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    Secret of the Dragon's Scales: Book Four
    Secret of the Dragon's Scales: Book Four
    Secret of the Dragon's Scales: Book Four
    Ebook387 pages5 hours

    Secret of the Dragon's Scales: Book Four

    By Derek Hart

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    About this ebook

    Secret of the Dragons Scales continues the adventures of Gavin Kane, Emily Scott, and Bunty Digby, fifteen-year-olds who make the best of their young lives in England during the autumn of 1943. World War II rages on, but the tide seems to have turned in favor of the Allies. Three times previously, the teens have defeated Nazi plans to defeat England using evil magic, and three times, there have been new alliances formed with creatures from the hidden worlds of legend and fable. Yet once again, Heinrich Himmler is determined to unleash another strange and horrible weapon from deep within Nazi Germany, while halfway across the world, Allied armies are now tenaciously fighting the Japanese Empire.

    Secret of the Dragons Scales continues to develop the ongoing influence of Thaddeus Osbert. The dragon has become indispensable in assisting his teenaged charges, as they inadvertently aid the Allied efforts against Nazi Germany. However, the dragon also takes quite seriously his responsibility to instruct Gavin Kane in the ways of justice, honor and above all - compassion. Sir Osbert manages to negotiate a steady source of sugar for his persistent sweet tooth, in exchange for supplying something Winston Churchill needs as well. Once again faced with danger and intrigue, the teens call upon their dragon friend to help them battle the Nazis, who finally commit their own winged monstrosity, with unexpected results.

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisheriUniverse
    Release dateJun 14, 2011
    ISBN9781462026685
    Secret of the Dragon's Scales: Book Four
    Author

    Derek Hart

    Derek Hart is the prolific author of 28 action and adventure novels, known for their historical accuracy, while still maintaining a high level of entertainment. Romance is also a vital part of Derek Hart's trademark style and his novels generally appeal to men and women alike. Mr. Hart authored Secret of the Dragon's Eye, his first novel aimed at all age groups, which met with instant success and outstanding reviews. The author has since followed with Secret of the Dragon's Breath, Secret of the Dragon's Claw, Secret of the Dragon's Scales and Secret of the Dragon's Teeth. The final volume of the 6-episode series, Secret of the Dragon's Wings, will be available in November of 2018. He has since started a new series, post-apocalyptic in nature, with Minerva's Shield and Nike's Chariot. The third installment, Apollo's Plague came out in November 2017. Abandoned was published in March 2018 and Game Over premiered in June 2018. List of published books: Secret of the Dragon’s Eye Secret of the Dragon’s Breath Secret of the Dragon’s Claw Secret of the Dragon’s Scales Secret of the Dragon’s Teeth Secret of the Dragon’s Wings Claws of the Raven Danger Cruise Favor for FDR Crooked Cross Factor Tracks of the Predator For Love or Honor Bound Tales of the Yellow Silk Element of Surprise Seas Aflame Ice Flotilla High Altitude Low Opening Tangles of Truth Shadows in Replay Flag of Her Choosing Tidal Trap Dangerous (Poetry) Executive Firepower The CARLA Conspiracy The Wreckchasers Minerva's Shield Nike's Chariot Apollo's Plague Abandoned Game Over Mercury's Wings Before the Dead Walked Books coming soon: The Samuel Clemens Affair Pearl and Topaz By the Moon Darkly Broadmoor Manor Neptune's Trident Operation Sovereign Primary Weapon Saturn's Fire Tails of Thaddeus Enchanted Mesa Eagle Blue Last Guidon Excess Baggage Container Carta Codex Shipwreckers Romeo Tango The 5x5 Gang Desert Salvage

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      Book preview

      Secret of the Dragon's Scales - Derek Hart

      Secret of the

      Dragon’s Scales

      Book Four

      Derek Hart

      iUniverse, Inc.

