The Cold Light of Day

Book 7: Verity Kent Mystery

by Anna Lee Huber

Genres: Historical Mysteries; International Crime & Mystery

Synopsis

The latest novel in the action-packed historical mystery series featuring Verity Kent, fashionable former Secret Service agent turned intrepid sleuth and high-society darling on her next clandestine mission—from the USA Today bestselling author of the Lady Darby Mysteries. A treat for fans of Jacqueline Winspear and Susan Ella MacNeal.

June 1920, Ireland: The streets of Dublin seethe with revolution as the Irish Republican Army clashes with British authorities. Roving assassination squads mean nowhere is truly safe, particularly for Verity Kent and her war hero husband, Sidney. Given their celebrity as society darlings and intrepid sleuths, they must tread carefully to go unnoticed—nearly impossible when they are called upon to search for Verity’s fellow spy and friend . . .

Captain Alec Xavier has seemingly vanished after traveling to Dublin to infiltrate the IRA at its highest levels. Doing her best to maintain a modicum of normalcy and stay under the radar of both the rebels and British Intelligence, Verity works undercover by day and waltzes through the city’s elite social scene by night. Still, she fears the worst for Alec—until shocking evidence mounts that not only is he alive, but that he has switched sides . . .

Already disillusioned with the British government, the news leaves Verity and Sidney reeling. Worse, they learn of a conspiracy within Dublin Castle, where personal vendettas are being carried out and sanctioned by British Intelligence under the cover of revolution. With the distinction between friend and foe never more blurred—or the margin for error narrower—Verity and Sidney cannot turn a blind eye. Especially when a familiar adversary appears, bringing a threat almost too terrifying to confront—even in the cold light of day . . .

Release date: September 24, 2024

Publisher: Kensington Books

Print pages: 384

Sample

The street was quiet. Too quiet.

After the tumult that had come before—the rumble of military lorries, the scramble of people to clear the vicinity where they were headed, the pushing and shoving of those crowding the tram—any normal citizen might have breathed a sigh of relief upon turning into this calm, deserted street. Instead, I felt a keen sense of exposure.

There were no more throngs to conceal myself within, no more ordinary Dubliners bustling about with which to blend. I feared my drab garb, lowered head, and slumped shoulders wouldn’t be enough to project the image that I was but another weary soul trudging home after a long day. Particularly when anyone peering out of the tall shutterless windows of the Georgian brick townhouses on this street southeast of the city center would find only me to scrutinize.

There was safety and anonymity in numbers. A fact I’d learned well during the war. In my work as a British intelligence agent, slipping back and forth from the neutral Netherlands across the border strung with electrified barbed wire into Belgium, I’d come to intimately understand how one was at more personal risk from the German occupiers in wide-open spaces and quiet narrow alleys than the lively town square.

Here, too, the Irish rebels seemed to have learned this lesson. Their murder gangs most often struck in crowds, assassinating their targets in well-populated areas where they could then blend back into the populace as they made their escapes. Even the members of their Volunteer Army used the masses to cover some of their activities. As seemed to be the case that afternoon when they’d raided a British garrison in the city for weapons. Hence the lorries filled with troops rushing northward, albeit much too late.

I’d listened to a pair of men discussing the incident on the tram. Whether they were actual members of the brigade who had plundered King’s Inn for guns and ammunition or simply part of the crowd that had cheered them on afterward, I didn’t know, but they were definitely on the side of the republicans. As were many of the people riding the tram car if their nods and remarks of approval were anything to judge by. Others, like me, kept their faces turned away and their thoughts to themselves. Though I was careful not to view their neutral expressions as indications of disapproval rather than greater circumspection. After all, at least some of them must have been aware that enemy informants could be standing in their midst, listening to everything they said. There was always someone willing to snitch on their neighbors for a few measly quid.

But on this quiet street there was no lilting refrain of Irish brogue to accompany me, no clatter of carts, or rattle of bicycle chains, or ringing bells from passing trams as in the busier thoroughfares. And this being a residential street, there was no foot traffic from those drawn to the theaters, pubs, and restaurants in the evening. Only the clack of my footfalls ringing overloud in my ears, and a snatch of birdsong to punctuate it. I looked up as a pair of buntings flew overhead, making their way toward the trees ringing Fitzwilliam Square.

