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Len snorts. “Berlin isn’t sunny this time of year. It’s no better than here. Only colder.”

Again I will warmth into my voice. “She should wait for the sun, and you might be healed by spring and able to join them.”

“She’ll be sorting all the paperwork for a few days more, maybe even a week, and I expect each day will get warmer. Then again, she and the kids are going to visit her family. That’s hardly a vacation. Besides, Berlin is not my favorite city.”

Silence drops and I can think of nothing more to say. My head spins with what’s already been said. I offer a hasty goodbye and turn to leave. In all her stories Ursula never once mentioned family in Berlin. In fact, just the opposite. I remember her distinctly saying that her entire family, including her eldest brother, Jürgen, whom she visited in America many years ago and who keeps getting into trouble for his Communist ideas and writings, live in London.

No, if Ursula is going to Berlin, it’s not to see relatives. If Ursula is going to Berlin—and I believe she must be because there are far more logical and sunnier lies to tell—then she’s going for another reason.

I stop in the middle of the sidewalk and the answer almost makes me smile. There’s a certain hubris to it, after all. Reveal the trick before you accomplish it.

Yes, Ursula is going to Berlin, but not to visit—to escape.

Chapter 22

I scan the pub’s back room, already filling with the evening’s diners, and practically wilt with relief to find Peggy sitting there calmly waiting for me. All morning I’d wondered and worried, not that Peggy would get into trouble or get done in but that I was sending her on a fool’s errand. Then all afternoon, I wondered if I’d actually put her in danger. If Ursula really is up to something so daring as escaping to Berlin—because she was involved with Klaus Fuchs—then who knows what could happen?

And, to be honest, I’m hoping that something interesting did happen. Peggy’s anxious about the Red Scare, perhaps more than I am, but it’s theoretical for her. If we don’t find evidence soon, she’ll give up our little investigation—and I won’t blame her.

I, on the other hand, feel more convicted and convinced at every turn. It’s a bit like Lord Peter Whimsey says when a murder investigation gets ahold of him in one of Sayers’s novels. He’s drawn in by the puzzle and has no choice but to chase it down, no matter the personal cost. Of course, he’s talking about mental exhaustion and falling back into the battle fatigue he suffered after the Great War. I’m merely talking about the rabbit trails of connections, conversations, details, and suppositions my mind won’t let me escape.

“Alright, then?” I slide into the chair next to Peggy rather than across so I can whisper.

“She rode to Kidlington,” she whispers back. “My legs are marmalade, and I’m not sure I’ll ever warm up. I left your bicycle behind the post office there. Sorry. I couldn’t make it home.”

“I’ll fetch it tomorrow after work. That’s fine.”

After we both give our orders—fish and chips for Peggy and bangers and mash for me—I give the “start talking” nod to her.

“There’s nothing to report. I rode after her, and she made a few stops into the shops, then went into a house on Oxford Street.”

“Number 134?”

Peggy looks at me sharply.

“It’s the same house she visited Sunday. I told you that.”

“I didn’t remember that.” She shakes her head minutely. Curls bounce at her cheeks. “Anyway, I stood outside and watched. Nothing happened. She went in, came back out fifteen minutes later, and rode home, I assume. That last part I’m not sure of.”

“No one spoke to her?”

Peggy rolls her eyes at me. “How could I tell that, Gemma? I couldn’t exactly follow her into the shops. She’d have noticed me.” Peggy huffs. “I think, perhaps, we’ve gone too far. It’s all innocent and the woman merely loves Kidlington’s shops, or it’s not and she’s having an affair. Maybe that’s her lover’s house.”

“You saw him?”

She ponders that for a moment, as if trying to remember.

“Did you?” I pester.

“I’m thinking.” She snaps at me, then instantly retreats. “Maybe, in one of the upper windows, a shadow. I’m not sure.” She reaches for my arm. “But I felt like a nasty Peeping Tom, Gemma. Is this what we’ve become?”

“No, of course not.” I throw the words out with force, but they land softly. I was so sure moments ago, and I didn’t imagine the man following me. But what if I am making assumptions and connections where none exist and we are gossipmongers or—yikes!—Peeping Toms? The story fits. But do the facts?

Peggy taps the table to bring me back to the present. “How was your errand?”

“Easy. I picked up the lamb shoulder and delivered it to Mr. Beurton.”

I should tell her about my suspicions and rewrapping the lamb in fresh newspaper, but it feels silly now. Caught in the moment, it seemed the shrewdest, most sensible thing to do. Hours later, it feels foolish and the paper is probably stinking up my room. But yet . . .