      Bloomington

      Secret of theDragon’s Scales

      Bloomington

      Copyright © 2011 by Derek Hart

      All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

      This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

      iUniverse books may be ordered through booksellers or by contacting:

      iUniverse

      1663 Liberty Drive

      Bloomington, IN 47403

      www.iuniverse.com

      1-800-Authors (1-800-288-4677)

      Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

      Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

      Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

      ISBN: 978-1-4620-2665-4 (sc)

      ISBN: 978-1-4620-2668-5 (e)

      Printed in the United States of America

      iUniverse rev. date: 06/02/2011

      Contents

      Foreword

      Preface

      Acknowledgements

      Introduction

      1

      Escape to Destiny

      2

      Castle Glows Darkly

      3

      Idyllioop

      4

      A Different Kind of Invasion

      5

      Mystical Waters

      6

      Gavin and His Dragon

      7

      Such a Fuss Over Cigars

      8

      Experimental Chaos

      9

      Special Guests for Dinner

      10

      More Than Just Wind on Their Tail

      11

      Wedding Bells

      12

      Bunty and the Little People

      13

      Unexpected Visitors

      14

      Cuban Excursion

      15

      Splitting Atoms

      16

      Bomber’s Moon

      17

      The Rift

      18

      Rockets

      19

      Pressure on Emily

      20

      Dragon Fears

      21

      Photographic Phantoms

      22

      The War in the Air

      23

      The War Gets Complicated

      24

      Secret of the Dragon’s Scales

      25

      The Trap

      26

      The Package

      Epilogue

      Historical Notes

      About the Author

      (Preview)

      Secret of the Dragon’s Teeth

      This book is dedicated to:

      Katey Crockett, Luben Jelezarov, and Jessie Shann.

      Foreword

      Secret of the Dragon’s Scales continues the adventures of Gavin Kane, Emily Scott, and Bunty Digby, fifteen-year-olds who make the best of their young lives in England during the autumn of 1943. World War II rages on, but the tide seems to have turned in favor of the Allies. Three times previously, the teens have defeated Nazi plans to defeat England using evil magic, and three times, there have been new alliances formed with creatures from the hidden worlds of legend and fable. Yet once again, Heinrich Himmler is determined to unleash another strange and horrible weapon from deep within Nazi Germany, while halfway across the world, Allied armies are now tenaciously fighting the Japanese Empire.

      Secret of the Dragon’s Scales continues to develop the ongoing influence of Thaddeus Osbert. The dragon has become indispensable in assisting his teenaged charges, as they inadvertently aid the Allied efforts against Nazi Germany. However, the dragon also takes quite seriously his responsibility to instruct Gavin Kane in the ways of justice, honor and above all - compassion. Sir Osbert manages to negotiate a steady source of sugar for his persistent sweet tooth, in exchange for supplying something Winston Churchill needs as well. Once again faced with danger and intrigue, the teens call upon their dragon friend to help them battle the Nazis, who finally commit their own winged monstrosity, with unexpected results.

      •

      Preface

      Winston Leonard Spencer Churchill was a politician, radical, soldier, artist, author, and the twentieth century’s most famous and celebrated British Prime Minister. His evocative and stirring rhetoric, employed in many famous speeches, was seen as representing the spirit of wartime Britain, and was essential to raising national morale.

      Winston Churchill would lead Great Britain for most of World War 2 and Churchill’s bulldog spirit seemed to summarize the mood of the British people during the bad times, such as Dunkirk, or the inspirational victories, such as the Battle of Britain.

      To many people in Britain, Churchill’s stand against Nazism, and all it represented, was why the war was being fought. His speeches became part of legend and are often quoted to this day.

      Churchill remained in London during the Blitz and regularly visited areas bombed by the Luftwaffe. To the people of London, the Prime Minister was one of them and a man who could have removed himself from the dangers of German bombers, but refused, instead staying in London along with those who suffered.

      Churchill took an active role in conducting the war, which often caused great friction with his military commanders, as well as his staunchest ally, the United States. President Franklin D. Roosevelt was the perfect moderator, however, able to satisfy Churchill’s need to participate in strategic decisions, while harnessing the Prime Minister’s enthusiasm to positive ends. The two world leaders became close friends over the course of the war.

      Winston Churchill was also an avid reader and had a fertile imagination, which sometimes translated into outlandish and fantastic ideas for winning the ultimate victory. However, the Prime Minister never made apologies for his creativity and vigorously defended his actions, regardless of the outcome. Winston Churchill should be remembered for his indominatable spirit, incredible daring, and dangerous creativity. Of course, he made mistakes, but he did so with impeccable style.

      Acknowledgements

      Special thanks to Jodi Roth-Braun, Tony Enlow, Dave Burke, Cindy Orwig, Barry Burden, Michelle Burden, Steve and Linda Gilbert, Jim and Angela Lee, Jay Nudi and Elizabeth Case, Michele Desjardins, Sheila Seclearr, and Alex McCarthy.

