The Running Lie

By Jennifer Young

In Cold Crash, when Archaeologist Max Falkland, the Anglo-American daughter of a British peer, meets American John Knox in London in April 1952, her already troubled life takes on mystery. As the Cold War thriller progresses, Max finds herself in increasing danger, but three weeks after the events of Cold Crash, the point at which The Running Lie begins, Max has found an archaeological dig in London and John Knox has entered her life. But even now, can he be trusted? Max encounters both skulls and sexism on the dig site at the bombed out shell of St. Bride's Church in London. A family request sends her to the Berlin International Film Festival, away from the dig and her growing relationship with John Knox. But after she sees John in Berlin with another woman, Max forces him to confess he is an American spy. When his current case collides with her family life, Max has to find a way to navigate layers of lies. As fireworks explode for the Fourth of July party, Max must make a dangerous choice if she wants to save both John and her family.
The Running Lie is a page-turning Cold War spy thriller that reboots old school cloak and dagger — Max Falkland is the James Bond of the 21st Century.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Cinnamon Press
• Release date: Apr 6, 2020
• ISBN: 9781788641005

Jennifer Young

Jennifer Young was born in a small textile town in North Carolina, USA, and moved to the UK in 2001. She has since completed a PhD, become the daughter-in-law of a Catholic priest, and gained British citizenship. Her degrees are from the University of North Carolina Chapel Hill, Cardiff University and the University of Southampton. She is Head of Writing and Journalism at the University of Falmouth. Jennifer lives in Cornwall with her daughter.

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Published by Cinnamon Press

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The right of Jennifer Young to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patent Act, 1988. © 2020 Jennifer Young. ISBN 978-1-78864-100-5

British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data. A CIP record for this book can be obtained from the British Library.

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Designed and typeset in Garamond by Cinnamon Press. Cover design by Adam Craig © Adam Craig.

Cinnamon Press is represented by Inpress and by the Books Council of Wales.

The publisher gratefully acknowledges the support of the Books Council of Wales.

Acknowledgments

Many thanks to Jan for being a great editor and to Adam for the beautiful cover. Cathy, Dave and Natalie were fantastic beta readers. Thanks to Joe for archaeological and historical advice – and for the title! Thank you to Cathy Jewett for being an inspirational teacher (who taught me all the grammar I know), adopting Cold Crash for the Sidney Lanier Book Club of Cabarrus County in Concord, NC and for agreeing to be the best possible proofreader for my manuscript! I’m grateful to Jeremy, Helen and Simon at the University of Hertfordshire, and to the warm welcome I’ve received at Falmouth University, particularly from Paul, Amy, Andy and David.

Research

A great deal of research goes into a historical novel, and I’m indebted to many people for assistance with this novel. I’m very keen that the history and archaeology be as ‘right’ as I can make it. My plan has always been to include real female archaeologists from the ’50s in every novel in the trilogy. Cold Crash had Honor Frost, and The Running Lie has Audrey Williams and Pearl Wheatley.

I looked through the Norfolk County Council Historic Environment Record for a site Max could visit, and NHER 5755 referenced a Miss P Wheatley leading a dig. in Pearson’s field. The staff of the Historic Environment Record kindly digitised the files and sent them to me, and I started a search for Miss P Wheatley. I eventually found Pearl Wheatley through the Society for Lincolnshire History and Archaeology, and in July 2017 I travelled to Lincoln to interview her. Miss Wheatley was a fabulous host, with wonderful stories of being a teacher in Norfolk and Lincoln and her work for the Ministry of Works. She went on to found the Society for Lincolnshire History and Archaeology, and she received an MBE for her services to heritage in 2007. Her recounting of the dig in Pearson’s field appears in the novel, along with her motorbike and her recollections of Group Captain Knocker and his digging team. Neither dig took place in 1952—the Pearson’s field dig was in 1959 and Knocker’s dig was in 1957, but both took place in Thetford. The details of the digs and the finds are correct. The account of Knocker’s dig was drawn from Excavations in Thetford, 1948–59 and 1973–80, edited by Andrew Rogerson and Carolyn Dallas (East Anglican Archaeology, report 22, 1984.) Many thanks to Ken Hamilton of Historic England for putting me in touch with Charlotte Jarvis of the Historic Environment Service at Norfolk County Council, who scanned and emailed annotations from an unknown hand on the photos of the dig.

