figures, wandering in the night. The park is bounded only by a low iron railing. As we step over it into the darkness, the professor finally speaks.

"Us three, we now stand at the very centre of the German Empire. But it is an empty centre." His hand sweeps in gesture across the blackness of the park. "I think we can speak safely here. I hope I am right, because if we are overheard, we will doubtless end up being shot."

Keys replies. "I've got a journalist's eye, Professor. We weren't followed from the hotel."

"Good. I'll speak plainly. Mr Keys, I should start with an apology to you. I abandoned you in France, leaving you to take forward this investigation for me. I gather, though, that Lord Buttermere has been giving you instructions, and that both of you are here using the Masons' passports."

I answer. "That's right. It has worked well – so far. Has there been any progress with the murder investigation?"

"Sadly not. And, Private Edgar was, as expected, sentenced to death. He had not been executed by the time I travelled to Sweden, but it was imminent. By now, the death sentence will have been carried out. A tragic and cruel business."

I hear Keys' voice. "The man was clearly a mental wreck. To punish him for that – I'm appalled."

"I agree. But now, I must ask about you. Have you found out anything about the Seydlitz explosive device?"

I answer him. "Nothing. We were asked by Lord Buttermere to find out everything we could, and to leave a message for a Herr Muller at the Stresemannstraße Reichspost office as soon as we found something. So far, we have left only one message for Mr Muller. That was when we arrived, simply to let him know we are in Berlin. There has been nothing else at all to report."

"That's – disappointing. What are you doing each day?"

Keys looks at the professor's silhouetted face. "Every day's the same. We go over to the Pfeil factory, we sit in an office there, and they bring us terrible coffee. And biscuits, when they can get hold of them. They even give us popular magazines to read, to pass the time. Now and then, one of their scientists will call us into a room and ask us some questions. We give them answers, to the extent of our limited knowledge. So far, they seem to believe that we know what we're taking about. But in terms of gathering intelligence – we are shown nothing, we're told nothing. If we asked to see the laboratories, the plans..."

"I see your problem. If you asked... that might arouse suspicion."

"It's strange. They seem to believe our story, yet they are still secretive."

"Everyone in Berlin is afraid, Miss Agnes and Mr Keys. But not of the Allies. No, they are all afraid of the Kaiser and his spies. Secret police are everywhere. No-one wants to be seen to be acting out of line. The scientists have probably been told not to let you into the laboratory, and are following their instructions to the letter. Their motivation is purely to avoid blame afterwards, if anything went wrong. That is how everyone here acts. This is a city of informers, and every citizen feels they are being observed."

Keys explains what happened in Switzerland. "They tried to kill us, at Grindelwald. I think, if they were on our trail after that incident, we'd have been found by now. I conclude that their only agents in Switzerland died on the Eiger, so they now know nothing." He grins, and his New York accent sounds stronger than usual. "That's sure as hell what I'm hoping, anyway."

I ask Axelson. "So, why are you here, Professor?"

"Lord Buttermere spoke to me after the Battle of Loos, and asked me if I could be ready to leave and travel to Sweden immediately. He asked me to go there and write to the government in Germany, to follow up the invitation I received several months ago. The invitation from Kaiser Wilhelm II."

"So that's why you're here?"

"Yes. I travelled home to Sweden, and replied to the Kaiser, saying that if he was still interested, I was available to carry out the hypnosis. Then, after two months' very pleasant rest and respite, I received a positive reply. I sailed to Lübeck, and then travelled here. I believe – I hope – that the Kaiser knows nothing of my time spent in France among the Allied forces. But before I left Sweden, I received a telegram from Lord Buttermere, to tell me that you are here. So I came to find you."

"It's good to see you." said Keys. "But, you and us – we each have our separate missions now. You just happen to be in the same town as Agnes and I. It's probably not good for us to be seen too often together."

"On the contrary, Mr Keys. The Kaiser is aware that both of you are here. He would like you to accompany me, when I meet him. You see, I contacted him to say that you and I – that is, the Masons –had met before, in the United States, and that I knew you quite well."

"That's dangerous for Agnes and me, Professor. It puts more attention on us. The Germans may make more checks about our identity, if we are to meet the Kaiser." Keys looks the professor in the eye. "I'd say that this increases our risks, without any apparent benefit to the work we're doing."

"But – the Kaiser knows you are here in Berlin. He would like to meet you. It might be dangerous to decline to meet him. There is an English phrase, you know – 'refusal often offends'."

I but in. "You mean, it will look more suspicious if we don't come with you to see the Kaiser?"

"As always, Miss Agnes, you understand me perfectly."

Keys mutters crossly. "It'd have been better if you'd not gotten us tangled up with your business. We're risking our lives on one clear, simple mission. Now you're mixing it up with something else. What good can that do?"

"We don't know what meeting the Kaiser may achieve, Mr Keys. But your current method of investigation is not yielding anything. So maybe, it's time for you to try something new."

Keys bites his lip: I can tell he's holding back from arguing. I look at him.

"The professor may be right. I have just one impression from our so-called work at the Pfeil factory offices."

Keys glances at me in the dark. "What's that, then?"

"Hurry. We sit there, sipping nasty coffee, while they scurry around. I think they are preparing frantically. Whatever the secret weapon is, I think they are planning to use it, very soon."

"So?..."

"So – we need to do something. Now."

Keys glances at me, then at the professor. Then he looks away into the cold blackness of the park. After a few seconds, he mutters one word.

"Okay."

We've eaten a scanty breakfast, the best the Cafe Vaterland can provide. A car has come to the hotel to take us to the Stadtschloß for the professor's meeting with the Kaiser. A light snow has fallen, the first of the winter, and under the lifeless gray sky, everything we see looks like a faded photograph: monochrome shades of white and dark. Driving along, through the Brandenburg Gate and along the wide thoroughfare of Unter Den Linden, lined with the winter skeletons of lime trees, we pass huge hotels, grand facades, the signs of a great capital city. But the people shuffling along the street look like scarecrows, and I see hundreds, thousands of faces with the same hungry, hollow, haunted look. Their spirit has died within them. This isn't a city any more, I think. It's the corpse of a city.

Our car crosses the Schloßbrücke, its parapet lined with statues to give an impression of imperial grandeur, but the Spree Canal below us is a narrow gray strip of water rather than a major river. The Lustgarten park alongside the road is a bleak square of snow. The Stadtschloß stands opposite, a huge wedding-cake of a building. Steps lead up into a yawning hallway, and after a few minutes we are ushered, with little ceremony, into a small chamber festooned with gold rococo scrollwork. I'm oppressed by the crowded, contrived decoration, too brightly lit. Two seconds pass before I notice a middle-aged man in military uniform, standing alone in the room near the only window. His hair is greying, but his large mustache is still black; it looks dyed. Perhaps he's trying to retain an impression of youthfulness. His left hand rests on his hip, holding a pair of white gloves. His chest bristles with oversized medals, glittering in the reflected light. The professor bows low, and I make my best effort at a curtsey.

"Professor Axelson. Frau Mason. How do you like my city, my palace? Although the Stadtschloß is only my second home – it is a little modest compared to my usual residence outside of the city, at Potsdam. But today I have come over to the Stadtschloß, to award medals to a number of brave military heroes of my Empire. So it was convenient to meet you here. Please, be seated."

The Kaiser sits down, on an ornate gilded throne. His left arm, holding the gloves, is still bent. I can see it's a habit, to conceal the fact that it is six inches shorter than the other arm, something of which the Kaiser is manifestly conscious. I can tell that, every moment of his life, half his mind is occupied with his disability. For one second, I feel sorry for him.

He gestures us towards small chairs around him, like courtiers. Stepping forward, I curtsey again, before sitting. "Berlin is – very grand, your Imperial Highness."

"I hoped it would be the grandest city in the world. Indeed it will be, one day." He looks out of the window into the gray morning, and we wait for what he will say next.

He startles me with his next statement. "Slow strangulation is not an honourable way to attack a man. You agree, Frau Mason?"

I nod as he continues.

"At the moment, Germany has a vile serpent wrapped around its throat, stifling the life from us. I look out at my city, and I see an empty shell, inhabited by people who are so hungry that they might – God forbid – even turn against their Emperor. All because of a cowardly, constricting snake – the English blockade of all our sea traffic. Our food supplies are cut off. An underhand way to fight a war, don't you think?"

"That's sad. I've seen –"

"You have seen people who are like starved dogs, Frau Mason. All that my citizens can think of is the pain in their bellies. It would not surprise me if one day they all came to my palace and tore it apart, just to get to my imperial food supplies. Dogs may turn wild, you know."

Axelson coughs behind his hand, and glances at me. He feels it's time to interrupt the Kaiser's gloomy musings.

"Your Imperial Majesty. Would you like to start the hypnosis?"

"Yes. And by the way, Professor, I am glad you have brought Frau Mason with you. I suggest that, if she feels able, she should take a detailed note of what I say."

Keys stands up from his chair. "I'll wait in the lobby."

The Kaiser glances briefly at Keys. "Herr Mason, while you wait, I will have coffee brought to you in one of the morning rooms. There are some illustrated books there, with technical drawings of my naval ships. You will already be aware that the ships of my Kaiserliche Marine represent the finest advance of technology anywhere in the world. As an engineer, you will have some appreciation for them."

If his navy is so fine, I think to myself, why can't they break the sea blockade? But the professor is speaking: gentle, respectful explanations about what the hypnosis will involve. After a few minutes, we are ready to start.

"Let me begin, your Imperial Majesty..."

The Kaiser looks at the professor, and suddenly his eyes are open a little wider, a little brighter. "Call me Wilhelm. Please."

"Wilhelm. I want you to begin simply by breathing. Breathe slowly and deeply. Nothing matters except this breathing."

In his seated posture, the Kaiser's shorter arm is bent, but I notice that his hand grips the long gloves, trying to maintain an impression of equal length. The professor speaks very slowly. "In – out. In – out. Just breathe. Nothing matters, nothing exists, except this breathing. In – out."

The Kaiser's hand grips the gloves tighter, as if resisting the relaxation. Time goes on, and the professor carries on speaking, low but insistent. Nothing happens, and I can even hear a clock ticking in the next room. Then, one glove drops to the floor.

I can now hear the Kaiser's breaths above the clock. But the professor simply continues, as if with infinite patience. "In – out. Breathe, in – out."

Finally, the Kaiser's eyes close. The breathing is now slowed and heavy, like the roar of waves on a faraway shore. The professor speaks.

"You are in darkness, Wilhelm."

"Yes. There is nothing around me. I see nothing. But I hear a voice. An English voice."

"A woman's voice?"

"Yes. An Englishwoman's voice. Too shrill. My mother."

"Your mother is pleased with you? You are such a darling boy to her."

"I am – loved. I hope I am loved... But – Mama is angry with me. Will she take her love away? I can see her face in the darkness: anger, fury."

"Wilhelm... is she really furious? Is that the right word?"

"Furious... no, not quite. Angry... cross... no, those words aren't right either." His head is raised, and his closed eyes seem to look into remote distances, as if far back into his own childhood.

"She's disappointed. Sad."

"Sad?"

"Sad, because she's disappointed – about my arm. Her precious son is damaged. I was born wrong. The doctors are to blame... but I am to blame too. Mama, I am a poor twisted boy. I feel it, here."

His hand drops the other glove, then moves slowly to his chest, pressing over his heart. He tries to speak, and I can tell that he is summoning all his strength.

"I will make it up to you, Mama. I promise, I promise. I will make everything all right again. I will be a man, a full-grown man, Mama. I will prove it to you."

"You will prove it?... to your Mama? Can you see her face?"

"Yes. And there is someone else too, that I can see in the darkness."

"Someone else? – standing, perhaps, alongside or behind your mother?"

"Yes. Standing behind Mama's shoulder. I can see the two faces together. Two faces of unhappiness, of disappointment. They are both sad. It's my fault. Bad boy, bad boy..." His voice trails away, thin and weak. The professor pauses before asking another question.

"And the second face?"

"My grandmother. Queen Victoria. I think there are other faces too. Her whole family. She is the great mother, the mother of the royal families of Europe."

As I write down the Kaiser's words, I hear a catch in his breath, as if he is near the edge of some great pain. It's an effort for him to carrying on breathing, as if a huge weight rests on his chest. But he struggles on. Five minutes pass in silence. Then he speaks.

"There are other faces too, in the dark. It is the night of my own soul: I am peering, and I see faces in the blackness. Family. My cousins – George, of England. Nicky, of Russia. They are looking down on me."

"Looking down on you – with fondness, with love?"

"I don't know. I can't read their faces." I see a tear trace its way down the Kaiser's red cheek. "But – I must show them. I am strong. Despite my arm, I am as strong as you, my cousins. Stronger."

More time passes. The breathing goes on, but within I hear a wheezy sound, the air almost whistling as is passes in and out of his lungs. I sense that the moment is over, that he is passing out of the reach of Professor Axelson's spell and into some uneasy reverie of his own. As if he's gone beyond our reach. I put the pen down: there will be nothing more to write.

The clock ticks again. Outside, snowflakes start to fall.

"Blue – and pink."

Even the professor looks mildly surprised. But he simply says, calmly "Say those words again, Wilhelm."

"Blue and pink." The Kaiser groans, and the muscles in his neck tense, like tightened ropes. His hands form into fists, as if in pain. "My maps... my maps of the world."

"Go on, Wilhelm."

"The oceans are coloured blue. And the continents – half of them is coloured pink. Africa, Canada, Australia, India. The pink countries – they are the British Empire."

The professor doesn't interrupt: he just sits quietly, glancing occasionally at me. We both know that more is coming.

"My cousin George. He rules half the world; he should at least let me have Europe."

"Your cousin King George..."
"Yes. He has all this pink, this endless overseas empire. He has the pink because he has the blue. British ships travel ceaselessly, all over the globe." The Kaiser's voice is wistful, dreamy, almost a sing-song. "Britannia... rules the waves."

"Wilhelm. I have one question for you."

"Yes?"

"What would make you happy?"

"Happy?" The question is spoken back at the professor, as if, even in his hypnotized state, the Kaiser feels that happiness is an impossible dream. But then he breathes again, more openly. He seems almost to relax. The wheezy noise has gone. Now, the Kaiser speaks with clear, strong emphasis.

"The seas will be open for me. Germany will be fed and strong again, ready to crush the French, the British, the Russians. A single blow. The knockout punch of a master boxer."

"A punch? How will you deliver this knockout blow, Wilhelm?"

The Kaiser's withered arm moves restlessly, and it seems as if he has again slipped away from us into some dark fantasy of his own. But then he speaks once more.

"The explosive device, Seydlitz's device..."

I hear the click of a door, and I glance back into the room. A footman is coming in, carrying a tray of coffee cups. But as he enters the room, perhaps nervous of this odd situation, his fingers slip.

The tray falls with a crash, and the Meissen china breaks into a thousand shards on the marble floor.

"Hell, man! You idiot!" The Kaiser is instantly awake: he stands rigid, his face flushed scarlet with fury. "You will pay for that. From your own wages – on the day when you next earn any! Because you are dismissed! I cannot have clumsy fools in my service." His body is tensed like wire, and for a moment I think he is going to strike the trembling servant.

The Kaiser has dismissed the professor and I: the interview is concluded, as if he has lost all interest in us, and now just wants us out of the way. Shaking with shock, the footman is carrying out the final duty of his terminated job: escorting us back to the morning room where Keys is waiting. As we approach the room I hear Keys' voice; he's chatting to someone. The wretched servant opens the door for us, and I see the other man who is sitting there.

The conversation stops, and the newcomer's eyes look up. I see a German Army uniform, a broad but deeply-lined face. I've seen him only once before, but there is no possibility of mistake. Oberst Mannheim of the Citadelle de Lille and I look with recognition into each other's eyes.

Keys smiles at us. "Did your session go well? This is Oberst Otto Mannheim. He's come here from... where was it?"

Mannheim speaks slowly, still gazing at me. "Lille. I oversee the running of the headquarters of the German forces of occupation, but I'm on leave right now. The Kaiser has awarded me the Iron Cross, and I've come here to receive the medal."

The professor smiles. "Congratulations. You must have acted very bravely." Of course, neither he nor Keys has any knowledge of Mannheim: they have no idea how I'm feeling right now.

Mannheim replies to the professor. "Thank you, but in fact I've done nothing brave at all. Others have had immense courage – but I've been given the glory for what they did. I simply manage a kind of administrative office, really." The beady eyes continue to look at me steadily, intently. "The most difficult duty was when I was ordered to execute four local men who were resisting German rule. I'm not a brutal man, Professor Axelson. Given the choice, I'd rather not shed blood."

Professor Axelson, Keys and I are waiting in the entrance hall of the Stadtschloß. Our car, a huge black Daimler, pulls up at the foot of the steps. No-one else is around: are we to leave the Kaiser's palace alone and unescorted, as if stepping into a taxi on the street? And then, just as the professor begins to descend the steps, someone takes my arm. I know what's happening. Otto Mannheim has told them who I am. This is it: I'm arrested. I turn, and feel a man's warm breath in my face. It's the Kaiser.

"Frau Mason. I'm sorry for that footman's clumsiness – and the abrupt end to our session. Very rude of me. I didn't have a chance to say how much I appreciate the help of both you and your husband, with regard to the detonators for the Seydlitz device. The successful detonation is the one element of our plans which I still worry about, so your expertise – it is invaluable. You have my eternal gratitude."

"Thank you... but I don't think I've helped much, yet."

"While you have been waiting here, I have made some arrangements for immediate action. The final phase is here."

I look the Kaiser, but he turns briskly to Axelson. "Professor, I trust that you have in your possession Frau Mason's notes of our session?

"Of course, your Imperial Majesty."

"Give the notes to me: I must read them at once. Professor, I think your Hypnotic-Forensic method is very beneficial for me, a kind of spa treatment for my mind. In fact, you will be helping the whole world, because you are going to assist me to achieve the mental sharpness needed to win this war."

Axelson looks at the Kaiser, open mouthed. But the latter has not finished. "So, Professor – more hypnotic sessions are needed, and I need you on hand, ready for any moment when I have time for the hypnosis. You need not even bother to return to your hotel. I have personally settled your bill there, and I have arranged for your luggage to be transferred to the Potsdam Palace, my usual residence." The Kaiser beams with satisfaction. "From this moment onwards, Professor Axelson, you will stay with me, as my honoured guest. My imperial car awaits you."

We have, with our eyes wide open, walked straight into a trap. The Kaiser continues. "Professor, everything will be made comfortable for your stay at Potsdam. It will be a very extended one, allowing ample opportunity for many more Hypnotic-Forensic sessions."

We glance down the steps, flanked by two armed guards. But the Kaiser doesn't pause in his speech. "Now for you, Herr and Frau Mason. You will travel immediately to our base where our attack using the Seydlitz device is being prepared. Because our plans are very shortly to be put into effect, and your hands-on help is needed. You have spent enough time with the back-room scientists: it is time to put your skills into action. You are going to be part of history."

