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‘It is. Delia now has an opportunity to make a good match with someone I know she’s terribly fond of. I’m genuinely happy for her.’

‘Good grief. How obliging. And no one special for you, old chap?’

‘Er, no. But I’m not unhappy.’

Blunt smiled, sipping his tea now, gazing at Peter over the rim of the cup. ‘You look rather dashing today, Peter. Being single clearly suits you.’ He winked.

It was rumoured that Blunt was homosexual and he’d made no secret of the fact he was fond of Peter, but he’d never acted in a manner that was unnerving. The man was flirtatious in the same way Peter realised he himself might behave with a friendly secretary or shop attendant. He knew he was fortunate to be working with the royal art collection that was entrusted to the leadership of Anthony Blunt in the role as Surveyor of the Queen’s Pictures. His was a coveted position in the art world – and rare – so he had no intention of jeopardising it by acting prudish. This was 1954, after all.

Plus, Peter liked Blunt, who happened to be a fellow Cambridge man as well as a talented art historian and former senior MI5 agent during the war. A friend of a friend had once whispered to Peter that Blunt had committed treachery, but Peter, like many others who had participated in the fighting, wanted to leave that all behind. Peace was theirs. He wanted to get on with life, not wallow in the ugliness of what had taken place.

Peter’s own role as an appreciated art historian alongside one of the country’s finest minds in the discipline was more than he’d dreamed of, and he believed it was one of the reasons he was still sane after losing so many friends to air battles. Now he’d lost his wife to another man, though that had been a long time coming, and even his sense of happiness. That was a state of mind for the youthful, he’d decided. Aged thirty-eight, life had worn him down. But as he’d told his superior, he was not unhappy either.

Neutral.

But he’d resolved to change that. It was important not to drift through life, which he knew he had been doing since coming home from the war. He’d had no purpose in his personal life, pouring his passion into work rather than Delia, or in other parts of his life. He needed to adjust that and find a better balance for both.

That was why he was here.

‘All right, Fox, why don’t you tell me why you asked for this meeting.’

‘Well, sir. You know I was stationed in Malta during the war.’

‘Of course. And I also heard all of you dashing flyboys had a whale of a time.’

‘Depends how you define a whale of a time, sir. Many of us didn’t come back.’

Blunt frowned. ‘Actually, you returned early, didn’t you? Why was that?’

It was again time for candour, especially with what he was about to propose. ‘I was involved in a dogfight and came off second best, sir. Had to ditch into the drink and I was injured, unable to fly, desperately trying to heal fast and even more desperately wanting to be useful, so I began working at British HQ in Valletta.’

‘Oh yes, how did that go?’

‘One row back from the front seats of flying a Spitfire, but it was serious work – focused, often tense. Big decisions made daily that affected lives.’

‘You were happy?’

Peter shrugged, taking a moment to think on how best to reply. ‘I believe I was, sir. As frantic, demanding and indeed fearful as it was then, it was certainly the last time I remember laughing a lot.’

‘Really? In wartime?’

‘Well, you took your amusement whenever and wherever it came – after all, we could be dead the next day. Everyone was doing it hard, especially the locals, but they loved us Brits. We had a very good relationship with the Maltese. So yes, as bizarre as it sounds, they were good times.’

‘So why leave?’ he said.

‘I was recalled home to train pilots.’ He gave a soft sigh, feeling the disappointment all over again. ‘I didn’t want to leave Valletta but had no choice. It was the height of the battles in the Med and I would have preferred to stay, play a different role. But they needed to get new pilots up in the sky. The V-2s were yet to hit – little did we know then how much we’d need new pilots to respond to the bombers – so I am glad, I suppose, that I returned to England when I did, but I will always regret having to leave Malta.’

‘Do you know, I think that’s the most you’ve ever said in one conversation that wasn’t about work.’

Peter felt self-conscious. ‘I’m not a big talker, sir.’

‘Now that’s an understatement.’ Blunt took another sip of tea. ‘So how can I help? You need something from me, yes?’

‘Yes, sir.’ Peter hesitated. ‘I’d like to go back to Malta.’

His boss frowned. ‘Permanently?’

‘That would be nice, but no, sir.’