Thank you to Saya Miles and Jenny Harvey, both Archive Conservators for Historic England, for answering my questions about photographic decay so comprehensively. The details of the St Bride’s dig were drawn from St. Bride’s Church London: archaeological research 1952–60 and 1992–5 by Gustav Milne (English Heritage Archaeology, volume 11, 1997). Max’s dig in Iceland was inspired by Orri Vésteinsson article ‘Icelandic farmhouse excavations. Field methods and site choices’ (Archaeologia islandica, volume 3, 2004).

In addition to the very specific archaeological research, I loved poring over fashion magazines such as Vogue and Harper’s Bazaar in the British Library, selecting the right clothes for Max. The wedding dresses described in Nancy’s issue of Vogue are from the June 1952 British issue. I immersed myself in period publications such as What’s On in London, finding details such as the release date of the Singin’ in the Rain record. If you are interested in more details about my historical research, please visit my website at www.maxfalkland.com.

If you enjoy this novel, please leave a review on Amazon or Goodreads. Many thanks!

Please follow me on social media—I’m at @maxfalkland on twitter and Instagram.

The Running Lie

To Bela, Carolyn, Cathy, Natalie and Rachel—thank you.

And as always, this book is for Zoe

(although not to be read until you are older!).

CHAPTER ONE

USUALLY ON SUMMER digs, Max had to layer herself heavily. She’d figured out on her first dig that she blistered, rather than tanned. But this dig had long shadows cast across it by the burnt out—yet still standing—walls of St Bride’s Church. She got by with a broad brimmed hat. In her two weeks of volunteering, they’d unearthed multiple bodies. Today they’d found yet another burial, and now she brushed delicately around the skull. They’d already dug out Samuel Richardson’s lead coffin, with its plaque intact. This body had no identifiers. Chatter in the trench mostly centred on the upcoming Olympics in Iceland.

‘Max and I have been to Helsinki, haven’t we?’ Will Firmin said.

‘Only on the way to Þjórsárdalur. Back in ’49.’ It’d been the first dig she’d gone on before starting her PhD. She’d arrived in Iceland on what should have been her wedding day. ‘We worked with Kristján Eldjárn, excavating Viking pit houses. Fascinating work on ordinary families.’

‘The peer’s daughter is interested in ordinary families?’

Max didn’t look up from the eye socket of the skull. She didn’t want to know who had spoken. ‘It formed part of my PhD.’

‘We had quite the special time there together, didn’t we, Max?’ Will’s hand landed on her back, and she shrugged it away.

‘If you mean digging, yes. Otherwise, no.’ The others laughed, and Will’s faced burned red. It clashed with his hair. The flash of anger in his eyes reminded Max far too much of the last night of that dig in Iceland, when he’d grabbed her and tried to kiss her. She’d managed to get free, but she’d never forgotten the pain in her arms or the fan of his beery breath across her face. She’d avoided being alone with him ever since. ‘Do you think the equestrian team’s chances are as good as the papers say?’ she asked. Conversation returned to normal, and Will moved away from her. Max sighed. Why did dig dynamics have to be so tricky? And why was Will trench supervisor here? He liked to remind her his position was over her, and always with a lewd smile.

‘Hey, Max. Somebody to see you,’ called someone.