30. The forgotten men

It's getting dark as Keys and I, and the two young Army officers escorting us, step down from the train at the quaint, half-timbered railway station at Priermerburg, maybe a hundred miles north of Berlin. A taxi is waiting for us, and drives us to the private house where we are to stay two nights. The last leg of our journey is completed in a rowing boat: we are the guests of Herr and Frau Bauer, and their home is the only house on a little island, which gives the wide lake around it, the Inselsee, its name.

Frau Bauer is a welcoming middle-aged lady with a broad smile. She shows us directly into a dining room. "I gather you set off from Berlin at mid-morning? You must be so hungry after your long journey!" The two officers take their leave of us: they are staying in the nearby town of Güstrow, and will only return the day after tomorrow, to accompany us on the next stage of our journey.

Frau Bauer doesn't just show us the dining-table: she talks us through every item on it. There's ham, sausages, cheese, and plentiful sauerkraut and potatoes. After Berlin, this is a feast. But then, she leaves us. Keys and I are alone, and there appears to be no guarding and no surveillance of any kind.

Keys begins in a whisper. "Seems that crazy Kaiser has arranged everything for our comfort."

"Comfortable – but very uncomfortable, too. We've had no chance to contact our agent in Berlin. Nor, of course, will Professor Axelson be able to relay information. The Kaiser has scotched all Lord Buttermere's ingenious plans. Somehow, we have to get this information out of Germany."

"What information? We still know nothing."

"We know that the German operation, whatever it is, is going to happen very soon."

"But how can the Allies prepare? We have no idea what form the attack will take. For myself, I'm just glad that we've not wound up in some German jail, with guards beating a confession out of us. At the Stadtschloß – it was definitely that guy, Mannheim, that you saw in Lille?"

"Oh yes, no doubt. But I think I understand why he pretended not to know me. At Lille, he sent me to Geneva. I was a problem and he didn't know what to do with me, so he put me quietly out of the way. He hoped..."

"He hoped sleeping dogs would lie. He hoped that no-one would ever find out that he'd had a Red Cross nurse as a prisoner, and sent her to Switzerland. To put it bluntly, this sleeping dog jumped up and bit him."

"Exactly. If Mannheim said to anyone at Stadtschloß that he'd seen me before, his earlier actions would have been questioned... and he'd have been in trouble himself. Far better to say nothing."

"Maybe." Keys, I've realised, is a good judge of human nature. "But if Mannheim is keeping schtum... then, it's a knife-edge decision by him. If he can think of a way to spill the beans about you, without getting himself into trouble, he'll do it."

"Anyway – well done prompting me, as we were leaving. For a moment I'd forgotten the one thing that I'd like to do while we're here in Germany. It slipped my mind because I was so taken aback, when the Kaiser reappeared like that. You were very quick-thinking."

That night, as I try to sleep in the double bed, listening to Keys' breathing as he lies on a blanket on the floor, I muse to myself: Keys was indeed very quick-thinking. When the Kaiser asked us to travel immediately to the 'base' – whose location we still do not know – Keys mentioned that we had an important errand while in Germany. The Kaiser, much to my surprise, said that he'd be happy to help if he could.

Keys then told him that we had a close friend, a Scotsman who had served in the British Army at the Battle of Loos, and had been taken prisoner. As a favour, could we take a food parcel to him, meet him perhaps?

And we seem to have gotten away with it: we are staying with the Bauers for two nights, so that tomorrow we can take a day's break from our journey. Despite the urgency of our journey to the 'base', we may visit the Güstrow Soldat Prisoner of War Camp, situated a few miles from here, deep in the woods that surround the Inselsee.

The next morning dawns bright and clear. Frost shimmers in the pine trees, and a low sun gleams across the lake. The Bauers themselves order the taxi that drives us through the woods, until we reach a huge area of new-felled timber. We see German guards standing over men who are obviously prisoners. Despite the cold, the men are stripped to the waist, working hard as they chop and saw wood. We drive past them, and some of the prisoners wave to us. The mood of the place seems industrious, almost positive.

In front of us looms a tall barbed-wire fence. As we wait for a guard to come and see our papers, the taxi driver remarks "These prisoners, they are, bit by bit, building their own camp. All this wood is to construct more huts to live in. Guests of the German Empire. These men are happy here – happy to be out of the war." He sees Keys' puzzled expression, and explains. "Most of the prisoners are Russian. We feed them better than the Russian Army does."

The guard only looks briefly at our papers, and waves us through the gate. Beyond the fence, we halt outside a low wooden building that appears to serve as an office. A short fat man in military uniform appears at the door.

"Who are you? Why are you here?"

The man's red face betrays a bad temper, and the effort of coming to the door seems to have made him cough as he speaks. He glares at us. "Well? Explain yourselves."

Keys speaks slowly, as if to calm the man. "We are visiting at the permission of his Imperial Majesty the Kaiser. He personally told us that we could come here, to meet and bring a present to Private Colin Smith of the British Army, who is being held at this camp as a prisoner of war."

"Where are your papers of authority?" The mention of the Kaiser's name hasn't calmed the man: it has just added to the suspicion I see in his eyes.

Keys hands the man the note that the Kaiser wrote for us on the steps of the Stadtschloß. He peers at it, blinking like a short-sighted owl. Then he looks us.

"This paper. It says Frau Mason may visit Private Smith. It doesn't say anything about _Herr_ Mason. Besides, we have a camp rule: no visitors – and then, only one visitor at a time."

It's tempting to point out that his rule doesn't make sense, but he's the one in control here. I smile broadly at him. "That's quite all right, Kommandant. I would be delighted if you would permit me to see Private Smith, alone."

"And you?" The Kommandant looks narrowly at Keys.

"I'll stay in the taxi and chat to the driver. I promise I won't get out of the car."

Accompanied by a guard, I am led across to a low wooden building with a cross nailed to one gable end, and a small wood-built spire at the other. It looks like a toy church from a model village. Inside, there is only an empty space, with a single table at the far end: the altar. Seating for the soldiers while religious services are conducted is, obviously, too much of a luxury. The guard stands at the door while I wait for Private Smith, wandering around the low-ceilinged room and looking out of the windows of the bleak little building. It's well-constructed, I think. A lot of thought and effort, a lot of care, has gone into building this chapel, both from the prisoners and those guarding them.

There's a shout in German from the door, and then a different voice can be heard, quavering slightly but still recognisable. "Private Colin Smith, 6th Cameron Highlanders."

It's essentially the same man I saw at Loos: his smile shows his inner strength and humor, despite his hollow cheeks. His badly-made camp uniform hangs loosely on a frame that's much thinner than when I last saw him. As a concession to me, the guard pulls a chair out from behind a door, and puts it at one side of the altar, beckoning me to sit. Smith stands on the other side of the table. After a gesture from the guard, he holds his hands stiffly behind his back. I smile at him.

"I've brought you a food parcel, Colin." In fact, it's a packet of every type of sausage, cured meat and cheese that I could save from the Bauer's plentiful table. Smith's face shines with gratitude as he takes the packet from me. He looks up at the guard. "Gorgeous food in this parcel, Fritz. Do you want some?"

The guard looks impassive, and Smith smiles. With a slight movement of a single finger, he points at the guard, looking at me with a wink. "He dinna speak a word o' English. Which is nice for you and me, don't you think?"

"How are they treating you here?"

"As well as they can. When I first got here, we were in tents. Lucky for me that was October, not December. The guards set us tae work, building the huts. That work's still going on, the camp's still growing. The work's hard, but they give us breaks. I've not seen one prisoner hit or mistreated by the guards. I'd say we were looked after well."

"I'm glad to hear it."

"Of course, the weather could be better. I put in for a transfer to a camp in German East Africa. Preferably on the beach." The smile continues as he says "The wind blows off the Baltic here, sharp as sin. But I'm a Scots east-coast boy who's used to the cold. And we actually have two stoves per hut – and as ye see, an endless supply of timber. So hopefully we won't freeze this winter."

"I hope so."

"The worst thing is the rumors about food. To tell the truth, we're all fair worried. The new Kommandant, he took over a month ago. The gossip about him is that he was too unfit for active service in the real Army. I reckon he likes his bottle a tad too much... So – instead of sending him to the front lines, they put him in charge of this place. But he likes to think he's a big man, a war hero. So he takes his frustration out on us."

"How?"

"The word is, he wants to reduce our rations. Ye see, our food is supplemented by Red Cross food parcels. He dinna like that – he says that he dinna want the prisoners to be better fed than the guards. And the guards' rations have already been reduced, twice."

"And the Red Cross?"

"They don't provide the food. They're a delivery service. The Red Cross bring food parcels, which are sent to them by our families back in Britain. I get a parcel every couple of weeks. I'm lucky: ma family think of me all the time. That's the greatest comfort – to know that they're always remembering me. Out here in the middle of nowhere – ye know, we call ourselves the forgotten men."

"But you are remembered – the food parcels."

"Us British are lucky. Most of the prisoners in this camp are Russians. No food parcels are sent from Russia. If prisoners' rations are reduced, then I don't fancy those boys' chances this winter."

I think of those men out there among the timber, smiling as they work. I guess they don't know what may be before them, as the Baltic winter deepens.

"Fünf Minuten!" Our guard is keen to do his job properly, and reminds us how little time we have together.

I lean forward and speak quickly. "I'm not just here to bring you food. I have my own reasons. You see, I really need to know what happened at the Battle of Ypres."

"Like I told you, that was a bad business. And, I got a letter from my battalion – they say that Johnny Edgar was sentenced to be shot. For cowardice, can ye believe it! The way the British Army is treating men – I sometimes think I'm better off here."

"I can understand why you feel like that. But... Ypres?"

"Of course. I'll tell you what happened. With Edgar sentenced to die, and Ted Tasker already dead – there's only me to tell the tale."

"I'm sorry to tell you that Reginald Gadd is dead too."

"Tell me something I dinna know! We were with Gadd when he died. That's why he never came out to the Canadian trenches with us."

My mouth opens in surprise. "He never?..."

"Reggie Gadd, he died in Ypres. We were just about to set off for the march to the Canadian trenches. We were walking along the street, not an enemy in sight. But the Germans were bombarding..."

"I remember it well."

"A random whizz-bang hit a nearby building. The four of us were walking along – we heard the blast behind us, we looked back. Reggie was lying in the street. He looked like he was just snoozing away, totally uninjured. We went over tae him, and then we saw blood trickling from his ears. No pulse, no breath. He looked like a sleepy baby, but he was dead as a doornail."

"I'm sorry to hear that. So what did you do?"

"We were only a few yards from the Main Dressing Station in Ypres market square. Ye know – that place where ye were based. So we went over there. We saw someone called Nurse Carstairs. We told her about Reggie, so that his body could be collected. Then the three of us carried on following our orders. We headed off on foot to the Canadian trench."

Smith's words have surprised me. But at least one thing makes sense now: the records that the professor and I saw at Poperinge were correct. Gadd died on April 22nd. But I ask once more, just to reconfirm.

"Just to get this straight – there were only three of you British soldiers, with the Canadians? You, Tasker and Edgar?"

"That's right."

Despite the limited time, I pause for a moment as I try to make sense of this information. But I have to keep asking questions.

"What happened then?"

"We got into the open country, beyond Ypres, and we joined the Canadians in that old French trench alongside Kitcheners' Wood. We had our orders and the Canadians had theirs. They'd been told that we were to come into the wood after them, and take German prisoners. But we knew that we were looking for just one man.

In the middle of the night, the Canadians attacked the wood, shouting and yelling like boys. We followed our instructions and hung back. Soon we started to hear screams as well as yells. When we were sure that the Canadians had advanced, we went into the wood, going slowly and carefully. We could tell that there was hand-to-hand fighting, in the dark, just ahead of us. We had a small shaded flashlight to search for the German officer, but we could use it only now and then, mostly it was too dangerous to switch it on. We were tripping and stumbling among the trees, all the way.

There was one place in the woods, we came across two German soldiers, just young boys, lying side by side, almost hand in hand. They looked like twins. They were lying there, both bayoneted, their guts ripped out and mixed together and strewn across both of them. It was horrible, they were still alive, they looked at us and said "Wasser, bitte! Bitte!" But there was nothing we could do for them. We went on and found a big gun in a clearing at the middle of the wood. Sandbags all around it. There were German bodies all over the sandbags and the gun. And then – we saw a pair o' hands held up above the sandbags, and when we went over, it was a fair-haired fella in German officer uniform. We knew we'd got our man.

We took him back to the trench, and then the survivors of the Canadians came back, and the sun came up. All that day, German gunfire was raking over the top of our trench, we coudna move. And then night fell again. And then, Ted went to look for ye, and came back to the trench with ye and the doctor."

I look at Colin Smith. The only news he has for me is that Gadd was not with them. Apart from that, he's told me nothing new. But he carries on with his story.

"Anyway, when ye left us, as ye know, Tasker and Edgar went along to keep ye safe. And soon after that, the Germans attacked us."

"And Tasker and Edgar were back with you, in the Canadian trench, by the time the Germans attacked?"

"I didna see Edgar. But I did see Ted Tasker, one last time. I saw him killed, you see."

I have to ask the question. "How did he die?"

"Germans were approaching from the woods. We were outnumbered; there were hundreds o' them. We could see they were going to swarm right over our trench. We started retreating along the supply trench, to get out of their way, and Tasker was one of the ones who stayed in the trench, firing at the Germans to try to give us cover and hold them back a bit, while we escaped. As I left the trench, I looked back at him. He was cursing, I still recall his last words. Then a bullet got him, right in the chest as he was fiddling about with his gun. I went back to him, but he was stone dead. Shot through the heart."

It seems futile, but I ask it anyway. "What were those last words?"

Smith hesitates. "Well – he was cursing, ma'am."

"I'm seen men die, Colin. I'm not going to be offended by a swear word."

"Ted Tasker, he said – 'Damned, damned Ross rifles! Damn them to bloody hell!' His rifle was stuck, ye see. The catch had jammed, and he couldna shoot. That's why he died – he couldna fire back at the advancing Germans. All the Canadians had been complaining about that problem. They were supplied with Ross rifles, and they kept jamming."

"I thought standard British Army rifles were Lee Enfield."

"The British Army standard issue rifle is the Lee Enfield. When Edgar, Tasker and I walked oot to that trench, we all carried Lee Enfields. But all Canadian soldiers at Ypres had the Ross. Months later, they were all issued with Lee Enfields instead. Too many Canadians had died, because their rifles had jammed."

Our guard looms over us. Then he grasps Private Smith roughly by the shoulder. Smith stands, nodding at the man. "Okay, Okay, Fritz. I'm moving." He winks at me. "Like I said, he dinna speak English." He smiles at the guard as he's led away. "By the way, Fritz. Would ye like to try some cheese?"

31. The island

"Keys! You're snoring again!"

A sleepy voice answers me. "You know, it might have something to do with sleeping on the floor every night."

"Let's swap then, if you don't like being on the floor."

"Don't be ridiculous. The lady has the bed, it's one of those rules. Like me stepping out of the room, whenever you're changing your clothes."

"You're the one being ridiculous now."

It's around midnight. I pull more blankets around my shoulders to keep out the cold that seeps into this new bedroom, and bury my head in the pillow to block out Keys' snores. I wonder what my Ma and Pa would think of these arrangements. They'd be horrified at how quickly I've come to accept sharing a room with a man as normal. In front of others, Keys and I maintain the brittle pretense of being husband and wife. Behind closed doors, we bicker like children. Perhaps a lot of real married couples do that, I muse, as I slip into dreams.

Morning in our new room is bitterly cold, and it's not much better down in the breakfast room. An elderly woman brings us breakfast, moving backwards and forwards slowly with bread, coffee and bacon. She also places a jar of pickled herrings on the table: the smell is overpowering. Her accent is so impenetrably strong that I don't want to get into a conversation in German with her. Although I sense that the short mid-December daylight is very slowly arriving outside, we have no glimpse of it through the thick velour drapes that extend ceiling-to-floor across a whole wall of the room. Despite the cold, I decide to stand up and push back those drapes.

Because, we have absolutely no idea where we are.

Outside the window, a flat gray slab of water extends as far as the eye can see. Below me, I look down steeply onto the little harbor where, late last night, a boat brought us from the German naval harbor at Cuxhaven, after a long train journey from the Bauer's house at Inselsee. When we arrived at Cuxhaven, I saw all the ships there and thought we had arrived at our destination – the 'base' that the Kaiser had spoken cryptically about. But at Cuxhaven we were ushered into the boat, in the fading winter light, and sat for hours on a plank bench in a tiny cabin. Thankfully, the sea was calm.

I hear the old lady behind us, and turn to thank her for our food. "Das war schön, danke."

She replies "Foole tunk."

I smile at her, feeling sure that what she said was not actually in German. "Wo sind wir?" I ask, holding out my hands to express mild confusion. I repeat in English "Where are we?"

She stares at me, not impolitely but just in surprise. "De eilân, fan course!"

"De eilân?"

"Ja. Heligoland."

It's not a name I've heard of, though I sense recognition of the word in Keys' face. He whispers to me "North Friesian. That's the language they speak on this island. It's a remote place, out the North Sea, and it's not really part of any country. In the past it's been ruled by the Danes, then the British, then the Germans. Before the war started, it was a popular holiday resort – so everyone here will understand you, if you speak in German."

"Thanks, Keys. I had no idea..." I catch the old lady's eye, and I'm about to try speaking to her again. But there's a knock at the door. Without waiting for us to answer it, a German naval officer walks in.

"Please accept my apologies. I see I have interrupted your breakfast."

"Not at all. We were just finishing."

"May I introduce myself? I am Kapitan Wolfgang Kirchner, a commander in the Kaiserliche Marine. And you are the Masons, husband and wife?"

A few moments later, we are walking down a cobbled incline, lined with cottages, towards the harbor. A bitter wind blows in our faces. In the dull light of the midwinter morning I see the gray shapes of naval ships in the water below us. All around us, and on the hill above the harbor, massive guns poke out over the top of concrete walls. The little holiday island has been fortified: it's become a sea-moated castle. But Kapitan Kirchner points out the harbor and the holiday homes, as if the island is still a leisure resort. The place seems even more desolate because it was once a place of enjoyment and happiness.

We step down onto the quayside, and Kirchner leads us through a gate in a huge, newly-erected iron fence. Beyond the fence, the harbor-side continues, but there are sailors in Kaiserliche Marine uniforms everywhere, sitting on walls and packing cases, smoking and playing cards. The gaze of every sailor follows us.

The harborside is a wide, cobbled expanse. We can't see straight down into the water. There appears to be no ship anchored near us, but I see a wooden jetty angling down from the stone edge of the quay towards the surface of the water. Kapitan Kirchner stands by the top of the jetty, and sweeps his arm in a proud gesture.

