“Now and in time to be,” he said, his eyes scouring the room, “Wherever green is worn, Are changed, changed utterly: A terrible beauty is born.”

He raised his tankard. “To the martyrs!” He drained the contents and then burped loudly. “And to grudging forgiveness of English bastards!”

As Granger stepped down from the table, the team captain broke into another rendition of a rebel song. It was quickly taken up by those around him.

“Drink up, Field,” Granger shouted as he stumbled toward him. He placed a protective arm around Field’s shoulder and waited for him to finish his tankard. “You may be English,” he said, slumping down on the seat beside him, “but you know, I forgive you.”

“You were there in 1916, weren’t you?”

“I was indeed. Michael and I were not important enough, thank the good Lord… a short spell in North Wales…” Granger was looking at him. Field could see how drunk he was. “But that’s enough about me.” He grabbed Field in a rough embrace. “Glad you’re one of us, Dickie. You should be one of us. You are one of us, aren’t you?” Granger was looking at him oddly.

“Of course,” Field said.

“Right! Fine player. Waiter!” Granger stood, holding up his tankard in the direction of the bar. He crossed back to the other side of the room and joined in the singing.

Field pushed his own tankard away and reached for his cigarettes. He looked up to see Caprisi smiling at him.

The American was leaning against the wood paneling on the far side of the room, on the periphery of the gathering, a long glass in his hand. When the singing died back down, he came over and took one of Field’s cigarettes.

“Well played,” Field said.

The American shrugged.

“You’re not drunk, I see. I thought it was mandatory.”

Caprisi didn’t answer.

“How come you’re here, anyway?”

“I’m a Catholic. It’s allowed.”

“Let me get you a drink.”

“No thanks.”

Field stood. “Come on, you can’t drink water all night.”

“I said no thanks.”

There was steel in Caprisi’s voice and Field sat back down. On the other side of the room, Granger was building a pyramid on the table with full tankards. “You don’t drink.”

“No.”

“There’s no prohibition here, Caprisi.”

“Back off, Field.”

Field paused. “You are a man of mystery…”

“Mysteries are not always interesting.”

“To the curious, they are.” Field smiled. “I’m still not sure I understand.”

“All you need to understand here is who your friends are, Dickie.” He glanced across at Granger’s group. “Macleod thinks you have an honest face. He doesn’t want you to join the cabal and neither do I. Unless it’s already too late, of course.”

Before Field could answer, Caprisi got up and walked swiftly away.

Twenty

Later that evening Field moved very slowly into the darkened Special Branch office, trying to determine whether there was any bit of him that wasn’t in pain.

He flicked on the light in his booth and sat down. He stretched his legs, straightened his back, and put his hands behind his head, then slumped forward and fiddled with the light switch.

The buff-colored fingerprint file lay in his in-tray and he flicked the corner of it, ignoring the pile of publications to be censored that had been placed in the middle of his desk. He decided to splash a basinful of cold water over his face before giving the file a closer look.

On the way back from the washroom, Field poured himself a drink, then returned to his desk.

For a moment the significance of the empty tray did not register. The folder had been taken, no note left in its place.

Field stood and took the stairs to the fingerprint bureau two at a time, forgetting his bruises.

Ellis wasn’t there. An elderly Sikh frowned at Field’s inquiry. “No, sahib,” he said. “They have not come back here.”

“Check the originals, will you?”

The man walked over to a row of cabinets. “What’s the name again?”

“Orlov, Lena.”

Field waited, drumming his fingers. Eventually, the man turned. “No,” he said bluntly. “There’s no record of prints for a case under that name.”

“Where is Ellis?”

“Ellis is on leave.”

“On leave?”

“Yes.”

“Where?”

“I believe he has gone to San Francisco. He will be back in three to four months.”

Field took the stairs down to Crime, but the office was as dark and deserted as his own, thin shards of light from the street cutting across the empty desks. He walked to Macleod’s office and back, but there was no one there.

He returned to his own office and stood in the middle of the room, his hands in his pockets.

After a few minutes he headed down the stairs to the ground floor. In front of the reception desk, he waited for Albert, the doorman, to finish his telephone call. Albert was in his seventies and had been wounded in the Boer War.

“Albert, who has been in tonight?”

The old man’s brow creased in concentration.

“It’s quiet up there. Has anyone from my department, or from Crime, been in? I mean in the last few hours, since the match.”

“Mr. Granger made an appearance.”

“Granger?”

“Yes.”

“How long ago?”

Albert shrugged. “Twenty minutes.”

“Are you absolutely sure?”

Albert nodded. “And Macleod.”

“Macleod?”

“And Caprisi. They came in together.”

“When was that?”

“About forty minutes ago.”

Field turned and ran back upstairs, first to Crime, where the office was still dark and empty, and then to the Branch, where his desk lamp was still the only sign of life. He stopped again in the middle of the room. “Sir?” he said.

He walked slowly down to Granger’s room, knocked, and waited.

Field glanced over his shoulder, then slipped through Granger’s door. He peered through the blinds, back down toward the lift, then walked around and sat behind the desk, his heart thumping. The in-tray was full of sheets of paper. He lifted the top one and held it up to the light. It was a memo from Commissioner Biers to “Heads of Department,” about the “ordering, use, and abuse of stationery.”

Field put it down, glancing toward the lift again before opening the drawer to his right. An embossed invitation to a function at Fraser’s lay alongside a leather pistol holster. It was four months out of date.

The shrill ring of a telephone made Field start, and it was a moment before he realized that it was coming from his own desk. He shut the drawer and walked out, closing the door quietly behind him.

Field sat and wiped the sweat from his forehead, hoping the ringing would stop, but it didn’t.

He picked it up. “Richard Field.”

“Dickie.”

“Hello… Penelope.”

“I’ve been trying to get you all evening, but there’s been no answer.”

“I’m sorry, there was a-”

“You’ve been busy, I know.”

“I haven’t yet written a note to thank you both for dinner, both dinners. It was a marvelous-”

“Don’t be silly. Don’t mention it. Geoffrey thinks you’re terrific and is very proud to have you as a nephew. And so am I.”

Field felt his face flushing with pleasure. “Well, I-”

“Are you free tonight?”

He looked at his watch. It was eight-thirty.

“I don’t have any plans, but-”

“Then you shall come out with us. There is a dance at the race club and-look, I know it’s last-minute, but Geoffrey wants to show you off to everyone. You won’t disappoint us, will you? Surely Crime can spare you at this time of night?”

Field noticed that Penelope rarely drew breath.

“I’m not busy. But are you sure?”

“Geoffrey is insistent. He instructed me not to take no for an answer, so I shall meet you at the entrance at ten.”

Field put down the phone and stared at it.

“Granger,” he whispered to himself. “Fuck.” He felt the resentment rising inside him, tasting the bile in his mouth. Was it his fault? Hadn’t Caprisi told him enough? Shouldn’t he have been more careful and hidden the fingerprint file? He felt stupid and naive.