My intelligence training asserted itself, and I strained to hear any telltale signs that I was being followed while continuing to trudge forward, determined not to give myself away. But my heart was pounding too loudly in my ears. I was out of practice, and Dublin was new territory for me.

Territory where, as a prominent, well-to-do British citizen, I should have been safe. But at the moment, the city was a snake pit. One teaming with revolutionaries and the forces the British government had sent to squash them. I wasn’t yet certain from which I was most in danger, but there was a risk from both.

Approaching the corner with a narrow alley, I resorted to an old trick. Lowering my worn bag to the pavement, I bent down on one knee, ostensibly to tie a shoelace which had come undone. Under the cover of this gesture, I searched the length of the street in front and behind me for anything suspicious. However, it was empty, save for a gentleman some two hundred yards in front of me already turning the corner into the square.

Grasping my bag, I darted into the alley, fairly confident I’d not missed any tricks someone trailing me might have employed. The edifices of the Georgian houses were flat, leaving little architectural elements for someone to conceal themselves behind, except for perhaps the odd pillar flanking one of the arched doorways. It seemed probable that a republican would have carried on toward me with their characteristic audacity, while a British intelligence officer would have resorted to his training—feigning interest in the building architecture or pretending to call at the nearest address. Given the street’s desertion, I instead elected to proceed as planned.

Tucked away behind the stately townhouses gracing Fitzwilliam Square, the mews revealed the far less auspicious side of these homes. Barely wide enough for a coach or now a motorcar to pass through, the lane was lined with walls and fences, as well as former carriage houses, which for the most part had been converted into garages. Though, at least one stable must have remained, for I heard the distinctive whicker of a horse somewhere nearby. I knew that behind several of these walls grew impressive floral gardens because I’d spied them from a window above. From the vantage of the mews, the only indications of such were the odd vine allowed to trail over a fence or the periodic whiff of a gardenia carried on the breeze. Otherwise, the surroundings were naught but stolid brick, wood, and dusty cobblestones. Even the slice of blue sky visible above seemed small and meager.

Approaching the T-junction with another lane, I turned to look behind me. For after I carried on from here, I would be boxed in. The mews ended at exactly the place I didn’t wish to lead anyone. Here, once again, the places for concealment were minimal, but I stood watching the entrance to the mews until a motorcar passed along the street beyond. Then I turned and lengthened my stride—even though my shoes pinched—intent on reaching my destination. I cast one last glance over my shoulder at the place where the lane made an abrupt right turn, before moving directly toward the next to last gate in the wall on the left.

There, I paused, taking a deep breath and issuing myself a stern scolding. I hadn’t seen or heard anything to indicate that I was being followed, yet like the greenest agent, I was allowing my nerves to get the better of me. Here in the mews, no one could see me or my jittery movements, but once I stepped through this gate, I would be exposed to the eyes of anyone who happened to look out from the upper windows of the neighboring homes. I had to appear exactly as I pretended to be—a care woman sent to look after the Coxes’ house while they were away.

Setting my shoulders, I opened the gate and slid through, careful to latch it firmly behind me. Then I walked calmly up the path that bisected the overgrown garden and circumvented the piles of masonry situated to one side of the rear servants’ entrance.

This area of Dublin was often more sparsely populated during the summer months—the owners and tenants having departed for their country estates or traveling abroad—but with the ongoing unrest and disturbances, it was even more deserted than normal. Many of those who did not need to be in Dublin because of civil obligations had fled to safer climes. The Coxes were just such people, abandoning their Upper Fitzwilliam Street home in the midst of a renovation, which had also ground to a halt. I supposed they didn’t see the point in going to the expense of completing the task when the building might be damaged by either republicans or British forces. Whatever the case, it suited my purposes perfectly.

Entering the house, I made my way silently past the scullery and kitchen to the staircase. Several of the floorboards groaned loudly when stepped upon, but I’d learned to avoid them. I climbed three stories to the uppermost floor. A thick rug muffled my steps as I entered the bedchamber on the left.

The heavy drapes inside were pulled tight over the windows, blocking the light from the sun still high in the sky on this June evening. However, I had moved about in the chamber often enough in recent days to navigate the dim interior. I was crossing toward the tapestry hung low across the far wall when something shifted in the shadows to my right.

My heart kicked in my chest as I pivoted into a stance to meet my attacker. Only to be blinded by the sudden flare of a torch switched on, though I caught enough of a glimpse of the person holding it to identify him, before shying away.

