In proof of it, he saw farms ahead and counted three of them before the road turned inland again and the marshy ground reappeared in the distance. Which of the farms had been the site of the airfield? There were no derelict buildings to tell him which had been commandeered. And all three offered broad stretches of pasturage and a few fields of corn for livestock that were flat enough for aircraft to take off and land. Ideal, then, for a small squadron of night fighters and Zeppelin patrols. What’s more, it was right on the North Sea, with excellent visibility when the sea mists weren’t rolling in.

Frances was saying, “Did you notice? There’s no church to be seen in the village. And no churchyard. How odd! Where do they bury their dead? And there’s no real hotel, is there? Only that tiny inn. It can’t have more than six rooms, and most likely only four. And the way people stared at us, they aren’t used to strangers, are they? I doubt we’ll be dining here after all.”

She was right, he thought. There was no welcome in Furnham. He turned the motorcar and drove back to the village. A few weathered sheds stood back above the tide line, beyond where the boats were drawn up, and a track led out to them.

He pulled up the brake and got out. Frances came to join him and quickly put her hand on her hat. Here the sweep of the wind was fierce.

She hurried back to the motorcar, saying, “You aren’t walking down to the water, are you? It’s about to rain.”

“No.” He could see all he needed to see from where he stood. The wind-whipped water was frothy, as if seething just below the surface. Looking over his shoulder, he could see that rain was imminent, and with it would come colder air. He stayed for a moment longer, watching the boats rock as the tide toyed with them. Beyond was the narrow estuary, and a line of mild turbulence where the river met the sea. Returning to the motorcar, he drove on.