Probably best not to mention the overzealous use of commas. "Very good. Excellent," he said.

    Gloria pouted a wary forgiveness, her breasts straining against the material of her cotton print dress as she leaned toward him. "It's just the opening, but it's intriguing, don't you think?"

    "Intriguing. Yes. Very mysterious. Who is this Mr. Atherton with the prodigious marrows?"

    "Aha!" she trumpeted. "You see? Page one and you're already asking questions. That's good."

    He raised an eyebrow at her choice of adjective but she didn't appear to notice.

    "Who do you think he is? Or more to the point: What do you think he is?"

    She was losing him now. The wine wasn't helping, unpalatably warm in the afternoon heat, a wasp buzzing forlornly around the neck of the bottle.

    "I really don't know."

    Gloria swept the wasp aside with the back of her hand and filled her glass, topping up Adam's as an afterthought.

    "He's a German spy," she announced.

    "A German spy?"

    "That's right. You see, it's wartime—1940, to be precise—and while the Battle of Britain rages in the skies above a small Hampshire village, an altogether different battle is about to unfold on the ground. As above—"

    "—so below."

    Were they really quoting Hermes Trismegistus at each other over this?

    "I think it was Kent," said Adam.

    "Kent?" "The Battle of Britain—Kent and a bit of Sussex, not Hampshire."

    This news was clearly something of a blow to Gloria.

    "Well, maybe some of the planes, I don't know, went astray or something."

    Adam looked doubtful.

    "Damn," said Gloria, "I wanted dogfights in the sky."

    "Then move it to Kent."

    "It has to be Hampshire."