A pair of German Fokker triplanes dropped out of the clouds on either side, the apparent clumsiness of their triple-layered wing planes belying their deadliness in the air. Frederic Dashwood cursed and dived just in time. Tracer rounds tore through his top plane, inches from his head. Occupied with their own troubles, Donovan and Dunn were in no position to help. Dashwood twisted around to fire back with a desperate determination. If this was his day to go west — to die, as Donovan would have bluntly put it — he’d make sure to take one or both of these Fokkers with him.

A shadow flitted across his sights. Another hun? No, a Sopwith Camel, painted white: John Barlow’s aeroplane, except that Barlow was supposed to have gone west a week ago. A stream of tracer skewered the Fokker on Dashwood’s right. If this was a ghost, it was a damnably solid one, and now there was just one Fokker between them. Barlow, if that was indeed Barlow, waved and pointed to the fracas where Donovan and Dunn were dancing for their lives with a quartet — no, a trio — of huns, then swerved away towards them …

All the world knew by now that the pilot of the ghost Camel was Audrey Barlow, the late Captain John Barlow’s sister, but that took nothing away from Eric Peterkin’s reading pleasure. June in this brightly modern year of 1925 had swept into London with summer breezes and a cloudless blue sky, dappling the Thames with flecks of silver and gold. Such sunny days were rare, and not to be wasted indoors. In Regent’s Park, families strolled with children in tow through the isolated curiosities of the London Zoo; around the fenced-in garden courts of Knightsbridge and Belgravia, the upper crust leaned out of tall windows to gaze upon the pleasant spaces that were theirs and theirs alone; and in the private back gardens of the Metro-land suburbs, new householders rested with open collars where matters of dress were nobody’s business but their own.

Likewise, Eric Peterkin hadn’t bothered to complete his journey back from the Looming Press offices in Aldgate to the comfortable armchairs and discreet attendants of his club in St. James, all unfortunately indoors, with his latest literary acquisition. He’d stopped instead at the Inner Temple Gardens, where the Victoria Embankment began, to sit with the green lawn spreading out, wide and open, to the flowering herbaceous borders and the glimmer of the Thames beyond a line of plane trees. Where else should one read about planes than among the planes? The Temple today was the realm of barristers and judges, who haunted the surrounding buildings in black robes and white wigs; but once upon a time, it had been the property of the Knights Templar, who’d protected pilgrims on their journey to Jerusalem. It pleased Eric to imagine them riding forth on proud chargers much as the heroes of The Ghost Camel set out on their Sopwith Camels — doubtless, the Templars in the Holy Land were no strangers to actual camels — to do battle with the enemy. The emblem of the Knights Templar was an image of two knights sharing a single horse: a tale of fellowship and camaraderie —

“Hullo, Eric.”

Eric looked up and blinked. “Avery? What are you wearing?”

If Eric were to share a horse with anyone, it would be Avery Ferrett, who normally swanned through life in a shapeless overcoat, a too-long scarf, and a beret. Today, however, his lanky, fair-haired frame was tightly buttoned up in a grey suit and a bowler hat: he might have easily passed for another Whitehall bureaucrat. Dropping onto the bench beside Eric, he grinned and said, “Am I not allowed to take a break from habit, once in a while? You’re spending the afternoon away from that dreadful old club of yours, aren’t you?”

“It’s too fine a day to spend poring over club business. I should never have accepted that nomination for club secretary. How’s the old war wound?”

Avery never actually saw the War, having spent that time in Argentina “for his health.” A couple of months previously, however, he’d managed to get himself shot in the stomach coming to Eric’s aid, which rather suggested that it was not a lack of physical courage that had come between Avery and the War.

“It only hurts when I talk about it,” Avery replied, then reached over to poke at the newly healed scar across the side of Eric’s jaw. “Yours seems to be coming along nicely. Don’t you look like the dashing rogue!”

“Oh, stop it.” Eric batted Avery’s hand away, and his book slipped from his lap to the grassy lawn at his feet. A soft breeze fluttered its pages, and Avery picked it up.