I muttered a rather unladylike curse. “Bloody hell, Sidney.”

“Apologies,” my husband replied, lowering the beam to the floor.

I blinked, trying to clear the spots before my vision. “What are you doing here?”

“You were late, Verity,” he stated almost accusingly. “And given all the excitement in the northern part of the city, I started to worry you’d been detained. I thought it best to at least come through to be sure there wasn’t any trouble on this end.”

I noted then that Sidney was already dressed in his evening attire, his dark hair that was prone to curl, ruthlessly tamed by pomade. “You heard about the raid at King’s Inn, then?” I asked, reaching for the edges of the dusty tapestry, its floral motif unremarkable at best.

“The moment we returned to the city. Lawrence and Glengarry were furious.”

It made sense that two British military officers would be angered by the news that one of their garrisons in the heart of Dublin had been successfully raided by the Irish Republican Army, the IRA. Or, as the British preferred to still call them, the Volunteers, not wishing to convey status upon them or make these rebel skirmishes sound any more warlike than they already were. But there was something in Sidney’s tone, despite its seeming impassivity, that made me think there was far more he wasn’t saying.

I lifted aside the tapestry to reveal a hole in the wall behind it. A hole that, quite fortuitously, the former contractors had accidentally knocked into it, leaving an opening between this upper story bedchamber and the one in the house next to it. That house happened to belong to the Courtneys, old acquaintances of our friend Max Westfield, the Earl of Ryde, who had been happy to rent the property to us for the duration of our stay in Dublin, as they had fled for warmer and calmer climes. The only contingency was that we had to either repair or tolerate the temporary hole, as well as any ongoing construction that might resume in the home next door.

Far from inconveniencing us, we’d privately been elated by the hole, as it would suit our purposes perfectly. Indeed, promptly upon our taking possession, Sidney and his valet and former batman, Nimble, had set about enlarging the hole and knocking out the back wooden panel of the wardrobe in the Courtneys’ guest bedchamber before positioning it in front of the opening.

I gathered my skirts in my hand and began to scramble carefully through the hole and into the wardrobe before pushing open the doors to climb out the other side. Sidney soon joined me before reaching back inside to slide the coats hanging there back into place, concealing the hole. The tapestry on the other side served the same purpose.

We recognized our contrivances might not escape notice during an exhaustive raid by the British forces, which were perpetuated nearly nightly as they searched for revolutionaries, arms, and incriminating documents, but presumably our reputations and those of the loyalist Courtneys would offer us some protection against such an indignity being carried out. More pressingly, it was meant to mask our clandestine activities from the other members of our household staff we’d hired since our arrival in Dublin. They’d been told I was writing a book and that I wished not to be disturbed while I was working. Only Nimble was permitted on the upper story to tidy up or bring me tea. It was one instance in which my reputation for eccentricity came in handy.

“What time is it?” I asked Sidney, glancing about the room for a clock as I removed the coat I’d donned for my disguise.

“Gone half past six.” He opened one of the drawers in the bottom of the wardrobe and took the garment from me to carefully fold it to be stored there. “And it will take at least a half an hour to reach the Viceregal Lodge. Probably longer.”

I muttered another curse, struggling to hurry with my clothes. “Why couldn’t this dinner have been scheduled for another night?”

“I hesitate to point out that you could have opted not to venture out today, knowing you would be pressed for time later,” he declared lightly as he took my hat.

“How could I not?” I paused to demand. “We’ve already lost so much time,” I bemoaned, turning back to the buttons of my blouse, with which I was growing increasingly frustrated. “Who knows what sort of trouble Alec has gotten himself into by now? Whether we’ll ever be able to extract him. Blast it!” I raged, tugging at the hem of my top.

Sidney’s hands reached out to still mine, before drawing me toward him.

“I’ll smudge your coat,” I sniffed, remembering at the last that I’d used a tinted cream to make my complexion sallow as part of my disguise, muting my normal glow of health.

He relented but his deep midnight-blue eyes continued to hold mine, steadying me. Only briefly did they dip to finish slipping the last button free on my blouse. “I take it you had little luck today.”

“None,” I grumbled, and then sighed, forcing myself to be honest. “But then, I didn’t truly expect any. Not when such an effort takes time. Rushing would only place all of us at greater risk.”

