London, 1939

Jack Skelton threw his bag into the boot of the car, then jumped in the passenger seat, silently cursing the British preoccupation with tiny vehicles. He slouched down in the seat, reaching for his cigarettes just as Frank put the car into gear.

“It’ll take us at least half an hour,” Frank said. “The Old Man’ll be furious. We were supposed to report in at—”

“I’ll take responsibility,” Skelton said, drawing deeply on his cigarette, relishing the smoke in his lungs. There were very few things he liked about this twentieth-century world, but this was one of them.

“But you are my responsibility,” Frank said. “The Old Man told me to—”

“Oh, for gods’ sakes, Frank! Calm down. The ‘Old Man’ will cope if we’re twenty minutes late. Now, get this damned conveyance moving, why don’t you, before we’re twenty hours late.”

Frank’s mouth thinned. He crouched over the steering wheel in that peculiar manner he had and pushed his foot down on the accelerator.

The car moved forwards, and Skelton slouched down even further. He was getting very tired of Frank, and hoped he didn’t have to work too closely with him at—

A huge black four-door sedan hurtled around the corner ahead and screeched to a halt before them. Frank slammed his foot on the brakes, and Skelton muttered an obscenity as he was thrown forward against the dashboard.

“Jesus, Frank! Where did the English learn to drive?”

A slight, fair-haired woman in the uniform of a WREN leapt out of the sedan.

Frank groaned. “Christ. It’s Piper.”

Piper hurried to Frank’s window, leaning down to peer first at Frank and then, more curiously, at Skelton. “Hello, Frank!” Piper said, her eyes again slipping to Skelton, who studiously ignored her. “There’s been a change of plans. I’m so glad to have caught you!”

“Yes?” snapped Frank. Patently he didn’t like Piper much, which perversely made Skelton like her immensely.

“The Old Man’s left London,” said Piper, her voice breathless. “Gone up to his weekend place. Wants to see you and,” yet again she looked curiously at Skelton, “the major there. You’re to report to him for lunch.”

“The weekend house, eh?” murmured Skelton, throwing Piper a grin. “If I’d known I’d have brought my tweeds.”

“Very well, Piper,” said Frank. “Are you coming as well?”

“Oh, yes,” said Piper, and her mouth twisted. “I’ve the Spiv in the back.”

“The Spiv”, Skelton thought. The “Old Man”. Do the British not once use a cursed name? He looked ahead, trying to see into the back seat of the black sedan, but cigarette smoke obscured his vision, and all he could make out was the vague form of a man, partly hidden behind the newspaper he was reading.

Piper was walking back to her sedan, and Frank once more put his own car into gear, waiting for Piper to drive off.

“So where is it we’re going?” said Skelton. “Where is this weekend house?”

“Epping Forest,” said Frank, unaware that Skelton had stiffened at the information. “The Old Man’s got a house there, inherited from some boffin in his family. It’s called Faerie Hill Manor.”