      Additional thanks to Randell Young, William Black, Jason Heller, Sheryl Cassity, Hal Croasmun, John Francis, Misty Taggart, and Ray Zimmerman.

      Cover art by David M. Burke

      Thaddeus Osbert characterization drawn by Eric Hammond

      Introduction

      Scales of the Dragon

      A scale shed from a dragon,

      Is rich with magical power.

      A scale offered from a dragon,

      Is a gift unmatched.

      A scale stolen from a dragon,

      Carries with it a curse severe.

      A scale repaired from a dragon,

      Is protection unequaled.

      A scale lost from a dragon,

      Is a treasure to find.

      A scale raised from a dragon,

      Is shelter against the elements.

      A scale sacrificed from a dragon,

      Protects and serves justice.

      A scale returned to a dragon,

      Will forever enable one to know the truth.

      By Robert Ian Lenthart

      (Used with permission)

      1

      Escape to Destiny

      Rachel Heller shivered in the corner. Her stomach gnawed and growled with hunger, robbing her of the sleep she so desperately craved. Closing her eyes, the teenaged girl tried not to think about it. In the end, it was pointless, for the memories always came back, forever crowding out every attempt at restful sleep or pleasant dreams.

      She remembered everything, down to the smallest detail.

      The German guards had taken them to a cattle train. People started to run away from the train, but they were shot. Once on the train, the prisoners had to stand, because there was no room to sit down. One teenaged boy tore the barbed wires from the train window and many children started to squeeze through the opening. As each one jumped to escape, the SS guards on the rooftops of the train shot them.

      Rachel’s father told his three children, Wait until the train starts moving, but then you must hurry. Once you are clear, run, run, run and maybe you will stay alive. We will stay here with the small children because even if they get out, they will not be able to survive.

      The gaps in the tracks yielded a noisy rhythm, rattling k-k, k-k—k-k, k-k, creating a complex syncopation of rail crossovers.

      Their father stuffed shredded blankets inside his children’s clothes, to pad their knees, elbows, and hips. Pick your landing spot before you jump, he instructed.

      Soon after leaving the station that night, the train passed through one sleepy village after another. When the train went slowly round a curve, the driver noticed a red light on the lines and brought the train to a gentle stop. Three young partisans had placed a hurricane lamp covered with red tissue paper in the path of the train.

      Her father said to Rachel, Now you run, my precious, run and don’t look back. I know you will stay alive. You have the rabbi’s blessing.

      He was very religious and he believed this.

      Rachel’s brother jumped out first, then her sister Hannah, and then Rachel leaped out. The men dressed all in black shot at anything that moved, even the shadows. Rachel landed in a snow bank. Spraying bullets did not hit her.

      Rachel lay perfectly still. The train continued down the tracks and disappeared around the bend. When she did not hear anything anymore, Rachel went back to find her brother and sister. She found them both dead. Her brother was 15. Her sister was 16.

      Only three days earlier, Rachel had turned 17.

      Notwithstanding shots from the guards, the partisans succeeded in opening one of the truck doors and freeing 17 prisoners. The train kept moving, albeit slowly. Later that same night, more people were able to escape from the moving convoy. Altogether, 236 Jews were able to get away from the train, but many were recaptured.

      The next day, 23 dead bodies, mostly children, were found strewn beside the tracks. Some had been shot by the guards, while others died from injuries incurred whilst jumping from the moving train.

      Rachel’s eyes sprung open. The barracks were silent, cold, and dark, so very dark.

      Aufstehen!

      In the hour before dawn, the daily wake-up call ended the restless sleep of every prisoner in each freezing, lice-infested hut within every Nazi concentration camp throughout Hitler’s Third Reich. Whether weary, ill, or actually dying, each miserable inmate had to tumble instantly from a wooden bunk and run, not walk, to the camp’s central square, there to stand silent, motionless and utterly vulnerable for the ceremony of roll call.

      The humiliating ritual was designed to demonstrate the absolute power of the SS guards over the very existence of everyone present. Some prisoners keeled over and literally breathed their last, robbing the SS of their prey as they paced wordlessly up, down, and across the mute rows of trembling inmates.

      Rachel tried to stand perfectly still, staring straight ahead.

      It was another day of living hell at Ravensbrück Concentration Camp.

      All of Rachel’s clothes had been taken away, and she was given a burlap striped dress, but nothing else, and rough-hewn clogs. A dress and clogs. No underwear. Nothing.

