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‘I’m seeing your father tonight at his club. Find a way. I have to talk to you. Actually, I have the perfect excuse. You offered to help me find the woman I’m hunting down connected with my dead sergeant.’

She smiled. ‘Yes, of course.’

‘May I telephone you this evening?’

He liked the way she bit her bottom lip as she frowned. He wanted to kiss that spot. ‘Yes, that will work. My father can give you the number. But please make the telephone call from the club. Then it all looks correct.’

He nodded. They stared at each other, both apparently lost for what to say. It was left to Alex to cut through the tension with a smile.

‘I must say, you look incredibly dashing in that swim suit, Harry. Roll on the shared swimming days!’ she added, with a wickedly wider grin. ‘Enjoy your afternoon.’

And then she was gone, leaving him still leaning against the slippery tiles of the swimming pool wall.

17

Harry sat across from Charles Frobisher. They were lounging in two of the three armchairs in a convenient cubby at the corner of the smoking room. A fire, large and effective, radiated warmth from within its black marble surrounds, despite the draughts created by the comings and goings of waiters. The quiet murmur of men’s muted conversations was comforting, punctuated by the clink of a glass, the flap of an evening newspaper, a soft cough.

Harry sipped on his single malt while Charles let out billowy puffs of bluish smoke from the side of his mouth as he spoke. ‘Mmm, smells like it’s a roast beef on tonight. They do the very best Yorkshire puddings here, as you can imagine.’

‘I recognise that tobacco smell,’ Harry remarked, inhaling, enjoying it. ‘Our brigadier I’m sure smoked a similar brand. Somehow he managed to look contented, even in a dugout.’

Charles chuckled, removing a tiny fleck of the tobacco from his tongue using thumb and third finger. ‘It’s an English Cavendish, a fire-cured tobacco that turns it very dark. It’s steamed and allowed to ferment for sometimes weeks at a time.’

Harry nodded, finding simple pleasure in listening to Charles’s voice, with its pleasingly gritty quality. He wouldn’t mind if Charles were speaking about cricket, the price of coffee, the state of British politics, or indeed his delicious tobacco. Right now subject matter was all the same to him because it was about being still and listening. He was enjoying being lulled by the club’s warm atmosphere that seemed to echo every other club he’d visited, including his own in London’s Mayfair.

‘. . . it gives off a mild, sweetish taste, although I admit I like a more rum-flavoured pipe of tobacco after dinner.’ Charles closed his eyes and puffed contentedly as Harry realised Alex’s father had finished sharing his insights into tobacco. ‘Staying for dinner, are you?’

‘Er, no, sir. I probably shan’t, but thank you. I wonder, might I be permitted to use the club phone to ring your daughter?’

Frobisher’s bushy brows, like two caterpillars, seemed to stand up, facing off against one another.

‘She offered to help me find someone from Rowntree’s, you see.’

The caterpillars crinkled and settled down. ‘Ah, that’s right.’

Harry smiled with relief.

‘Well, her memory is exact. If anyone can help, Alex can, especially as she was on the staff for most of the war. Gave away her pay, you know.’

‘Is that so?’

Frobisher nodded. ‘Yes, wouldn’t hear of taking a wage, while Arnold Rowntree wouldn’t hear of not paying her one. They agreed to donate it to the new sanitarium that the Quakers have built.’

Harry waited, content not to speak.

‘We have the County Asylum, of course, but the Rowntree family was apparently filled with despair when a woman of their community died in care there. They vowed to build a “friendlier” place, you could say, to take care of troubled folk, especially Quakers, although all are welcome.’

‘These Quakers are rather amazing, really, aren’t they?’ Harry remarked, reaching for his whisky.

‘Yes. I do admire their relentless empathy and desire to give back to the community. And hard as it was to watch them object to sending their men to war, I did respect their resolve and the way all of the wealthy Quaker families of our region gave as much as they could to the war effort.’

‘Alex’s husband didn’t fight either, did he?’ Harry couldn’t help himself.

Frobisher shook his head. Harry sensed he’d hit a slight nerve. ‘Ah, but he was refused. I think he volunteered long before most.’

‘Alex said it was his eyesight?’

‘Very poor, and no good to anyone on a battlefield.’