Emilia Fitzgerald is back. I don’t like this, and I don’t like her.

I was taking a rather nervous Hope for high tea. Her mother decided she was old enough to travel alone to London on the train, provided she was in first class and was met at the station. Hope, at the end of the journey, was inclined to disagree. She’d been in a compartment with a couple who were politely disagreeing with one another, and she detected incipient violence in the man. Of course, most children would have been blind to such things, but Hope is different.

I entered the tea rooms of an excellent hotel I’d chosen with a slightly anxious child, and me feeling annoyed that someone had potentially spoiled a long promised treat.

In an attempt to cheer up the child, who knew she had to catch a train home later, I ordered the very best, most fulsome tea, and even forbore having champagne myself so she didn’t feel left out (if the room had been less crowded, I might have persuaded the staff to give her a half glass).

Hope and I were both trying to convince each other we were having an excellent time when I heard the unmistakable tones of that Fitzgerald woman. Her accent, although having a glass cut edge, remained wrong. You’d need to be a linguist to understand, but Hope said to me quietly, what’s wrong with that lady, godfather? I asked her what she meant, and she said that the lady’s voice wasn’t right. She’s fake, added the child.

I was pleased and impressed. I told her this was a lady who’d appeared from nowhere directly into high society. When I mentioned her name, Hope asked if the woman was copying me. I asked for clarification, and she explained that I often mix among different classes under an assumed persona in order to fit in.

If I hadn’t been with Hope, I might have blagged my way onto her table. Hope picked up on this and way her eyes flicked between the lady and myself, I rather thought she was egging me on to do so, but I don’t involve children in any of my games.

We continued our tea and Hope said that she didn’t trust this woman, proclaiming that she didn’t deserve to be a ‘Fitz’. Unfortunately, she caught me mid-macaron and I choked as I stifled a laugh. For a few moments I thought my time on this Earth was at an end. My goddaughter really is the most amusing little thing.

In the end, I placed another mental marker against Fitzgerald’s name as an enigma to be investigated later on. Hope wondered if the lady was trying to get my attention. I honestly don’t know, but if she keeps cropping up at places I go to, I might have second thoughts on that.

I walked Hope back to the train station and climbed into the carriage with her. I always leave some things at White Orchards, so I had no need for luggage. The smile on Hope’s face when she realised that I was accompanying her was reward enough, but on the off chance that Hope was right, and Fitzgerald is trying to get my attention, my disappearing from London for a week or two might throw her.

Besides, I’d remembered a rather nice Burgundy I’d given Bertram, and I rather fancied having it that night.

I’ve been trying to explain to Alice how a spy, especially one such as herself who has so many roles to play, needs to compartmentalise her life. I must say, I’ve been surprised how well she’s grasping the concept, although she’s still resisting the idea. However, I’ve no doubt that in time she will see the necessity of putting this skill into action. Either that or she will need to retire from the service. I’ll do my utmost to ensure that does not come to pass - for many reasons - not least of which is that she has not risen high enough in the ranks that she would be offered protection upon leaving, and she has acquired some vicious enemies. I should know, I was there at the time.

I started by explaining that socially I do my best to behave as a gentleman, and this includes following a code that most would find high minded and altruistic. I’m unusual in that I don’t indulge in blood sports, finding them more akin to a massacre of innocents. After all, I’ve a great fondness for animals. I enjoy my post prandial brandy, swimming at my ridiculously cold outdoor swim club, and I have a love of languages and old books. I don’t get on with my family, but anyone who invites me to a house party will find me a congenial, charming and considerate guest. This is truly how I prefer to behave - except perhaps in my bedroom endeavours, where I might be flexible on the sin of adultery, and even then, I don’t seduce or deceive. Only willing, and preferably eager, partners for me.

However, when I’m acting for the Crown, I’ll lie, cheat, deceive and even murder an enemy agent without turning a hair. I can be cold, calculating, and utterly ruthless if that’s what is necessary to finish my mission.

In order to behave in such disparate ways, I don’t do anything as silly as try to divide psyche in half. No, I ascribe some, but not all, of each Fitzroy to either my life as a spy, or my life as gentleman. Admittedly, my life as a gentleman is very much the lesser as, other than Jack and, I suppose, Griffin, I’ve no other personal responsibilities. Thus, keeping the different sides of my life separate is not that hard. There’s no one I have to lie to on a regular basis. Either Griffin or Alice will be with me on a mission, or they know I’ll tell them what I can, and have the good sense not to probe any further.

Of course, there are some aspects that do need to bleed through into both lives. I observe constantly. I always know the exits from a room, and I size up every person up I meet as to whether they move as if they know how to fight (male and female - some of those suffragettes really know how their jujitsu!). It’s part of being a spy that means one cannot let one’s guard totally down, ever. Just because I’m off duty does not mean that a nemesis of mine is also off duty.

But when I’m on my own time, I don’t think about previous missions. I don’t think about the state of the world, or the knowledge I have of home and foreign affairs. I’m no more indispensable than any other agent. Granted, I’m better than most of them, and it might take a team of agents to replace my individual skill set, but that still doesn’t make me indispensable. When I’m not on duty, I am not on duty, and it’s someone’s else watch. Someone else will have to save the day, the world, or whatever annoying issue has recently arisen. This allows me to sit peacefully reading at my fireside with Jack at my feet, enjoying a cigar at my club, or pursuing more amorous adventures without distraction. In my line of work, it’s the only way to stay sane.

Now, Alice has a husband. She loves him, and he used to work for the Crown. That’s a horrible combination. She’ll want to be truthful with him, and worse still, he’ll know the right questions to ask about her missions. He also sees himself as her protector and wants her to stay safe. He, therefore, believes he has a right to ask a great many questions, none of which Alice can tell him the answers to. Since I accepted her as my full partner, we’ve undertaken missions so secret that if we’d been caught, we would have been disavowed. She cannot tell Bertram anything about these, and I know she won’t. This is not only because she holds her oath of service dear, but also because she doesn’t want to worry her beloved husband, who has rather a weak heart. Unfortunately, while she does not reveal information, she’s not yet able to fully dissemble in front of him. He’ll frequently know when she’s lying or omitting truths. This is not comfortable for their marriage.

