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I spin to find Charlie walking towards me from the constabulary. “I thought you were working tonight.”

“I am. I just saw you haul that big thing off the bus.”

The bus is now a mere speck up High Street. “He was really decent about that. I’m not sure what I would’ve done had he refused me.”

“Where’d you ride to?”

Without thinking I reply. “Kidlington.” As if the most natural thing to do on a cold Sunday in February is to ride one’s bicycle over twelve miles.

“Whatever possessed you to do that?”

I can’t answer.

“Gemma?”

I pull my lips in, debating, but not really debating either. I’m going to tell him. I want to. His brain is astute, facile, endlessly interesting, and if we’re right, we’ll need his help.

“Is there someplace private we can talk?”

Surprise flickers through his eyes, but he briskly schools his bewilderment and gestures back to the police station. “The chief is out. Sergeant Boyle is still sick. We can talk there.”

I prop my bicycle against the building’s iron railing and follow him inside.

Charlie opens the half gate behind the front desk and invites me through to a small office in the back. He steps behind the desk and gestures to the chair across from it.

“Sorry, but I have to sit over here to see the front door when Boyle’s out.” He drops down at the desk, then pops back up again. “Can I get you a tea?”

“I’d love one.”

“Watch the door for me a sec. Just call out if anyone enters.”

No one comes in during the few minutes he’s away, and soon we’re sitting once again facing each other, hot tea in hands.

“Is this about your long bicycle ride?”

“Yes.” I pause, not quite sure how far to launch. “It’s about the Beurtons too. You see, I followed Mrs. Beurton to Kidlington today.”

Charlie rests his elbows on the desk. Usually I adore his focus. Right now, it unnerves me a touch.

“Because, well, you see, it’s hard to explain, but I’m not sure all is well with them. I mean, I’m not sure Mrs. Beurton is who she seems to be. The problem could be Mr. Beurton, of course, and I gather it’s been thought it is him, but my gut tells me it’s her.”

“Gemma.” A smile lifts the corner of his mouth. “Say it. You’re not making any sense.”

“Yes. Good idea. You see, we think she’s a spy for the Soviet Union and was involved with the German scientist Klaus Fuchs, who has just been arrested.”

Charlie says nothing. His eyes widen with surprise, then take on a teasing glint—as if I’m the one teasing. “A spy? Here? In Great Rollright? Like in the film The Thirty-Nine Steps?” He watches me. “Wait. You’re not joking.”

“No. I’m not.”

“You said ‘we believe.’ Who is ‘we’?”

“Peggy and I have been suspicious for a while.”

“A while.” He repeats my words, but doesn’t lift them as if asking a question. It feels more like he’s questioning our sanity rather than my time frame.

Nevertheless I press on. “A week. Nine days actually.”

“What happened nine days ago?”