"Herr and Frau Mason, I present Seiner Majestät Unterseeboot-33."

We stand by Kirchner and look down. Only then do I see it: a sleek, fish-like metal hull, barely rising above the water. He smiles at us. "In short, a submarine. A U-boat."

But as he speaks his eyes flick away from the submarine to the other side of the harbor. Something else has caught his attention. A boat is coming into the harbor. It's speeding fast, as if out on the open sea. Even in the gray gloom, the wake of waves at its bow jumps and sparkles.

"What's that?"

"The fast naval launch from Cuxhaven. Sometimes our top brass want to do an inspection. Admiral Scheer, Commander of the High Seas Fleet, has visited more than once."

Keys nods at the captain. "I guess this island is an important base?"

"It has become so, yes. You see, since the battle of Heligoland Bight at the start of the war, our main fleet does not venture out into the open sea for fear of the Royal Navy. The only time we broke that rule, at the battle of Dogger Bank last winter, we were defeated. Our battlecruiser Blücher was sunk, and eight hundred sailors drowned."

"I don't see any big battleships here."

"They are all in the harbor back in Wilhelmshaven, and dare not come out. The Royal Navy has put our battleships in jail, and appears to have thrown away the key. So, as we cannot go above the waves, we go below them. Heligoland is a submarine base, and it has become our commanders' pride and joy." There's a tone of sarcasm in his voice as he continues. "Even though now, us submariners too are locked up."

We watch the little boat docking on the far side of the harbor. Keys speaks in his broken German. "Sorry, Kapitan. I'm an American miner who's spent most of his life in the mountains or underground. I don't always keep up with the news. So I don't quite understand about 'locked up'."

"Well, Herr Mason, you will doubtless have heard of the Lusitania. Earlier this year, our submarine U-20 sank the ship, which contained thousands of rounds of military ammunition destined for the British Army on the Western Front. The passengers aboard, including many Americans as you may know, were unaware that they were, in fact, a kind of 'human shield'. They were civilian bodies, being used to protect military goods from attack."

"Why was that?"

"In response to the British sea blockade, the Kaiser declared the seas around Britain a war zone. We gave ample warning that civilian ships in that zone could be sunk at will by our U-boats.

But when the Lusitania sank, your President Woodrow Wilson sent a letter to the Kaiser, stating that any more attacks against civilian ships could lead to the United States declaring war on Germany. And if that happens – well, we have lost this war."

"I hope it never happens." Keys smiles, and tries to sound sincere. The captain carries on.

"But I think our high command acted too fearfully. The restriction on U-boat activity has handcuffed us. All our sailors sit about here. This is a small island with nothing to do, in the middle of winter. Cold and boredom can eat at men, just as much as fear and danger on the Western Front can."

The naval launch has a large lamp on it for signalling. It starts flashing towards us: in the weak winter daylight, the flashes can easily be seen. Kirchner translates the Morse code.

"They are asking us to wait on the quayside. It is not a problem: we have not yet started loading the U-33. Because before we load, we need your help with the cargo. What we need you to do, this morning, falls mostly to you, Frau Mason. We know of your expertise in the detonation wiring of the Seydlitz device. We need you to check the detonation mechanism, to confirm that it will work as intended. After that, you are free to leave Heligoland. In fact, that naval launch over there can take you back to the mainland, this afternoon."

Keys can't resist a little remark. "I guess the U-boat restrictions have had one benefit. My wife and I were able to cross the Atlantic – without getting blown out of the water." He grins, but I'm not sure that Kirchner shares his humour.

"We are glad of your commitment to us, Herr and Frau Mason. And Frau Mason, I should have given you my condolences, for your brother Walther's tragic death in battle at Ypres. I hear that he was a loyal servant of the Fatherland, and it seems that you are from the same mold..."

Kirchner loses the thread of what he's saying. His face looks out along the harbor in surprise, and I follow the direction of his eyes. A man is stepping down from the launch, and starts running along the quayside. He's not a sailor; he wears ordinary civilian clothes. His long overcoat flaps about as he runs. As soon as he is within calling distance, he shouts to us.

"Kapitan Kirchner! I am Oberst Karlheinz Prochnow, of the Abteilung Drei B! Could you and your guests remain exactly where you are?"

Under his breath, I hear Kirchner say "My God in heaven.... the secret police..."

The man is nearer now, but he looks unused to running: he's slowing down, and I can see him gasping and panting. His overcoat, I notice, sways and bulges oddly. Keys whispers to me "He's carrying a revolver." The man shouts again.

"Kapitan Kirchner! I'd like to speak to your guests."

"Of course, Oberst!" But Kirchner is cursing to himself at this interruption to his plans. A moment later, Prochnow stands alongside us. He catches his breath after the run, and looks at Keys.

"You are Mr Mason, yes? I'm here because local police in the town of Güstrow were contacted by a taxi driver. The driver told them that he had a conversation with you, while you were both waiting for Mrs Mason to visit a prisoner at the Güstrow Soldat camp."

Keys nods as Prochnow continues. "During that conversation, you told the driver that your name was Mason. You said that you were a mining engineer from Colorado."

"Yes. I told him that, because it's true."

"That taxi driver, he was pleased to hear what you said. In fact, he was delighted to meet you. Because as a former miner himself, he is interested in feats of mining and engineering."

Keys looks nonplussed. "So? Where's all this leading?"

"He is so keen on engineering achievements, in fact, that at home he keeps a series of newspaper clippings. Including this one which describes the opening of the Sangre de Cristo Mine near Crestone, Colorado."

Prochnow produces a small piece of newsprint from his pocket. He holds it out, fluttering in the harbor breeze.

I see Keys' throat moving in anxiety, but his face remains calm and confident. "Let me have a look at that, will you?"

"Of course. You are Mr Mason of Colorado, you say – so, you should see the article."

Keys' right hand takes the paper. Kirchner can see the paper too, and I see his mouth dropping open. Keys' face is controlled – but his hand trembles. I look at the piece of paper, flapping like a leaf in his grasp.

Despite the shaking, I can see a photograph above the article. The caption 'Maverick Miner Mason Tames The Rockies' doesn't really with go the photograph. Which shows a short, portly young man. Who is completely bald.

"Hold back there, all of you!" The voice barks like a ricochet in my ear, and an arm is round my throat. At my cheek is the cold muzzle of a revolver.

Held in the left hand of Keys.

"If any of you move an inch, I'll shoot this German bitch! Now, I want a boat out of here!"

Prochnow feels in his pocket. I can tell that he's reaching for his gun. His hand swishes ineffectually within the pocket, and the shock of realisation crosses his face. Keys sneers at him. "Oh yes, my trembling right hand, holding that stupid scrap of paper. While my left hand was in your pocket, Mister."

Prochnow is shocked, but he speaks calmly. "All right, Mr Mason – or whatever your real name is. I can summon a boat from across the harbor, to anchor at the quayside for you."

"Good. It can take me to Denmark or Holland. Either will do."

"And do you plan to take Mrs Mason with you, at gunpoint?" Prochnow's gaze shifts sharply to me. "If, of course, you are indeed Mrs Mason?..." He pauses before asking me "Or are you, too, lying to us?"

I don't say anything. Keys does the talking. "Of course she's Mrs Mason. I've had to put up with her company for far too long. Properly speaking, she's Anna Seydlitz, who despite her marriage to an American citizen, comes here to side with the Germans, to sink more ships, kill more people. My entire family died aboard the Lusitania. Well, there'll be no more casualties from your cowardly undersea warfare!"

Is Keys' pretense convincing them? I'm worried that he's over-acting his part. I look at Prochnow's face as he replies to Keys.

"What a charming story, young man. You say that a U-boat attack killed your family. You claim that because of this, you take it upon yourself to travel secretly into Germany, with a woman of German birth. For more than a month you reside in Berlin together. And you tell me that you do all this because of a personal grudge? At any time Mrs Mason could have alerted our authorities. You even met the Kaiser, I hear. Your story rings hollow, Mr Mason. You are not working alone. My only question right now is: is Mrs Mason one of those who are working with you? Or, as you claim, has she been your prisoner?"

"Just bring the boat alongside."

A small wooden boat is now bobbing on the water next to the conning-tower of the U-33. Keys shouts, his voice ringing in my ear. "Me – and your precious detonators expert – are stepping aboard this boat. Don't try to stop us."

He pulls me, my feet dragging on the stone cobbles of the harbor floor, then on the wooden planks of the jetty. I look down inside the barrel of the revolver, half an inch from my eyeball. Step by step, Keys hauls me towards the U-boat, while Prochnow and Kirchner look down at us, helplessly. Then Keys pushes me onto the iron deck, and starts to drag me along towards the ship's conning-tower, where the little boat floats like a cork on the sea.

Prochnow is still standing on the quay. He speaks to Keys as calmly as he can. "Mr Mason, could you tell me one thing? It matters not one way or the other, so you may as well tell me. How have you kept this hold over Mrs Mason, all this time in Germany? You both stayed for weeks at the Cafe Vaterland, a public hotel. So you have hardly had her under lock and key."

I don't try to speak, and indeed I can't. Keys' arm around my throat is forcing my chin up and keeping my mouth shut. We're next to the iron wall of the conning-tower, and the little boat wobbles in the water, just two steps away. Keys takes another step towards the boat, and I'm forced to step with him. I nearly put my foot into the water, but then I manage to get it onto the side of the boat. I now have one foot on the iron hull of the U-boat, the other on the swaying wooden side of the dinghy. If I were standing, I'd lose my balance. But I'm hanging, like a doll, held by the neck in Keys' grip. He shouts over the top of my head.

"Okay, I'll tell you. The real Mr Mason – and this woman's father, Friedrich Seydlitz – are hostages. I'm holding them in a mountain cabin in Switzerland to ensure her co-operation. If she ran away, or breathed a word to anyone – they die. In fact, they die unless I return, unscathed, from Germany to Switzerland. The threat has been very effective, so far."

"Two of our agents died in Grindelwald, Mr Mason. A great loss to us: we have had no intelligence since then of Friedrich Seydlitz or other persons of interest to us in Switzerland. Those two agents – did you have anything to do with their deaths?"

Keys shrugs at Prochnow, but the questions continue.

"And who is helping you in Switzerland? Someone must be holding Herr Seydlitz and the real Mr Mason at this mountain cabin. You are not some lone person with a grudge, Mr Mason. You are part of an organised plot against the Fatherland."

Keys practically spits the words out at them. "So what if I am? None of it matters anymore." I feel myself roughly dragged into the boat, which tilts and sways wildly.

A gunshot rings out. Sailors with rifles have come to join Prochnow, and are shooting from the quayside. Keys falls backwards, as do I. The cold rush of water is all around me, and my memory flashes back to the Titanic... but as well as the water, I feel strong arms around me. The sailor manning the dinghy is pulling me up out of the water, and I see two more sailors from the U-33 jumping across the gap into the boat and grappling with Keys. They've got him.

32. Leap of faith

I'm in the front room of a quayside house. I've stopped shivering, and I sit in front of the glowing heat of an iron stove. I'm wearing nothing but two large towels wrapped round me. For modesty I pull them as close as I can: the door of the room is shut, but sailors keep coming and going in the corridor outside. Then I hear the voice of Kapitan Kirchner.

"Frau Mason! I have some clothes for you to wear. We think they belonged to a summer holidaymaker here on Heligoland. I will put my arm through the door and hold them out to you." I take the clothes and get dressed. Within five minutes I'm in the corridor with the Kapitan.

"I hope you are warming up again after your plunge, Frau Mason. Unfortunately, Oberst Prochnow wants to speak to you. He is trying to overrule me. Because the demands of the U-33's mission should take priority. I need you to begin on the task that you are here in Heligoland for – checking the detonator mechanisms. We are running out of time."

I hear Prochnow's voice calling outside the door. Kirchner looks at me and rolls his eyes. Then he steps outside, and I hear them talking.

"Oberst Prochnow, I must apologise. There is no time, sadly, for you to interview Frau Mason. The detonators must be checked before the limpets are loaded, and we need her to do that."

I put my ear to the door. I have no idea what a limpet is, other than shellfish. Prochnow is speaking now.

"Kirchner, face facts. It's possible she is collaborating with that man. They were together in Berlin for weeks! Unless they were in it together, how could he keep a hold over her, all that time?..."

"Simple. By threatening to kill her husband and father, just like he told you."

"So you believe him?"

"I didn't believe that story about the Lusitania and his family – that he was a lone wolf with a grudge, no. That was just a cover story. A cover story to conceal the fact that he's a British agent, and that the British are holding Seydlitz and the real Mr Mason in Switzerland. You yourself, Oberst, said that our agents in Switzerland have been killed."

"I don't claim, Kapitan, that Mrs Mason is definitely a British agent. But it's a possibility that we have to reckon on. And if she is an agent – then, rather than checking the limpets, she could sabotage them. If you make use of her, you are taking a leap of faith."

Kirchner's voice tries to remain respectful, but he sounds at the end of his tether. "Oberst Prochnow – _we have no more time_. The limpets must be loaded this afternoon, and it will take hours. If Frau Mason doesn't check them now, the entire mission is compromised."

"Kirchner, I overrule you. I outrank you – and as you know, the authority of Abteilung Drei B police can override the regular armed forces in any case. So, I demand to interrogate Mrs Mason, now."

Kirchner's voice is like ice. "Then you yourself are stopping our mission. We have to leave at sunset. Any later, and we might as well not go."

Prochnow speaks again, but lowers his voice. He's saying something I can't hear. Then a sailor strides noisily through the corridor, and I lose all sense of the conversation. All I know is that, if I am to have opportunity to defuse the detonators in the way that Anna showed me, I need Kirchner to win the argument.

The door opens, and my heart sinks. It's Prochnow, and he immediately launches into a series of questions.

"Mrs Mason. We are short of time. I need to know the answer to this question. Since you entered Germany, has so-called Mr Mason made any contact with anyone except for German military and scientific personnel? For example, did he meet any strangers at the hotel you were staying at?"

"I – I need to think... I'm trying to remember." I'm stalling, because I can hear a noise from the room next door. It's Keys' voice, speaking to his captors. "I'll tell you nothing, except what I said out there in the harbor." Then I hear someone shouting at him. The voice is brutal and impatient.

But Prochnow asks me again, raising his voice above the shouting. "Mrs Mason... can you remember?"

"Yes. I was just thinking carefully. No, he met no-one. We stayed in the hotel alone, we dined together, alone, every night. We only met scientists at the Pfeil factory. Then, we met the Kaiser."

A scream of pain cuts through the door. Prochnow's questions continue. "And then?..."

"What's going on next door?"

"We are questioning Mr Mason, of course. To begin with, we need to know his real name. And many other things too. Now, are you sure that he met no-one else?"

"After Berlin, we stayed two days with the Bauer family. And then, there was the taxi driver."

"The Bauer family... well, we know they are entirely loyal to the Fatherland. And the taxi driver, of course – he was the one who alerted us. So it seems that this British agent, as he no doubt is, did not have opportunity to contact anyone."

"Yes. That was all that happened." But I'm not really conscious of my own words anymore, because I can hear noises, bangs and crashes. They go on and on, my stomach feels frozen, like I'm turning to ice inside at the thought of what is happening next door.

There's a sudden silence. Prochnow stares at me, his eyeballs drilling into mine. I look back at him, and blink, once. Does he believe me? He coughs, as if about to speak. But then there's a knock on our door, and a voice.

"Sir, the prisoner..."

Prochnow stands, but continues to fix me in his stare as he goes to the door. He opens it, but I can't see who is there. The man at the door speaks in a low, gruff voice, and Prochnow answers. It's another conversation that I can't hear.

Maybe Prochnow believed I was truthful. He must have believed me, I think, to allow me out here. I sit on the harbor wall and wrap the hand-me-down coat around me; it's thick wool. I guess it must have been useful on this windswept holiday island. That trivial thought flits across my mind, but I try to cling to it, because I can't face wondering about what has happened to Keys. Hours have now gone by since Prochnow left me. I've not seen Kirchner at all.

I do see some movement, though. Sailors in pairs are carrying large cases towards where the U-33 is anchored. Officers are shouting at them to take care. I think of the Kaiser's servant, dropping the china. So, the devices are being loaded onto the submarine... Kirchner's mission, whatever it is, is going ahead. All our adventures, our efforts – for what? Perhaps Keys is dead already. I blink away a tear.

"Cheer up! Don't cry – it might never happen, you know."

It's Keys' voice. I turn and see him standing, held by two sailors. His wrists are handcuffed, and a rope about a foot long ties his feet together. His face is a swollen mass of bruises: his eyes are barely visible.

I'm getting up to run to him, but he speaks clearly and firmly. "Stay there, Mrs Mason. There's a deal, you see."

I look at the ruins of his face. "What sort of deal?"

"I sign a confession. So Prochnow gets what he wants. But in return... I asked for five minutes. Alone. With you."

We're out at the edge of the quay. A few yards away, the loading of the submarine goes on. Prochnow is a distant figure, watching us from the door of the harbor house. I've walked to this spot, and Keys has shuffled along beside me; he can only move his feet a little. His breathing is broken and rasping. I speak first.

"I can't believe what you did, to take the attention away from me."

"I thought it was preferable to face the punishment that I knew was coming, rather than end up with it anyway, and watch them doing it to you too."

I nod at him in silent gratitude.

"I couldn't escape them, Agnes. But with a little play-acting from me, you can. Hopefully my little stunt of grabbing you and calling for a boat has convinced them that you really are Anna Mason, loyal daughter of the Fatherland. They got me, but not you. Call it damage limitation."

"I don't know what to say. It's beyond any thanks I can give you."

"Let's use the time we have. I need to tell you some information, and I need you to memorise it."

"Go ahead."

"Firstly, I want you to tell them that my name is Matthew Cooper. Matthew Cooper was a real person; he was a boy I was at school with. His family moved out West, and they all died in the San Francisco earthquake. So, he really existed; German secret agents operating in America will be able to verify that, and about the school and so on. For a while, my captors will believe me."

Keys carries on, telling me details about his identity as Matthew Cooper, how he was recruited by British Secret Intelligence while working for a newspaper in Washington. "Tell them my contact in British Intelligence was someone called 101. It's nonsense, but it will give them something to check out for a few days. Tell them that 101 told me to find out about the Seydlitz device."

"And what happens when they check all that out, and then they discover that you're still lying to them?"

"I'll cross that bridge when I come to it. But if there is any way at all that you can get a message to the American embassy in Germany, please do."

"I will."

"There's one other thing, Agnes. I've been going over it in my mind – what you said about what Private Smith told you. About Reginald Gadd being dead before they went out to the trenches."

Prochnow calls to us. "Time is up, Mr Cooper."

"Keys, what do you mean?"