Alice also has family, a mother, a brother, in-laws and, well, I’ve lost count of the people who form part of her life. She cannot tell any of them what she does. Instead, she must play the roles of wife, sister, aunt, and perhaps one day even mother.

When she’s not with me, she lives in the middle of nowhere in remote marshlands, and while we do speak on the telephone, I know she frets constantly when she’s away from the sort of serious situations that are opening up across the globe.

It would never occur to Alice to think she’s indispensable, but she does have a very, very strong ethic for ‘doing her bit’.

She needs to separate out the various aspects of her life. Who she is must be determined on where she is, and with whom. I don’t fear her letting something slip, she’s far too clever for that. But she is wont to fret and worry over what’s happening when she is in the Fens, and when she’s on a mission, it’s not unheard of for her to admit to worrying about Bertram.

This really won’t do. She has to compartmentalise her life and, like myself, learn that when she’s a spy, she’s a spy, and when she isn’t being a spy, she’s being an unusually observant and cautious individual, but she’s living a private life. If she can’t manage to separate these two properly, it’ll only cause her heartache, and much mental distress. I think, eventually, she’ll come to understand this, and will follow my lead in how we must both live.

As a gentleman, I do genuinely only wish the best for her, but as her partner in espionage, I need her to become a thorough professional, along with all that entails.

Over the years I’ve come to notice that people tend to have a part of themselves that is the centre of many afflictions. Take Bertram for example (please, do take him). Too much excitement, too much worry, and his heart goes a bit dicky. I used to know a chap who, the more worried he got, the more his right leg shook. Bit of a giveaway in tense situations.

Still, there’s a big difference between a ‘tell’ and the weakest part of one’s body. Almost all men will fiddle with their ties, or collar, when pushed or worried. They’ll fail to meet your eyes when they are lying. Some even have useful facial tics that tell you when they are under pressure - very useful when playing cards. These tells are natural aspects of one’s body, and one can be trained to observe them. One can also be trained not to display them, as I have. However, what cannot be trained out of one is an inherent physical weakness.

I’ve frequently had aspersions cast my way by both family and enemies (is there a difference? With a family like mine, I tend not to draw the line too distinctly). I’ve been accused of being passionate, hot-headed, idle, difficult, and promiscuous, to name but a few. I don’t actually mind any of these, except for ‘idle’. I’m never idle, but then, others aren’t generally aware of my occupation, and how hard I work for King and Country. I don’t tend to think of myself as promiscuous, but then compared to others in my life, Griffin for example, I’m a positive Casanova. Besides, I always take any negative reference to my sex life as jealousy over my success and general handsomeness.

My own Achilles Heel is migraines. These can come on mid-mission and are like having an invisible helmet clamped around my head, pressing down on it. It’s not a comfortable way of being and can continue for many hours. It makes me exceedingly grouchy.

I’ve tried the usual remedies, and none are effective. I believe they’re linked to how much pressure I’m under during a mission, or some other terrible situation, such as Christmas lunch with my family. Thankfully, these days I generally get to avoid that situation by going to White Orchards for the Christmas period (after all, the only reasonable excuse for not going home for Christmas is to be invited elsewhere).

One of the reasons I like working with Alice is that she makes me laugh. Laughter helps alleviate stress. Jack too, with his affection and companionship, calms me and I believe lessens my attacks. In my more charitable moments, I concede that by taking up some of the more annoying aspects of civilian life, such as cleaning, laundry, paying everyday bills, etc., Griffin does his part to remove some stress. I don’t include cooking in that list of helpful things as while he does do that, he still, and I do believe quite deliberately, makes me bad omelettes. What’s more, on a few occasions he’s committed a crime against steaks by overcooking them (any person who likes their steaks cooked more than medium-rare may as well eat shoe leather).

But there’s one kind of migraine I get that lays me low. It occurs when something truly dreadful has happened, if I’ve had to kill during a mission, or I learn of something that strikes me hard emotionally, and there’s nothing I can do about it, such a migraine may strike.

When it comes, it’s quite vile. It can literally strip me of my eyesight. Instead, all I see is multicoloured zig-zag lines dancing across my field of vision, and my head is lanced with  a sharp pain. It’s never happened during a mission. I rarely get such attacks - once or twice a year, but they are completely disarming.

Both Alice and Griffin have seen them. All I can do is lie in a darkened room and wait for the storm to pass. Jack’s company, lying on the bed with me, is most welcome. Of course, Alice’s company does too if she is here. Griffin, not so much. He can never resist giving me long, complex, medical descriptions of why the attack has happened, and tell me that all I need to do is relax when, in actual fact, it just makes me want to punch him in the face until he goes away.

Above all else, I must keep the attacks a secret from the department. I would be taken off field work at once if anyone knew. Alice will never reveal my secret, and I hope that with her and Jack’s help, my headaches will eventually lessen to the point that they disappear altogether.

Unlike Griffin. Griffin will likely never disappear. Sigh.

The bloody nerve of my so-called superiors. I didn’t check in immediately after I’d finished a mission, and everyone got very upset. I’ve a damn good track record, and I’d been working back-to-back missions for months. I’m aware there’s a war on, but even the troops at the front (poor sods) get relief rotation every couple of weeks. Obviously, my kind of work is nowhere near as challenging as coming under fire from ordinance day and night and living in rat-infested trenches. What they undergo is horrific (I know, I’ve visited the front lines more than once). Nevertheless, constantly risking your life is wearing, even in my field.

I won’t get to hear shells closing in on my position, or catch glimpses of enemy soldiers, briefly illuminated by an overhead flare, as they approach across No Man’s Land. No, death will likely take me swiftly and I won’t hear or see it coming. I’ll be here one minute and gone the next.

I’m not afraid of the end, never have been, but even I have my limits. Having to be on one’s guard twenty-four hours a day, coming up with fiendish tricks and cunning strategies to outwit and outplay my enemy counterparts is just plain tiring.

That’s why, after several months’ worth of relentless missions, and following a rather large success, I choose to take forty-eight hours out in the arms of a charming brunette of dubious moral standing, but startling imagination and agility.

Now that I’m back, I can sit down and relax by my fireside with my snoring dog at my feet. I don’t get to do it often, but it’s a requirement to keep a mind even as robust as mine sane.