“What’s this? The Ghost Camel by Captain Robert Smith … I thought everybody and their dog had read it twice over by now. Or is this your third time through?”

“First,” said Eric as he took the book back. “And if you’re wondering why …”

#

Eric had a certain easy contempt for his employment as a reader of new manuscripts at the Looming Press publishing house, now that the lion’s share of his income was derived from the investment portfolio he’d inherited from his father. He never dropped by their offices more than absolutely necessary. These offices were located at Aldgate, on the boundary between the City of London’s financial hub and the rougher streets of the East End, upstairs from a bookshop that did a roaring trade in Looming Press publications. A narrow flight of stairs opened directly onto a shabby front office with windows shaded from the street by a plethora of potted plants. Miss Elinor Finch, the middle-aged and iron-grey company secretary, ruled this front office with an iron fist and a green thumb; while Mr. Quentin Darrow, editor-in-chief and owner of the publishing house, was a mysterious entity whom Eric saw perhaps once a year.

That yearly sighting was due this morning.

Eric could hear Mr. Darrow exploding all over the front office before he even set foot on the stairs. The shouting broke off as Eric came up, if only so Mr. Darrow could glare at him.

“What do you want?” Quentin Darrow was short and stocky, with a blotchy pink complexion and hair like a wild boar’s bristles, but white. A cigar clenched between his teeth gave him the appearance of a permanent snarl. “Have you an appointment? I’m busy. Do you speak English?”

“It’s Mr. Peterkin, sir,” Miss Finch replied. “He’s been evaluating manuscripts for us since ‘22.”

“Oh. The Chinese chap.”

Eric was only half Chinese, on his mother’s side, but to some people he would always be “the Chinese chap.” He’d long since ceased to rage at such casual dismissal, choosing silent judgement instead as the less tiring option. “I just —” he began, holding out the envelope with his latest assignment, but Mr. Darrow had turned away again to continue his tirade.

“Where was I? Right. The absolute, unmitigated gall of some people. If anyone else calls and dares to suggest the Ghost Camel connection again, you are to hang up at once. I will not have my own son disrespected. Bad enough the damned manuscript slipped by under my nose — if that damned Muriel Pryce weren’t already gone, I’d sack her myself — but now it’s practically the only thing keeping us out of the red, isn’t it? Nothing to do but grit my teeth and bear the insult. What was I talking about?”

“Brannigan’s request, sir.”

“Damn that Walter Brannigan. If he didn’t own a quarter share of us —”

“What am I to tell him, sir?”

“What? Oh. Of course I’ll go. Type up something saying yes in nicer language and have it on my desk in fifteen minutes.” Mr. Darrow wheeled around towards his own office, caught sight of Eric again, and jabbed a finger at him. “You! Peterkin! Most people don’t take more than three days to read a manuscript and decide what they think. You take two weeks on average. What the hell am I paying you for?”

Without waiting for an answer, Mr. Darrow stormed back into his office, acrid cigar smoke trailing in his wake, and slammed the door behind him.

Miss Finch rolled a sheet of paper into her typewriter and began rattling away on it as if nothing had happened. The woman was eternal: the same wire-rimmed spectacles, the same silver brooch, the same grey tweed, the same desk ornaments in the same places, even the same typewriter with the same ink stain on the corner as when Eric first saw her. She’d reached the age of forty and quietly found immortality.

“What on earth was that about?” Eric wondered as he dropped his envelope on the desk. “The Ghost Camel? He means the books, I’m guessing?”

“Have you read them?”

Eric shook his head. “Though it’s hard to avoid hearing some of the details. They’re about this woman flying ace, isn’t it? Audrey Barlow, who takes to the air after her brother, the original pilot, is shot down and killed. The first book is actually told from the perspectives of their squadron mates: Donovan, Dashwood, and Dunn.”

