Heil Harris!

time to glance at it today?”
    “Yes,” said Emma. “It gave accounts of every meeting the Werewolves have held since January. And it described the members in detail—”
    “Thank you, Mrs. Peel. I think that establishes that we have a communist in our midst. It only remains to decide whether he would wish to murder Freddie Flamborough.” Colonel Hayburn laughed gently and walked towards Peter de’Ath. “As I recall it, Peter, you joined this organisation in January?”
    “Well, yes, but—”
    “Take off your clothes. Unless you want to spoil that suit. We’re going to sit you in a bath of water and persuade you to talk with a few electric shocks. I don’t really mind how you’re dressed.”
    Peter de’Ath was still protesting when Corporal Higgs and two more men seized him by the arms.
    “Just put him in that bath,” said Hayburn, “and let Mrs. Peel administer the torture. She has already proved herself the best man in our organisation.”
    Emma watched them put the man fully dressed in a tank with his bald head protruding, as in a Turkish bath, and — when it was filled with water she was introduced to the dials and switches on the side.
    “This was found very effective in Algeria,” said Hayburn. “I think with a little guile you should persuade him to agree to almost anything. But the art of torture is to ask the right questions. I don’t want him to confess to murdering Abraham Lincoln.”
    The spell was broken on the rest of the audience, and Emma could feel them gradually radiating hostility and the desire to reassert themselves. When she pressed the current switch and de’Ath screamed for the first time she heard someone snigger, and within two minutes the entire thirty people were cheering every time he yelled.
    The man’s head was white and wet, balanced on the top of the tank in agony as if it were looking for his body. The eyes were wide open, pleading and terrified. Emma wished he was facing the other way. It wasn’t her idea of justice. She tried telling herself that he didn’t count, he was a communist or fascist or anyway he was bald. This was a risk you took when you dabbled in politics.
    “Are you a member of the communist party?”
    “Yes: Yes, I already told you.”
    “Did you kill Freddie Flamborough?”
    “No. I swear—”
    And of course he hadn’t. Emma turned away to Colonel Hayburn and told him to carry on. “If he admits to anything else he’s lying.”
    “Good girl, Emma. You’d have gone right to the top in the middle ages.” Hayburn turned to his audience. “All right, what do we do with traitors?”
    “Brand him!” someone shouted. “Flog him to death.”
    “Stretch him on the rack.” They had lost their inhibitions now and the release of tension had left them feeling exhilarated.
    Emma went towards the soundproof heavy door, because it was furthest away from the mob, and leaned against the stone wall. She found the claustrophobic hysteria rather depressing, but she was part of it, she told herself. Mustn’t be a snob.
    She suddenly became aware of an old man standing next to her. She hadn’t seen him arrive, but he was standing there watching the scene with riveting intensity, radiating an energy that made it seem impossible that they hadn’t felt his presence sooner. A frail, erect figure with his right arm clamped across his body to still the twitching left hand. He stared briefly at Emma, and the hypnotic black eyes made her flinch.
    “You wanted to meet Herr Harris,” murmured Colonel Hayburn beside her. “Sir, may I present Mrs. Peel.”
    “Most charming.” He flashed out a hand and smiled briefly.
    “What shall we do to Mr. de’Ath, sir? He admits to being a spy—”
    “Do what you wish. I cannot be bothered with the details of your organisation, Colonel Hayburn. Dispose of the man, and ensure that it does not happen again.” Harris walked into the room and scrutinised the man in the tank. Emma noticed that he dragged his left leg as he walked. After a petrifying stare Harris turned to leave. “Come,” he snapped at Hayburn. “And bring the young lady.”
    Harris lived in a farmhouse a few miles north of Swindon with his wife and a large alsatian called Blondi. The food was disappointing because Harris was a vegetarian. He was also a teetotaler. When they sat down for a friendly chat after supper Emma was still not accustomed to the nervous tension the old man generated in everyone. And she was slightly put out by his