‘Have you never taxed Peter on the subject?’
‘I did so regularly when we were first married and he reacted by telling me very little about his activities. When he worked as an agent in France, of course, I was at my wits’ end. I didn’t know where Peter was, what he was doing or whether or not he’d been killed by the enemy.’
‘My brother is like me,’ he said. ‘We lead charmed lives. Peter’s is rather more charmed than mine because he has you at his side but I’ve learnt to live with that setback, painful as it was at the time.’
Charlotte acknowledged the compliment with a nod. When she’d chosen one brother in favour of another, there’d been a passing moment of regret on her side. Paul was engaging and lively company. Given the fact that he was sought after by so many marriageable young ladies, she’d been flattered by his attentions. Nevertheless, while it would have been pleasurable to lapse into a romance with Paul, she could not see it lasting indefinitely when they were man and wife. Peter Skillen, by contrast, promised a lifelong devotion that his brother could not, in all honesty, offer.
‘Why are you asking me these questions?’
‘It’s something I’ve often pondered.’
‘Come now, Paul. I’ll not be fobbed off with a paltry excuse like that. There’s something more serious behind all this. Why not admit it?’
There was an awkward pause. ‘You are right,’ he said, shamefacedly.
‘Who is the lady?’
‘How do you know that there is one?’
‘It’s the only reason that could have brought you here.’
He bit his lip. ‘I realise that you’ll never approve of my private life.’
‘It’s not a question of approval or disapproval, Paul,’ she said, fondly. ‘I love you as my brother-in-law and respect your right to behave as you choose. You’ll never have to put up with me clicking my tongue or wagging my finger at you. I’ve come to accept that you were never destined for a life of monastic self-denial.’ He chuckled. ‘So I repeat my question – who is the lady?’
‘She must remain anonymous,’ he said, firmly, ‘but I will confess to the astonishing effect that she’s had upon me.’ He cleared his throat before speaking. ‘In essence, Charlotte, the problem is this …’
Anne Horner’s social circle was severely restricted so it didn’t take long for Peter Skillen to speak to each member of it. There was unanimous praise for the cleaner as a good friend and a tireless worker. Even when her husband had been alive, she’d taken in laundry, looked after neighbours’ children in return for payment and mended clothing ceaselessly. She’d also been one of the volunteer cleaners at her parish church. Everybody was shocked to hear of her disappearance and urged Peter to find her. The trouble was that he’d garnered no fresh evidence as to her likely whereabouts. He therefore adopted a different approach. Anne’s stint at the Home Office ended in the small hours and was followed by a brisk walk back to her lodgings that, in his estimation, took the best part of twenty minutes. Putting himself in her position, Peter followed her footsteps so that he could see likely places where she might have been intercepted and abducted. Even at night, London was throbbing with life so it would have been no lonely trudge through the deserted streets, yet she’d made the journey for years without apparent incident. What had made her last known walk home so dangerous?
When he left the Home Office, he was in a wide thoroughfare lined with large houses. It was not long, however, before he turned down meaner streets that were narrow and winding. Dark-eyed men lounged in doorways or congregated noisily outside the occasional tavern. Children played deafening games and dogs scoured the gutters for scraps. Itinerant musicians of various kinds added to the general clamour. After less than ten minutes, Peter had counted three likely places for an ambush. It was when he turned into a long lane, however, that he found the most suitable place. Overhung by trees that cast dark shadows throughout the day, it was intersected by a series of alleys, each one affording a good hiding place for robbers intending to pounce of unwary pedestrians.
Peter soon had clear proof of that. As he walked past an alley to his left, a burly man with a cudgel in his hand suddenly leapt out to accost him.
‘Your purse or your life, good sir!’ he snarled.
‘Take my purse,’ replied Peter, pretending to shrink back in fear. ‘I’ll give you my watch if you spare me.’
Thinking he’d put terror into his victim’s heart, the man relaxed and lowered his weapon. His other hand stretched out to receive the purse but it never reached him. Instead, he was struck on the jaw by the fearsome punch that Peter unleashed. It sent the robber staggering back against the wall. A relay of punches battered him to the ground. Grabbing the cudgel from him, Peter stood over the man.