"Smith must have been lying. Either way, Colin Smith was lying."

"What do you mean... either way? What ways? You mean, he was lying about Gadd?"

"No."

Prochnow shouts again. Keys looks at me. "No time to explain now. Just think it over, Agnes, when you have time. Mull this over: _either way, Smith must have been lying_. Now this is goodbye. Good luck with your mission."

"My mission's finished, Keys. Right now they're loading the devices onto the U-boat – that's what those sailors are doing. My chance to prevent the attack, whatever form it may take, has gone. But I can still send a warning to the British, if I get the chance. When I get back to Berlin, I'll contact Herr Muller, just like Lord Buttermere told me to."

Sailors are striding towards us, as Keys shuffles round to face them. But as he does, he's still speaking to me. "You're not going to Berlin."

"Where, then?..."

"I overheard them talking – Kirchner and Prochnow. You're very popular, Agnes; both of them want a piece of you. Prochnow wanted time to interview you. But Kirchner needs you to check the detonators, and he has to leave Heligoland before night falls, one hour from now. They agreed there was only one way that they could both get what they want."

Keys' voice is cut off as the sailors grasp his arms. They try to drag him away, but they move too fast, and the short rope rounds his legs trips him as he tries to walk. He stumbles and falls; I hear his knees cracking on the hard cobbles of the harbor. The sailors punch his back and sides, and after a few seconds, he struggles to his feet. Drops of blood drip from his mouth, but Keys manages a few final words to me.

"Enjoy the submarine ride, Mrs Mason."

33. Operation Passover

My feet clang on an iron ladder as Kapitan Kirchner leads me down inside the U-boat. I feel I'm being pushed into a steel box. Inside the U-boat, it's a different world. Metal pipes and instrument dials jut at me from all sides. It seems impossible that anyone could operate such machinery in such a tiny space. But I'm also hit by the smell: the thick odour of diesel fumes. And mens' faces are everywhere. The crew seem to be packed shoulder-to-shoulder like sardines. I realise that the sheen on their skin is part-sweat, part-oil. Maybe they've been told there is a woman joining them, but even so I see surprise, perhaps suspicion, in the whites of the eyes that peer at me from every corner. Kirchner speaks, his voice ringing off the inside of the iron hull.

"My dear crew – my faithful comrades. We are now ready to depart for our mission. I'm sorry for the cramped conditions. A rearrangement of the interior of the submarine has been necessary, in order to equip the U-33 to carry out our mission. And there are some passengers joining us. This is Frau Mason, who despite her marriage to an American – hence her name – is a loyal subject of the Kaiser." He gestures to two other men. "And these gentlemen are Herr Zimmermann and Herr Becker. They are experienced undersea divers.

I will reveal our destination in four days' time. But for the meantime, let us have a good voyage, and keep your spirits up. Because we have extremely dangerous work ahead of us. All of us will need every ounce of courage we possess."

The engines are already starting to hum. I realise that the smell will be with me for the next few days: the diesel odour of the U-boat, penetrating everywhere. But it's not the smell that's suffocating: it's the tiny space, the inability to move, and most of all the knowledge that we're below the water. Old fears press on my chest, like I'm being slowly crushed. I try to keep a lid on the urge to panic. And, I try to keep out of the way of the crew. Beside and behind me are sailors, maybe three inches away, calmly carrying out their duties. They peer at the instruments, hold levers and wheels. They're monitoring the engines, adjusting the pressure, checking the air supply. Simply keeping us alive in this undersea world is a finely-tuned operation.

Kirchner looks at me. "Frau Mason – I need to talk to you. You see, I feel like a kidnapper, insisting you come onto the U-33. But I have very good reasons."

I try not to say "Is there somewhere you and I can talk privately?" Because I know there isn't. The Kapitan carries on.

"Please look at this letter, Frau Mason. When the explosive devices arrived at Heligoland, this letter, addressed to me, was with them. If you read it, you will understand the need for you to accompany us." I take the note that he holds out to me.

Pfeil Aktiengesellschaft

December 14th, 1915

Dear Kapitan Kirchner

Please accept delivery of the Seydlitz/Mason "limpet" devices for the Kaiserliche Marine.

The wiring of the detonators of the "limpet" devices is in exact accordance with the Seydlitz/Mason design and free from faults. But due to the urgent order for these devices, we have not had opportunity to check the wiring arrangement with Frau Mason as originally planned.

We recommend a full testing of each device by Frau Mason at the Heligoland Submarine Base. We trust that you are willing to accept delivery of the "limpets" subject to that condition.

Yours sincerely

Dr Ernst Weber

Forschungsingenieur

Pfeil Aktiengesellschaft

Berlin

I look at him. "Yes, I understand this. It makes sense for me to check the detonators now. I couldn't do it in Berlin, because they wouldn't let me into the laboratory at Pfeil to see the actual devices. But, Kapitan, what is a 'limpet'"?

"I have no secrets between different members of my crew – which now includes you, Frau Mason. So, I won't tell you until I tell the others. I'll explain everything to everyone, when the time is right. Up until then, all you need to do is rest."

I'm a kind of celebrity aboard this ship. The men smile respectfully at me, touching the brims of their Kaiserliche Marine caps. When I step along the narrow gangway, they move – as much as they can – to let me pass. Amid the cramped sleeping arrangements, I have a bunk to myself, with a drape I can draw across for privacy. I try to stay there as much as possible. Time slips by very slowly. Every second, I'm aware of the smell of diesel, the shouts of the crew to each other, the sensation in my chest that I can't quite breathe.

I lie and look at the ceiling of my bunk, five inches from my eyes. Then I look at the pattern on the drape. Then, back at the ceiling. But all the time, I reflect on what Keys said when he was dragged away, about Colin Smith lying. I roll facts and possibilities around in my mind. Who was the other soldier, out there on the battlefield with Edgar? Gadd died in Ypres. So three, not four, British soldiers went out to the front line. But that hasn't made things simpler.

Instead, it's made them more complicated. Because Smith said that he saw Tasker killed when the Germans attacked the trench.

How strange. If Smith was himself at the Canadian trench, as he claimed, then Smith's account of Tasker's death must be false. Because if Smith was at the trench, then it must have been Tasker who was at that very moment with Edgar near our ambulance.

I keep thinking about the crazy logic of the situation, and I keep coming back to the same conclusion. Smith's account of Tasker dying in the Canadian trench could only be true _if Smith himself was not there to see it_ – if it was Smith, not Tasker, who was with Edgar near the ambulance.

That must be what Keys meant, when they dragged him away.

Another odd business, I think, was Tasker's rifle. Tasker, Edgar and Smith went to the Canadian trench armed with Lee Enfield rifles. But according to Smith, Tasker was cursing because he was defenseless against the attackers, because his rifle had jammed. One of the Canadian Ross rifles, prone to jamming.

All this goes round and round in my head, while I look at the ceiling and the drape of my bunk, my little world. For four days, time has a simple pattern. Each endless night – which I know is night, of course, only by the time on my wristwatch – the engines throb and grind. Kirchner tells me that during the night we are travelling, sailing along on the surface of the sea. Then, for the few short hours of December daylight, the engines are shut off. There are electric motors for moving the U-boat underwater, but Kirchner can't afford to run down the batteries. So during the day, the U-33 dives below the waves and simply rests on the shallow North Sea seabed, avoiding any chance of detection.

For the first three days, nothing all at is sighted during the long nights: on the fourth night, I hear that a few small ships are spotted in the moonlight. Kirchner thinks they are British fishing vessels.

Waiting, sleeping, awaken, wait again. I turn the puzzle over in my mind. Tasker, Edgar and Smith – three men. One dead, one probably dead by now, one a prisoner of war –

My thoughts are interrupted by a rustling of my drapes. "Frau Mason, the Kapitan is going to speak to us all."

In the dim light of the command room, there are faces everywhere. More crew peer through the door, looking in from the main sleeping area. Everyone is listening intently.

"Gentlemen – and lady." Kirchner begins with a slight smile. "We have, so far, travelled across the North Sea. Thank you for all your hard work in getting us here." He looks around at the crew, nodding to acknowledge his thanks for their work, before beginning to explain.

"It is now 9.00am, which is not long after dawn in these far northerly latitudes. As you know, today is midwinter's day, the shortest day of the year – and we have the longest night ahead of us. It is no coincidence that we are here at the darkest time of year. We will need every minute of that darkness, in order to accomplish our mission. But until night begins to fall, we are now resting, for the next few hours, on the sea-bed about a mile east of the Orkney Islands, off the northern coast of Scotland.

This remote group of islands has a unique feature. The islands are grouped in a circle around a large, deep central bay, known as Scapa Flow. The layout of the islands is such that there is only one deep water entrance to the bay. That entrance, Hoxa Sound, is heavily defended by the Royal Navy. At all other points, Scapa Flow is protected against U-boats entering its waters, either by the surrounding islands themselves, or by very shallow channels, only a few feet deep, that separate the islands.

Britain considers the Scapa Flow anchorage to be impregnable. For this reason – plus the Orkney Islands' strategic position controlling the entrance to the North Sea – the entire battle fleet of the Royal Navy is based here. Just ten miles from where we sit there are twenty-eight Dreadnought battleships and nine battlecruisers. One million tons of guns and steel armor. The biggest fleet ever seen in the history of the world."

I can hear the audible shock, the intakes of breath, around the command room.

"One of the small channels into Scapa Flow, known as Holm Firth, is slightly deeper than the others – about the depth of a U-boat's hull. Knowing this, the Royal Navy have sunk two old ships in the channel, to block the way and prevent attack. But there is a narrow gap between the two sunken ships."

I see a hand raised. "Sir – won't the Royal Navy have tested the channel, to make sure it's impassable? They have submarines of their own; they could test it."

"A good question, Matrose Fischer. Yes – they have tested it just as you describe, and they think they have made it impossible for a U-boat to get through unseen. Our sister ship U-28 made a reconnaissance mission a few weeks ago, and could not penetrate the channel unless it surfaced – which it dared not do, because the Royal Navy have night watchmen on the land, on both sides of the Holm Firth channel.

This is why the timing of this mission for tonight is so critical, why our scientists have been labouring night and day with so much haste to prepare our new weapon. Tonight is the longest night of the year – but it also has, just after dusk and just before dawn, two high tides. Due to the position of the moon, both those tides will be what are called Spring tides, where the water rises much higher than normal. The gap between the two blockships will be a few feet deeper. Allowing us to enter Scapa Flow underwater, at periscope depth. The periscope is very tiny: the watchmen at Holm Firth are unlikely to see it. We will pass between the two sunken blockships at the beginning of the night, and again just before dawn, when we escape. Between those hours, we will do our work."

Kirchner looks around the room to check that everyone understands. The many pairs of eyes are tired, grimly determined, but eager too. He carries on.

"Once we are inside Scapa Flow, we will anchor next to HMS Rutland, a cruiser anchored in the middle of the long row of Dreadnoughts. Intelligence tells us that the Rutland, an old ship, is currently undergoing a full refit. No sailors are aboard it during the night. Alongside the Rutland's hull, U-33 can surface unseen.

Now, you will have seen how the interior of the U-33 has been rearranged. Uncomfortable for us all. Even me." He cracks a smile. "Our honoured guest Frau Mason has had the only bed of luxury on this voyage.

We carry no torpedoes on this mission. Instead, the lockers that fill the entire front half of U-33 hold explosive devices called limpets. They are so called because, like the shellfish called a limpet, they have a hard round shell that has the power to cling to a flat surface.

We are also carrying two inflatable dinghies. After inflating them, we will load one dinghy – the attack boat – with four limpets and a crew of five. That's as much weight as the dinghy can stand. The dinghy will set off for the farthest battleship in the row, and then, working its way back towards U-33, will attach one limpet to the stern of each Dreadnought. It will then carry on, beyond the U-33, still attaching limpets, to the other end of the row, and finally it will return to the submarine.

The second dinghy will be our delivery boat. It will travel backwards and forwards between the U-33 and the attack boat, each time taking more limpets to the attack boat. That will enable the attack boat to go along the entire row of ships, attaching one limpet to each.

It goes dark at four o'clock this afternoon, and high tide is at five. It will take three hours for us to negotiate our way through Holm Firth, anchor alongside the Rutland and inflate the dinghies. So we hope to start attaching the limpets soon after 1900 hours. We then have ten hours to complete the work of attaching one limpet to each of the thirty-seven warships. Then, at 0530, we will weigh anchor and start our journey back towards Holm Firth. At 0600 the limpets are all synchronised to explode. And at the 0730 high tide, having witnessed the damage we have caused, we will exit through Holm Firth back into the North Sea. Day will start to break around 0830. But by that time, we will be heading directly for home."

I see a raised hand. "Sir, you said that the attack boat will attach these limpet devices to the stern of each ship. But I've sailed on German battleships. Like them, the Royal Navy battleships are constructed with solid steel bulkheads inside them, to prevent water getting to all parts of the ship. Can these devices really sink all those ships?"

"You are correct. We won't actually sink any ships, Obermaat Pfeiffer."

There are surprised faces all around the room. Kirchner goes on. "As Pfeiffer says, the central part of the hulls of the Royal Navy battleships are heavily armoured with thick steel plates – to protect, as it were, their vital organs. But it would make the battleships too heavy and slow if the entire hull were armoured. So the extreme bow and stern are made of much thinner steel – much easier for an explosion to penetrate.

So, if attached at the stern, the limpets will create a large hole in the hull, letting in water quickly. And, each limpet will also damage the propellers and rudder. Every battleship will be full of water at one end. Due to the bulkheads, the ship will not sink – but it will be unable to move.

As soon as we exit Scapa Flow, I will break radio silence and send a coded message to Admiral Scheer to notify him of the success of our attack. The entire Kaiserliche Marine fleet is already mobilised and at sea off Wilhelmshaven, ready to cross the North Sea. They will sail to Orkney within two days. Our fleet's minesweepers and destroyers will enter Scapa Flow first, breaking the defensive boom across the main Hoxa Sound entrance. Then the battleships of the Kaiserliche Marine will sail into Scapa Flow and bombard the Royal Navy ships. Unable to move and half-submerged, the Royal Navy ships will probably be unable to operate even a single one of their battle guns. It will be the single most destructive battle in naval history."

"After that, the German battle fleet will sail down the east coast of Britain, using up any left-over ammunition by bombarding east-coast cities such as Aberdeen and Edinburgh. Those attacks, though, will be just a mild prelude. From then on, without the Royal Navy to contend with, we will bring a reign of terror to every British coastal town." He pauses for emphasis.

"But most importantly of all, the tables will turned in this war. It is Britain who will be blockaded. The ships of the Kaiserliche Marine will be able to sail about freely. We can stop American merchant ships heading for England and seize their cargoes, rather than sinking them as our U-boats have done. So, we will feed Germany and starve Britain – but, we will also avoid the United States entering the war. In a few months, Britain will be begging Germany for peace. It is no secret that the terms of that peace will involve Germany and Austria ruling the whole of mainland Europe."

He pauses for a moment, before making an understatement. "So you see, we have quite an important task tomorrow night. The work will be hard. Most of you will work aboard the U-33, carefully moving the limpets, lifting them up to the deck and loading them onto the delivery dinghy.

The attack dinghy will be crewed by myself, plus Obermaat Pfeiffer and Obermatrose Baumann, who will paddle it. You are the strongest and most experienced sailors aboard the U-33.

Torpedomechaniker Schulz will also be aboard the dinghy. Being an experienced torpedo officer, he has good knowledge of detonating mechanisms. Frau Mason is here on this voyage so she can check the detonators, and show Mechaniker Schulz how to activate the limpet devices."

I see a sullen face in one corner of the cabin; that must be Schulz. Maybe he feels insulted by the idea of being instructed by a woman. But he says nothing, and Kirchner carries on. "At the end of this briefing, we will get one of the limpets out of storage, and Frau Mason will show Mechaniker Schulz exactly what he needs to do.

Herr Becker and Herr Zimmermann will also be on the boat. They are expert divers, and they have rubber suits to protect them from the cold. They will leave the boat and enter the water near each battleship, and attach a limpet to it, just below the waterline. The limpets will cling to the ships by powerful electro-magnets which can be switched on in a moment. Like a limpet shell clings to a rock on the seashore.

Each limpet contains a precision, Swiss clock mechanism to ensure perfect timing. When the clocks reach 0600 tomorrow, they will trigger the detonator mechanism. So, the destruction of the Royal Navy will be a single, synchronised blow of surprise. It will strike Britain and all its allies like the tenth plague of Egypt."

Kirchner looks around at each face. "Now you understand why Admiral Scheer has chosen the codename for this operation. The German Navy has been kept prisoner by the British, just as in the Book of Exodus, the Egyptian Pharaoh would not allow the Israelites to go free. He kept them prisoner – until the tenth plague struck him."

Kirchner gets down a Bible from a shelf and reads to us. "This is the night of the Passover. The Lord will pass through the land of Egypt, and the destroying angel will come into the houses."

Every eye is upon Kirchner. We all know what is coming next. He reads one more line. "Every first born child will die, from the first born child of Pharaoh on his throne, to the first born child of the slave at her work."

It's time for the training session that Kirchner spoke of. Two burly sailors carry one of the limpets out from the storage area. Here, in the command room, is the only place where there's room to put the thing down and look at it. As on the original tracing I saw back in Lille, it's shaped like a trashcan lid, but it's nearly a yard across. On the top of it is a handle, just like a trashcan. Schulz stands beside me: I need to convince him that I know what I'm doing. I grasp the handle and turn in. Just like Seydlitz and Anna told me, a six inch wide circular area of metal around the handle turns with it, unscrewing as I turn. I keep turning until I feel the thread disengage, and then I pull the handle away.

The hole that is revealed contains a small watch face, showing exactly the right time. The rest of the hole is filled with a mass of wires and a small block of wood, with two copper clips on it. Wires lead away from the clips into the interior of the device. I try to remember everything I was told, and look at Schulz.

"Mechaniker Schulz, are you watching carefully?" I look at his face and I detect, again, a sense of annoyance at being instructed by a woman. I call out to one of the sailors. "Have we got one of the circuit breakers?"

Someone hands me a circuit breaker. It's exactly as described to me by Anna: a simple piece of copper wire, only an inch long, contained in a tiny glass tube. It looks like a domestic electrical fuse. Pfeil, the manufacturer's name, is engraved on the glass. I hold it up to Schulz. "Could you try fitting it? I will observe you, to see that you do it correctly."

Schulz takes it from me and clips it into the copper clips. It fits easily and perfectly.

"No!" I glare at him. "You've put it in the wrong way round!"

"It doesn't matter which way. It's just a piece of copper wire."

"Then what's this?" I point at the tiny Pfeil logo on the glass. Fortunately for me, the logo includes an arrow. "The circuit breaker can only be inserted one way. Only then can the current flow, Mechaniker Schulz. If the breaker is not fitted the right way round, then the limpet will not detonate."