      An Aufseherin, or female SS Guard, suddenly approached Rachel. The stern woman dressed in grey pointed at the girl and shouted, Aussenkommando!

      Rachel’s entire body shook with fear, but she managed to step forward. She did not realize it at the time, but she had been ordered to join a labor team sent to work outside the camp during the day and come back in the evening. It was actually a blessing in disguise, for the work teams usually found food to forage and the guards were often lazy and left the prisoners alone.

      The work party moved out, trudging forward, eyes down and always to the front. Rachel shuffled along, concentrating on the tattered shoes directly in front of her, not daring to look around.

      The journey seemed to go on forever.

      For one thing, the camp was vast. There were rows upon rows, upon rows upon rows, upon rows upon rows of barrack chimneys. In the mist of a cold, drizzly day, the effect was ghostly.

      As Rachel continued walking between the stone women’s barracks on the left and the chimneys of the men’s barracks on the right, she suddenly noticed four small deer grazing just beyond the wire. The animals looked at her intently, and then walked a few paces parallel to the railroad tracks, before turning and looking at Rachel again. She felt strange, as if the deer were waiting for her to catch up to them.

      Rachel couldn’t help it, as she just veered away from the marching work party, paralleling the deer, and when they turned a corner to the right, she found herself walking along a long, wide straight path with a gate at the far end. About half way down, several of the deer jumped the path and headed toward the back of the camp. Rachel turned around and followed the tracks to the back as well, where she found the crematorium. She didn’t hesitate, but walked through the wet grass toward the woods and then around the belching smokestacks. It was then that the girl became aware that the ground under her feet felt strange, dense and thick. Rachel understood in a second that she was walking on compacted ashes. Still, at that moment, the poor girl was certain it would be her last day alive. The guard towers peered down on her and she expected at any moment to hear screams of rage, before someone shot her. Yet the deer still beckoned and Rachel continued to get closer to the gate, reaching out to pet them. She smiled.

      There was a flash of blinding light.

      Rachel screamed, as a desperate hand grabbed hold of her dress and yanked her forward. The material ripped as she tumbled, falling and yet not falling, for it was like floating through space.

      Then everything faded to black.

      Brrring. Brrring. Brrring.

      The telephone on the cluttered desk rang noisily.

      A Scotland Yard inspector looked up, irritated by the interruption.

      He picked up the receiver and spoke into the mouthpiece, Inspector Grimsby.

      You have an incoming call from Ten Downing Street, Inspector, the switchboard operator said excitedly.

      Peter Grimsby suddenly sat up straighter, gulping with surprise. Very well, put the call through, please.

      Having been summoned to 10 Downing Street, Inspector Peter Grimsby stood uncomfortably straight in the foyer. He had reported with all due haste, to be assigned to a matter of great urgency and incredible delicacy. Or at least that was what he had been told.

      The crime scene evidence suggested that an important government clerk, with the highest security clearance and currently assigned to analyzing certain sensitive material, had been murdered! The circumstances surrounding the ghastly and foul deed were apparently unusual.

      The Prime Minister is too busy to see you personally at this time, said Norman McGowan, Churchill’s personal valet. However, Mr. Churchill wants to stress how important this case might prove to be, so I am to exhort you to great lengths.

      Grimsby was handed a dossier. I understand. I’ll get right on it.

      I shall convey your confidence to the Prime Minister, McGowan said as he showed the inspector to the door.

      Suddenly standing alone in the rain, Grimsby shrugged and made his way down the street, several times required to show his badge even as he departed. At the corner, he hailed a taxi.

      Where to, chap? the driver inquired.

      Scotland Yard, Grimsby replied.

      Very well. The car sped away from the curb.

      Grimsby opened the dossier and began reading. Suddenly he sat up straight, eyes wide. The murder report was less than two hours old! Indeed, he was witnessing something highly unusual. Frowning, the inspector immediately felt uneasy. This entire case suddenly didn’t add up, because nothing was ever handled with such incredible efficiency, especially when dealing with the government.

      On second thought, please take me to… Grimsby read the report again. Crownsdale Road, Regents Park.

      The cabbie looked over his shoulder. All right then. Nice fare, indeed.

      Never mind, the inspector stated. I’m in a bit of a hurry.

      Right you are. The driver sped up, merged across several lanes and turned in the new direction. He was whistling.