Max clenched her teeth. If it’d been any bone other than a skull, maybe she could convince her mother it was a bit of a building. Max glanced up, readying an excuse. But John Knox stood under an archway, not her mother. He held his hat, and the sun shone on his dark hair. His blue suit looked immaculate. Max looked down at her filthy trousers and shirt. She dropped her brush and climbed out of the trench. ‘Hello, John.’ The last time she’d seen him, they’d kissed. What could she say now? ‘Want to have a look around?’

‘I’d love to, but I only have a minute.’ His eyes dropped to his hat. ‘How have you been?’

‘In the last three weeks? Fine.’ Why did she say that? Three—and a half—weeks since their first date. Only date.

‘I’m sorry I haven’t called. I had to go on an unexpected work trip, and I only got back today. Would you consider having dinner with me tonight?’

‘How did you know I was here?’

John shrugged his blue suited shoulders. ‘Journalists have sources.’

‘Where did you go?’

‘Abroad.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘Sorry, I have to get to a meeting. My office is just over that way on Fleet Street. I think some of my colleagues tried to help put out the fire here, when the bomb hit back in 1940. This dig’s been quite a conversation piece.’

But how did he know she was here? ‘Out for lunch?’

John smiled. ‘No. I haven’t been in yet. I’m still on my way from the airport.’

He’d come to see her first. Max meant to smile at him, but instead she found herself kissing him. She had the sense to keep it brief, but she drew away to catcalls from the archaeologists.

‘Is that a yes?’ He didn’t smile, he didn’t react to the noise.

Shadows lurked under his eyes. How long had he been travelling? ‘Yes. Wait, no. I’m supposed to go to Victor’s party tonight.’

‘I forgot about that. He invited me too.’ He turned his hat. His right index finger had a half-healed scrape along the knuckle. ‘Want to...’

‘So, the ice maiden thaws,’ Will said, resting his hand on her shoulder. ‘Or at least warms slightly. Coming back to work anytime soon, Max?’

Max gritted her teeth. People left trenches all the time. She should be trench supervisor, not Will. He didn’t even have a degree. ‘In a moment.’ She shrugged, knocking his hand away.

‘I didn’t think you would ever deign to... Knox? John Knox?’

John didn’t take his eyes from Max’s face. ‘Hello, Firmin.’

‘How do you two know each other?’ Max asked.

‘Same unit in the war,’ Will said. ‘At least for a while. What are you doing now, Knox?’

‘Newspaper manager. Look, Max, I need to go. Shall I collect you? Seven?’

Max nodded. ‘Remember my address?’ John found her on a bloody dig site in London, of course he’d remember her address. And somehow, she didn’t want Will to hear it.

‘Yep. See you tonight.’ John’s smile was bright, but he didn’t say goodbye to Will. John walked towards his car, a black Humber Supersnipe.

‘Come on, back to work.’ Will touched the small of Max’s back. ‘Very intimate with Knox, are you?’

Max dropped her hat simply to crouch and pick it up. And waited, slow, agonising seconds till Will took one step forward. ‘I don’t know him well, no.’

‘Looked like you do.’

‘Mm.’ Max settled her hat on her head. She wouldn’t focus on the sensation of John’s lips against hers. They reached the trench. ‘What ranks were you?’

‘What?’

‘You and John. You said you were in the same unit.’

‘Corporal and Captain. That’s what a damn degree gets you, sugar.’ He smiled. ‘Of course, it matters less than experience in the end.’

Max returned to her brush, sweeping it over the eye socket of the skull. Will kept talking, now to other workers in the trench. She studied Will for a moment. He was as tall as John, but ever since Iceland, she hadn’t quite trusted him. Could she trust John Knox any more than Will? John might not grab her and kiss her, but what did she know about him?

John claimed to be a journalist, specifically a foreign manager at the American newspaper Universal Dispatch, but she had doubts. Victor had told her once that John had clearly been somebody in the War. But nearly every man she knew had served in the War. And most of them didn’t have the same level of alertness or focus that John had, at least not now, seven years on from the end of the War. But then John had served in Korea as well.