He looks sullenly at me. I can see him making up his mind. He's going to challenge me.

"You're wrong, Frau Mason. Any schoolboy can tell you that electricity flows equally either way through a copper wire."

"And you, Mechaniker Schulz, need to stop telling me my business, and concentrate on following my instructions. You're here to do what you're told. Now, please – do what I tell you."

"No, you silly woman! Why should I listen to you?"

I hear a third voice: Kapitan Kirchner. "What on earth is going on here?"

"This stupid woman, that you have needlessly brought on board this ship and told her to nursemaid me, is telling me how to put the circuit breaker into the limpet device."

Keep quiet, Agnes. Let Schulz get himself into trouble. Kapitan Kirchner speaks again. "Mechaniker Schulz, you simply need to follow Frau Mason's instructions. She designed the original detonator, on which Pfeil based this design."

"It's basic electrical circuitry. I know what I'm doing, Kapitan."

"And I know that Frau Mason is here on this voyage to ensure that you can do your job correctly. Do you not understand the importance of what we're doing? It has to be done perfectly. There is no room for error, whatever your own opinions may be, Schulz."

"I'm a torpedo mechanic; I'm experienced with detonation devices. Now, you want my work to be criticised – by a woman."

Kapitan Kirchner is abrupt. "Mechaniker Schulz, simply follow Frau Mason's instructions exactly. Then, repeat the process thirty-seven times, on the British battleships in Scapa Flow. Now do I have your promise that you can do that?"

"I promise." But the sulky glare in Schulz's face betrays insubordination. Now's my chance. I speak firmly but patiently.

"Mechaniker Schulz, would you please remove the circuit breaker, which you put in the wrong way round, and put it back in again? Just so I can see that you know what you're doing." I try to keep any hint of sarcasm out of my voice.

Schulz takes out the circuit breaker. Looking me in the face, he doesn't turn it round. He clips it in again, exactly as it was before.

I keep my voice calm, level and serious. "Mechaniker Schulz, that's wrong again."

"It will work." He shrugs his shoulders as if he's done with me. As if I'm beneath his contempt. But Kirchner has seen the whole thing.

"Mechaniker Schulz, I am relieving you of your duty on this mission."

Schulz's eyeballs stare in blank rage. He's actually too shocked to speak. In the silence, Kirchner carries on. "Frau Mason, please accept my apologies for Schulz's behaviour. I will appoint someone else who will follow your instructions."

"No you won't!" Schulz's cheeks and forehead are bright red; he's now staring into Kirchner's face; his trembling nose is just an inch from Kirchner's. Kirchner meets his eyes, without speaking. Shocked faces stare at the two of them from all corners of the cabin. After a few moments Schulz lowers his eyes, shaking his head with regret. Kirchner looks at him.

"Mechaniker, I'll forget that this incident ever happened. But any further insubordination is a risk to our whole mission. It will end in a court-martial and the inside of the Kaiserliche Marine prison. Now get back to your duties, Schulz. You are relieved of any responsibility for the limpet detonators, and you will not be aboard the attack dinghy. Instead, I place you in charge of the delivery dinghy."

I look at Schulz's shoulders, slumped in defeat as he turns away from us. Then I turn to Kirchner.

"Kapitan – these circuit breakers. It's tricky work, with no room for error. Mechaniker Schulz did his best. Could I make a request, Kapitan?"

"Of course."

"Kapitan, _I_ would like to go out with the attack boat and fit the circuit breakers to activate each mine. That way, I can ensure that they will all work perfectly. I have a high regard for your crew, Kapitan, but this is an expert job. It will have to be done on a small boat, and in darkness. So I will be more confident if I do it myself."

"Frau Mason, I'll be honest with you. When we planned this mission, we knew from the start that we may get the chance to sabotage only some of the ships. Even if we destroyed only five or six battleships, that would still be counted a success, as it would even up the odds between the Royal Navy and the Kaiserliche Marine."

"You mean that you expect the attack boat to be discovered by the British, before it has finished fitting the limpets?"

"There will be several night-watchmen aboard every single battleship. We will do everything we can to avoid the attack dinghy being seen, but there is a very high chance that at some time during the night, it will be spotted. If that happens, then the U-33 may be able to make its escape. But those in the attack boat will undoubtedly die."

I nod at him in understanding.

"I and my crew, Frau Mason – we expect that level of danger. But you..."

"It's vital we do this mission right, Kapitan Kirchner. What if you all risked your lives to attach these limpets, and then none of them exploded? We can't leave this to chance, Kapitan."

34. The destroying angel

The iron ladder looks like it leads up out of the darkness of the U-boat's interior into heaven. Above me is a celestial circle of starry sky. I climb rung by rung, trying to make no noise on the metal. At the top, I find that the hatch rises only an inch or so above calm, black water. Open as it is, the hatch is like a round hole on the surface of the sea. Nothing is visible of the U-33 except this little black hole, and the thin line of the periscope. Deep darkness is all around: there is no moon.

By the light of a tiny shaded flashlight, I climb into a black dinghy, already crowded with five black-clad men; Kapitan Kirchner, the crewmen and the divers. All of us sit on the inflatable tubular hull of the dinghy: the floor between us is occupied by four limpets. Deep in my dress pocket is a small metal box containing the circuit breakers.

I sit idly while the men slide their paddles into the water and begin to move us with strong, silent strokes. They're skilled at this: the water hardly ruffles. We pass beneath the looming stern of the first ship, but we are bound for the far end of the line, the furthest ship. Time passes by in a slow rhythm: the movement of the paddles, the looming blackness of each battleship's hull as it passes overhead, blotting out the stars.

I hear Kirchner's whisper. "We are here. The furthest ship in the line. This is Rear Admiral Hood's flagship, the Dreadnought-battlecruiser HMS Invincible. And now, we will see how invincible she really is." I see his arm against the night sky, pointing at the gigantic shadow rising above us. The black hull, bristling with the outlines of huge guns, stretches away into the waters of Scapa Flow as far as my eyes can see. "The British think Admiral Hood is a hero – a dashing, gallant leader. And this ship – at the battle of Heligoland Bight, she battered our cruiser Ariadne into a floating wreck. Then at the Falkland Islands she sank our cruisers Scharnhorst and Gneisenau. She killed fifteen hundred German sailors in those three ships. But tonight, we will have our revenge."

We approach the waterline of the monster ship. Endless lines of rivets are just about visible in the dim light: I'm close enough to reach out behind me and touch them. But my work is in front of me. I lead forward into the middle of the boat and slowly, carefully, turn the handle on one of the limpets, and unscrew the lid of the detonator hatch. Every eye is on me. My tiny shaded flashlight gives just enough light for me to see the round white face of the Swiss watch, its hands ticking away the seconds, and the wooden block with its copper clips. I take a circuit breaker out of the box, and, lit as well as I can by the flashlight, and in full view of the five men, I snap it into the copper clips. I look at the five heads outlined in the night, and smile. "The first one" I whisper. Then I put out my flashlight. Just before I screw the lid back on, I feel, in the total blackness, for the circuit breaker. Yes, there it is, between my fingers. I pull it free from the clips, drop it harmlessly into the tangle of wiring next to the watch, and screw the lid back on.

The two divers now drop soundlessly into the water, and Pfeiffer and Baumann pass them the limpet. The divers bob in the water, trying to manage the large awkward shape and hold it up to the metal wall of the ship without making a sound. They're strong and dextrous: I don't hear a sound as the limpet is held against the iron plates. Then they flick a switch, and the device's magnets hold it, exactly like a limpet, against the side of the ship just above the waterline.

I smell something odd: I look up and around. To my shock, I see a dim outline and a tiny red flicker against the sky. It's a sailor, leaning on the rail of the ship, maybe thirty feet directly above us. The smell is a cigarette he's smoking. Then, he tosses the butt down into the water. It lands on the side of the boat, a tiny burning ember for a moment, then the glow goes out. The sailor whistles to himself and wraps his greatcoat more closely around him.

"All quiet, Jim?" There's a voice: someone else is coming along the deck of the ship.

"Silent and cold as the bloody grave, mate. I don't know why we keep watch on a night like this. The only danger for any sailor in the Royal Navy tonight is that one part of my body is so damned freezing, it might just turn into an icicle and drop off the boat into Scapa Flow. And I'm not talking about my nose, Jack."

All of us in the dinghy can't help a silent snigger. But the Germans and I are laughing to ourselves at different things. I'm laughing with relief, at the thought that the two men above us will still be alive tomorrow.

We wait for Jack and Jim to finish their chat. They must feel too chill to linger up there; they stroll off along the deck. Then our divers climb back aboard. Their rubber suits seem to have kept out most of the cold: they shiver a little, but smile at us, pleased with their work so far. One of them looks at me and jokes. "One down: thirty-six to go." The paddles push into the water, and we set off again for our next target.

The night goes on. Sitting here, I'm wrapped in a black oilskin blanket, but I still feel frozen to the bone: I can't imagine what it's like for the divers. At each ship we repeat our routine, but from now on I don't bother with my little piece of theatre of clipping in the circuit breaker: I simply unscrew the lid, I lean closely over the hatch so that no-one can see, I drop the breaker into the wiring, and screw the lid back on again. They all trust me to do my job perfectly: why wouldn't they?

At the fourth battleship, the delivery boat arrives, and both crews gingerly manhandle the bulky limpets from boat to boat: an awkward job. If a single limpet is dropped into the water, they know that one British battleship will survive. And the splash might alert the night watchmen on the ships. But our boat gets loaded up without incident, and we set off again towards our fifth target.

The night is one of repeated, hypnotic patterns, at different frequencies. The slowest rhythm is the movement of our dinghy along the line of ships, the passing of each dark Dreadnought overhead, the approach to the iron wall of the ship, my play-acting in front of Kirchner and the crew, pretending to fit the circuit breaker. Faster, but still slow and silent, is the swish-swish of our paddles, the gentle rocking as we slide onwards through the black water. And fastest, like a ticking metronome, is my shivering, and the rattle of my own teeth in the bitter night. I let them chatter, behind closed lips: it seems to make the cold fractionally more bearable. Each time, I sit and wait as the dinghy sidles up to the next battleship in the row, focus my mind, and get ready for my next little piece of silent deception.

It's four a.m. We've made good progress: there are only four ships left to attach limpets to. As the delivery boat approaches us with its final cargo, Kirchner gestures towards them. "These four battleships, they are the most modern and powerful of all: they have just been commissioned. The Emperor of India, the Marlborough, and then the Iron Duke. Finally, the biggest of them all, the Agincourt." As he's speaking, the rubber hull of the delivery boat bumps gently into us. I hear the voice of Torpedomechaniker Schulz whispering from the other boat.

"The final four limpets. A last present for you, Frau Mason."

Kirchner ignores Schulz's jeering tone, and he and Pfeiffer reach out for the first of the four mines. But something in the movement of the boats, the handling of the limpet, goes awry. The device wobbles and shifts, nearly tipping into the water. Kirchner leans across quickly and gets a grip on the unwieldy thing.

"Aaagh!" A quiet sound of pain, through gritted teeth. I put on the flashlight: Kirchner's sleeve is torn, and blood pours from a rip in his forearm. Schulz is silent and unapologetic, while Kirchner moves his arm backwards and forwards as if checking that it still works. Baumann asks "Are you all right, sir?"

"Yes – more or less. But I can't use my arm properly. I don't trust myself steering the attack boat, or handling the limpets anymore. And we can't afford to drop one to the bottom of Scapa Flow." He looks across at Schulz. "I'll go onto the delivery boat, and return to the U-33. Mechaniker, could you take over the command of the attack boat? As you'll recall, you were briefed aboard the U-33 about what the attack boat needs to do. And please remember that Frau Mason is entirely in charge of the circuit breakers."

Kirchner's words are spoken neutrally, but even in the darkness I sense Schulz sneering. Kirchner slowly gets into the delivery boat, his injured arm hanging awkwardly. Then Schulz boards our boat, we transfer the rest of the limpets across, and set off again.

Whatever his faults, Schulz is as expert in handling and steering the dinghy as Kirchner was, and attaching the limpets to the next three battleships goes without incident. Time seems to be flying by now: we are approach the brooding silhouette of HMS Agincourt. Our final target.

It's the largest of all the battleships, and it's anchored slightly apart from the others, so I have a better view of it as we approach. It's as big as any ocean liner, and I count fourteen black lines against the sky: fourteen huge battle cannons. It looks almost too big to be real. Literally, a floating fortress. But again our paddling is quietly efficient, and within moments our little dinghy, like a tiny toy, is nuzzling up against the side of the iron colossus.

All night, I've been controlled, almost calm in my efficient approach to the task. Maybe because this is the last ship, I'm feeling, for the first time, fear. In fact, as the side of the dinghy scrapes against the ship's rivets, I feel panic rising in me, overwhelming me. What will happen, once we return to the U-33? I've succeeded: there will be no explosions at six o'clock. And shortly after that, all eyes in the U-boat will turn to me. I'll make excuses, blame a fault in the manufacture. Will they believe me? Madly, another thought runs through my mind: what if I simply slipped, right now, into the water? It's horribly cold, of course. But I know all about water that kills, that stops the heart beating. This water is not as cold as the iceberg-ridden North Atlantic. Hypothermia would take a few minutes to set it. During those few minutes, could I escape from the dinghy, swim to shore? It's a crazy idea: the battleships are anchored far away from the shoreline. Rationally, I know I'd never make it. But right now, I'm not feeling rational. I'm feeling scared: so scared that I've become numb.

"Frau Mason! No time for daydreaming, you know!"

I jump at the sound of Schulz's voice: I lean over the last limpet and begin to unscrew it. I just need to focus hard for a final few minutes. Once this last limpet is done, I can decide whether to stay in the boat – or jump. But right now, I have to pretend, one last time, to be fitting the circuit breaker. But for some reason, I do things differently. I don't even switch the flashlight on: I simply unscrew the lid of the limpet, fumble about inside it for a few moments, then begin to screw the lid back on.

There's a sudden gleam in front of me: Schulz has switched on a flashlight. It illuminates my fingers, glittering on the copper and glass of the circuit breaker.

"It seems, Frau Mason, that you have forgotten something. You appear to still have the circuit breaker in your hand."

I look at the outline of his face in the darkness. "Sorry, just a little mistake. I'll fit it properly now."

"You're already screwing the lid back onto the limpet. You thought you had finished. Did you deliberately not fit the circuit breaker?" I can tell, in Schulz's voice, what he is thinking. He didn't trust me before – and now, he's realised what I'm doing. This time, his voice is more forceful.

"Frau Mason – if we sailed back down the line of ships, and went back and inspected each limpet that we've fitted tonight, what would we find? Would your 'little mistake' be repeated, on each of the limpet devices?"

"No. It's one single mistake, that's all. I'm tired."

Baumann, Pfeiffer and the two divers are now staring at Schulz. He's caught me out – but they are alarmed by Schulz, and most of all by his voice. Because every time he opens his mouth, his tone rises. He looks round at the other men.

"You see what she's been doing? She's sabotaged our mission!"

Pfeiffer's tone is strong but controlled. "Quiet, Mechaniker. Please. No noise."

"But can't you see what she's doing?" This time, Schulz is practically shouting, and he glares at me with hatred. I'm about to chance myself to the sea – to leap over the side of the dinghy into the water. But then we are all stopped in our tracks, frozen.

A light, bright as the sun, shines down on us. It's coming from the deck of HMS Agincourt. A searchlight.

I see our crew's faces in sharp relief, looking up in horror. One, two seconds pass. Then the first shot is fired.

The bullet cracks through the air: I feel it whip past my ear. Schulz is silent now: we all are, as he and the other men reach for the paddles. Another shot rings out. Miraculously they've not hit the boat yet. I risk a glance upwards: there are only two sailors with rifles on the rail, but others are running towards them. Schulz speaks between his teeth. "Our only hope now is that most sailors are not trained marksmen."

Baumann responds. "Those men aren't. They are just the first watchmen to be alerted. But every ship has rifle marksmen aboard. Worst of all, as well as the twelve-inch battle cannons, Agincourt has some three-inch guns aboard, designed for rapid fire. They're training one of those guns onto us right now."

Even as Baumann speaks, the water erupts in a maelstrom around us. The dinghy shakes like a leaf.

I hear the shock in Schulz's voice. "A near miss."

"That's the three-inch gun, Schulz. But it wasn't trying to hit us. That first shot was just to find their range. The next one will definitely hit us. And the rifles' aim will be better too, now. I suggest we surrender –"

Baumann's words are cut off. The glare of the searchlight shows his chest, a mess of red, as he sinks down to the floor of the dinghy. A rifle bullet has found him. The other men as they continue to paddle frantically. The dinghy slews round, and two more rifle shots ring out.

"Paddle for your lives!" Schulz and Pfeiffer are both shouting, but it's hopeless. We're lit up like a shooting gallery at the fair, and the three-inch gun is now pointing right at us. Lit by the searchlight, I see the trail of Baumann's blood glistening in the water, stretching out towards the Agincourt.

This is the end: I realise that I'm praying.

And – nothing happens. Time is frozen. The paddles swish in the water, the three-inch gun points at us...

Pfeiffer speaks. "We're now near the next British ship, the Iron Duke. We're too near to it for them to fire the three-inch gun. The shell from the gun would go right through us – and hit the hull of the battleship. And we're out of range of the rifles now."

I find my voice. "But the rest of the fleet will be alerted..."

"I never said we were out of the woods yet, Frau Mason. Now – since you've caused Obermatrose Baumann's death, could you at least help me roll his body into the water, and lighten this dinghy? And let's dump this last limpet, too."

I look at Pfeiffer, Schulz and the divers, and I see grim fury in their faces. Even though it was Schulz's voice that betrayed us to the British, he spoke convincingly: the other men now believe I'm a traitor. They continue to paddle furiously, while watching me for any attempt to escape.

Nothing happens as we pass under the sterns of the first few ships: it is taking a little time to wake the Royal Navy. But as we finally come in sight of HMS Rutland again, searchlights burst alight from the battleship opposite. The scene is lit in stark relief: the hull of the old cruiser, streaked with rust, the lapping waters – and the periscope and hatch of U-33.

The gap between the battleship and the cruiser is not wide. Schulz grins. "They won't dare use the three-inch guns here: they'd hit the Rutland."

I speak up. "But the Rutland is refitting. There's no-one aboard it. They might risk damaging it, to stop us."

Indeed, we can see a three-inch gun being readied to fire at us. If the gun fires before we reach the U-33, then we are all dead. But in the meantime, I see five, six sailors on the deck of the battleship, readying their rifles. Then the bullets hit.

