Page 18 of The Berlin Agent (John Cook #2)

We stood in the late-evening sun outside the church hall as the good people of Uckfield filed out, many of them muttering to each other. Had either of the debaters won over any new members to their respective causes? Vaughn had seemed slightly more persuasive, but I could imagine his opponent’s bit about financiers ruining the economy had hit a few marks. A lot of people had lost their farms in the thirties. There’d been headlines about the gold standard and dark stories told about international finance. When the opponent emerged, a couple of young men rushed up to him, recent converts perhaps. He hurried off, talking excitedly to his new disciples.

Vaughn was the last out. He saw me, and strolled over, unhurried. I noticed his limp had vanished, presumably an act aimed at generating sympathy from the crowd.

He held out his hand and we shook.

‘Vaughn Matheson,’ he said. ‘I believe we’ve met.’

He turned to look at Margaret with an intense gaze that bordered on insolent.

‘Mags,’ he said, ‘you look ravishing as always.’

He hugged her, then held her at arm’s length for a further inspection.

‘Vaughn,’ she said, ‘this is John Cook. John, this is Vaughn. Old friend of the family.’

I gave Margaret a look. I had the feeling I’d been duped somehow.

‘Did Cook tell you about our adventure last night?’ he asked.

Margaret was confused.

‘Quite the team,’ Vaughn said. ‘Defending Sussex against the invasion.’

‘The parachutist I told you about,’ I said to Margaret. ‘Vaughn was there.’

‘Cook was rather convinced I was the recipient,’ Vaughn said.

‘Were you?’ I asked.

‘That would be telling,’ he said, and winked at me.

‘How do you two know each other?’ I asked Margaret.

‘Mags and I knocked about in India,’ Vaughn said to me. He turned to Margaret and grinned. ‘Are you two ...’ He looked back and forth, an amused expression on his face.

‘Yes, we are, Vaughn, and don’t be such a pig about it,’ Margaret said. I hadn’t seen her like this. She was pleased to be with him, but she was alive with a nervous energy.

‘I’m parched,’ Vaughn said. ‘What are we drinking?’

Perhaps my kind of man after all.

*

Vaughn drove, his scarlet MG rocketing along the lane to Isfield like a fighter plane yearning to leave the runway.

Margaret had jumped in next to Vaughn, which left me in the dickey seat behind them, a space designed for a child at best, more a place to throw your jacket. The windscreen, barely a foot high, may have provided some kind of protection for driver and passenger, but I was squarely in the slipstream. Vaughn and Margaret had a lot of catching up to do, judging by the way they had their heads together. I gave up trying to listen. Easier to sit back and close my eyes.

As we descended the long hill into Isfield, Margaret leant over to Vaughn, her mouth practically touching his ear. He down-shifted, gunned the engine and messed about with the clutch more than necessary, the engine roaring as he used it to slow the car. With a deft flick of the wheel he took the sharp turn, under the arched gatehouse echoing the roar of the engine back to us, through to the long avenue of ancient oaks that led to Margaret’s ancestral home.