‘Your boyfriend?’ Audrey Williams crouched next to the trench. She worked as Professor Grimes’ assistant, but she was an outstanding archaeologist in her own right.

‘No.’ Max looked back down at the section of her trench. ‘Just a…’ Friend? ‘No.’

Audrey laughed. ‘He’s good-looking. Thinking about it?’

Max smiled. ‘Maybe.’

Max parked her car on Pelham Crescent and went up to the house. She had an hour to get ready, and if she could avoid Mother, it would all be easier. But as she opened the door, Mother came out of the drawing room.

‘Darling, must you go around London covered in grime and God knows what?’

‘Mostly just London dirt,’ Max said. ‘You were the one who wanted me to stay at home.’ Max had planned to find a dig abroad. She knelt to unlace her boots, rather than tromp dirt on the carpets. ‘I’m going straight to the shower anyway.’ At least her mother didn’t seem to realise Max had been digging up human remains all day.

‘You have a party tonight?’

Max nodded.

‘What time do you need to leave?’ Mother asked.

‘I’m, um, being collected. At seven.’

Mother flicked the pages of Vogue. ‘A friend or a date?’

‘A date.’

‘Who’s it with?’ a voice called.

Max looked up at her cousin Charlie, who leaned against the banister above them. His crutches rested beside him. It’d been four weeks since he broke his leg in two places. At least he could lurch around the house now, even if he’d missed the last term at school.

‘Charlie, you shouldn’t eavesdrop. And grammar, please,’ Mother said. She smiled. ‘It’s a good question though.’

‘John Knox.’ Max picked up her boots. ‘I should go get ready.’

‘Hasn’t it been ages since you went out with him?’ Charlie asked.

‘He’s been abroad, for work.’ She dashed up the stairs, but stopped five steps up. ‘Mother, did you speak to him? Tell him where I was working?’

‘No. Why?’

‘It doesn’t matter.’ Maybe Victor had told him. Or his colleagues—but he hadn’t been to work yet. And why would they know she had started volunteering there? It must have been Victor.

As the shower water thrummed against her skull, she remembered that John had forgotten about Victor’s party. Victor would be physically incapable of talking to someone and not reminding them about his own party.

She sat at her vanity and applied makeup swiftly. Drawing eyeliner over her lids, she asked her reflection how her suspicions weighed up against the undeniable attractiveness of John Knox. She slicked on red lipstick and blotted, remembering the easy confidence of his mouth against hers. The Kleenex ricocheted into the bin. What did she want from tonight?

Max dropped a bag with wine bottles in the entry hall, and then forced herself into the drawing room.

‘Lovely,’ her mother said. ‘Red’s a good colour on you.’

‘Do you want a drink?’ her father asked, handing her mother a glass of champagne. ‘Have you heard from Bernice Dinsmore, Nancy?’ Dad asked. ‘I just wondered how she is, since Samuel passed away.’

Max forced herself to relax her jaw. Grinding her molars against each other would be much more satisfying. Mrs Dinsmore was perfectly lovely, but her daughter Catherine Max loathed. For a very good reason. ‘I didn’t know about Mr Dinsmore.’ Max sat and rested her handbag on the skirt of her halter neck dress.

‘It was quite sudden. The funeral was in the States.’ Dad lifted the champagne bottle again. ‘A drink, darling?’

‘No, thanks.’ Her mother’s Vogue rested beside her on the table. Max could pick it up, but what if her hands trembled? How could she be so nervous?

‘So, Nancy, have you…’ Dad started.

‘If I remember correctly, Mr Knox knew George?’ Mother asked. Her face stayed smooth, but her voice sounded ever so slightly strained. It always did when she mentioned George’s name.

