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Peggy finally sets down the paper. “Why did you ask me to read this?” She asks the question quietly, pointedly, and I know she’s already several steps ahead.

“Ursula—”

“Gemma.” Peggy pushes the paper across the table towards me. “Are you serious?” She scans the pub and thank goodness no one is paying attention to us. “Questions about that antenna should be answered, but she’s not working with a traitor. She can’t be.”

“Why not?”

“Because it’s too much.”

I nod. She’s right. It’s one thing to question an antenna, a radio, the veracity of her stories or motivations, but it’s quite another to believe her or Len capable of treason. It’s the plot of a Christie novel, not something that happens in real life—and certainly not something that could happen in Great Rollright.

But still . . .

“What if they’re involved somehow? I followed—” I bend close, only to back up as the waitress lowers my bowl of stew between Peggy and me.

I offer her a quick thanks, then lean over the steaming bowl to address Peggy again. I point to the article. “This article upset Ursula this morning, at her house, when I handed her the paper. Then, as I was leaving the church, she rode past me in a complete state and didn’t see me standing not twenty feet from her. She rode off to Bloxham, put a note in a tree, and then, just this afternoon, stopped into the store to see me and blanched when she spied the paper on the store’s counter.”

“You followed her? On your bicycle?”

I retrieve the slip of paper from my pocket and slide it across to Peggy. I, of course, already erased the numbers from within the book cover.

“What’s this?”

“A copy of the note she left in the tree. It must be some sort of code.”

Peggy studies the note, then hands it back to me. “I need to tell you something about St. Eths.”

I don’t see the connection, but I don’t protest either.

“I told you we worked on transmissions coming across the Atlantic—almost the whole town did—and I can’t say more about that, but what I want to tell you is how we came together. We were in on a secret together. But that also meant we watched each other more. Because if anyone broke that secret, lives could be lost.” She gestures to the paper now safely tucked in my palm. “That’s what this is: a secret, an assumption that is so dangerous, lives could be lost. It’s the kind of thing that’s dangerous to think much less say aloud. You’re saying the Beurtons committed treason, Gemma.”

“Maybe they still are.” I sit back, suddenly full, my head fuzzy. It’s not the food or the drink. It’s more like the door cracked open, just a bit more, and the view behind is overwhelming. I shift closer to Peggy. “You say I’m good at this stuff, noticing things.”

“You are.”

“There’s a whole month in here.” I tap my temple. “Of things I’ve heard and seen, things that didn’t make sense at the time but still got stored away, and they’re beginning to make sense now, Peggy.”

My conviction surprises me. But it’s all becoming clear, like pieces fitting into a puzzle.

My eyes meet Peggy’s again, and she watches me with the oddest expression. “Pretend you’re right.” She lets the clause rest between us for a few seconds before continuing. “What can we do about it? We didn’t go through that war just to end up under someone else’s thumb.”

I catch sight of Mr. Lombard standing at the bar. “This isn’t a stolen ring or a few pieces of sweets from the store. Do we go to the police?” My voice cracks. The idea of sharing these thoughts with anyone but Peggy is terrifying.

“Not with what you just told me.” She leans close and whispers, “Chief Wilmot will deride us. We’ll seem ridiculous. And what if he tells someone or someone hears us, like Sergeant Boyle? It’d get around the village in a heartbeat that we’ve accused Mr. Beurton of being a Soviet spy.”

I shake my head. “It’s not Mr. Beurton.”

Peggy huffs. “He’s the one on the blacklist, Gemma, of course it is.”

I shake my head again. “It’s not. It’s her. I know it.”

“That’s quite an assertion.” She slumps back. “And how would we prove it? We’ve got numbers that mean nothing, an article that doesn’t mention her, and an antenna on a shed so she can listen to her shows. It’s nothing, Gemma.”

“We investigate. Just like Miss Marple, Hercule Poirot, Father Brown . . .”

Peggy smirks. “They’re fictional. Each has an author writing their stories and making it all work out in the end.”

“But the author’s ideas come from somewhere real. The methods work. What do you think real detectives do? Charlie talks about it all the time. We’ll do the same. We have the story; now we hunt for clues. We watch. We follow her. If what we find leads us elsewhere, we can reevaluate.”