He had come to the end of the park, Buckingham Palace gleaming in soot-streaked glory in the late-afternoon sun. His father had brought him here as a child to watch the Changing of the Guard. The ceremony had impressed him, and for a week he’d wanted nothing more than to be a soldier, with a bearskin hat. He smiled at the memory. He’d fallen in love with pageantry, not war. Just as so many young men had done in August 1914. And they’d learned the difference soon enough in France.

There was a man leaning against a lamppost, his face shadowed by his hat. Rutledge saw him but kept walking. From where this man stood, he could watch the comings and goings in Green Park, the bare limbs of the trees offering none of the protection of summer’s shade.

Rutledge passed him by, ignoring him. A hundred yards farther on, he found a constable and surprised him by handing over the dog to him. And then Rutledge cut through St. James’s Park, made his way back again to The Mall, and found a bench from which he could watch the man still leaning against the lamppost.

A low profile.

The wind was cold, and he could feel his feet growing numb, but he sat still, his hat tilted over his eyes as if asleep.

When the man finally left his post and turned away, Rutledge followed at a discreet distance.

3

Felicity never discovered why Matthew went to walk on the shale beach below the breakwater that morning. He enjoyed strolling by the sea. It was, he’d often said, a way of clearing his mind. The fact that he’d made it a habit of late had begun to worry her.

She’d heard nothing by breakfast, and ate her meal in anxious silence, pretending that it was normal for her husband not to join her when he had business of his own in the town. By ten o’clock when there was no word, she began to grow uneasy. She went to find his diary to be certain he’d had nothing scheduled for the day. She couldn’t settle to anything, moving from task to task, humming to herself to pretend all was well. But it was a farce, and failed to comfort her.