Eight months ago, they had received the news from Korea. Actual physical pains still shot down the tendons of Max’s legs when she imagined the flames enveloping his cockpit, the terror her baby brother must have felt as his plane plummeted. And the memorial service with no body, the months of formal mourning, and the slow return to vague normalcy hadn’t shifted the aches.

Maybe Catherine and her brother Tommy felt the same distress, but Catherine feeling anything as human as grief seemed hard to fathom.

‘Well.’ Dad sipped his champagne. ‘It’s promising that George liked Mr Knox. It would be good to meet Mr Knox properly soon. Have him over for dinner.’

‘Didn’t you used to think George had bad taste in friends?’ Charlie asked. ‘I remember that time you wouldn’t let me visit when his friends were here.’

‘Charlie,’ Mother said.

‘And you hated all the dates he set you up with, Max.’ Charlie poked under his cast. ‘But I liked Mr Knox.’

It was true. All those dates—they’d all been horrid. Most of George’s friends were.

‘Leave your cast alone, please, Charlie. How do you—how serious are you about Mr Knox, darling?’ Mother asked.

Why hadn’t she agreed to meet him anywhere? ‘I…’ Max folded her hands around the handle of her handbag. ‘I like him. More than—I don’t know yet. But I do like him.’ Max checked her watch. Four minutes to seven.

‘What do you know about his family?’ Mother asked. Her voice didn’t have the warmth of Charlie’s.

‘They have a farm in North Carolina. John went to the University of North Carolina. Studied Languages, then joined up.’ She’d learned most of that on a ten-hour train ride with him, when she was exhausted and in pain. John had stopped being the mysterious, slightly annoying stranger she’d thought him before. He’d made jokes, played cards, gotten her food. And held her hand so she could have two hours of nightmare-free sleep.

‘Where in North Carolina?’

‘I don’t think we need to do a full-scale social investigation, Nancy,’ Dad said.

‘You would if he were British,’ Mother said.

‘There’s a smaller pool here. We know more of the young men Max would meet.’

‘Does it matter?’ Max asked. ‘It’s not like I’ll be producing an heir.’ Poor Charlie flinched. That duty belonged to him now. She stood to pace. ‘Not that I’m saying I would, with John I mean, but…’ God. ‘This is only our second date.’ Except she’d never had a second date where she’d spent so much time already with the man.

‘I’ll check his service record, Nancy, if it’s important to you. I’m sure Mr Knox’s family is fine.’

‘But North Carolina.’

‘You’re being a snob, Mother. You spent weeks saying he should have rung me after our first date. What’s wrong with North Carolina?’

‘Nothing.’ Mother smiled, that radiant glowing smile that lit the entire room. ‘But it shows you are really quite interested in him after all.’

Her father laughed, as Max flushed. ‘She’s got you there, Max.’

The doorbell rang, precisely as the clock chimed seven. Max ran to the hallway, barely pausing to grab her bag. She reached the door just ahead of Harris, the butler. She stepped back to let him open it, but she didn’t wait for John to be invited in or announced.

‘Let’s go,’ she said, grabbing his hand. ‘Sorry, Harris, can you tell my parents we’ve already left? Thanks.’

‘What happened?’ John asked, as Max pulled him down the steps. ‘Shouldn’t I say hello? I’d certainly do that at home. Hang on, Max.’

Max found a smile. ‘I’m—my mother is full of questions.’

‘About me?’ He tugged at her hand, but she resisted. ‘My car’s this way. What’s in the bag?’

Max exhaled and walked beside him to the car. ‘Wine for the party.’

‘May I?’

Max relinquished the bag into his grip. ‘My mother takes an extreme interest in my social life.’

‘Isn’t that the definition of a mother?’

Max laughed. ‘I suppose so.’

John opened her car door and held it as she slid inside. Max wanted to simply relax and enjoy herself, but as he got in the car she had to ask. ‘How did you know where to find me today?’

‘Victor.’ He started the car. ‘I figured if you were working, a phone call would be pretty useless. I didn’t mean to frighten you.’