Few truer words had ever been spoken about intelligence work. But agents grew antsy, and superior officers demanded results too quickly. Such impatience had spoiled more operations and exposed more agents to suspicion—and at times death—than I could count.

“I only wish we could have begun sooner,” I finished, sinking down on the edge of the bed to remove my shoes.

It had been nearly six weeks since we’d learned that my friend and former fellow spy, Captain Alec Xavier, had dropped out of contact with his handler. He’d been sent into Ireland by C, the chief of the Secret Intelligence Service, or SIS, to infiltrate the republicans, and in particular, Michael Collins and his inner circle, if he could.

If anyone could do it, I was certain it was Alec. After all, the man had insinuated himself into the German Army years before the war had even begun and masqueraded as a staff officer among their ranks in Brussels. I’d worked with him multiple times and was fully aware of his capabilities. He was a master at shifting personas and concealing his thoughts, his legendary charm smoothing over any rough patches.

But Alec wasn’t without his faults, and Michael Collins, a member of the executive council of Sinn Féin—the Irish nationalist political party controlling Ireland’s shadow government—and the director of intelligence for the Irish Republican Army, was no ordinary target. For one, Alec could be rash and reckless, sometimes failing to look before he leaped. For another, he was provocative, enjoying stirring the pot. This characteristic might go over well with these Irishmen, who seemed to give as good as they got. But then again, it might just as surely get him killed.

I couldn’t stop thinking of the look in his eyes the last time I’d seen him in London when he’d hinted that he would be sent to Dublin. That I might be also. There had been something unmoored, something that made me fear he wouldn’t be as careful as he’d been in the past.

It hadn’t eased my concerns when Byrnes, the agent Sir Basil Thomson, the director of intelligence for the Home Office, had sent to catch Collins, had instead been killed by his quarry—or more likely, by members of Collins’s intelligence staff—and then exposed as the spy he was. I’d never had the same confidence in Brynes that Thomson did, but it was still a shock to hear, and had increased my apprehension for Alec.

So when C had reached out through his secretary to inform me that Alec had disappeared, neither I nor Sidney had required much convincing to travel to Dublin to try to discover what had happened, albeit in an unofficial capacity. Of course, all of this was further complicated by the fact that Alec had not been sent to Ireland at Thomson’s behest, but rather C’s. As such, he hadn’t been working in conjunction with the intelligence service at Dublin Castle or the intelligence officers who worked under the political branch in the G Division of the Dublin Metropolitan Police. Consequently, neither were Sidney and I.

Sidney sat down beside me. “You couldn’t help the fact that Groβtante Ilse passed away just as we were preparing to leave London. No one could,” he reminded me gently.

My beloved great-aunt’s death hadn’t been a shock, for we’d known because of her illness that she was living on borrowed time, but it had still struck me like a blow, and the timing couldn’t have been worse.

“You would never have forgiven yourself if you’d missed her funeral,” he murmured. “And neither would your mother.”

I grimaced, knowing this to be true. Relations with my family, particularly my mother, had been strained when I hadn’t returned home to Yorkshire to mourn when my brother, Rob, was killed. But then we had been in the middle of a war, and my intelligence work had taken precedence. Work I was forbidden by the Defense of the Realm Act from ever telling my family about. Sidney had only found out because of the indiscretion of a colleague. But while my duties at the Secret Service had been important, my inability to accept the finality of Rob’s death had been as much a factor.

However, I had since accepted the truth and reconciled with my family, and I was reluctant to shatter that amnesty. Though that hadn’t stopped me from feeling conflicted while we remained in Yorkshire, and acutely aware of the passing of time and the fact that Alec could be in trouble. Eventually we couldn’t delay the matter any longer. Not when the updates from C were increasingly discouraging.

When we’d made our excuses for our departure, most of my family had assumed the reason we were bound for Dublin was because of Sidney. After all, he was a decorated war hero, having received the Victoria Cross, as well as the heir presumptive to his uncle’s marquessate. In their minds, I supposed it seemed natural that he’d been asked to consult with the military on the Irish situation. A notion we didn’t disabuse them of. Only my older brother Freddy had eyed me askance, letting me know he suspected at least part of the truth, but I knew he would never breathe a word to the others.

Sidney’s arm wrapped around my waist. “But perhaps more importantly you need to hear that Xavier would not begrudge you our delay.”