      Grimsby rubbed his tired, bloodshot eyes. Leaning back, he carefully read every word of the report. Still, even as he familiarized himself with the details, the gnawing feeling that things were just not right continued to grow in his mind. Or perhaps it was in the pit of his stomach? Something was surely amiss. If only he could put his finger on just what it was that bothered him so.

      Back at 10 Downing Street, the Prime Minister met Norman McGowan in the hallway. Everything to plan?

      Yes, sir, no worries. He will persevere.

      Churchill lit a cigar. He looked at the smoking stogie. You realize I never finish these.

      McGowan smiled. Yes, I had noticed.

      Churchill grunted good-naturedly. Has my friend across the pond contacted us yet today?

      McGowan shook his head. And if he finds out about this incident…

      The PM interrupted. He won’t. A huge white cloud of smoke enveloped him.

      Nellie Goble, the head residence housekeeper, stepped up with an ashtray. If you don’t mind, sir?

      Churchill flicked ash as he passed her, most of it landing on Nellie’s apron. McGowan gave her a sympathetic smile and hurried to keep up with the quickly advancing PM. Churchill stopped suddenly, spun around and looked up at the ceiling.

      His valet narrowly missed colliding with him, executing a fancy maneuver just in time. Yes, sir, what is it?

      Winston Churchill replied, Once I knew that the Americans had joined the war, I slept the sleep of the saved.

      Yes, sir, their help has already made a tremendous difference, McGowan said. Still, I shouldn’t wonder that President Roosevelt might be a bit miffed if he knew what you were up to.

      Churchill peered through another cloud of white smoke. You know, McGowan, you are rather a bore when you’re not playing my valet.

      The man in question whipped away the haze with several rapid waves of his hand. Now sir, please remember that my loyalty is first and foremost with you, but I do have a certain responsibility to uphold my vow with Major General Sir Stewart Graham Menzies, as you are well aware!

      Oh bother, Churchill sputtered a bit. Must you SIS boys always play by the rules?

      I’m afraid so, sir, McGowan said. While I primarily play your valet, I am required to remind you of the rules, if and when I think you’re bending them so far they might break.

      Churchill puffed. Oh, all right then, I’ll behave. I just don’t want the Americans running away with this thing, as I know they will, if they get wind of it.

      You are undoubtedly correct, sir, McGowan said. Governments often barter for projects based on their ability to perform. If the Yanks insist, then just make certain you get something of value in return.

      The Prime Minister grunted again and looked at his pocket watch. I meet with the war cabinet in an hour. Best be off.

      The murder of a government clerk had been directly reported by the Prime Minister’s office to Scotland Yard. As unusual as this course of action appeared on the surface, the Yard was quick to respond, assigning Inspector Peter Grimsby to investigate the circumstances of the heinous crime. While the victim wasn’t issued the highest level security clearance possible, such a murder automatically concerned certain officials who worried about such things.

      Inspector Grimsby purposefully marched up Crownsdale Road to the victim’s residence, while pondering the chain of events that led to his present circumstance. The war had put intense pressure on Scotland Yard’s ability to perform the usual civilian investigation of criminal activity, while also balancing the constant need to track down every possibility of sabotage, counter-intelligence, and espionage.

      Grimsby once again checked the address written on the murder dossier and spotted a policeman standing outside. The Inspector stepped up to enter the apartment building.

      No admittance, guv, the bobby said, blocking the inspector’s path.

      Scotland Yard, Sergeant, Grimsby replied gruffly, flashing his identification.

      Snapping shut his Special Branch identification wallet, Peter returned it to the inside pocket of his overcoat.

      Right you are, Inspector, the bobby replied, stepping aside to give Grimsby access to the flat.

      Peter walked through the foyer, straight into the bedroom, but went right past the sprawled body of the deceased, entering the attached bathroom. The rusted old radiator had apparently been ripped away from the wall and beside it sat a jumbled pile of broken porcelain, which had once been a pedestal sink. The small window had been destroyed, almost as if blown inwards by an explosive charge. The hole was large enough to give access to an elephant, if necessary. The mirror had also been shattered, reflective shards scattered throughout the little room. An expensive brass clawfoot tub lay on its side and Grimsby could see broken tiles underneath the rim.

      No one has picked up the body yet? Grimsby asked pointedly, surprised that protocol seemed to have been cast aside.

      The evidence boys haven’t been here yet, sir, the sergeant replied, lifting away his helmet and scratching his head. Peculiar set of events, I gather.

      Really? Grimsby said sarcastically.