How should I refer to it? Recreation and rest? That’s what’s required before heading back into the thick of it, and it’s about time those bounders at the department realise that forty-eight hours is not AWOL, it’s a most necessary period of recuperation.

Although, truth be told, I could do with another day off just to recover from the brunette. She was delightfully exhausting.

Occasionally people will comment that I have a large or robust personality. This is normally when I’m playing an overblown character, or encouraging people to do something risky, yet necessary. The rest of the time, I’m fairly quiet in my demeanour. I spend a lot of time thinking, analysing, and above all, watching - as is required in my particular vocation. Despite this, those who know me best do sometimes remark on how my personality can still fill up a room, even before I speak.

I’ve been thinking about this, after all, my ability to fade into the background is a vital skill. In my early days of service to the Crown there was very little training and frequently no support on missions. This meant one relied on one’s wits, and more often than not, luck. This, combined with a sort of hell for leather attitude - the kind that will get you up a snowy mountain wearing plus fours - was all that kept you alive.

If I think back over the scrapes I’ve got into in my younger days, my derring-do times if you will, it’s quite remarkable that I’ve survived to reach thirty.

The thing is, when you’ve done the impossible, wrestled with the odds and survived, you become acutely aware of all that you’re capable of doing. So very few people come close to testing the limits of their abilities in their normal lives. I’ve stretched myself to the point of almost destruction and I’m aware that my physical frame and mental agility have achieved some remarkable triumphs in my life.

However, almost as important, I think about the times when I’ve failed. I don’t tend to mention these, but they have happened. There have been times when these failures were personally devastating - like the time I was unable to protect my first wife. These might be considered trial-by-fire times, which I’ve always got through. I may have been burned, even brought to my knees, but I’ve always got up again. I have always gone on, and in going on, I’ve come to find both career satisfaction and moments of personal happiness.

All in all, I’m saying that it’s not only my triumphs that have made me the man I am, but also my failures. I’ve built on the back of every single one. I’ve faced down my morality, and the mortality of those whom I have valued. I know that time is limited and while I choose to serve the crown, in my free time, I choose to live in such a way that I feel I’ve truly lived.

If this makes my personality seems larger than most, then so be it, but I shall, to my very last breath, kept on doing the near impossible.

My attention was drawn to a corpse discovered in a bombed-out building last night. I won’t go into detail, except to say that identifying the body had to be done circumstantially. There are no useful features left intact on the poor man although, rather inexplicably, his wristwatch, a rather fine Patek Philippe, and his spectacles in his inner pocket, remained intact.

At the beginning of this debacle, I would’ve been wary of such useful objects of identification, but having been blown up twice - once mildly, and once with the loss of my companion - I’ve come to understand that bomb blasts in civilian areas are complex. Clearly, there’s physics behind it all, and rational explanations, but to the untrained eye, it often looks illogical and bizarre.

If you walk among bomb sites, you’ll see homes cut in half by a blast. One half would be a blackened mess of rubble covering shattered possessions, and worst of all, the remains of the people who lived there. Bizarrely, the other half would be intact. I’m not simply talking about pictures still hanging upon walls. I’ve witnessed a scene, three floors up, where half a dining room remained. The chairs, on one side of the table, had been blown away, but an intact vase of flowers, and a partially eaten meal, still sat on the table, as if waiting for the occupants to return.

If the watch and glasses indicate this is indeed the man that I think he might have been, then he was one of my foremost counter-intelligence officers. His loss to my section is extreme.

The officer in question has only been unaccountable for a single day so far, and with the chaos that reigns in the city, this is not unheard of. Yet, I must determine if he died in last night’s blitz, or worse yet, was murdered during the blackout and left for dead.

Although it’s kept out of the news, for fear of the effect it would have on morale, robberies, assaults, and murders have become increasingly common. The apprehension that any moment may be our last appears to have tipped those living on the criminal fringes of society over the edge, resulting in more opportunism and desperate, self-serving behaviour.

Almost anything can be covered up in the chaotic aftermath of a bombing raid. My own people have become adept in hiding things that need to be hidden in this way. I’m not unaware of the irony of what may have happened to my agent.

Unfortunately, he had a wife, and I will have to decide when, or even if, I tell her that he’s missing. I certainly have no intention of announcing his demise anything time soon. No, I must gather my people and task others with continuing his mission. I cannot take the chance of waiting for him to surface; the matter is time critical. Though, in light of what has happened - or may have happened - I’ll advise my agents to use more than the usual level of caution, and not to shy away from lethal response.

War on the battlefield is a dirty enough game, but war on civilians is, to my mind, unconscionable. Using a war as cover for treasonous acts against Crown and Country is punishable with execution, and so I instruct my agents, what is sauce for the goose, is also sauce for the gander.

Still, all these thoughts of mortality and the future have reminded me, I simply must find the time to take Alice out to dinner. I’ve been looking forward to a good meal at the Ritz, followed by a dance. I am, after all, an exceptionally good dancer, and in these dark times, it’s good to engage in things that remind us we are alive.

I was sitting in a comfortable wingback chair, quietly sipping a brandy in my club a few weeks back. I’d dined on a particular fine steak and was listening to the other gentlemen talking. I was in state of profound contentment; sated, peaceful, relatively unobserved, and casually taking in a great deal of overheard intelligence.

Don’t ever let it be said that only ladies gossip. Old boys, entrenched in their lair, will gossip just as well as any fishwife. Of course, for the most part, they regard this as exchanging business news. Also, egos are in play, and more than once I’ve gathered vital information because someone felt it necessity to loudly boast about their accomplishments.

I rather imagine civil servants do exactly the same in their own clubs – except, for some strange reason, I always imagine them knitting, and drinking tea, rather than enjoying the brandy and cigars of my own club. Alice tells me that her club is full of ladies debating the latest and most provocative issues of the day. I’m quite sure I would prefer her club to mine.

I was almost dozing under the influence of supper when I heard the name Emelia Fitzgerald. My ears perked up as I’d heard this name whispered in my own circles. It seems that a rather wealthy young widow has appeared on the social scene. She doesn’t seem connected to anyone important yet has managed to get a number of invitations from society hostesses.