‘You didn’t. Of course not.’ She smoothed her skirt. Unnerved, perhaps. Not frightened. ‘You seemed to have little time for Will.’

‘Did I? Well, I was running late.’ He turned onto Fulham Road. ‘Did he say anything?’

‘Only that you’d been his captain. And he was a corporal.’

‘Was.’ He glanced over at her. ‘He was a private when I last saw him.’

‘Why?’ Obviously, John had demoted him. ‘I guess that’s a silly question.’

‘No, but it’s one I shouldn’t answer. I shouldn’t have said anything.’ He stopped at a stoplight and smiled at her. ‘I think I’m entirely too honest around you.’

Would John answer any other questions? Where had he been on his trip? And did he actually work for a newspaper? ‘What’s your job like?’

‘I sit in long meetings at the Universal Dispatch offices in London, and periodically I go to other countries and sit in long meetings about how to sell our paper in their region. Mostly to overseas Americans.’ He accelerated away from the intersection. ‘And could I interest you in a subscription, Dr Falkland?’

Max laughed. ‘I’m not American, even if I sound it. Do you normally sell door to door, well, car?’

‘Nope. But I’ll make an exception for you.’

‘Do you focus on a particular region?’ Max asked. These were the types of questions she’d been trained to ask. That her ex-fiancé had expected her to spout at parties.

‘Yes. The entire world, minus the United States.’ He smiled. ‘I haven’t made it to either Pole yet.’

He drove smoothly, calmly thorough the traffic. His eyes still looked tired, but his black hair swept back in a perfect pompadour. ‘How long have you been travelling today?’

‘Entirely too long.’ His finger tapped the steering wheel. The finger with the scrape. ‘At least I don’t have to go in tomorrow.’

‘What happened there?’ Max asked, although it fell outside the permitted questions.

‘Just an embarrassing collision with a door. I’d love to hear about your dig, if you can tell me about it,’ John said.

Would colliding with a door break the skin so unevenly? ‘There’s no secrecy about it. Besides, the vicar keeps leaking everything we find to the press anyway, to bolster the restoration fund. We’ve started focusing on the nave.’

‘What were you doing when I arrived?’

‘Digging up a skeleton. The site’s riddled with them.’ Max glanced at him. Most men wouldn’t consider this appropriate conversation for a date. He’d change the topic and…

‘Makes sense, for a church, I suppose. What do you think you’ll find under it? Vikings?’

He’d remembered her research interests. Max took a deep breath. How could he be so attractive when she knew so little about him? ‘No, not likely. I honestly just wanted to join any archaeological work I could find, and my mother wouldn’t let me leave London again. It’ll be Roman. Maybe Celtic.’ And then she heard words she hadn’t dared say aloud before. ‘I’m not enjoying it the way I thought I would. It’s…’ How did she compare digging a quarter of a trench under Will Firmin with the moment of her plane crashing, her run through the darkened distillery? John stayed silent. ‘I guess it isn’t the summer I expected.’

‘Would you have preferred to stay on Mull?’

With gunfire and submarines? ‘Maybe.’ She’d been in control of the archaeological survey there. But was that all?

‘How are you sleeping now?’ John asked.

That definitely fell outside the permitted questions. ‘Better than I was.’ The nightmares had stopped, but her dissatisfaction with her days had not.

John parked on Victor and Emma’s street. ‘They really do live close to me. My place is three streets that way.’ He pointed.

‘Then Kensington was quite a trek. Sorry.’

‘Are you kidding?’ His fingers brushed her cheek gently. ‘I can’t tell you how pleased I was when you said yes. And that I’m finally back in London.’

‘I’m glad too,’ Max said, flushing. She’d nearly said she’d missed him. And she had.

