that? Sounding him out over the bacon and eggs?”
“It’ll certainly be a start. But I shouldn’t be in too much of a hurry. Best you take your time to get to know the man first. When you’re in his confidence, that’s the time to strike.” Sheila tore into her bread roll, then daubed the merest smear of butter on a tiny morsel.
She seemed to be speaking from experience. “Miss—Sheila, what exactly did you do during the war?”
“That, I’m afraid, is very much covered by the Act.” She softened it with a smile. “Now, what do you suppose George Johnson’s background to have been?”
“I… I have no idea. Perhaps…” He broke off. What on earth could he pretend to be, without betraying himself in a hundred different ways every time he opened his mouth? The idea of his acting the part of a man who’d been on active service in the war was simply ludicrous—yet if he mentioned his time in Intelligence, surely Connaught’s suspicions couldn’t fail to be aroused?
Roger began to feel this a hopeless task—then he noticed Sheila was still smiling.
“I,” she said, her tone rather arch, “happen to have a very good idea of George Johnson’s background. It’s really extraordinarily similar to Roger Cottingham’s—although I’d suggest they grew up at opposite ends of the county. We don’t know how well Connaught knew your brother, and it would be rather awkward if Connaught were to be reminded of the similarities. It’s fortunate you and Captain Cottingham weren’t terribly alike in looks. But the closer you stick to the truth, the better. You don’t want to have to remember an elaborate web of lies all the time you’re trying to investigate the man, and it’ll lessen the chances of you slipping up in the details.”
She paused to take a sip of her dry white wine, and Roger seized the chance to jump in with a question. “But what if he asks what I did during the war? Surely he’s bound to, and I can hardly say I was in Intelligence.”
“What do you say when people ask you now?”
The waiter delivered their plates with a flourish. George waited until the man had disappeared before he answered. “That I was doing some dreadfully dull Civil Service job.”
“Well then. So was our dear friend George.” She gazed at him for a moment, something like softness in her pale grey eyes. “Now, you’ll need to play this by ear—sound him out a bit first—but you may find it useful to mention you were a C.O. So long as he’s not the sort of military idiot who thinks all C.O.s should have been shot for cowardice, it could be an important step in getting him to trust you. Confidences inspire reciprocation.”
Having only just picked up his knife, Roger put it down again. “You really think so?”
She nodded. “I understand it’s not something you’re comfortable talking about. Frankly, that’s all to the good. Could inspire him to mention something he’s not comfortable about.”
“If he wasn’t comfortable with what he was doing, then why do it at all?” Roger had rather imagined the man to have been smugly satisfied with what he’d done, if he’d done it at all.
“Oh, there could be any amount of reasons. Coercion. Threats. Blackmail.”
“God, what an unpleasant business.”
“Thank you, at least, for not mentioning its unsuitability for a woman,” she said drily. “And that leads me on to my final point. You mustn’t forget that there may be some danger in this. If Connaught was a traitor in the war, he won’t want his misdeeds made public. All indications are that he’s left the life of a spy far behind him—if indeed he ever lived it—but you mustn’t underestimate what a desperate man may do to protect himself. Will you be armed?”
“Good God, no!” Roger felt sick at the very thought.
“Then you must tread carefully. A one-armed man can kill you just as dead as a whole man.” She gazed at him steadily. “Are you afraid?”
Roger grimaced. “Do