Generally, such happenings would not draw my department’s attention, but this is almost unheard of.  She speaks with a voice that’s been trained to fit in with the best of the best, but it’s not her natural accent. It’s been well done, and very few people, except outstanding linguists such as myself, would ever really notice. It suggests she’s not what she purports to be: a genuine British lady.

However, she was under observation for a while - not by me - and it was determined that she appeared to be quite harmless. But then, my colleagues are always far too willing to write off the fairer sex as insignificant.

It’s been on my list of things to do, to seek her out and ascertain the truth, but it’s hardly a priority. It would be quite something if our enemies could, or even would, insert an unknown woman right into the heart of the upper echelons of British society. It makes much more sense, and is far less conspicuous, to recruit someone who already has connections.

Anyway, I heard some old duffer moaning about ‘that Fitzgerald woman’ as she’s apparently got herself betrothed to one of our more eligible bachelors. The biggest issue is that this bachelor is but a callow youth, and Emelia Fitzgerald is at least ten years his senior. Such things do happen, of course, but women generally lie about their age, and we generally have the decently to pretend to believe them. Her betrothed is hardly out of school, and she is clearly a woman of the world.

I can fully understand how such a young man could become besotted with an experienced, and presumably attractive, older woman, but for his relatives not to be vocally outspoken against such a match is nothing short of remarkable.

I can’t exactly claim that this is vital to the business of the Crown, but I’m intrigued. I may have to move Mrs Fitzgerald up my list of things - or people - to do.

I’m an old school spy. I come from an era when spycraft entailed intense action. This could be anything from being on the wrong end of someone else’s knife to finding myself in a lady’s bedchamber (and, on the rarest of occasions, both at the same time). I’ve fallen off things, through things, and even been shot. In the field, I had to be entirely self-reliant, using nothing but my wits and my guile to survive and get the job done.

Modern spying is an entirely different endeavour. For one thing, there are so many more spies now. You can barely move in Whitehall without bumping into crowds of them, analysing, planning, and concocting the most outlandish schemes. Now it’s all about watching and waiting, passing information up the chain of command, and waiting patiently to hear back.

Don’t get me wrong, I fully support the process of gathering intelligence, as rash and foolhardy action is more than likely to fail, but with a powerful enemy like Hitler’s Germany, it’s imperative that we act. We need to keep the enemy on their toes, seeking out weaknesses so we can impose surgical strikes. If we do our job properly, one of those will eventually be the killing blow.

So why is it that every time I ask my goddaughter to undertake a mission, she comes back with yet more injuries? I give her important work as a testament to her skills and talents, but I also give her work that’s unlikely to lead her into direct action (her mother would see me dead several times over if I deliberately put her in harm’s way).

I realise we must all do our bit, and my shielding of Hope is minimal, so I use her where I feel she can best achieve results. However, does she report back to me as frequently as I’d like? No, she does not. She’ll watch and wait, as instructed, then dive headlong into peril, coming out bloodied (I loathe to admit this, but her approach is usually quite successful).

Fortunately, Alice has enough security clearance that she can read the reports, and therefore does not entirely blame me for her daughter’s recklessness. However, it cannot be ignored that I conducted most of her training. I’d thought her a quiet, observant, and highly intelligent girl. She’s all that, of course, but now that I’ve let her off the leash, she’s proving to be something of a termagant, playing the long game one moment then exploding into action the next.

It’s almost as if she combines the very worst of her mother and me. Oh, hell.

It’s sometimes my duty not to think like an English Gentleman. I admit, I may be less inhibited in my philosophy when it comes to the fairer sex, and the arts of the bedchamber, but this isn’t, for once, what I’m referring to.

I believe that, generally, subjects of the British empire who encounter me will find me to be a genial sort of chap. However, I’m the kind of man who can contemplate the foulest things. I think about murder, mayhem, plots, and assassinations. I’m the kind of man who can slit the throat of a guard during a mission, quietly, skilfully, and without emotional response. Yes, that’s part and parcel of my training (and my duty) but only certain people can be trained to behave like this. Those who know me as well as Euphemia (or perhaps not quite as well) know that I try do everything in my power to prevent the taking of a life, human or animal. Perhaps I am slightly more conscious of this when it comes to animals, after all, they are innocent, and what grown man can truly say that of himself? Regardless, I know that I’ve killed people that others will have loved, and I take no pride in that at all.

No, I find I must consider the most vulgar and dastardly plots for reasons beyond how to fulfil my own missions. We are a proud and wealthy empire that others look upon with jealous eyes.

The greatest mistake the intelligence services of the British Empire make are always - always - thinking that enemy will behave like an English gentleman would. This is the very worst of both hubris and stupidity. Others will simply not act like we might in their place for they are not us. They have different backgrounds, cultures, customs, experiences, and above all, motivations. Sometimes their way of thinking may feel quite alien to us, sometimes quite abhorrent.

There are those who become desperate, who are prepared to risk all because they have nothing to lose. There are those who become indoctrinated in fanatical political ideologies. In such circumstances, a man, or a country, may contemplate the most hideous of schemes, even ones that may end in the destruction of many of their own. When an enemy considers their current position untenable, then all bets are off. You must be prepared for them to do the unthinkable, and it’s my job to think those unthinkable thoughts.

If you want to predict someone’s actions (this goes for countries as well as individuals), you must be able to put yourselves in their shoes and think like them. I don’t know whether I should be proud or fearful that I excel in doing this.

I don’t like money. I like what you can do with money, but I don’t like the way it changes people.

I grew up thinking I would be always dependent on my father, and so determined to study languages (at which I am magnificently proficient). I only had the vaguest idea of earning a living through doing something with them. At the time I had no idea what exactly, but everyone else I knew was such a dunderhead at foreign dialects, I was sure I could find a position somewhere. Of course, my father, being of the nobility, would have been horrified at me working like a common person. This, I think, was the part that appealed most to me.

I’ve never had any wish to call another man master (nor have I ever had a wish for anybody else to refer to me as such). I’m happy to be guided in the ways of knowledge or skills, but I’ve never needed anyone to lead me around by the nose (a common occurrence among young males of the aristocracy, who tend not to have indulged their brains too much in the vulgar habit of thought).