It's a hail of fire: the dinghy's rubber hull bursts around us. I see Pfeiffer's arms flailing, then his body explodes in a burst of scarlet. The swirling water around us boils in a frenzy of bullets. I'm dragged down into the foamy sea, clutching aimlessly at the sinking remains of our boat. Then I realise that in fact I'm grasping one of the divers. I'm looking into his face, six inches from his nose. His eyes are like dead stones, looking into mine, and I see that the top of his head is missing.

The water around me explodes again, and ricochets from the hull of the Rutland hammer my ears. We can't survive this. I see more arms lifted against the night sky; they flail and move, and I see another face. It's Schulz, and he's reaching out, pulling me. Meaning to drag me under, to drown me for what I've done? I struggle in his grasp, but he's stronger, his grip cuts into my shoulders. Water fills my mouth and I choke, squirming and writhing as another salvo of gunfire blasts the water all around me. I taste blood in the water; someone else has been hit by the bullets.

35. Cowardice again

"Get her down the ladder!"

Hands are grasping my legs, and I see the rungs of the ladder slipping through my vision. Then a clang as my shoes hit the iron floor of the command room, my knees buckling with the impact. No-one says anything: there is no time. We must dive below the surface. I don't even know if it is Schulz, or one of the divers, who has survived and dragged me down here.

Cold, wet, shaking. I try to focus as I look around. Every man is at his post, intent, effective. I hear Kirchner's voice.

"Five meters!"

"Diving well, sir. Pressure OK."

"Ten meters."

"Battery motors! Full power. Motormechaniker König, I need you to get us out of here. Now."

The voices continue, shouts and commands. Every second that we're still alive tells me: we've got away. We've managed to dive and escape the attack. But the whole Royal Navy will now be alerted. Our chances of getting out of Scapa Flow must be zero.

As I process that thought, I hear an unwelcome voice speaking to Kirchner.

"Kapitan, I need to report back on the mission. We have been sabotaged, sir. Frau Mason – she did not fit the circuit breakers."

I'm still crouched, shivering on the floor. No-one has had time to give me a second's attention. But now Kirchner and Schulz are both staring at me. I summon my voice.

"It was a mistake, Kapitan. Just one mistake, at the last of the battleships. I was tired..."

"No, sir. It was deliberate, Kapitan. She opened the limpet, and pretended to fit the breaker – but she didn't clip it in. I think she did that with every limpet. Are you going to trust this woman, Kapitan? At Heligoland she was with a spy. In league with him, I'd say."

Kirchner looks at my pitiful figure. He's made up his mind.

"You may be correct, Schulz. Or not. Either way, we cannot take any risks. Tie up Frau Mason." Kirchner doesn't even bother to speak to me. "You may be wrong, Schulz – but we cannot afford to take chances."

"Sir – we will know at 0600am. If the limpets do not explode..."

My wrists are tied: the rope goes around a vertical pipe extending from floor to ceiling. I stand still, the crew frantically operating controls around me as time passes in a blur. I twist my hands round, and glance at my wristwatch. It's ten past six. But Kirchner doesn't even glance at me. I hear him speaking to the crew.

"So – it appears that our whole mission has been in vain. But right now, we have only one task to do. To escape from Scapa Flow."

Everyone is busy. Yet each crew member seems to find the time to look at me. Glaring eyes, filled with hatred. But right now, our business is survival. An hour or more passes, to the sound of the humming electric motors.

I hear Kirchner's voice. He's telling the crew about what he can see.

"Ahead of us is the Holm Firth channel. The tide is at its height already. I wish we had been here fifteen minutes earlier."

"Kapitan, will the tide have gone down too much, by the time we reach the blockships?"

"No, we will have enough depth of water – just. But at high tide, the strong tidal currents that flow in and out of Scapa Flow cease – just for a few minutes. Slack water. In that calm, we maneuvered our way between the blockships. Like threading a needle. But for getting out, we've missed slack water. So prepare for a rough ride, gentlemen."

The hum of the electric motors continues, and Kirchner calls out a constant stream of instructions. I hear him shout "Full power, König!" Then he says, in an undertone to Schulz "The electric motors are weaker than the diesel engines. Too weak, I fear. We are getting pulled to one side by the currents."

Moments later we're shaken by an ear-splitting clang: everything shakes. The pipe I'm tied to vibrates like a violin string; the clang turns to a hideous, endless scraping sound. Five minutes pass. I can feel the electric motors throbbing, straining.

Kirchner calls out, explaining what's happened. "We hit one of the blockships sunk in the channel back there. Now the U-33 is dragging on the seabed. We're not moving."

I hear König's voice from the engine room.

"The electric motors can't handle this, sir. They're not strong enough, and there's too much friction on the seabed; the motors can't move us forward. We have to surface, to pull ourselves off the seabed. Then we could fire up the diesel engines, and move faster."

"We're in the Holm Firth channel, König, and it's nearly dawn. We're past the blockships, but there is still land close by on both sides. If we're seen by the watchmen..."

König interrupts his captain, his voice flat and factual. "Sir, I can't get anything more out of the electric motors. If we don't surface, we can't move."

I hear Kirchner giving the order to surface. And it seems we are in luck. I hear "All clear: no enemy in sight."

König shouts in reply. "Thank you, sir. I guess the Royal Navy didn't expect us to escape this way. They will all be searching the main channel at Hoxa Sound."

"I wouldn't be so sure of that, König."

Even here, tied to this piece of metal piping, I can sense the forward movement of the submarine. Incredibly, we seem to have escaped. After ten minutes of rumbling diesel engine noise, I hear the command again "Dive to periscope depth." The diesel engines are again switched off, and the humming of the electric motors starts. We must be out of the channel, into the North Sea.

Kirchner steps away from the periscope, and calls to Schulz. "Man the periscope for me, Mechaniker."

Kirchner steps towards me. His voice is controlled and logical, but his eyes are bleakly empty.

"Frau Mason. You told me you were not in league with that spy in Heligoland. Then you told Schulz that you made a single mistake, with the circuit breaker for the last of the British battleships. Now all the limpets have failed to explode. What is your excuse this time – maybe a fault in Pfeil's manufacturing?" He stares, as if looking right through me. "Each of those three excuses are possible, Frau Mason. But all three together? I'm sorry to say that I can come to only one conclusion."

Schulz's voice rings out from the periscope.

"Kapitan! There's a ship."

"What sort of ship?"

"A Royal Navy destroyer, I think, sir. On course for us."

Kirchner's voice echoes through the submarine like a bell. "Dive! Action stations!" Again, I see everyone dashing to the controls. But I also hear Schulz's voice again as he speaks to Kirchner at the periscope.

"Turn the scope, sir, and look behind us. We're leaking diesel fuel. It's leaving a trail on the surface."

Kirchner speaks, almost under his breath. "We must have damaged a fuel tank, on the blockship in Holm Firth. Or maybe struck a rock when we grazed along the seabed." He's thinking aloud. "Even if we dive... the fuel will betray our location."

"But the destroyer can't attack us, sir. Not if we are fully submerged."

A silence has descended on the command room. We're submerged, and the British destroyer must be in the water just a few yards immediately above us. But there is nothing they can do to us, except wait for our electric motors to give out... which will force us to surface. On the other hand, we can't escape them: a trail of diesel fuel will betray us. Kirchner is deep in thought. Finally, he looks at me.

"What would you do, Frau Mason? Except of course, that is not your real name. But I ask you: what would you do, now?"

"We are trapped."

"Indeed. Escape is almost impossible. Would it be the action of a coward to surface, and display a white flag?"

I look at his face. "You have finished your mission. You did your best – and I did my best to stop you. All you can now do is save yourselves."

"No!" That's Schulz. "Sir, I don't know why you're talking to this woman."

"I'm not talking to her really, Schulz. She's just a sounding-board for my own thoughts." Kirchner speaks again. "Prepare to surface. Gentlemen, thank you, every one of you, for your gallant efforts. We have done everything we can: now we must surrender."

An eruption of sound rips though the cabin; the impact knocks me off my feet, my teeth clattering into the metal pipe. I'm crushed, I realise, by a sailor who's lost his footing and slipped into me. Everything is shaking as if we're inside a giant ringing bell. But worst of all, I see water. Spraying water, shooting out of a crack in the wall and right across the command room. Sea water.

"What the hell was that?"

"A depth charge, Kapitan. We had intelligence that the Royal Navy was developing them. They are an anti-submarine weapon. Like a bomb... dropped into the water."

Kirchner is quick, decisive. "Start the motors again. We must move. We must get away."

I hear Schulz. "Sir, the destroyer on the surface... it will be faster than us."

"Yes – I know we can't outrun them... but it's harder for them to hit a moving target. Let's be the moving target. Our only hope is to avoid being hit, until they run out of depth charges."

"How many depth charges will they carry?"

I can almost see a smile in Kirchner's face as he replies. "I have no idea, Mechaniker Schulz." But he's barely finished speaking when a second blast strikes us, and this time it's worse. The charges, I guess, have exploded near us, but the impact in the water is making shock waves, and they're cracking our hull. Water is now streaming down every surface of the command room. I see barely controlled panic in every face.

"König! Engine report!"

"We have maybe half an hour's power left in the electric motors, sir."

"Then use it. Full power!"

"We can't navigate, sir. We'll be running blind."

"Well at least we'll be running."

Five minutes pass, the only sound the desperately humming motors, using the last of our battery power. We're now all ankle-deep in water. Each moment that passes, I'm hardly daring to hope that we have had the last of the destroyer that lurks on the surface above us.

Another blast knocks me bodily sideways, smashing my face and my chest into the wall. My wrists are cut where the rope has sliced into them, but the pipe itself is ripped out from the wall, and the rope between my wrists has snapped. One by one, the men pick themselves up, staggering and slipping. The water is much deeper, and rising fast. Kirchner's voice rings out. "Surface! And then – abandon ship."

There's a clatter of men from every corner of the submarine: they gather at the foot of the ladder. König has abandoned the engine room; he's on the ladder, shouting. "Someone help me push the hatch up! The pressure of water above is holding it down. We're still three meters down... we must swim for the surface."

Kirchner looks at me. "You have betrayed us all, Frau Mason. I cannot let you escape to your friends the British." His eyes are remorseful, but his voice to Schulz is firm. "Mechaniker Schulz. Your final duty. Shoot this woman dead, before leaving the ship."

Water is pouring down the ladder now, cascading on to the men who are desperately trying to clutch at it. Fingers and hands are everywhere, gripping the rungs, pulling upwards through the torrent. Schulz pulls a revolver from a holster, and I see in his face the realisation that he has no time to think. He has only seconds to kill me, and then save himself.

The barrel pushes into my face. I look at Schulz. The terror in his eyes mirrors mine. But his fingers gripping the gun are firm. He squeezes the trigger.

The ricochet echoes on metal. I'm still alive. Schulz's stricken face stares at me, the gun pointing above my head. He missed me deliberately.

The submarine is filling fast: water swirls around my waist. Kirchner is the last man at the ladder, struggling to climb the rungs with his injured arm, under the cataract of water. But he manages a glance across at us. "Schulz! Follow me – now!"

Is Schulz going to let me live? I look at his face: he has no pity for me. He hates me. And yet... as the water pours down all around us I see a kind of squeamishness, a reluctance to turn my face to a red mess and make an end of me. He drops the gun. Then he pushes my shoulders brutally backward. I fall, tripping on the sill of the door behind me. My back splashes into freezing water. I hear the clang of metal and the scrape of a bolt. Schulz has locked me into a room.

Salt water floods into my mouth and nose; my arms and legs flail, seeking something to stand on, something to hold. But I slip into the brimming, swirling waters. I choke, coughing water, and my face goes under, into blackness. The electricity's failed: all the lights go out.

I reach out underwater, on both sides. Both my hands feel a series of metal doors: the lockers where the limpets were stored. The whole front end of the submarine, I remember, is filled with these lockers.

I'm able to push myself upright in the water. My feet feel the floor: I'm standing again. The water is at my waist. I can see nothing, but I take a step, then another, feeling my way along the corridor lined with the lockers. The water gets no deeper as I move along. And then, in the blackness, I realise. The water level isn't rising any more.

I won't drown. Instead, I'll survive for a long time, maybe hours, while my air supply runs out.

I feel a surge of anger at Schulz, his cowardly unwillingness to shoot me. He has condemned me to a crueller fate; he's buried me alive. I pant breaths of chill air as I wade along the half-flooded corridor, a futile walk to nothing. The water is as cold as death. I step along until the limpet lockers end and the compartment widens. This must be the former torpedo room at the front of the submarine. My hands reach out under the water for the walls, and I touch some kind of metal wheel, then another. Controls for the submarine, I suppose. I guess the U-33 must already have sunk to the sea bed under the weight of water. Like an iron tomb for me. Idly, I wonder who survived that desperate clamber up the ladder under the weight of water, and the breath-held swim to the surface.

Is it my mind, or is the air already becoming like a clammy, choking blanket? I can feel only cold, and every breath is an effort. But my brain is still working. I try to shut out the pain of the suffocation and the heart-stopping cold from my mind.

In the black void, I turn a puzzle over in my mind. The puzzle of Tasker, Edgar and Smith – three men. One dead, one probably dead by now, one a prisoner. And in the darkness, the puzzle suddenly clicks, like a combination lock, tumbling and moving in my mind. Yes, I can see it now. I know who killed Walther Seydlitz, and why.

I have hardly any energy left, but I shake my head in wonder at the simplicity of it.

And the death of Dr Bernard also now makes perfect sense – as does the strange atmosphere I felt, when I was in her consulting-room in Geneva. Yes, I understand it all. Even the one detail of her death which, I now realise, was out of place. The little point which has been nagging at the corner of my mind for months, like a small child tugging at my sleeve.

It seems so futile, solving the puzzle. The air I breathe is now a suffocating ether. Every breath racks me. If this is death, I want it now. I want this drawn-out strangling asphyxiation to end. The deaths I've seen, so many deaths, run through my mind. The blood, the torn bodies. And worse, the grief of those who loved them. I see that soldier at Loos again, as I held the locket with Mary's picture in front of his eyes. I just want this to end, now.

I find my hands reaching for one of the iron wheels that I felt under the water. If I am, as I think, in the torpedo room, then this wheel may operate the hatches of the torpedo tubes. If I turn it, it will open the tubes, and the sea will come in. And then I'll be gone. Snuffed out. Using the last of my strength, I turn the wheel.

I must have slept, or time must have passed in some other way here in the darkness. I'm still breathing, a little more easily. Maybe I'm numb to the pain. I guess the torpedo tubes didn't open, I think, as I peer into the blackness. Perhaps the lack of air is making me hallucinate. Because I can see light.

It's dim, but there's light in front of me. This is no dream. The water is still there, still waist-deep, and there is darkness in every direction, except for a small area of the water, which I can see. How am I able to see anything?

Instinctively, I reach forward. And I can feel the cold curved hatch of a torpedo tube. I wade a step further in the water, stoop and look.

I see a circle of white light. And my lungs fill with fresh air.

The next moment, I'm dragging my exhausted body into the torpedo tube. It's exactly the width of my hips, and I have no leverage , none at all. Like a worm, I try to anchor my hips against the walls of the tube while I extend my spine, flattening myself out as far as I can. Then I jam my shoulders as hard as I can against the tube walls, and drag my hips forwards. I've moved perhaps an inch. I do it again. And again.

There's more light now. I hear the cry of a seagull. The noise wakes something in my brain, and I shout out. No coherent words, just a cry. A voice, high and light, comes back, as if in answer.

"What is it, Elsie?"

"It's a sea monster, Willie. You keep back. I'll go and look at it."

"Elsie, I'm scared. It's making a noise."

"Good boy, Willie. You be a brave boy now." Then I hear the young girl's voice again.

"Hello, Sea Monster!"

" _Help!_ "

I can hear Willie's voice.

"Elsie, it doesn't sound like a sea monster. It sounds like Mummy."

"It's a big sea beast, Willie. I think it's made of metal. It must have come up here while the tide was in. Now the tide's gone out, it's stuck here. It can't move at all. I don't think it can hurt us, Willie."

I call again, and I realise that I can reach my hand out to the end of the torpedo tube, grasp the edge of the U-boat's hull with my fingers, and with a final effort, pull myself forward. Suddenly, I'm looking out onto a beach, where two children stand, hand in hand, peering at my face in astonishment.

"You're right, Willie. It's not a sea monster. It's a big metal boat. With a mermaid inside it."

36. The firing squad

The ward is quiet, and evening sunlight slants in. It's late June 1916, and it's been a warm day. The heat agitates some of the patients. Mid-afternoon, one of them was slowly making his way back to his bed when a cleaner dropped her dustpan, the metal clanging on the floor. The man collapsed as though his knees had been cut away: his eyes rolled horribly as he lay on the floor, shaking in an agony of terror. I'm back at the British Red Cross Hospital at Le Touquet. In 1915 we had scores of patients suffering from mental problems. Now, we have hundreds.

And yet something in the angles of the light, the evening air, tells me of that other time I was here, seemingly a lifetime ago. So I'm somehow not surprised when a door opens and a familiar figure appears. A face I last saw on a cold, bleak day in Berlin, half a year ago.

"Professor Axelson! You made it out of Germany!"

"Indeed. Sadly, the Kaiser's faith in my methods borders on superstition. But at least his support protected me from the accusations of spying and sabotage that whirled around Berlin after the failure of U-33's Scapa Flow raid. Indeed, I think that the news of the failed attack killed something in Kaiser Wilhelm."

"When we met him – he seemed..."

"Brittle? His troubled personality became much more obviously fragile after he heard about the sinking of the U-33. By the way, Miss Agnes – what happened to the crew?"

"I heard that they all survived, except those who died in the attack dinghy. They were rescued from the sea by a Royal Navy destroyer, and of course they're now in prisoner of war camps."

"They were lucky, then: few U-boat crews survive a sinking. But I will finish my story about the Kaiser. He – and Ludendorff and Hindenburg, who are the ones truly in control – know that the failed operation at Scapa Flow means that there can be no breaking of the British sea blockade. The battle of Jutland last month was the final proof. Rather than facing the whole force of Britain's battleships, the German fleet slipped away by night from the battle. They knew that if they had stayed and fought, they would have been annihilated. Morale in the Kaiserliche Marine is very low. There are rumours of a full-scale mutiny. Even the Kaiser has been forced to accept that his fleet can never try to tackle the Royal Navy again."

"What does all that mean for the war?"

"It means that, with the British sea blockade intact, Germany will slowly starve. Their only option is to try to blockade Britain in return, using U-boats to sink ships approaching British shores, as they did with the Lusitania. Such attacks will inevitably bring the United States into the war. So either way, German defeat is simply a matter of time – although I fear that it may be a long time."

"And how did you get out of Germany?"

"The Kaiser juggles a variety of emotions: his mood changes hourly. After several sessions, he realised that my Hypnotic-Forensic Method wasn't curing him of his sense of inferiority and failure, which forms the constant background to all his mood changes. He told me that hypnosis was futile, and sent me away. Never have I been more relieved to board a train than the one which took me away from Berlin."

