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intrigued that anyone should want to offer him employment but determined not to allow himself to be treated like a child. As Edward had anticipated, the two of them liked each other at first sight. It did not matter that Benyon was a middle-aged academic economist and Frank a schoolboy on the cusp of manhood who had been to the wars and returned with his tail between his legs. What mattered was they were both natural rebels. The Duke’s son wanted an end to the class system and to help usher in a Communist utopia. The economist liked nothing so much as to ruffle the feathers of politicians, diplomats and businessmen. Benyon displayed like campaign medals the press reports of his spats with Montagu Norman, the Governor of the Bank of England and the most powerful man in the financial world, not excepting the Chancellor of the Exchequer with whom he had also had very public differences of opinion. It was good, too, that there was so little time to think about it. The
Queen Mary
sailed on the Saturday. Benyon made his offer on the Thursday and Frank accepted on the spot.
    ‘That reminds me. How’s the book going?’ Edward inquired.
    Victor Gollancz had just published Verity’s account of her time as a foreign correspondent in Spain and in particular the siege of Toledo. Government forces had been routed by Franco’s Moorish troops and a savage massacre followed. The book was called
Searchlight on Spain
and had borne the imprint of the Left Book Club.
    ‘Too early to say,’ Verity said, affecting nonchalance. She was actually consumed with excitement and it required a great effort of will not to telephone the publisher on a daily basis to find out how many copies had been sold.
    ‘You got my letter? I thought it was very good. Very vivid and, as far as I could judge, accurate.’
    Edward’s praise meant more to Verity than she would ever have admitted and she had bought an album in which to keep his letter and others of a similar nature – though as yet she had not received any. Edward had been in Spain at the outbreak of the civil war and his was an opinion she valued.
    ‘You really think so?’ she was unable to prevent herself asking.
    ‘I really think so. Now please, V, leave me. We’ll meet at Philippi.’
    ‘Where?’
    ‘Philippi –
Julius Caesar
. . . God help us, woman! Shakespeare.’
    Verity had, she supposed, studied Shakespeare at some of the many schools she had briefly attended, but had no memory of this play.
    ‘I can’t think how you missed it. It’s the classic account of how a Fascist tyrant is killed by a group of conspirators who themselves become tyrants.’
    ‘Of course I’ve read it,’ she lied, ‘I just didn’t recognize the quote, that’s all. Stop being superior. I hate people who are always quoting things.’
    ‘We shall meet on Southampton Dock,’ Edward elaborated. ‘Now please leave me.’
    ‘Well, we will, dash it!’ she riposted. She had meant to say something witty or even biting, but it would have to do. Damn him!
    While Frank had been meeting Lord Benyon, Edward had been closeted with Major Ferguson in his dreary little cupboard of an office above a public house off Trafalgar Square. He was going through the reports British agents had sent detailing possible threats to Benyon.
    When he had finished, Edward stood up and stretched himself. ‘It doesn’t amount to much, does it? It’s all very vague. An overheard conversation, a copy of a letter recovered from a waste-paper basket, a hint from an official in the Reichsbank . . .’
    ‘No, it doesn’t,’ Ferguson agreed. ‘It’s one of the reasons Lord Benyon refused to have full police security. He thinks we are exaggerating the threat, and perhaps we are, but it is my duty to take no risks. I don’t want it said that I didn’t do all I could to protect him. As you know, the man is important enough but his mission makes him
very
important.’
    ‘And the moment Benyon is on American soil I can regard my duty