But then, as I was on the cusp of my academic career, I was informed that my mother, who I thought had ploughed all her money into our family estate, had left her dowry exclusively to me upon her death. Suddenly, I was a young man of means, and everyone wanted to be my friend. I’d gone from being the youngest, and therefore least interesting, scion of a noble house to a man of importance, all because I had money - and oodles of it.

For those who lack it, money doubtless seems like the answer to all one’s prayers, but as someone who went from none to quite a lot, I witnessed at a young age the effect of avarice on the people around me. It makes absolutely no difference to my intelligence, nor to my character, as to how much money I have in the bank, and yet it makes all the difference in the world of polite society. Invitations and advances alike positively showered down on me when my good fortune became known.

Money gave me freedom, and I am grateful to my mother for that, but it also gave me many false friends. Fortunately, already being a student of human nature, I saw through them all. In fact, the only positive thing I can say about my father is that he despised me just as much as when I had money as when I didn’t.

Instead of gathering new ‘friends’ to my bosom, and living an idle life, I set out to work for the crown. The King, of course, made my wealth look like a pittance, and I rather liked that. With my money I paid people who earned their keep in a fair trade for skills, knowledgable advice and eventually property, of which I have built up a rather nice portfolio.

As I’ve worked for King and Country, so I’ve also worked hard at building my resources. I never wish to be dependent on another person, as I was on my father. I think of my money as working capital. It’s out there doing things, not sitting in a bank mouldering. And, of course, when I’m home, I don’t stint on anything that pleases me.

Yet, for all the wealth I have obtained, it cannot gain me my heart’s desire. In almost all ways I am a successful gentleman, handsome, intelligent and with little out of my reach. I have never known poverty, but as someone who knows wealth, I can sincerely say that it’s rare that money improves a person. In general, it does entirely the opposite, and in the ways of true love and heart’s desire, money is utterly useless.

Hope Stapleford embarks on her third thrilling adventure...

It is 1940 and, as the Battle of Britain takes to the air, Hope Stapleford is recruited to join the Special Operations Executive. In the nick of time, spymaster Fitzroy intercepts; she is his intelligence operative after all, and he wants to send her to a Scottish airfield where Harvey is already stationed undercover as a mechanic.

At the airbase, Hope and Harvey find a community in turmoil. Pilots talk of strange sightings in the air and local mechanics report mysterious scratches appearing on the wings and fuselage of the aircraft. Is this a case of homegrown sabotage or something more sinister? And why has Cole, an old colleague of Fitzroy's, suddenly appeared? Glowing orbs, grieving mothers and the legacy of dead German pilots are only some of the challenges Hope must face to complete her latest mission...

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The first time Griffin was tasked with sending off my laundry, he was rather taken aback that all of my more intimate apparel is made of pure silk. Well, almost all. When I began my career, I did my fair share of travelling to exotic locations and this led to my love of silk.

I’ve no intention of explaining any this to him, any more than why, in the recent heatwave, I’ve been going around drawing curtains or closing shutters, and not marvelling at the gloriously blue skies, like so many other inhabitants of these fair isles. Being naturally red headed (despite dying my locks a darker colour) I’ve quite a pale skin, and so am prone to both sunburn and, worst of all, freckling.

I don’t like the heat. I learnt some time ago that the best action to take in extremely hot weather is to avoid the outside world. A great deal of heat enters a house through the windows. Closing curtains and shutters doesn’t make a house stuffy, as common ‘wisdom’ dictates, but rather helps to keep the interior cool.

In very hot climates, people often immerse their extremities (i.e., their hands and feet) in cold water, which draws heat away from their core. Cold, damp towels around the nape of the neck are bliss (and, if you’re alone, ice cubes wrapped in a damp cloth and placed under the armpits has quite a miraculous effect). Bowls of ice placed in front of an electric fan makes the air they waft much cooler.

Despite any temptation that one may have to maintain a reserved and gentlemanly appearance, forget stiff collars, and dark suits. Wear only loose fitting linen in pale colours, and brimmed hats to keep the sun off your face.

Of course, under no circumstances should ladies be expected wear restrictive corsets in extreme temperatures, and as a gentleman, I feel it is imperative to help consenting ladies out of these as quickly as possible. Then, once a state of undress has been achieved, it is a sensible precaution to retire to the confines of a shady boudoir where there is a bed for them to lie upon, should they feel they might be in imminent danger of being overcome by the heat.

However, and I cannot stress this highly enough, such is not the time for vigorous lovemaking. Quite the contrary. The subtle, slow, and caressing techniques of the Kama Sutra should be employed in the hotter parts of the Empire, especially between the hours of 11 a.m. and 3 p.m. (which, rather conveniently, is also when their husbands tend to be away at work, sweating in their offices).

To maintain one’s strength, one should drink continually, albeit slowly. Milk or orange juice is better than water (which is often of dubious quality when abroad). Eat lightly to fortify yourself. Spicy food has the effect of cooling one down as it promotes sweating. Likewise warm drinks such as tea - the very lifeblood of the British Empire - are helpful, but take them with milk, not lemon (unbearably common, I know, but what’s one to do?).

One of the essential skills for a field agent is the ability to put yourself in another’s shoes. Now, this can be because you’re pretending to be someone else, and to do a convincing impersonation, you need to act and, above all, think as they do.

It also refers to those times you observe a reaction from someone else and need to interpret it correctly. Don’t ever assume that the reactions of someone else are the same as they would be for you. For example, if said person smiles at another person, it would be erroneous to think they are doing so because they like them. It could well be that they despise this person and have prepared a well laid plan for their demise (certainly, a known foe smiling at me has never boded well). This is all rather a straightforward matter.

However, when it comes time for analysts to consider what an enemy, or at least a less friendly nation, might do, it’s all too common for them to judge on the basis of British standards. There is an unconscious bias towards the British way of thinking. Why should another nation think like the British? As an example, and one that reveals no tactical secrets, the British are well known as a nation of animal lovers. We adore our pets (and rightly so). Does this mean that all peoples, and all nations also love their pets as much as we do? Or course not. The idea is ridiculous.

Why then do analysts, looking at the world stage, and even military strategists, struggle to see beyond their own way of being? What one nation might do depends not only on its government, but its culture, its place (literally) in the world, its key figures, and its place (wealth and status) on the world stage. Britain is a powerful and rich Empire. We can afford to act with intelligence, dignity and even mercy (at times). Why should we consider that a desperate and impoverished nation might act the same way? Why would we ascribe to a leader, who is a known madman, the same preciseness of thought as our own leaders?