"So you came back to Le Touquet..."

"Indeed. I am here on a rather urgent mission. Early tomorrow morning, I need you to come with me."

"Where to?"

"Strictly speaking, I don't know. But you and I have been there before. We are to drive to a location near Amiens, where a car will pick us up. For secrecy, that car has drapes fitted all around the passenger seats. It will take us, of course, to Château Niobe."

I don't have happy memories of Château Niobe, but as we step from the shuttered car, I am struck by its beauty: a fairytale rococo palace. But the green lawns that surrounded it before are now covered with military huts. The work they do here must have mushroomed. A group of soldiers sit in front of the first hut, smoking; they all stare at me. I hear a low whistle, and a voice saying "Nice piece of –"

The voice is sharply interrupted. The professor has been on edge all the journey: now, he loses his temper. "Haven't you men anything to do?"

"Don't poke your nose. We're busy here. Don't you know there's a war on?" There are splutters of laughter.

"Leave them, Professor." I pull at his arm. He can't help a sharp glance back at them. One of them shouts after us.

"See, we're on vital war duties here. Tomorrow we're getting paid extra. To carry out a special duty. Shooting one of these bloody cowards who ran away. We're looking forward to earning our bonus."

The professor looks at me as we step past hut after hut. "Miss Agnes. Private Edgar will be shot at dawn tomorrow, unless his appeal is successful. Since he has no new grounds for appeal, and has still not been able to speak for himself, his execution seems very likely. But I thought that you and I might try, one last time."

"Of course."

"You see, we might be able to find that new evidence. I believe, after you were taken ashore in Scotland, you wrote a letter?"

"Yes. I wrote a letter, to the one person in the British Army that I could trust."

"Well, we will see whether you and I, and your letter, can avert one senseless death among millions of senseless deaths."

We walk up marble steps into the château, and speak to a clerk. He directs us down a corridor lined with paintings to "The Library". On three walls, shelves are stacked with leather-bound volumes. But on the other side, French windows open wide onto the gardens, and the scents of summer waft in. It's another warm day: the breeze is welcome. I hear a bee buzzing among the flowers. But the room itself is deserted.

"Where is everyone?"

"The hearing starts in a few moments, Miss Agnes. General Charteris is presiding."

"I thought he heard Edgar's case the first time?"

"No, he delegated it. To Colonel Hampshire. So, under military court rules, it is legitimate procedure for the general to hear the appeal." He adds in an undertone "I wish it was anyone but Charteris."

The door opens. Speak of the devil, I think. General Charteris appears, greeting us with formal politeness, but his tone is gruff and unwelcoming. He's accompanied by a clerk in civilian clothes, carrying a bundle of papers tied with a ribbon. Charteris directs us to sit at the back of the room, while he takes his seat at a desk. An antique globe and some old parchment maps from the room's days as a library are on the corner of the desk; no-one has thought to move them. A manservant comes in carrying a cut-glass carafe, and asks the General if he would like some port. Charteris refuses, shaking his head like a hanging judge.

There's a noise at the door. "Come in" bellows Charteris. The door opens. It's Major Jardine.

"Ah, Jardine. How are you?"

The major moves slowly, in great pain, using walking-sticks. One leg, I see, ends in a folded trouser hem. But his breathing isn't good either. The professor whispers to me. "One lung collapsed. It wasn't treated properly, so the tissues died."

Jardine looks at the general, and answers his question. "I'm fine, sir. Thank you."

"It looks like you've taken a bit of a hit, Jardine. But all in a good cause. Mustn't grumble, eh?"

We wait. I hear the ticking of a gilded clock, and the wheezy whine of Jardine's breaths.

"Permission to enter, Sir!" I shake at the deafening shout. A soldier stamps into the room. Linked in his arm is a man in handcuffs; a second soldier holds the prisoner's other arm.

Edgar's fine features have changed. His cheekbones now accentuate the sockets of his eyes, like dark holes. His gaunt, gangling frame seems barely able to support itself.

Charteris speaks sharply. "Prisoner! This is your appeal against the sentence of death passed on you in June 1915. Tell me: what new evidence do you have?"

Edgar looks around the room, with eyes like a startled hare. I speak to the professor in an undertone. "Does Edgar not have a lawyer to speak for him?"

"No. A lieutenant in the Northumberland Fusiliers, who before the war had trained as a lawyer, offered his services. But he was seriously wounded a few days ago. General Charteris refused to postpone the hearing."

The clock ticks on. Edgar doesn't speak; nothing has changed. He's still dumb, and unable to defend himself.

The general looks questioningly at the two soldiers holding Edgar. "As at his original trial, is the defendant refusing to testify?"

"He's not spoken to us, sir."

"Well this really is a waste of my time, isn't it?" Charteris looks at the clerk. "Can you find that letter, and read it out to me?"

The clerk rustles through the bundle of papers, pulls out a letter, and reads.

"9 May 1915

Dear General Charteris

I write to you in respect of Private John Edgar of the Northumberland Fusiliers, who will shortly be Court Martialled. I am asking that, should a sentence of death be passed on him, the sentence be commuted to imprisonment, on grounds of him suffering from mental disturbance.

I ask that he be kept in custody. This is partly for his own welfare, as he appears incapable of caring

for himself. It is also partly because the British Intelligence Service may wish to interview him further.

Yours sincerely

Clarence, Lord Buttermere

Room 40, Admiralty Buildings, Greenwich."

The general snorts dismissively. "I wasn't willing to agree to a commuted sentence. Colonel Hampshire, who heard the case first, agreed with me. After all, other soldiers are facing the firing squad for lesser offences than Edgar. But in view of the letter from Lord Buttermere, I directed that Edgar be kept in military custody. I said that the sentence should stand, but that an appeal should be allowed, in case fresh evidence turned up. Since then, we have been waiting for such fresh evidence.

But the time for waiting is over. I understand that the Seydlitz affair, which might have yielded such new evidence, has now concluded. So, there are no grounds for allowing this appeal. The original sentence of death should stand."

The clerk shows the general more papers. I can see him pointing out paragraphs and clauses, quoting phrases in the documents. I hear him whisper "Procedure, sir. The rules of natural justice." Charteris shakes his head crossly, but he seems slightly unsure of the protocol, of how to proceed with the hearing.

Suddenly, Professor Axelson stands, and interrupts their deliberations.

"General. Are there plans to call any witnesses?"

"Witnesses are called to testify to evidence, Axelson. In this case, there is no new evidence, so..."

"Did Major Jardine testify at Edgar's original trial?"

The general stares at the professor as if looking at an impertinent child. Then, reluctantly, he starts leafing through the documents to check if Jardine testified. But I hear Jardine coughing, and then he speaks, as loudly as he can.

"General Charteris. The answer to that question is No. I did not testify."

Professor Axelson looks from the general to Jardine, and back again. He holds the general's eye. "I will make a suggestion, General Charteris. You know that Lieutenant Vickers, who would have represented Edgar, is too ill to attend today. So I propose that I take on the role of Edgar's advocate and spokesman. I have studied, very carefully, the rules governing advocates at military courts-martial. There appears to be nothing in the rules to prevent me, a non-combatant and Swedish national, taking on the advocacy role."

Charteris's face is thunder. But again the clerk whispers to him. Then the general gets up and goes out of the room with the clerk. After a few minutes they return. Charteris can't conceal the petulance in his voice. "You may proceed as Private Edgar's advocate, Professor. Have you any questions to put to Major Jardine, the witness you referred to?"

"I do indeed, General." The professor takes some notes out of his pocket. As he does, he whispers to me. "Of course, Jardine's testimony is only one part of the story. Our star witness is yet to arrive. The witness referred to in your letter from Scotland, Miss Agnes. I can only spin out my questioning of Jardine for an hour or so. Edgar's life depends on your witness arriving, within the next hour." He smiles thinly at me. "But I will try to buy us a few more minutes, right now. Courtroom tactics..."

It's half an hour later. Professor Axelson suggested that a brief adjournment would be in order, and the general agreed. However no-one was allowed to speak during the break: we remained in our seats while glasses of water were brought to us. I see that Charteris now has a tumbler of port on the table in front of him.

The professor stands up; Jardine moves to stand too. But the professor gestures to him to sit.

"In view of the witness's significant injuries – incurred in the defense of his country – may I have your permission, General, to conduct the examination-in-chief with the witness seated?"

"You have my permission, Axelson."

There's a hush around the room. The professor's first question is an unusual one for an advocate.

"Do you feel relaxed, Major?"

Jardine shakes his head, and Axelson goes on, soothingly. "Major, please take your time: concentrate on your breathing, and listen to it. That's all that matters, now. You hear the little golden clock in this room: it ticks, once a second. Time your breaths to that clock: three ticks in, three ticks out. Three seconds in, three seconds out."

I hear the clock ticking, the bee buzzing, Jardine's laboured breathing.

"Nothing and no-one else is here with you, Major. Not me, or Miss Agnes, or John Edgar, or even General Charteris. There is just you and the clock. It is a metronome for your breaths."

The quiet ticking goes on. Out in the garden, I hear doves cooing. Jardine's breathing is now deep and slow.

"While you breathe, Major, please answer one question. You see, I don't want to address you as Major. Are you happy for me to speak your real name, the name you had as a boy? Are you happy for me to simply call you Christopher?"

"Yes."

"Now, Christopher. As you breathe, think of all the words there are in the English language – thousands, tens of thousands."

Jardine nods, silently. I notice that the tension in his face is less, the lines around his eyes less drawn. The professor carries on.

"This multitude of words – they form a big cloud, a mass of tiny specks. Each speck is a word. Put your arm into the cloud, reach into the foggy mass. Pull out one English word. You don't know what the word is. You simply take hold of one word at random."

General Charteris snorts and rolls his eyes. He's about to speak – but a glance from Axelson silences him. The professor's voice goes on, slowly and steadily.

"Christopher. The unknown word you have plucked from the cloud expresses how you feel. How you feel about your duties, your military life – the constant, unquestioning following of orders. How you feel about passing those orders on to the ordinary soldiers below you, knowing that their lives depend on your commands. The typical life of an Army officer. The unknown word sums up all your feelings. You hold that unknown word in your hand, in a clenched fist. Open your fist, spread your palm, and read the word out to me. What is it?"

There's a pause, and then Jardine says a single word.

"Hell."

Axelson repeats. "'Hell.' You feel that you are in Hell. You hate your duties, your rank, your work, your superior officers. Don't you, Christopher? Most of all, you hate this war, for reducing you to an unfeeling machine. Because your only purpose in life, now, is to follow orders and meet the demands of your superior officers. Even when those orders mean sending men to almost certain death."

The breathing goes on. Jardine's eyes are now open, focused intently on the professor, who asks a question.

"But what do you do, Christopher, when those demands conflict? When you can satisfy one military order only by disobeying another?"

Jardine doesn't answer: he looks blankly into the distance. The professor's voice continues, evenly, calmly. "Now, Christopher. Tell me about a time when the demands of your duties conflicted. A time when you faced an impossible dilemma. Tell me about the time when Colonel Hampshire told you to oversee the operation to capture Walther Seydlitz."

"I can see Hampshire's face. He's telling me what I must do. The German bombardment of Ypres, the evacuation of the civilians, running the Main Dressing Station... I've been doing it all, alone. Now Hampshire wants me to take on one more thing... it's too much for me to bear. It's the straw that will break the camel's back. My back will break, my spine will split."

"How do you try to fulfil Hampshire's orders?"

"Hampshire says that two impartial foreign neutrals will be used as medics, and will take Seydlitz to safety. Frocester is already at Ypres, and Dr Bernard has just arrived."

"It sounds like that part of the plan is in place, Christopher."

"But – there must also be four soldiers. Their job is to find Seydlitz on the battlefield. Hampshire told me to select them. But I already have a hundred things to do, here in Ypres. I trust Ted Tasker – I trust his judgment. I tell him about the mission, and I ask him to choose three men that he trusts to work with him."

"What happens then?"

"Tasker, he never gets back to me with the other men's names. All I get is a brief message from him, from Essex Farm Camp, to say that he's got four men together for the operation. He says they will come into Ypres before heading out on the mission."

"How do you feel about that?"

"Stressed... very stressed. If anything goes wrong, and it comes out that I didn't hand-pick the team..."

"Your worry is understandable. If anything goes wrong, you will need to find a way to shift the blame away from yourself."

"Yes."

"So... you are feeling under extreme stress. You can't stop worrying about it... and about all your other duties. The Germans continue to bombard Ypres, and then more casualties are brought in, poisoned by the gas attack. Time moves on: it's now late in the evening of 23rd April. What is happening now?"

"Everything is set to go for the Seydlitz mission. Bernard and Frocester have been working all day with the gas casualties, but now they are taking a nap. After what they've been doing, they need a rest before getting up in the middle of the night. I'm about to have a nap myself, for an hour or so. I look out of my office door... I see Nurse Carstairs. She's heading towards the morgue. She calls out to me.

'Major Jardine! The other staff are resting; I'm the only one on duty. But I need to leave the treatment room and go out, just for five minutes, to put a corpse into the morgue, sir. It was brought in yesterday, but there was no time, with all these poison gas casualties...'

'Where is it now, Carstairs?'

'The stretcher's on the ground. Out in the back yard, sir. I didn't want to leave it out there for another night.'

'Carstairs – I'll help you. You can't move the stretcher by yourself – you'd have to drag it by one end. I'll come along and take the other end; it should only take a minute.'

Carstairs and I go out to the yard at the back of the Dressing Station. It's late twilight, but I can see the corpse lying there. The man looks like an oversized baby. There's a cherry orchard behind the building, and a scatter of cherry blossom has fallen onto his uniform, like pink snow.

'How was he brought in, Carstairs?'

'Like I say, sir, it happened yesterday. It was very odd indeed. He was killed by a shell exploding in Ypres. Well there's nothing unusual in that, but he was brought in by his three comrades. They said they were in a great hurry, they had to get out to the Canadian sector of the Western Front, at Kitcheners' Wood. Whatever they were doing, it was very important.'

'Did the men give a name?'

'This man's called Reginald Gadd. But the one in charge of the four, he said his name was Ted Tasker.'"

Seconds pass with the ticking of the clock. It's now mid-afternoon, and the room is at its warmest. I hear the buzzing again: the bee blunders through the French windows. Jardine's open eyes are like stones: his face is white as a sheet. The professor says softly "Tell me how you feel now, Christopher."

After a few moments, Jardine replies. His voice is broken and shaking. "I feel scared. So scared that I feel my heart might stop. One of Tasker's four men is dead. Already, the Seydlitz operation is going badly wrong... and I'll be blamed. What can I do?"

"Indeed. What can you do, Christopher?" The professor puts a slight warmth of emphasis to his words. "What _do_ you do?"

"I... I think about my options. I don't know where to turn... I'm all alone. There's no-one I can confide in. I decide – to go out there, to Kitcheners' Wood. To be the fourth man."

"And abandon your duties in Ypres? In military language, to desert your post?"

"Yes. The Seydlitz operation... it has to succeed. It's all on my shoulders. I have to make it work. If I'm lucky, I can return to Ypres after a few hours, and all the medical staff will be busy, as usual. So busy that they won't notice I've been gone."

"So you go out to the front line."

"Yes. I walk alone, through the fields in the night, towards St Julien. It's not long before dawn on April 24th, and I'm getting close to the Canadian trenches."

"But, you don't go down into the trenches, do you?"

"No. Instead, I see an ambulance driving along, leaving the front line, heading for Ypres. It's hitting every shell crater in the road, shaking and rattling like it's going to fall apart. But I think: thank God, hopefully Dr Bernard and Frocester have got Seydlitz in there. Maybe the job is done already.

Then I see Ted Tasker and another British soldier, a private, standing by the supply trench. So I go over and ask them what has happened. Tasker tells me that it's gone well so far. They found Seylitz and looked after him for a day, awaiting the medical people. Then they handed him over to Bernard and Frocester. He says he is worried about Dr Bernard driving back to Ypres. Then the three of us turn and look behind us. We can still see the ambulance going along, bouncing up and down as it hits the craters."

"What do you decide to do?"

"I tell Tasker to go back to the Canadians. I say to Edgar 'Come with me. You and I will watch the ambulance and see that it gets safely to Ypres. If it gets totally stuck, we can go and help them push it. Or if anyone shoots at it, we can defend it.'

We can see the ambulance. It's struggling to move, and then it halts. The fields are very flat, and the hedges are all gone. So we can see a long way. The ambulance looks like a little white square in the early light, and we watch it as we walk along the lane towards it. In five minutes or so, we'll catch it up.

The ambulance starts moving again. But now, instead of heading into Ypres, it turns, and sets off again in the wrong direction. So..."

"So you and Edgar set off across the fields towards it."

"Yes. And Edgar says he can smell something strange. Our front lines are over to the east, a few hundred yards away. I look that way, towards the rising sun. I see something happening. It's like nothing I've seen before in my life. A green cloud is rolling through our front lines. Men are screaming... they're running for their lives."

"What did you do?"

"I... need to run. I've seen those gassed men brought into the Main Dressing Station... to die, like that. Horrible beyond words. I want to run, to get away from that gas. But Edgar says 'Don't we need to watch the ambulance, sir? To make sure they're safe in there?'

We crouch down, rifles out, as if facing an enemy. Just habit, I suppose. We watch the ambulance... It's stuck, again. It must be in another crater. Every second, I'm so scared that the gas-cloud will roll towards us."

"Why don't you just run, Christopher?"

"Private Edgar. He tells me to keep calm, he will keep a look-out, he will warn me if any of the green clouds move towards us. All this time, the ambulance is still stationary. The two women – Bernard and Frocester – they are getting in and out of it. So is a fair-haired man; he must be Seydlitz. Then Frocester gets into the driving seat. Dr Bernard is standing outside, fiddling about. And after a few minutes, the ambulance starts moving – in reverse. It reverses all the way into the distance. It's going away – to safety."

"Christopher, can you still hear the clock ticking? The little golden clock in this room, counting your breaths?"

"Yes..."

"Look at the ambulance. Look at it driving away. With each tick of the clock, you see the picture more clearly. Another tick, and another, and every single detail is coming into sharp, perfect focus. You are there on the field of battle, watching the ambulance. You see every tiny detail of the scene. Now tell us – what can you see?"

"I think... the windscreen is shattered. As if it's been shot. The ambulance is still struggling, in reverse, over the craters... a stick falls out of it, onto the ground. I don't think the ambulance is going to make it. The green clouds are near it, now. But then it starts reversing again... out of our sight, back towards Ypres. But now, there are wisps of green near us, too. Edgar gets up, he looks around, and explains to me.

