“Walvert Frome Hall.”
“Home of the Madison-Hardynges. I know their daughter Emily.”
“You know Emily in what sense?”
“Stop it. We’ll go there for tonight.”
“I have been thinking.”
“An unsupervised woman working with highly dangerous tools.”
“An intelligent, unsupervisable woman.” She tapped the dashboard. “If your car is called Victoria, incidentally a charming name, then shouldn’t the horse box be called Albert? The man obediently following behind the woman, wherever she may wander.”
“I suppose so,” he said, sighed, and surrendered. “If you so wish, darling.”
“Something else to consider. Have you ever actually seen the Crown Jewels?”
“No. And no, we’re not stopping to look at them.”
“There’s no need to.” She slid over the car seat with the ease of an otter, opened her suitcase, and returned with a book. “The Royal Crown Jewels. I borrowed it from Mrs. Bardwell. She just adores royalty, and the poor dear didn’t know that by renting me a room she had brought a socialist viper into her bosom.”
“Some viper.”
“Some bosom.” Caitrin opened the book. “Some of the Jewels are over eight hundred years old, but most of the recent set are from the reign of Charles II, three hundred years ago.”
“Our beloved Oliver Cromwell had the early ones melted down or sold when the monarchy was abolished.”
“What a man. If ever I have a son, I’ll name him Oliver. Maybe twice.” She read, “ ‘In 1282, after Llewelyn ap Gruffyd was defeated by Edward I, the Welsh crown of the legendary King Arthur was surrendered to England. The Scottish Crown followed a few years later.’ ”
“Sorry about that, but I wasn’t there, so don’t blame me.”
“It says the English kings were forever selling, melting down, or pawning the Jewels. Doesn’t seem as if they held them in much esteem. They were keen on swords, though, especially Charles I. Look at this picture.” She flashed the book in front of him, and for a moment he lost sight of the road. “Three swords: the Sword of Temporal Justice, the Sword of Spiritual Justice, and the Sword of Mercy, also called Curtana, which has a blunt tip, probably from Henry VIII using it to open a beer bottle. There’s more detail about kings and queens and their interminable wars I’ll gloss over. Mostly because it’s incredibly repetitive and boring.” She slapped the book shut. “History lesson over. It’s now time for questions.”
“Would that be asking or answering, and benign or accusatory questions?”
“Pointed ones. To finish what we started last night. God, that seems so long ago. Ignoring the wobbly heart fable, are you enlisted?”
“Yes.”
“In what service?”
“You are a police constable?”
“Yes, a woman police constable. As if the difference isn’t already apparent.”
“Is it true that women constables are required to walk the beat in pairs, and with a pair of male constables following them ten yards behind to keep them safe?”
“That is ancient history, and I don’t walk the beat anymore. What service are you in?”
“Is it true most of your role as a woman police constable is to save growing girls from temptation?”
“Girls like your pal Emily Madison-Hardynge? Again, past history. Are you in the army?”
“And is it a belief that police work will make women hard and superficial?”
“You be the judge. Is it the navy?”
“What department of the police do you actually belong to? Is it even the police? Not going to tell me, are you?”
“And you’re not going to tell me, are you?”
“Seems not.” Hector put out his hand. “Shall we agree on a draw?”
She gave a rueful smile and shook his hand. “Draw.”
* * *
Momble under Neen did have a small teashop, the Church House, in the village square. It was nowhere near a church but opposite the post office, which had a red telephone box outside. The tea-shop waitress—a round, cherry-cheeked woman—was surly until Hector made a show of stacking four half-crowns on the table. They did much to change her attitude to match her cheeks.
“Birmingham has been bombed,” Caitrin read from a newspaper she had bought from the local tobacconist. “And London again, of course, and they even took a swipe at Liverpool.”
They watched a group of men—mostly middle-aged, some older, with flat caps and civilian clothes—amble into the square and create something resembling a military rank. A few of them were self-conscious and made jokes, while others seemed distracted, and one was struggling to light a huge briar pipe. Each of them had a wooden rifle on his shoulder, some of which appeared to be freshly carved, and no two were alike. A tall, gray-haired man, who had grown in all directions since his military service ended and now barely fit into a Great War army captain’s uniform, was issuing orders with mixed results.
“And with wooden rifles, just what harm do they intend to inflict on the invading Germans?” Caitrin said. “Shooting nasty splinters?”
“It’s a bit sad and desperate if that’s all we’ve got to defend king and country. I read some of the Home Guard directives. They said that any parachutist landing in civilian clothes is to be shot immediately. Another one warned about German parachutists dressed as nuns.”
“You’re being silly.”