Alice has never fallen into these common traps. Leaving aside her natural intelligence (and the brilliance of her trainer), I suspect that women make the best analysts, and we really should employ more.  Not only are they capable of conceiving of more complex motivations (and, my God, can women be complex!), but I suspect they spend their lives trying to understand, predict and even circumvent the actions of men. In this patriarchy, women have so little power and influence that they must, perforce, live in a hostile world, ruled by the way a man thinks and acts, and if they wish to have any independence or influence, then they must fully understand their opposition. This constant requirement does, I believe, make them the best natural analysts. It also proves that, on the whole, my gender is quite despicable (myself excluded, of course).

Ah well, I do my best to alleviate the suffering of the women I encounter (in oh so many ways). I also, by the by, will continue to attempt to convince my department to bring more and more women into the fold.

I sometimes ask myself what the point in getting out of bed in the morning is. I may be committed to serving Crown and Country, and all that entails, but I know that this is an employment that goes well beyond my lifetime. It’s endless work. Others will pick up the baton after me. There are times, especially in 1939, when one wonders if there has been any point to anything that one has done.

Espionage is a King Canute sort of a game. You are constantly telling the tide to turn back - or so it seems. When you spend the majority of your life dealing with enemy agents who regard you as the Devil’s own spawn, and you come see them in similar terms, it becomes all too easy to fall into a twilight world of paranoia and corruption. I have seen it happen to colleagues. It becomes impossible to believe that anyone, civilians included, is not acting on behalf of some nefarious plot, or attempting to betray you.

Let’s also bear in mind that people who are drawn to the world of espionage, and who thrive in it, are natural liars, deceivers, and often self-motivated. We all know this, and we all distrust each other to some extent.

In my world, even spies doubt the reliability of other spies. Don’t get me started on the mass corruption and desertion of duty that happened in Ireland between the wars. I managed to avoid all that, mainly because I refused to go (I have nothing against Ireland, or the Irish, but Alice was having a difficult pregnancy, and I wanted to be near her, so I made up reasons to be elsewhere).

Viewed from a distance, it’s not an appealing life. I therefore have a few reasons I keep in mind when I come to find myself wondering why I should get out of bed…

1.     There are always ladies to be wooed

2.     There may be marmalade for breakfast

3.     The weather looks good, and I am ever so fond of a stroll outdoors

4.     I am very good looking and often draw admiring glances (see point 1)

5.     I can choose to have an excellent dinner, accompanied by an excellent wine

6.     If I want excellent dinners and wines, I need to train and exercise my body, or I will become too portly to woo the fairer sex (see points 1, 3, 4, and 5)

When I acquired Jack, I got further motivation to remove myself from bed. There is little that cheers one out of a depressed state of mind first thing in the morning than being greeted by a dog who is delighted to see you. In fact, the observation of a happy dog is one of my main motivators.

Of course, on a day when I am seeing Alice, I need no further motivation to rise.

I opened the door just as the pitter-pattering steps stopped. Hope, aged four, looked up at me and, grinning, said she had come to welcome me home. We both knew that she had sneaked up in the hope of getting into the converted attic rooms at White Orchards that had become my own. Alice had decided that as a frequent visitor she might as well convert part of the unused attic space for me. It meant that my sudden arrivals and departures provided much less upheaval for the household, e.g., an extra place at the dining table being far less unsettling than the sudden demand for a room to be made ready. It also allowed me to leave clothes, books, and even a dog basket for Jack there, so I could simply jump on a train, or in the car, and arrive without needing to pack, or having Griffin pack if I happened to have him with me.

Ever since these attic rooms have been mine, Hope has been desperately trying to get in to see them, despite it being strictly forbidden. On this occasion the door had been left unlocked, entirely my own fault, but she’d got barely a glimpse past me before I took her firmly by the hand and led her downstairs, all the while protesting that she only wanted to see my ‘home’.

I explained that it wasn’t my home - and got no further before she demanded to know where my actual home was. It was a good question. I’ve used a London flat for some years and have made it comfortable. I can relax there, but I cannot say I think of it as ‘home’.  Not that long ago I bought a small estate in the country. Not the sort of place where one might invite friends for the weekend, but rather nice, with two home farms, and some acres for cattle. If I had a family, I suppose it would be a pleasant base for them. For me though it was an investment that went beyond the few London properties that I own.

I suppose growing up in a castle, regardless of however one might not get on with one’s father, still conveys rather a lot of demands on what might be considered a ‘home’. A home, for me, must always be surrounded by countryside, but for a home for me to feel truly at ease, it must have several feet of thick stone external walls (there must be something feudal in my blood).

When I’m sent on missions that involve staying in Great Houses, I feel quite at home. High ceilings, hot and cold running servants, and rooms that make the average baby grand piano look like a footstool.

It’s a world of unfair privilege, and after the Great War, it’s one that’s fading. This, I truly believe, is only right. I’m no communist, but that some should have so much while others have so little, especially the frequently maimed returning heroes of the war that one might find begging on a street corner, is both morally and societally repugnant.

Yet, I cannot forget my youthful delight of running along the corridors of my family’s castle, and the sheer joy that the place could bring me. But I enjoyed it only with the ignorance of childhood. Back then I had no understanding of class privilege, or the hard lives of many of the servants. Fortunately, despite the Great War, I am so far down the line of inheritance that it will never fall to me to decide what should become of the old place.

Home, I told Hope, is where the people you love reside - and it makes not one jot of difference if that place be a hovel or a mansion. She beamed up at me with childish joy and said, see Godfather, you ARE home!

I can’t say that I ever get bored. I excel in amusing myself, although, I will admit, this can sometimes be at others’ expense. While I might not get depressed, my mood can certainly be lowered by the sheer dullness of people.

The point of being a spy is to spy on other people and their activities, so to some extent I remove myself from the spheres of interaction. Yet, there must always be those occasions when rumours, truths, or hidden plans can only be uncovered by venturing forth into the social realm.