They walked down the street, Max’s hand caught in the warmth of John’s. She’d been to dozens and dozens of parties at Victor and Emma’s, since she met them four years ago, on that same dig in Iceland. Victor had paraded so many men past her, convinced he could find the one for her. Only her mother matched him in persistence. She glanced up at John’s profile. None of them had been as attractive, on any level.

‘Why are they having a party?’ John asked.

‘They like parties. I’m not sure about this particular one.’ They hadn’t had one in ages. After the last one, Emma had confided they were trying for a baby, and that she didn’t want late parties anymore. But here they were, hosting another one.

People spilled out onto the street from the open door. Max said hello to a clump of archaeologists, introducing John and swapping pleasantries.

They headed up the steps. The hallway felt dark after the low sun outside. Music washed over her along with a heady rush of voices. The piano riffs of ‘All of Me’ played, and a few people started dancing to Dean Martin’s voice.

‘Max,’ Victor called, manoeuvring through the press of bodies towards them. ‘Hiya, John.’ He grinned. ‘So, is this an accidental simultaneous arrival, or was this a planned, dare I say it, date?’

John laughed. ‘I asked Max out, but she insisted she had to come here.’

‘But you said you were invited too,’ Max said. Had Victor told John about the dig site? They didn’t act like people who had spoken earlier today. Did it matter?

‘Look at you. A second date and you’re already bickering. Either it’ll be the altar or a quick ending.’

Heat rose to Max’s cheeks, and she didn’t want to see John’s face. ‘Well, poor John’s carrying this bag of wine,’ she said. ‘Let’s take it to the kitchen.’

‘You all right to go alone? I need to sort something.’ Victor grinned. ‘Make sure you get some of hers, John. Vastly superior to the booze we have.’

Max led John to the kitchen. Emma lifted a tray of pastry out of the oven.

‘Hello, darling. Hello, John.’ She dropped the tray on top of the cooker. ‘Why do I keep doing hot food in summer?’

‘Because you’re that kind of hostess?’

‘Can I put this here?’ John lifted the bag onto the bright yellow tablecloth.

‘Yes, of course.’ Emma slid another tray into the oven. ‘Give me a second.’ She moved to the cabinets.

Max pulled a bottle from her bag. John picked up a bottle opener from the table and took the wine from her. He smiled.

‘I didn’t learn how to do this either till I left home. The problems of growing up in a dry county.’

‘Did you have much wine in the Army?’ Max asked.

John eased out the cork. ‘Mostly beer. But wine in France.’

Emma brought over three glasses and John poured the red liquid equally. ‘It’s nice to see you both…together?’ Emma asked.

Max closed her eyes. ‘Yes.’ Would she have a faint blush all night? She sipped the wine, then took a gulp. She couldn’t get smashed either.

‘Knox,’ a voice called. Will Firmin. ‘Oh, excellent. More wine.’ He came into the kitchen.

‘Are we running out?’ Emma asked.

Will’s houndstooth suit’s check was simply too big. John wore the blue suit he’d worn earlier today, but the shirt looked fresh.

‘No, but I’m guessing that’s better, since Max’s standing guard.’

Anger rose in a hot column, but Max exhaled rather than snapping. Will downed his remaining wine and held out his glass. Emma filled it.

‘Super party, as ever, Emma,’ Will said. ‘Thanks for inviting me.’

‘I think every archaeologist left in London is here,’ Emma said.

‘How did you get into archaeology, Will?’ John asked. ‘Emma, do you mind if I smoke?’

‘Of course not.’

John lit a cigarette, and offered them to Will and Emma. He’d remembered that Max didn’t smoke. Will took one; Emma didn’t.

‘After the war, I thought it’d be a different way of looking at death, if you know what I mean,’ Will said.

Max had heard this post-war explanation for doing archaeology before from Will. It sounded more intellectual than he was.

‘Did you ever do a degree?’ John asked.

‘Oh no, not me. Too dense for that. I’m good at the labour though.’ He grinned. ‘Strong back and all that.