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“We’ll get them from you later.” She waves her hand. “To be honest, I’m not sure what we’ll make of them, regardless. Soviet codes are numerically based and devilishly hard to crack.”

Then I’m instructed to begin my whole story—again.

I find myself talking almost exclusively to Millicent Bagot, as I sense she is the one who knows Ursula best. Mr. Serpell says nothing. He sits silent and still. Mr. Skardon writes down every word I say. But Miss Bagot, craning forward as if ready to launch, listens intently, and each statement I make seems to resonate with her, as if it answers a question she’s already asked.

It takes me deep into a weary fourth telling of my story before I understand her request. At each telling new details emerge. Not conflicting ones, just new ones I recall. The puzzle pieces click more rapidly into place, and the resulting image, almost like a film playing in my head, becomes sharper and richer.

Her eyes light at a tiny detail I add this time but one I’d forgotten or skipped over previously. “Richard Johnson? She used that name?”

“Yes, she said she took a motorbike ride with him in China. I got the impression they had an affair.” I blush and shoot a glance at Mr. Serpell and Mr. Skardon, but their expressions remain perfectly bland.

“Of course she did. He’s a lothario if ever the spy world had one.” Miss Bagot clucks her tongue. “And it’s got plenty to be sure.”

“You know him?”

“Yes, but under his real name.” She raises a brow to her colleagues, almost challenging them to stop her from telling me a secret. None protest. “Richard Sorin. He is one of the best the Soviets have ever turned and trained. Devoted to the Communist cause and ruthless. He’s gone back to Moscow now, so your knowing about him can’t matter.” She scrunches her nose. “He’s out of our reach, and if he’s smart, which he is, he’ll stay there and remain out of reach forever.”

I talk on and, as I end my fourth recitation, a new thought occurs to me. “What about Len? Do you still have Len?”

Mr. Skardon finally speaks. “We’re not going to touch Mr. Beurton.”

“Whyever not?” I address Miss Bagot, but Mr. Skardon answers.

“We don’t think—”

Miss Bagot cuts him off with a sardonic look. “He was never the one we were after. As far as we’re concerned, he can join his wife and children and stop wasting our resources.” She glares at Mr. Skardon and Mr. Serpell in turn. Both men turn varying shades of red.

“It really is too tedious.” Lady Marchmont joins in, clearly enjoying the set-down. “The men simply couldn’t wrap their imaginations around a mother and a housewife being a spy. Or a bomb builder.”

“A bomb?” I ask.

“Oh yes, that bomb that blew up her shed? She made that. She’s frightfully good. In fact, she might have been the closest back in the war to assassinating Hitler.” Miss Bagot eases back as if settling in to tell a good story. “She was all ready with a bomb at a restaurant Hitler frequented when the Soviets called her off at the last minute. It took months of planning and work, but they told her no, and she obeyed orders. Bad form and all that to blow up their new ally. They’d just signed the Molotov-Ribbentrop Pact and had hopped into bed with the madman.”

“How do you know this?” I stare between them in shock that, knowing even this, they’d let Ursula into England at all.

Miss Bagot glares at the men again. “I know less than some but more than most, and I can’t say we haven’t done anything but clang it up start to finish and let the most powerful spy discovered yet on British soil slip through our fingers.”

My lips part. “She was— I mean, isn’t Fuchs more important?” My mind reels that Ursula was that powerful—the woman who taught me to bake shortbread and play chess.

Miss Bagot shakes her head. “Klaus Fuchs is an idealist, a scientific mind that needed corralling to do any real damage. She was the first to corral that mind. So there’s that. But there was another operation years ago in which she imbedded Communist spies under the Yanks’ very noses. They thought they were parachuting loyal Germans back into Germany at the end of the war, but Ursula was the one supplying them with the names. Each one a spy, for her. Through that deft move alone, she compromised their entire intelligence service.”

Lady Marchmont clucks her tongue. “Baking cakes and winning ribbons here in a sleepy Oxfordshire village was a wonderful cover. But it’s hard to say where across the globe her influence didn’t reach.”

My memory casts to the Oxford Times on 3 February, the day that started the race to this moment. “Did Fuchs give you her name? She expected he had.”

Miss Bagot almost growls. “Of the hundred or so names he has revealed, he hasn’t whispered a word about her. It’s unbelievable the loyalty she commands, because we know she ran him. It was confirmed by one of those papers you stole. Yet even shown that, he won’t give her up.” She nods at me. “That was well done, by the way.”

“Thank you.” It’s late, the fire is low, I’ve gone through everything several times, and I’m exhausted. “What happens next? May I go home now?”

“Of course, your head must ache terribly.” Lady Marchmont stands and rings a bell. A door opens and she calls out, “Please have Gilbert bring round the car to take Miss Brown home.”

Miss Bagot sits straight. “But there is more to discuss.”

“Of course there is, Millicent.” Lady Marchmont stretches out a hand to invite me to stand. “But it needn’t be handled tonight.”

“Tomorrow then.” Miss Bagot stands as well. “Time is of the essence.”

“Yes, yes. But we must let the girl sleep.” Lady Marchmont leads me from the room.