As soon as one enters that arena, regardless of motivation, one encounters jealousy, betrayal, lust, pettiness, anger, and self-pity - and that’s just the servants! Their masters are an nth degree higher, their self-aggrandisement leading them to believe their schemes are ingenious and totally impenetrable. Ha, about as impenetrable to me as their neglected wives and mistresses.

Society men, I despair for you. Your machinations are oh so predictable. As I watch you gather in your little cliques in ballrooms up and down the country - heads of state, senior civil servants, and captains of industry, you form the very same groups that you did at school.

Why, you even use the same nicknames among these hierarchies, which is why a very senior politician, whose real name I won’t divulge, but which will come as no surprise, is known to his friends as ‘Sticky Biscuit’. A senior navy man, of this country, goes by the nickname ‘The Rear Admiral’ among his friends (and it has nothing to do with his rank).

Of course, only the most unscrupulous of men would take advantage of such knowledge, sending embarrassing messages out to these individuals through Times personal columns, and reeking havoc among the upper classes.

No, I can’t say that I am ever bored.

I like to make it look as if I’m a master strategist, that I am an enigmatic, highly intelligent gentleman who is always in control of everything. Sadly, there are many things out of my control.

I cannot stop my dog from chasing swans. I cannot stop the heavens from suddenly raining down on me while I’m out in my best linen suit on what had promised to be the finest of days. I could not foresee that Euphemia marrying Bertram would cause so many difficulties and force me to make more and more adjustment to a lifestyle with which I was previously more than content.

And I still cannot get Griffin to make me a decent omelette, although I now know that he’s more than capable of doing so. This very day I pretended I’d gone out and hid in my bedroom - that a grown man should be reduced to such things - and waited until Euphemia had asked for a breakfast omelette. Jack had followed me and thought this a great game. With regret, I had to sacrifice one of my third best pairs of shoes to keep him quiet. I’m tempted to take it out of Griffin’s wages.

Euphemia had told me more than once that Griffin makes her the most excellent omelettes.  Once I judged that he had had sufficient time to have made one, I erupted from my hiding place and stole a forkful of her omelette. It was lighter than a cloud and flavoured with a gorgeous cheese that I didn’t even know was in my pantry (If I had, I’d have already consumed it with some rather excellent port that I have been keeping).

I called Griffin out on his deception, and he claimed it was pure chance that this particular eggy concoction had turned out so well. I appealed to Euphemia, who smiled cheekily at us both, and said she knew better than to get between a man and his master. Besides, she said, poor Jack needed a walk. On hearing this, my dog ran to fetch his lead, a trick I had taught him to do, and he hastened out of the door with Euphemia.

Bah! Betrayed by my nearest and dearest!

I’ve always tried to keep my affliction secret, and for the most part I’ve been able to do so. Griffin has proved to be a blessing and a curse. He’s almost always an annoyance, but when I’m afflicted, he’s most useful. That he knows about my affliction at all is a source of great worry for me. Not even Alice knows, at least, not so far.

The headaches began on the first anniversary of my mother’s death. I awoke at school and found that sight was missing from my right eye. Instead, there appeared a crazy mishmash of brightly coloured lights and jagged lines. Being an adventurous child, I wasn’t afraid, but rather intrigued. Boarding school being what it is, I didn’t mention it to my peers, but rather relied on my one good eye to see me through.

However, as the day progressed, my head became sorer and sorer to the point that it really was quite debilitating. I mentioned this to one master, who promptly poo-pooed the idea that ‘a healthy lad could be discomposed by anything as feminine as a headache’. Later, when I vomited on his shoes, he revised his opinion. Thus began my trips to the nurse’s room where I lay in the dark, quite unable to bear sunlight, until the headaches had passed. These lasted anywhere between one and two days. Despite keeping some of my symptoms to myself, like the visual disturbances, the nurse diagnosed my condition as being a migraine.

I worked out for myself the overriding causes; the anniversary of mother’s death, the news that my cat at home had died, the sudden death of a school friend. Great loss, or the memory of loss, caused me stress and brought on these attacks.

Now I’m a fully grown man, the attacks strike me after difficult missions during which I’ve had occasion to terminate an enemy or, more recently, when the mission has taken a serious toll on Alice, especially when I feel I should’ve foreseen events.

I’ve never had an attack during a mission. I put this down to my iron will. They usually come when I’m at home, and before Griffin, when I was alone. While Griffin is of considerable help, it troubles me that he knows of my affliction. Should the service ever discover it, despite being among the very best of them, they’d pull me from the field at once. They’d think that it’s always possible I could be overcome during a mission and that makes me an unacceptable liability.

I’d trust Alice with my secret, but I don’t wish to compromise her. Between Griffin and I, it is understood that should he reveal my weakness, things would not go well for him. Although, being a medical man, he did once mention he thought it unlikely that I’d have an attack while working. He muttered something about only becoming ill when I allowed myself to relax.

Strangely, Jack helps. He sleeps on my bed when my head is at its sorest, and I find the time I take to recover is lessened by his presence. If things were different, I might try to persuade Alice to lie next to me and see if she could shorten my indisposition further. But, alas, that is not an option.

When I must, I can be quite the raconteur and Bon Vivant. I daresay there are a fair number of people out there who consider me their friend, and while I have made it on to their Christmas card list, they have not made it on to mine. Fortunately, bachelors are known for forgetting such festival trivialities and everyone thinks I would have sent them a card if I had been organised enough. Poor old Fitzroy, they say to one another, he needs a good woman to sort him out. I most definitely do not. If I’d liked them enough to have sent a card, I would have done so. I’m an army man, and extremely organised in both my professional and my social life. I also have Griffin, and Alice, whose attention to detail would allow her to spot a smudge on the face of one of those angels who dance on the end of pins (such an odd thing for an angelic being to do.)

Look, all I’m saying is that I could have friends if I wanted them, but I don’t. Yes, I was utterly wrong about letting Alice into my life. She has brought me nothing but amusement and aide. I should have let her in ages ago. Mind you, it’s not been quite as good for her.

I did have a friend once, an excellent friend. A man named Woolsey. We met during my early days on an advanced training course. We barely knew what we were letting ourselves in for, but we were all about God, King, and Country.