My chest tightened, wanting to believe him. “That’s easy to say now, but what if we discover the worst?”

Sidney shook his head. “Don’t take on that burden. Not when we don’t yet know what’s happened to him. He could very well be hale and hearty, just unable to pass his intelligence reports the usual way. We could hear any day now that he found another way to get in contact with C.”

I had to concede this was possible, but it did little to ease my mind.

Twenty minutes later, give or take a minute or two, we were speeding south down Pembroke Street in Sidney’s Pierce-Arrow, drawing looks from those we passed. It was difficult, after all, to remain inconspicuous tooling about in a carmine-red roadster, especially one that was the envy of many a motorist.

Before our arrival in Dublin, Sidney and I had discussed at length the best approach to our investigation here. Since it seemed unlikely we could pass unnoticed for long—our faces having graced the pages of newspapers the world over, both the society columns and in relation to some of our investigations exposing treason and murderers—it had seemed foolish to even attempt it. Besides, why cut off your nose to spite your face? We could gather what information we could as social darlings, gaining access to people and places most could not, while simultaneously masquerading as lower middle-class Irish to learn what we could from the streets.

It also gave us the added benefit of hiding in plain sight. After all, who would ever suspect two virtual celebrities of being intelligence operatives? The very suggestion seemed laughable. Or at least, I hoped it seemed so, to the rebels and Dublin Castle alike. The true nature of my intelligence work during the war had only ever been known by a few, so even if someone at the Castle knew of my past involvement, it was doubtful they believed me capable of more than typing and translating.

So, subscribing to the notion of in for a penny, in for a pound, we’d decided to ship Sidney’s Pierce-Arrow to Ireland, as well as pack some of my more glamorous clothing. Such as my current gown of emerald satin which was covered in a black beaded lace overlay with a cape that gathered and fell from my shoulders, and highlighted rather than concealed the scooped back of the satin underlayer. The evening being a fine one, Sidney had opted to lower the roadster’s roof, which helped to blow-dry the dampness at my hairline from my harried ablutions. It would also provide me with a ready excuse for the unruliness of my auburn bobbed waves.

Sidney navigated around Royal University and Harcourt Railway Station, bound for the South Circular Road that would skirt the edge of Dublin just inside the ring of the Grand Canal. In the distance, we could see the blue smudge of the Dublin Mountains. We passed numerous bicycles, a couple of horse-drawn carts, and a tram, but there were few motorcars occupying the road alongside ours, at least in comparison with London. It was undoubtedly due to the lingering effect of the protests over the implementation of motor permits late the previous year by Dublin Castle—the British government’s seat of power in Ireland. Not only were drivers required to have a license, they also must display a permit with their personal details and photograph. It was all part of the effort to thwart the rebels from using motorcars for their illegal purposes. Though, that hadn’t stopped the raiders at King’s Inn from loading their confiscated arms and ammunition into two motorcars as they made their getaway.

The farther west we swept, circling the outskirts of the city, the more rural our surroundings became. The landscape was dotted with trees, fields, and an old mill, as well as a few quarries. We also passed several of the military barracks that dotted the outer edges of Dublin, as many of them were built close to the canals, which more or less formed a ring around the city, allowing them to be easily resupplied.

Sidney honked the horn jauntily to a pair of army lorries we passed outside the gates to Wellington Barracks. Several of the soldiers hung over the sides to wave and gesture, probably more interested in my husband’s Pierce-Arrow than the two of us. I smiled reflexively as we hurtled past, but an uneasiness stole over me as I watched the lorries recede in the wing mirror. For all that those boys were ours and would have drawn good cheer and well wishes back home in Britain or along the pockmarked roads of northeastern France near the Western Front, this was Ireland.

There—in Britain and France and Belgium—they’d been wanted. Here, a large proportion of the population resented their presence. They didn’t stand and smile and wave when those soldiers and their like—the so-called Black and Tans, drafted to supplement the dwindling ranks of the Royal Irish Constabulary—rolled through the streets of the city in their lorries and tenders on patrol or bound for some building to be raided. Rather, the Dubliners cowered, or scattered, or jeered and hurled cabbages at them. They viewed the troops less as their protectors and liberators and more as occupiers.

“You’ve gone quiet,” Sidney remarked.

