Page 49 of The Berlin Agent (John Cook #2)

The Green Man had a low ceiling, made lower still by thick oak beams painted black and covered with tarnished horse brasses. I had to stoop as I made my way to the bar, and it reminded me why I didn’t drink there more often.

William Washington was propping up the bar. He was in his shirtsleeves, his butler’s tails presumably left hanging in his room. The wireless was on. The RAF had bombed Italy. Precision bombing. Military targets.

I bought a pint of porter for myself, and a pint of mild for Washington.

‘Not here,’ he said, under his breath.

I left the right change on the bar and followed Washington to a quiet table in the back corner, where we could sit without being overheard.

‘Well?’ I asked, as Washington flicked his eyes around the pub. He was acting like we were planning a bank heist.

‘What do you know about Aspidistra?’ he asked.

It was an odd question. He saw my confusion.

‘Houseplant?’ I answered. ‘Non-native, I suspect. Asian?’

He shook his head, tired of waiting for me to fumble around.

‘Who are you working for?’ he pressed.

‘I don’t work for anyone,’ I said. ‘I’m a farmer.’

Washington glared at me. I sipped my beer, waited for him to get to the point. He’d told me to meet him here, so I knew he had something he wanted to tell me.

‘Lots of organisations are interested in Lord Matheson,’ he said. ‘On both sides of the Channel. You’re not the first stray he’s picked up.’

‘Who’s interested in him on this side?’ I asked.

‘Organisations that don’t get discussed in pubs.’

‘Why Vaughn?’ I asked. ‘His politics are too far right for my tastes, but he seems pretty inoffensive. He’s no Mosley.’

‘Mosley’s taught everyone a lesson,’ Washington said. ‘They should never have arrested him. Now everyone with a swastika armband hidden in their sock drawer has learnt to keep quiet about it. But you’re right. Lord Matheson’s no Mosley. Mosley wanted to run the country. Matheson’s not that ambitious. He wants the south-east. Sussex would do. Lord Matheson, protector of the county.’

‘Where do you sit on this debate?’ I asked.

‘I’m the butler,’ he said. ‘I don’t have opinions.’

‘What happened with the Leckies?’

‘Forget the Leckies,’ Washington said. ‘Casualties of war.’

‘What if I can’t forget them?’

‘You’re going to get more people hurt,’ he said.

‘You think I’m responsible for them?’ I asked.

He shrugged and drank more.

‘Like I said, I’m just the butler.’

I wanted to tell him the deaths weren’t my fault. I’d come to the pub expecting to learn more about Vaughn and I found myself on the back foot. I watched an elderly woman at the bar. She took her half and sipped it, closing her eyes in relief. That first drink, after a day on your feet. She put her coins on the bar and shuffled back to her own dark corner.

The way she’d put the coins on the counter was entirely unremarkable. No need to check the amount. Second -nature. It recalled a memory, something I’d been trying to get at, without knowing why.

The man at the Fireman’s Arms had given his coins a nervous look. A glance. I’d seen it, but I hadn’t noticed because the evening had taken a different turn.

He’d been checking to see he’d put the right coins down. Something only a foreigner would do.