The Talbot Odyssey by Nelson DeMille

the eyes of the Englishman sitting across from her.
    He inclined his head toward the letter. “Please continue.”
    Katherine stared down at the gold-embossed letterhead: Lady Eleanor Wingate, Brompton Hall, Tongate, Kent. The letter was handwritten with black ink in what Katherine thought was a script so perfect it could have been copperplate. She looked up at Carbury. His face was taut, almost grim, she thought. “Would you like a drink?” She indicated a sideboard and Carbury rose wordlessly and walked toward it. She continued to read.
     
    We were as helpful as possible under the circumstances, but
Brompton Hall is rather a large house, and there was almost no
staff available to make a thorough search of the places where a
man in your father’s line of work might choose to secure sensi
tive documents.
    You can see, perhaps, where this is leading. A few days ago
we were clearing out Brompton Hall in preparation for its
transfer to new owners. In one of the storage closets in the
muniment room—a sort of family archive room—was a parcel
wrapped in oilcloth which turned out to contain a U.S. Army
dispatch case. My nephew, Charles, who was supervising the
work, brought it to me straightaway.
    Inside the case were well-preserved papers, mostly ciphers
and that sort of thing, of no importance by now, I should think
.
There were also letters bundled and tied. They appear to be a
few rather touching notes from your sister, Ann, who was then
about five years of age. There was also an item of immediate
concern: a locked diary.
    After some deliberation, I decided to open the lock to be
certain it was your father’s diary and, if it was, to determine if
there was anything inside that might be painful for you to read.
As it turns out, there are references to me and to your mother.
But I’ve decided to delete none of them. You’re quite old
enough to understand love, loneliness, and war.
    Most of the diary, however, is not of a personal nature. There
are pages of notes of which I believe you and your government
should be made aware
.
     
    Katherine paused in her reading. This was really too much to assimilate, she thought. Yet, it was not entirely unexpected. Eleanor Wingate was a name dimly remembered from her childhood, though she couldn’t recall the context. Now the memory and the context were clearer. And Randolph Carbury’s visit was not unexpected either, though he had been totally unknown to her fifteen minutes ago. She had known that some day Carbury, or someone like him, would appear out of the blue. It was inevitable that the ghost of her father would reach out to her. She read on:
     
    The circumstances involving your father’s death in Berlin
were, I think, quite mysterious, dying as he did some days after
the end of the war. I never had much faith in the official version
of what happened. Also, your father said to me once, “Eleanor
,
if I should die without at least a dozen reliable witnesses t
o
testify that it was from completely natural causes, you’ll know
the Russians finally got me.”
    I replied, “Henry, you mean the Germans.” To which he
responded, “No, I mean our sneaking, cutthroat allies.”
    And there was something else. The American officer who
came for Henry’s effects—I didn’t like his conduct or the looks
of him. Why did he come
alone
to search this big house and
recruit my small staff in this tiring business? Why did another
officer come the next day on the same mission? This second
officer seemed incredulous that someone had come before him.
He said the Army had learned of Henry’s death only hour
s
before.
    At the time, I was too overcome with grief to make much
sense of any of this, but some weeks later I tried to make enqui
ries. Wartime security, however, was still in effect, and it was
quite hopeless.
    Well, your father’s diary clears up a great many things.
     
    Katherine looked at Carbury and said softly, “Talbot?”
    Carbury’s eyes widened slightly. “Yes. Talbot