I’ve mentioned attrition before. Woolsey and I were convinced the majority of our training cohort weren’t going to last very long. The other chaps were all cricketers, by which I mean they wouldn’t do anything that wasn’t cricket. Woolsey and I were prepared to scheme, confuse, betray, seduce, and lie through our teeth to get the job done. Needless to say, our instructors had high hopes for us.

Then, when Rose died, Woolsey took me out and got me very drunk. Strangely, it did help. The man knew me better than I knew myself. We shared a love of horses and the country, and although we were both excellent shots, neither of us killed for sport. We shared a love of literature, and of the fairer sex. He was a good bloke all round, and there was none finer at talking the hind legs off a donkey, while simultaneously picking your pocket and running off with your wife.

He made me laugh. I trusted him.

Then, three weeks out of training, the blighter went and got himself shot dead. Picked off by a police sniper during a raid while playing the part of an international gang leader. Various people were at fault, and I made it my business to see they never worked in the service again. But that didn’t help. He was gone.

It’s not worth having friends in my line. The only ones you can really have are fellow spies. After all, only your brothers-in-espionage will ever have a hope of understanding you. Life expectancy in the field is not long. I beat the odds, and continue to do so, but other than Alice and Jack, who I can protect, I will have no one else in my life. Ever.

I was relaxing, for once, on a Monday afternoon, with the sun shining through the window and my dog at my feet. The window was open, and I could make out the sounds of other people working off in the distance. How very soothing it was.

I had my feet up and a glass of rather excellent gin and tonic in my hand. Those that know me understand that I rarely drink spirits, with the exception of a nocturnal brandy (for medicinal purposes only).

Summer was nearly upon us, and despite the generally dustiness of London, there was a floral scent in the air. Apple and cherry blossoms abounded. The fragrances gently tickled my nose, reminding me of close friends who wore similar perfumes.

I’d promised to attend the wedding of an old flame in two days time, and I turned my mind to the knotty problem of whether or not I should ask another lady to escort me. I pondered on whether the bride might find it flattering if I turned up by myself, suggesting that there were few, if any, women who could replace her. It might even do in lieu of a present (I never know what to buy people on such occasions).

Then the wretched telephone rang. That telephone - the secure line - which generally only rings when something serious is afoot, and I am needed. I leapt to my feet, startling the dog, and sloshing some of my drink onto the floor. Striding to the telephone, I grabbed the receiver and barked my code name down it, only for Alice to respond, telling me not to yell at her and asking if I was having a pleasant afternoon! I explained, somewhat testily, that I had indeed been having a pleasant afternoon – at least, until she had disturbed me.

That she had not begun the conversation with some urgent mission briefing assured me that all was well, and that Crown and Country were not in immediate danger. Perhaps, then, this was a personal issue? I kept a loud sigh buried deep within and enquired, as courteously as any gentleman who has been torn away from a moment of idyllic rest can, if anything was wrong.

She responded in the affirmative and elaborated further.

Counting to ten as a means of quashing rising irritation has never worked for me, so I didn’t even try. Instead, I answered far more snappily than she deserved, bluntly asking why I should help? The person in trouble, to whom Alice was referring, has absolutely nothing to do with me, and does not, in any way, concern the Crown. Alice then pointed out that it concerned her, and that she’d rather hoped I would help her out as a friend. A very dear friend. I had no reason to capitulate, but Alice never asks me for favours. Never. So, when she does, it’s clear that she is not asking for herself, but for someone else.

To cut a long story short, Richenda, her husband’s sister, has an adopted teenage daughter, Amy, who had run away to London and got herself arrested. Alice, being at White Orchards, and some distance from London, asked if I could go and exert my influence to get Amy released.

Honestly, I couldn’t have cared less. However, it was clear that Richenda cared, which meant that Bertram cared, which, in turn, meant Alice cared. Families really are quite bothersome. Things would be so much easier if it were just Alice and I.

Alice, not giving up, pointed out that Amy is practically a child and I retorted that she sounded like an intractable termagant, doubtless a skill she had picked up from Richenda, and I was sure that she’d be holding her own with any minor officials of the law. Still, my peace had been irrevocably shattered, and my drink spilt, so with a great deal of reluctance, I acquiesced (but not without informing Alice as to just how much I was put out by having to deal with this).

I assumed that Amy had made her way to London to attend some suffragette march, inspired by her adopted mother’s vigour for such causes. While I, personally, have sympathy for them, and what they’re fighting for, it’s nigh impossible to convince the current Prime Minister. Winning a war is always about choosing your battles, and the timing of them, and I felt they’d got that wrong.

Anyway, I travelled to the police station, as directed by Alice, and found that Amy had been detained for being disorderly in the street. Somewhat shocked, I pressed the issue, and was told that the girl had been found in a state of inebriation. I objected strongly, informing them how unlikely this was, given that the poor girl must be…oh, I don’t know…thirteen, fourteen at most?

Keen to avoid this matter dragging on, I did as I had been requested and exerted my influence. This involved making several difficult telephone calls and the cashing in of at least one favour that I’d hoped to save for a quite different purpose. In the end I got my way and was led through to the cells.

I was quite taken aback when I was led to a particular cell where I was confronted with a flame-haired beauty! Granted, her hair was bedraggled, her clothing askew, and her face smeared with dirt, but despite this, her visage was of someone far more mature, and far womanlier, than I had expected (I subsequently came to learn that nobody was sure of her true age, given the difficult circumstances behind her adoption).

I ended up taking her back to my flat so she could bathe, and I sent Griffin out to acquire new clothing for her. Jack hated her on sight and had to be shut in the kitchen, where he continued to bark ferociously. Amy expected me to scold her, and when I said it was none of my concern what she did with herself, and that I merely collected her as a favour, blow me if she didn’t do her best to seduce me!

I was having none of it and I sent her packing, with Griffin as an unwilling escort, via the next train. Neither of her adoptive parents have ever been of the least interest to me, save for their connection to Alice, but on this day, I pitied them. What they had accepted as a sweet, innocent, adopted daughter was turning out to be a hellcat in disguise. Whether their rearing of the child, or her innate disposition, had occasioned her to turn out the way she has, I do not know. I only know that I never wish to see or hear from her again.

Afterwards, I rang Alice and told her, in no uncertain terms, that I would not be doing any further favours for her extended family. While she, and to a much lesser degree, Bertram, may count on me, that’s as far as it goes.