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now, if you don’t mind my asking? It seems rather late.’
    ‘It is. I’m afraid it was the last request of an acquaintance who recently passed away. He was the other escapee – the one who got out. He never found out what happened to his friend.’
    The nurse paused, considering. Mirabelle guessed this was probably not the first time she had heard a story about the derring-do of British troops in wartime. For all her pretty face, the girl had gravitas.
    ‘Well, if this missing person made it out of France, even after the war, his regiment is still your best port of call,’ she said flatly. ‘But if the chap passed through our hands at any stage, his name will be in our papers. The thing is, the archives are very short staffed. They’ve just been moved, in point of fact. Here.’ She leaned over the reception desk and wrote down an address in Kensington on a scrap of paper. ‘That’s where they’ve gone. If you’re lucky they’ll let you have a look. Though this chap isn’t a relative of yours, is he?’
    Mirabelle shook her head.
    ‘Well, I hope you find him.’
    ‘Thank you. I’d like to know what happened.’
    Nurse Kettle sighed. Her perfect veneer softened a fraction. Knowing what had happened didn’t always help. The women’s eyes met.
    ‘Anyway, I’ll do my best,’ Mirabelle said and turned back onto the grey London street, in the direction of Sloane Square.

Chapter 4
    One who makes no mistakes, makes nothing .
    V esta answered the telephone with gusto. ‘McGuigan & McGuigan,’ she trilled.
    With Mirabelle away she had turned up the fire while she sorted through the paperwork. The office smelled of coffee and buttery toast with a sprinkle of cinnamon. Vesta’s fiancé Charlie worked in the kitchens at the Grand. He kept her well supplied with luxuries and on Tuesdays this was her usual mid-morning snack. Now after lunch she found she was ahead of the game. It had taken no time to prepare Bill’s schedule for the next day and get the ledger up to date. She had stopped for ten minutes to make a cup of tea for the poor postman (who was perishing) and have a chat about the volume of mail received by other businesses in the building and indeed in the street. Now she only had the day’s bank deposit to make up.
    ‘Can I help you?’ she said cheerily into the mouthpiece.
    At the other end, Mirabelle’s voice sounded as if she was cold. Vesta immediately pictured her friend bundled up in one of the capital’s red telephone boxes. In fact Mirabelle had availed herself of the well-appointed mahogany telephone booth in the hallway of the Sloane Square Hotel, but although she was not outside in the worst of the chill, the hotel was hardly balmy.
    ‘Hello, dear, it’s me,’ she said, ‘I need some help.’
    Vesta sat bolt upright. Mirabelle was a person who rarelyasked for assistance and was more likely to have help thrust upon her. Recently, however, Vesta had noticed small changes in her friend. Lately, Mirabelle had been perusing the menu without deciding what she wanted immediately when they went for lunch at the little café in the Lanes. It was almost as if she had begun to care about what she had to eat, or at least to notice it. Last week she had given up when the cryptic crossword was particularly tricky and she hadn’t seemed in the least perturbed. Vesta was unsure what these changes meant but she instinctively felt they were progress. And here was another change – Mirabelle asking for help.
    ‘I want you to go to the library. This chap who’s missing – I think he might be more difficult to track down than I expected.’
    ‘Mmm.’ Vesta took a sip of strong sweet coffee and picked up a pencil to make notes.
    ‘His name is Philip Caine,’ Mirabelle continued. ‘I want you to check The Times and the Daily Telegraph going back to 1942 when he was captured. See if you can find sight or sound of him – and while you’re at it keep an eye out for our Major Bradley, would you?