I didn’t want to share my troubled thoughts. So instead, I occupied myself with tying a scarf around my head. My hair had seen enough wind, and I hoped the covering would tame it at least to some degree.

When I didn’t respond, he took to probing more directly. “So what route did you elect to take today?”

We’d already discussed the matter at length, but given the struggle I’d had just convincing him to allow me to venture out alone in disguise, I wasn’t surprised he wanted to know if I’d deviated from the plan. Never mind that I’d already acceded that, from a strategic standpoint, it made sense for him to know where I was, lest any problems arise. After all, Sidney and I were the only reinforcements each other had.

“I stuck to the scheme,” I said. “But I also realized rather quickly that it’s faulty. Wandering about the city for hours on end isn’t likely to gain me anything but aching feet. So, instead, I chose a few locations Alec mentioned in his earlier reports. Places where he suspected the proprietors of being sympathetic to the republican cause or where he’d witnessed some of the rebels gather.”

“Which locations?” he inquired, not sounding as satisfied with this course of action as I was.

I adjusted the Indian shawl draped around my shoulders. “Vaughan’s Hotel, Rutland Square, the Wicklow, and St. Stephen’s Green.”

“Won’t your turning up there repeatedly draw suspicion?”

“A respectable young woman new to the city, minding her own business? I think not.”

As a rule, men discounted women, especially when they weren’t behaving disreputably. It was why we made such excellent agents, regardless of the prejudiced prevailing opinion about women throughout the service. I liked to believe C was different, but truth be told, I wasn’t certain he even fully appreciated my abilities, despite the fact he continued to trust me with these clandestine assignments. But of course, I’d been the one to first seek his assistance on an urgent matter pertaining to my war work, and every inquiry since then had been an extenuation of that.

I’d been demobilized more than a year ago, along with most of the other women who’d served in the intelligence services during the war. Demobbed and told to go home and keep our mouths shut. Which we did, despite the aspersions some of the officers had cast to the contrary. So every assignment I’d taken from C since then was not officially sanctioned.

Sidney turned to look at me briefly. “You didn’t ask any questions, then?”

“Of course, not.” I waited to explain until he’d maneuvered the motorcar around a cart piled high with hay. “Nothing would be certain to draw suspicion faster and seal their lips tighter. Better to be reserved and quiet, but polite. Unthreatening. Then they’ll either begin to forget I’m there, and hopefully let something slip within my hearing, or grow curious and start asking questions themselves.”

“And you can play the damsel in distress?” he surmised.

“Fretting about my missing ‘cousin,’ and uncertain how to go about looking for him? Yes,” I confirmed, referring to the story we’d concocted about Alec’s relation to me. We couldn’t exactly go about telling people we were looking for a missing British Intelligence officer. “It may take more time to achieve results, but it will be safer and more effective in the long run.”

Not to mention the fact that it would give me a chance to better attune my ear to the Irish vernacular and perfect my accent. Relying on my current ability, I was afraid I would give myself away if I uttered more than a few words at a time. In Belgium, I’d never feared detection because I’d grown up speaking French and German with a Walloon accent, as we’d frequently visited my Groβtante Ilse, who’d lived just over the border in Westphalia, Germany. But the Irish dialect was unfamiliar to me, and even with as good an ear as I had for languages, I knew I had much to learn.

“You have thought this out.”

The surprise in his voice sparked my irritation. “Yes, shocking, I suppose, considering I’ve done this a time or two.”

My derisive quip seemed to have landed squarely, for a few seconds later his hand reached out to grip mine. “Sorry, Ver. I know I should have more faith in you, and I do. But . . .” He broke off, grimacing as he struggled to explain himself. “The stakes have changed, haven’t they?” He darted a glance at me. “I mean, I wasn’t with you behind enemy lines during the war. I didn’t have to watch you evade the Germans and their grasping fingers. I didn’t even know it was happening much of the time. And our investigations since then have been more about avoiding a few nefarious figures, not potentially an entire populace full of them.”

“I’m not going to do anything foolish, Sidney,” I assured him. “We’re here to find Alec. Once that’s done . . .” I couldn’t finish the sentence, knowing the matter wasn’t as straightforward as I wished.

We drove on in brooding silence for a few minutes before Sidney dared to break it. “To tell you the truth, I thought Alec would contact us himself by now. Or at least, that he’d contact you. After all, we haven’t exactly been keeping a low profile.?