Hard to believe that not a hundred miles away, the Nazis were occupying the Channel Islands. Harder, still, to believe that a German spy might be making his way across those waters under the cover of darkness this very night to retrieve the documents we had been working so hard to get our hands on.
My glimpse of Torquay was brief, alas. We didn’t spend time in the city proper. The major drove on, through the streets, the cheeriness of the shops and cafés dimmed only slightly by the sandbags piled high to protect them, and along a road that wound its way up toward the bigger houses and hotels along the cliffs.
The buildings were spaced farther apart here, separated by green lawns and flower gardens and little copses of trees. It was all rather idyllic.
At last, the major pulled the car into a shallow ditch and behind a hedgerow, well concealed from the road.
“The beach house should be a mile or so up the road,” he said, consulting a map that lay on the seat between us. “We’ll walk the rest of the way.”
“All right.”
He opened his car door and got out, and I did the same.
“We’ll stay off the road as much as possible,” he told me, indicating the ditch behind the hedgerow. It was thick with weeds, and up ahead, there was a denser section of foliage.
I looked down at my new silk stockings. I’d been wearing them since the night of the party, carefully laundering them by hand and hanging them up to dry each night. Would I sacrifice them to the cause?
The answer was clear enough. Not if I didn’t have to.
“Turn around,” I said.
He frowned. “What?”
“Turn around. I need to take my stockings off.”
“Miss McDonnell…”
“There’s no reason for me to ruin a perfectly good pair of stockings.”
With an ill-concealed sigh of irritation, he turned his back to me.
I kicked off my shoes and pushed up my skirt, unfastened my garters, and quickly peeled the stockings off. It would have been much better to wear trousers, but I hadn’t known when I dressed this morning that I would be tracking down spies in the woods. Such was life.
Opening the car door, I put the stockings inside. They’d be safe enough there. Then I slipped my shoes back on.
“All right,” I said, smoothing down my skirt. “I’m ready.”
Without turning back to me, he started walking.
We trekked the mile in silence. Or, more accurately, to the sound of birdsong and the distant crash of the waves. We were moving parallel to the sea, and gusts of salty air made their way even through the trees.
The major walked a few paces ahead, his steady stride creating a path for me of sorts through the undergrowth, but it was still rough going some of the way, and I was scratched several times by twigs and brambles. I was immeasurably glad I’d had the foresight to remove my stockings; they would have been shredded to bits. At least it was only my flesh taking the brunt of it. New skin was easier to come by these days than silk stockings.
We finally stepped out onto the road. We had reached the end of a long drive, a gate stretched across its entrance, and the major motioned for me to stop.
“This should be it,” he said.
I took the opportunity to remove my jumper and unbutton the top two buttons of my blouse. Despite the shady trees and the sea breezes, I’d grown quite warm from walking. I tied the jumper around my waist as I made my way to the major’s side.
“The house is just up ahead. We’ll go through the trees here,” he said, motioning to the wooded area along the drive. “We’ll need to watch it for a while to make sure that Winthrop hasn’t beat us here. It will be important to keep absolutely still and quiet. Can you do that?”
“I’m not a child, Major,” I said irritably.
“I’m quite aware of that,” he replied. It seemed to me that his eyes dipped, almost indiscernibly, to where the unbuttoned part of my blouse had flapped open to reveal more than I’d intended. Of course, I probably imagined it.
“Come along, then,” he said, and started forward into the trees. I followed him, trying to make as little noise as possible.
We stopped a moment later in a thicket at the edge of a small lawn leading to the house.
I looked out at the building before us. Sir Nigel’s Torquay beach house was not