They had just risen from the table when Mr Wincanton arrived home, apparently having dined at his club. His appearance in the drawing room – broad, manly, in a cloud of tobacco fumes, exuding his glamorous aura of power and mystery – affected each of the party differently.
Mrs Wincanton, pouring coffee, didn’t bother to look up.
‘Good evening, everybody,’ he said, throwing his newspaper on the chair nearest the fire, which Beatrice realized now had deliberately been left vacant. ‘Ah, the traveller’s returned, I see. Hello, Peter. A pleasant journey, I hope?’
‘Hello, sir,’ Peter muttered, standing to shake hands with his father. ‘Yes, not bad.’
‘Daddy!’ Angie squeaked like a little girl.
‘Hello, Princess,’ he said, his glance hardly resting on his daughter. ‘Ah, Beatrice, or should I say Miss Marlow?’ He took her hand in both of his and Beatrice felt herself go red under his searching gaze. ‘And how are your parents? Well, I hope? Your father’s written to me a number of times about local defences. I’m glad someone’s on the case, I must say.’
He finally relinquished her hand and moved over to the drinks cabinet. ‘Peter, some brandy?’
‘No, thank you, sir.’
‘How was your day?’ Mrs Wincanton murmured, but she seemed more interested in turning the pages of a first-aid manual than in her husband. ‘Is the country still running?’
‘Interminable meetings and administrative bloody-mindedness,’ he replied, splashing amber liquid into a tumbler, swilling it round and taking a large mouthful, as though it were medicine. ‘If certain people would stop defending their own patch and start defending the country instead, we might find some way of stopping Hitler.’
‘How very frustrating,’ Mrs Wincanton said vaguely, and frowned at something in her book. ‘Is that really how you manage an amputation? It all looks a bit tidy to me,’ she said to herself.
‘Which department are you concerned with?’ Beatrice asked Michael Wincanton, her voice betraying her nervousness, and she regretted asking, because he looked at her so shrewdly, she felt he could see right through her.
‘General War Office duties at the moment, my dear,’ he said gently. ‘And never mind what I said just now, we’re making headway. Now tell me about your school. Are you happy there?’
‘On the whole,’ Beatrice said, hating to be turned into a schoolgirl again. ‘But . . . I suppose I’d like life to begin.’
‘It’ll begin soon enough,’ he said, narrowing his eyes in a way that she found disturbing, and he swallowed the rest of his drink. ‘Now if you’ll all excuse me, I’ve some paperwork to do. No peace for the wicked. Oenone, there might be a telephone call for me later. Please make sure it’s put through to the study right away.’
‘Of course, dear,’ was the weary reply.
Angie said, ‘Oh, Daddy, there’s a letter from Hetty on the mantelpiece there. She’s desperate to come home.’
‘Well, she can’t,’ Mr Wincanton said. Picking up the envelope, he extracted the contents, read it quickly and smiled at something in it. ‘No,’ he said, putting it back. ‘Germany could strike at any time. She’s safer in Devon with her cousins. Don’t worry, Angie, Nanny will look after her.’
‘I wondered where Hetty was,’ Beatrice said when Mr Wincanton had left the room. ‘Is she well?’
‘We haven’t heard otherwise,’ Oenone said. ‘Though I gather there’s some measles about.’
Beatrice had been given her own small room at the back of the second floor of the house. The fire wasn’t lit, and she was slipping, shivering, into bed when there came a knock on the door. ‘Are you awake?’ Angie said, peering round. She floated in, swathed in broderie anglaise, and perched on the bed, knees drawn up, like a runaway angel. ‘Goodness, it’s chilly in here.’ She frowned and Beatrice watched her nervously.
‘It’s no use pretending,’ she told Beatrice severely. ‘I know you and Mummy have something cooked up. Out with it.’
Beatrice felt a stab of anger. ‘I have nothing cooked up with anyone,’ she said. ‘Your mother invited me and I thought it was a social visit and that you must know about it. That’s all.’
‘She’s got you as a spy, I know she has. She hardly lets me do a thing these days.’
‘Angie, I am not a spy, all right? I’ve no idea what’s going on between you, but I’m not getting involved.’
‘But she’s asked you to, hasn’t she?’