'There's gas about, sir, but it's in pockets here and there. Mostly it's dispersed, and there are clear patches between the pockets. We need to move, sir. There are German soldiers in masks, advancing towards us.'

So I say to him: let's run. Our soldiers, too – the ones who can escape – are running towards us. We run with the retreating soldiers, through the fields. Back to Ypres."

"You get back to Ypres. What do you say to Edgar? Do you thank him?"

"I say 'Don't breathe a word of this. I was never out there, you understand? Edgar, you must tell whatever lies are necessary – but never, ever tell anyone that I was out there with you.'"

"How does Edgar respond to those orders?"

"He salutes, he says 'Very well, sir.' But he appears – broken. As if the strain of the past hours has snapped something in him. And now I've asked him to lie about what happened... but I can't help that, can I? I leave him. I go back to the Ypres Dressing Station. And it's just as I expected. No-one's even noticed that I've been gone."

The bee is buzzing around General Charteris. He brushes crossly at it with his hand, and it flies gaily out of the window. Having told his story, Jardine is quiet, breathing gently. His face is more relaxed than I've ever seen it. I hear a soft sound behind me, as if someone is very gently pushing the door open. Someone is joining us in the room.

I hear Professor Axelson's voice again.

"Thank you – you have told us everything you can, Christopher. Well done. I have only one last question." He looks at Jardine, whose eyes are still open wide, like a child's.

"Christopher, you saw Miss Frocester in the driving seat. How could you tell it was Miss Frocester, not Dr Bernard, driving?"

"It was definitely her. Her hair..."

"You could tell it was her, because..."

"...Dark hair. It couldn't be Dr Bernard – her hair, her face – all white. Like a ghost." Jardine is staring at the opening door now. He repeats the phrase.

"Like a ghost." His face is changed: he sits stunned, open-mouthed. His eyes are filled with an almost supernatural fear.

Everyone turns to see what he's looking at. The door opens a little more. And two figures step into the room. One is the familiar khaki uniform of a British Army colonel; a young man with a dashing air, but his face now looks older, more worn with care, than it did long ago in the April moonlight. The other figure is dressed in black. She wears a smile in a pale face that we recognise, unmistakeably, as Dr Bernard.

The woman looks General Charteris coolly in the eye, and her smile broadens further. But it's Colonel Hampshire who speaks.

"General. You will recall that last September, a woman's body was found in a coal bunker at Remy Sidings near Poperinge. Documents on that body led us to believe it was that of Dr Bernard, a Swiss doctor working with the Red Cross. Professor Axelson and Volunteer Frocester believed that Dr Bernard knew her killer, and that she attempted to write their name in the soot on the bunker wall, before she died."

The woman speaks. "I am standing here, alive and well. The woman in the bunker – obviously, it was not me."

The General looks around the room. He appears to be angry with all of us. But it's Axelson that he snaps at. "Professor Axelson. This interruption – this must be your work. It's completely irrelevant to this appeal, which is in respect of the desertion and cowardice of Private Edgar."

Both the professor and Colonel Hampshire start to speak at once. But the professor pauses, and lets Hampshire talk.

"General, if I may finish explaining?... You see, a few months ago, I received a letter from Volunteer Auxiliary Frocester. She said that I was the only person in the British Army that she trusted. She said that, while she was aboard the U-33 submarine, an explanation for all the events of the Seydlitz affair had occurred to her. Her letter asked me to look into the matter. Which I have done. It led me to finding the lady who now stands before us all. It is this lady who will tell us the information that, I hope, will lead to the right outcome from this trial."

All eyes are upon the woman, but she says nothing. She just smiles to herself, that strange smile.

I can't wait any longer for her to explain. I stand up, clattering my chair, and the general glares at me. But I don't even bother to catch his eye. Instead, I look down at Major Jardine. He is out of his trance, but I see something in his eyes; as if he was somehow awake during his hypnosis, as if he remembers everything that he said. He stares at the black-clad, white-haired apparition. But I speak, and gain his attention.

"You saw it too, Major Jardine. You went down into the coal bunker at Remy Sidings, and you saw the writing. There were letters carved in the soot on the wall of the bunker. The professor and I assumed that the woman whose body we found in the bunker tried to carve the name of her killer. C...H."

"Yes. I saw those two letters, written on the wall."

"C... H. They could, for example, be the initials of Colonel Hampshire. Or the first two letters of your own name Christopher. Or they could even be the first two letters of the surname Charteris."

The general stares at me as if I've gone mad. But I carry on. "But of course, it's none of those. The C...H written in soot is not Christopher, or Charteris, or Colonel Hampshire, or any person we know. The professor and I made a mistake: we assumed that the woman in the bunker knew her killer, and tried to write the killer's name. But what if she didn't know their name? What initials would she carve then?"

Jardine blinks at me, and guesses an answer. "Where she saw her killer, maybe?"

"Exactly, Major. Ch is the first two letters of Château Niobe. Dr Bernard was trying to tell us that she saw her killer _here_. But after writing those two letters, she could write no more. She had been stabbed through the heart; she pulled the skewer out and threw it aside, but she lived only a few seconds longer. If she had been able to, she would have written in full 'Château Niobe'. The place where, according to you, Major Jardine, a female note-taker went missing, a few days before the battle of Ypres." I look into the eyes of the smiling black-clad figure standing among us. I ask her a question.

"You were that note–taker, weren't you?"

The woman nods.

"What did you call yourself when you worked here?"

Finally, the woman speaks. She replies to me in a perfect English accent. "Jemima Fanshawe."

I look at Colonel Hampshire. In turn, he looks around the room, and explains to us all.

"Early in the war there was a need for secretarial staff here at Niobe. Most recruits were English women of a good background. Jemima Fanshawe was born in 1875. She was the daughter of Major-General Fanshawe of Lucknow, India. She was sent back to England for an excellent education at Cheltenham Ladies' College. And in 1894, Jemima eloped to America with an apprentice carpenter. I made enquiries, and found that she is now Mrs Jemima Reynolds of Cincinnati, Ohio. The real Jemima Fanshawe had disappeared without trace – but her birth certificate and education records remained in England. It would have been easy to impersonate her."

I take up Colonel Hampshire's story. "Using the identity of someone who has vanished... that was an idea suggested to me in Heligoland, by Mr Keys. Now, what if the Germans had the same idea... and used it to get a spy into a highly-trusted position?" I look the woman in the eye. "Thank you for your confession. So – you're a German agent, a mole. You used your position here at Château Niobe to learn Allied secrets, including the plan to bring Walther Seydlitz over to our side."

The woman nods, and I carry on.

"And then you left your position here – because you found out that a Swiss doctor was being dispatched to the front, and that she would be involved in the Seydlitz mission. A mission which had to be stopped, at any cost.

You also had your first sight of the Swiss doctor here at Château Niobe. She had come here to be interviewed by Lord Buttermere. The appearance of Dr Bernard here at Niobe was an opportunity for you – an opportunity you seized with both hands. Using your military pass, you followed Dr Bernard on the train to Remy Sidings. You and Dr Bernard both went to Remy, and only you came away from there.

You took Dr Bernard's military pass from her body, although you forgot to take her other papers. Months later, when her body was found, it was decayed and unrecognizable. Those papers were what was used to establish her identity. But her military pass – well, back in early 1915, as we all know, military passes did not carry a photograph of the bearer. So you could now carry out your second impersonation. In the eyes of all of us at Ypres, you were Dr Bernard. This impersonation was easier than the first one, because this time you could use your own voice. In fact, your German accent was a positive advantage. It added to our impression of you as Dr Bernard, Swiss physician.

You came to the Ypres Main Dressing Station, and we were immediately overwhelmed with gas casualties. That was unexpected for you. But as a German intelligence agent, you will have been aware that the German military were thinking of using poison gas, and that if they did so, the gas of choice would be chlorine. Basic knowledge of chemistry would tell you that bicarbonate of soda is a neutraliser for hydrochloric acid. When the gas casualties were brought in, you were very quick-thinking – and you did a fine job of treating them. Whatever your allegiance in this war, those men owe you their lives.

In the early hours of April 24th, you and I drove out to the Canadian positions in the ambulance. We met Corporal Tasker, and he handed you the letter that you knew would be coming from Château Niobe. You now had everything in place. You needed only one more thing to finish your mission. A loaded British Army rifle. When we left the Canadian trenches, you asked Corporal Tasker. You probably made some excuse about needing to defend the ambulance if it got stuck. Tasker gave you his own rifle, a Lee Enfield, while I was talking to Walther Seydlitz, just before we departed in the ambulance. An hour later, Tasker was dead, because the borrowed Ross rifle he was using jammed.

I don't know your exact plan for killing Seydlitz. But I do know what in fact happened. The craters forced us to take roads which led us near the German gas attack. Then an opportunity presented itself to you – not just to kill Seydlitz, but to shift the blame onto others.

The ambulance was halted by another of the craters. You looked across the battlefield and saw two British soldiers watching us and holding their rifles, as if they were pointing them at us. You took Tasker's Lee Enfield rifle, and stood just behind the ambulance cab, looking forward through the cab door you had left open. From there, unseen by me, you fired your first shot into the windscreen, shattering it. You did that to make me think the soldiers were shooting at us. You then went round to the back of the ambulance and, with your second shot, you killed Walther Seydlitz. With the third shot, you gave a glancing blow to your own arm. Then you threw the rifle out of the ambulance, and instructed me to drive as fast as I could. Major Jardine thought he saw a stick, being dropped from the ambulance."

The smile is still playing slyly on the woman's lips. I continue.

"Your clever idea of wounding yourself so as to appear to be a casualty of the soldiers' shooting did give you a problem, though. When we all met in the officers' mess at Essex Farm, your arm was cradled in an unmistakeable white sling. Something that I did not see on the body brought up from the coal bunker. Now, a killer would hardly push a body into a cellar, but keep the sling. And of course, when the post-mortem was carried out by Dr Knight, no wound was found on the arm.

But I must admit, I didn't think of that at the time. The thought that the woman in the ambulance might not be Dr Bernard first started in my brain – but I could not put it into words – in Geneva. It happened when I was looking round the surgery of the real Dr Bernard." I pause, trying to think how to express the sense of personality that I felt in that room.

"There is, of course, no Swiss language. Most Swiss speak either French or German. Everything I sensed in that surgery about the real Dr Bernard was saying: this is a Genevan woman. She was probably bilingual, even if only to deal with German-speaking patients. But I'm certain that French was her mother tongue, and that her emotional affinities were with France and French culture, not with Germany. You, in contrast, alarmed many soldiers at Ypres with your Germanic diction. You gave us all a totally convincing impression of being Swiss – but, not the right kind of Swiss."

The woman looks around at us all. The smile has not quite gone. Suddenly she speaks out, and I hear again the voice I know, the voice of the woman I met in Ypres.

"You are right. My real name is Gilberta Jäger. And yes, I killed two people: first Dr Bernard at Remy Sidings, and later on, Walther Seydlitz in the ambulance at Ypres. I assassinated them, in my line of duty to the Fatherland. But – you there, General Charteris, hiding behind your desk. Your military mistakes, such as your utterly inept attack at Loos, have led to unbelievable carnage. You face no penalty at all for the thousands of deaths you have caused. Instead, your chest is covered with medals."

Professor Axelson interrupts her. "This woman, Frau Jäger – she and General Charteris are alike, in one respect."

The general's face turns scarlet with rage. "What in God's name do you mean, Axelson? I have nothing in common with this – murdering spy."

The professor doesn't answer the general directly. Instead he turns to Colonel Hampshire. "Would you explain, Colonel, why, just like General Charteris, Frau Jäger will face no penalty for the deaths she has caused?"

"An exchange has been arranged. That is the reason for Frau Jäger's air of self-satisfaction." I sense the frustration in Hampshire's voice. He has caught his mole, but now she will escape justice. He carries on.

"The American photographer, Mr Keys, is imprisoned in Germany. He faces charges of espionage. The Germans claim that even though he is American, he was working for the British, so they have the legal right to execute him as a spy. Of course, if they did execute him, it would further damage the relationship between Germany and the United States. But there is a simple, quick way for both sides to solve the problem. The Germans will make an exchange with us, quietly, via neutral Holland. One spy will be exchanged for another... Frau Jäger for Mr Keys."

General Charteris has ordered a second adjournment of the hearing. This time, we're allowed to leave the room. In the corridor, I see Colonel Hampshire and another soldier holding Frau Jäger between them; she is handcuffed behind her back. He leaves her in the care of the other man, and comes over to me.

"Thank you for your letter, Agnes. You asked me to look for a female Army note-taker that had left her job... and, I recall, you asked me to look for a military nurse from Poperinge as well. I found the latter, too, you know. Married to a French farmer, and pregnant! But the note-taker, our Frau Jäger – I caught her just as she was about to cross the Spanish border. So I'm forever in your debt."

"Thank you. And catching Frau Jäger was well worth all your hard work. She may have escaped justice, but in doing so she has saved my friend Keys."

He smiles at me. "I'm flattered that you sent your letter to me – you said I was the one person in the British Army that you trusted."

"Yes. I trusted that you were undoubtedly loyal to Britain. I trusted you to be relentless in pursuing and catching your mole. That doesn't mean I trust you in any other way. I think mercy is greater than justice. You don't."

I wish I'd put it more softly: Colonel Hampshire looks like I've slapped him in the face. He doesn't answer me; he touches his cap, ceremonially. I hear a catch in his voice as he politely bids me goodbye. Seconds later, he's disappeared down the passageway. Half-hesitant, I take a couple of steps after him... and I notice Major Jardine, sitting by himself in a chair in the corridor. I hear the effort in his breathing, and go over to him.

"Could I get you a cup of tea, Major?"

"Tea would be – wonderful. But there's something I'd like better than tea. Just spend two minutes with me. I want to explain."

"There's no need to explain, Major."

"Please – let me. I want to ask you: do I seem sad to you, Miss Frocester?"

"I must admit, you do."

"Appearances can be deceiving. I get tired very easily. And I'm in constant pain. But I'm not sad, Miss Frocester. I'm happy."

"Why?"

"You saw me, didn't you? In the gardens here at Château Niobe, last May. You saw how I looked at Colonel Hampshire when we arrested John Edgar. I felt such hatred for Hampshire, because he told me that I could make amends for my mistakes by assisting in Private Edgar's arrest. I felt bad enough already... but to know that Edgar was to be taken away, probably to be executed, for something that was my fault..." He blinks away a tear. "I should have owned up and told them exactly what happened at Ypres, but I was too scared of the consequences. I, not Edgar, am the coward." The major pauses, then looks more intently at me.

"I don't think cowardice should be a crime, Miss Frocester. No-one can predict how a person will react to fear and danger. But Edgar – he's not a coward anyway. He was far braver than me on the battlefield, when the gas came. He helped me, when all I could think of was running away."

Major Jardine shifts in his chair, moving his footless leg to an easier position.

"Then, last October, a shell hit the front line near Ypres. I bought it: shrapnel in my lungs, and my foot had to be amputated."

"It must have been horrible."

"It was – good." His eyes look at me. Unexpectedly, they are soft and mild, and the tears have gone.

"After the amputation, I woke up in the convalescence tent. They explained that I would never walk properly again. That at best, they might be able to make a wooden foot for me. That they would send me home, and when I recovered, I would be assigned to Army administrative duties in England. I was to become a pen-pusher in an office. The dice had rolled, my number had come up... but I was still alive – and out of the war."

He looks at me; it's the first time I've ever seen him smile. "It's worth living with these injuries, Miss Frocester. Because I have ample compensation. Every day I am happy, because I know that never again will I be ordered to send a young man to his death."

I nod, without speaking. But he has one more thing to say to me.

"But until now, I couldn't be truly happy, because one last problem still hung over me."

"You mean Edgar."

"Indeed. Guilt is a cancer, Miss Frocester. But my cancer is gone now. I've told everything – the whole truth and nothing but the truth, like the lawyers would say. I can rest my mind; I'm no longer responsible. The case is in the lap of the Gods. Or rather, it's in the lap of that inhuman bastard Charteris. But after all the evidence that we've heard today, I think even he will have to acquit Edgar now."

We take our places back in the library. General Charteris is the last to return to the room. He sits ponderously, and takes a final sip of his port.

"I can now proceed to judgment on this appeal case. It is clear that more evidence has emerged. At the same time, Professor Axelson's psychological approach seems bizarre to me – very un-British, if I may say so. I can't tell if it is genuine science or charlatan mumbo-jumbo. I'm inclined to think the latter." He coughs again.

"But, I have to acknowledge that there is a _possibility_ that Edgar has suffered such trauma in his mind as to make him unable to speak, or to respond to the commands of his superior officers. As you all know, a man's guilt must be proved beyond all reasonable doubt before he can be convicted. In this case, the testimony of Major Jardine has shown that such a doubt exists.

So, Private John Edgar, I pronounce you Not Guilty. Do you have anything to say?"

I can't help it: a laugh bursts from me. I can hear the professor suppressing a guffaw too. Edgar, as always, stands still and silent. But the general clears his throat: he hasn't quite finished.

"I have one final thing to add – in extreme secrecy. The British Army has the July campaigns of 1916 ahead of us. We are under extraordinary pressure. It is vital that every last resource is used, most especially to bolster the numbers of our troops on the Somme sector of the front line. They are making final preparations for an attack that will be the biggest battle in history. Every man that can be spared must contribute.

So, as you are not guilty of the criminal charges, Private Edgar, you may rejoin the 1st Battalion of the Northumberland Fusiliers, with immediate effect. You will be transported to them this evening. The Fusiliers are, right now, in the front lines at the Somme, preparing for attack. I'm sure, young man, that you will be delighted at this opportunity to rebuild your Army career – and your self-respect. You go to fight for King and Country. I salute you."

The End

Author's statement

This book is copyright © by Evelyn Weiss. I assert all my legal rights as the author of this book Murder on the Western Front, including my right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the book's author. I reserve all legal rights to myself. No part of this book Murder on the Western Front may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or distributed or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without my prior permission.

In the preface to his novel The Plague Dogs, Richard Adams wrote "All the pleasant people in the book are real, while all the unpleasant people are not." In this book, all the fictional characters are invented, but I have woven real-life people into the narrative – members of the artistic community in Paris, as well as a number of characters notable for their positive contribution during the dark days of the First World War.

Dr Charles Myers was a pioneer in recognising the psychological basis of the condition now known as post-traumatic stress disorder. He clashed with the British Army by advocating more humane treatment for its victims. Émilienne Moreau epitomised the French spirit of courage and resistance during the Battle of Loos and throughout both world wars. Reverend "Tubby" Clayton's selfless ministry helped the vulnerable both during and long after the war. Major John McCrae's poem In Flanders Fields is best-known for its association with the poppy as the British symbol of remembrance, but how it came to be written is a tragic but inspiring story in itself. And Edith Cavell's heroism is, of course, iconic and needs no further exposition from me.