      The inspector looked around.

      There must have been something of a scuffle, Inspector, the Sergeant commented over Peter’s shoulder. By the look of things, I mean.

      Scuffle? the inspector wondered. More like a battle, I’d say.

      In fact, the entire apartment showed obvious signs to support the Inspector’s statement. The interior walls were peppered with scorch marks and blast points, as if something or someone had used automatic weapons. The carpet was missing huge swatches of material, as if ripped apart. However, there were no shell casings, shrapnel, or any of the usual telltale signs of combat.

      Strange, the Inspector said to himself.

      Grimsby made a few notes in his black book. He licked the nub of his pencil several times, a bad habit he had recently developed. It must have been a nervous reaction to the increasing number of strange events he had seen since the bombings began. Ever since the Blitz, someone was giving an entirely new definition to homicide.

      Grimsby skirted past the bobby and stooped down to study the corpse lying near the bed. The victim’s glassy eyes stared sightlessly at the ceiling and his skin was colorless.

      By the looks of things, the man had been dead for more than a day.

      What brings you here? the portly sergeant asked, trying to make conversation. Don’t see the need for Special Branch to muck about with such a simple offing, eh? A robbery gone bad, that’s all.

      Grimsby shot him a warning look. It’s not your concern why I’m here, Sergeant.

      Right, sir, the policeman tried to apologize.

      Who found the body and when?

      The man’s work associate, I’m afraid. A Miss Lára Jónsdóttir, originally from Iceland, according to her work permit. She’s in the sitting room now, she is, but a bit shaken, sir.

      I shouldn’t wonder.

      Should I go fetch her, sir?

      No, I’ll talk to her in a moment, Grimsby replied. By the way, Sergeant, your name is..?

      The bobby smiled. Sergeant Blunkett, Inspector, at yer service.

      Grimsby bent closer, peering at the body. The poor man had been slashed repeatedly, but the damage had a surgeon’s precision about it. In fact, there was something odd about the incisions, almost as if the victim had been clawed to death by a gigantic cat! Something else didn’t add up either, because there wasn’t a drop of blood anywhere.

      The sergeant cleared his throat.

      Grimsby stood up, stepped back into the hallway and closed the bedroom door after the bobby had followed him out into the hallway. Nobody goes in there, is that clear, Sergeant?

      Right, guv, nobody, Blunkett agreed.

      Now show me to the lady.

      The sergeant led the inspector down the dim corridor and through another door, which led to the sitting room. Years before, it had been painted an elegant green, but now appeared faded and ignored in the lengthening shadows of late afternoon. The recently purchased wartime utility furniture was clean, but the centerpiece rug had seen better days. Otherwise, the walls were cold and barren, with no paintings or pictures hanging in logical locations. There were partially burnt logs in the fireplace, which hadn’t been cleared of ash for ages.

      At first, Grimsby didn’t see anyone in the room.

      Then movement caught his eye.

      A young woman sat up straighter in the only high-back chair. Her hair was naturally blonde, styled fashionably away from her forehead. She was foreign, not English at all, with decidedly Nordic features, a sharply defined chin, and lips that were pressed tightly in a severe frown.

      Miss Jónsdóttir, I’m Inspector Peter Grimsby, Scotland Yard.

      Something odd flickered in her deep blue eyes.

      He continued. I realize you’ve had a difficult time. I’ll try not to drag this out any more than necessary, but I have a few standard questions to ask.

      Her shoulders sagged and one eye flinched.

      Miss Jónsdóttir was either frightened or hiding something.

      Grimsby wondered which it was.

      The woman sighed, but took the time to study the Metropolitan Police Inspector.

      Peter stood several inches short of six feet. His features were pleasant, not arrogant, but still proud. He was slim and looked like he could handle himself if necessary, but his eyes were sad, as if he had seen too many terrible things.

      The inspector realized he was being evaluated, so he reached into a pocket and pulled out a pack of American Lucky Strike cigarettes.

      After completing her superficial examination she replied, Inspector Grimsby, several hours ago I found Ralph dead. The word difficult hardly describes my day.

      Miss Jónsdóttir stood up and turned her back to him.

      Would you care for a cigarette? Peter asked quietly.

      She slowly turned around, gently sliding a cigarette from the offered pack. The inspector flicked open a plain metal lighter, holding up the flame.

      As soon as the tobacco caught, she stepped over to the fireplace, took one long drag and stared into the empty grate, before exhaling

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