Free Black Roses by Jane Thynne

matters very much what they say when they return to England. Favourable reports about the new regime will only encourage elements in England who want to disarm.’
    ‘I understand.’
    ‘There’s something else.’
    Rumbold was craning towards Leo, almost as though he feared the occupants of the gleaming cars sailing down the Wilhelmstrasse might be able to overhear his words.
    ‘If you do come across any of our compatriots who have communication with the élite, it would, of course, be useful to hear the gist of their conversations. Should they be amenable to that. I’m not talking about espionage here, merely intelligence gathering. You know Dyson, my attaché, of course?’
    Archie Dyson was an unflappable Etonian who had taken Leo out for a solitary gin at the Adlon on his first night here. He was clever and not especially likeable. Manners like silk, but a mind like a steel trap.
    ‘I’ve met him, yes.’
    ‘Dyson is compiling some contacts who can give us a glimpse behind the scenes, so to speak. So if you do find anything . . .’ Rumbold fingered his moustache thoughtfully, ‘we might be able to put more resources into it. But you’re going to have to be very careful, Quinn. You’re known to be connected to the Embassy. The political police have eyes and ears everywhere. ‘
    ‘I see.’
    Rumbold leant back.
    ‘I’m giving a party for Goering shortly. There’ll be a host of interesting people passing through. Perhaps you could get going then. I’ll get my secretary to send an invitation to your place. Where are you living, remind me?’
    ‘Orianenburger Strasse.’
    ‘Ah yes. How original. Well, do let Miss Jenkins have your address on the way out.’

Chapter Eight
    The Goebbels’ new home was in the grounds of the Ministry of Agriculture behind Wilhelmstrasse. It was a large whitewashed mansion built for a former Prussian court official and looked like a small country house, surrounded as it was by a plantation of old trees. It was a princely home for one of Germany’s new aristocracy, and once Goebbels decided he wanted it, a team of gardeners from the state parks authority had been brought in to restore the overgrown grounds, with their rusting skeletons of greenhouses and swampy lily ponds, and install paths and flowerbeds. In the drive stood a natty beige and brown Mercedes convertible, a recent present from the car company to Herr Doktor Goebbels, and a sparkling green cabriolet for his wife.
    Clara and Klaus Müller proceeded through the door flanked by a pair of flame-shaped lanterns and into a room with ornate fluted pillars and a gigantic, sparkling chandelier. There were yellow and gold carpets on the floor and large bowls of hothouse flowers. The blond wood walls were hung with tapestries and paintings. Müller took a glass of Sekt from a tray and handed it to Clara.
    ‘Looks like it’s going to be all German wines from now on,’ he murmured.
    Clara gazed around her.
    ‘Delightful place, don’t you agree?’ he said. There was a mocking, superior edge to his voice, which made it hard to work out what he genuinely thought.
    ‘Very.’
    He surveyed the room. ‘Goering has a huge place behind Leipziger Platz, all gloomy panelling and stained glass and absolutely stuffed with Renaissance furniture. You feel like you’re on the set of the Ring Cycle. Fortunately the Doktor has rather better taste.’
    Clara stared around her. What on earth was she doing here? When the two men had invited them for a drink, she had agreed because that was what Helga wanted, and Helga had been good enough to take Clara under her wing. Besides, she had no other plans for anything at all. Then Magda Goebbels had extended her invitation, Helga’s face had lit up, and there was no way she could have refused.
    Perhaps there was no harm in it. Just this once. She would hardly have chosen to spend an evening with National Socialists, but this was a party, wasn’t it, and at least she had something to wear.