“Mr. Darrow’s younger son was a pilot in the War: Royal Flying Corps, before it became the Royal Air Force. He took off on his aeroplane the day after Armistice, and no one has seen or heard of him since. Everyone called him Badger, but his real name was Aubrey — Aubrey Darrow. His best friends in his squadron were named Brannigan, Bosworth, and Blunt.”

“Oh. So Mr. Darrow thinks The Ghost Camel was based on Badger Darrow, but with the hero made into a heroine? What does the author, this Captain Robert Smith, say?”

“Captain Smith is notoriously reclusive. We communicate only through the post.”

“What about Muriel Pryce? What has Mr. Darrow got against her?”

“Muriel Pryce recommended that book for publication. Mr. Darrow trusted her judgement entirely, and didn’t even glance at the manuscript until after it began to break all our sales records. After that … Well, she left us to get married, but let’s just say she had other reasons to get away.”

Muriel Pryce. Eric had met her just once, back on his first day: a shy, washed-out waif tucked into a corner of this front office with a manuscript and a cup of tea … Had she also worn spectacles? Eric remembered a pair of sparkling blue eyes and very little else.

Regardless, it couldn’t have been pleasant for Mr. Darrow to have his son’s life fictionalised all over the world without his go-ahead, and the fact it was his publishing house putting out those stories must have left him feeling as though he’d been used and made a fool of. And with the reclusive Captain Smith out of reach, poor Miss Pryce had had to bear the full brunt of Mr. Darrow’s displeasure.

“But this is old news, surely,” Eric said, even as he made a mental note to pick up a copy of The Ghost Camel from the bookshop downstairs. “Why the sudden interest?”

“The wreckage of Badger’s aeroplane was found two days ago, which has got the press interested in his story again. A journalist just called asking about his connection to the books.”

#

Avery was unusually silent after hearing Eric’s story; in fact, he appeared quite distracted. They’d left the Inner Temple Gardens half an hour ago, and were making their way to the Arabica, Avery’s favourite coffeehouse, just off Soho Square; and while Eric was often content to walk in silence, he generally expected a certain amount of cheerful chatter from his friend. Just as he began to think that something was wrong, Avery said, “I wonder what Walter Brannigan wanted.”

“Something about Badger Darrow’s aeroplane, no doubt.” Eric frowned, catching the look on Avery’s face. “Why? Do you know something about this?”

Avery shrugged, but said nothing. Eric eyed him curiously; but as they turned the corner, something else caught their attention and halted both of them in their tracks: a bright yellow Aster coupé, a delightful little motorcar with a less-than-delightful price tag. It was parked right outside the Arabica with its bonnet up, and Eric could hear someone tinkering with its motor.

Avery caught Eric’s sleeve and hissed, “Let’s go. I don’t want coffee anymore.”

“No coffee! Who are you, and what have you done with the real Avery Ferrett?”

“Avery!” The tinkering ceased abruptly, and a head popped up from behind the motorcar bonnet. It took Eric a moment to realise, from the voice and the delicate features, that this was a woman with flax-blond hair bobbed uncomfortably short. She slammed the bonnet shut, and Eric saw a tall, willowy frame with spots of grease dappled across an otherwise elegant silk blouse. “I thought I might find you here. Father’s been asking for you.”

“I’m sure he can wait —”

“Who’s your friend? Aren’t you going to introduce us?”

Avery seemed inexplicably at a loss for words, so Eric introduced himself: “Peterkin. Eric Peterkin.”

“Aurora Darrow — Avery’s sister. Call me Rory.” She graced Eric with a bright smile, as though she hadn’t just dropped a revelatory bombshell in his lap, before turning back to Avery. “I don’t know if you’ve heard, but they’ve found Badger’s aeroplane. Let’s talk inside; I could kill for a nice cup of coffee right about now.”

#

“It wasn’t crashed in France or Belgium or Germany, as we all thought,” Rory said as she sipped her coffee. “Instead, it looks as though it went into the Channel. Some holidaymakers exploring the shoreline around the Isle of Wight found it under the water. A lot of it had rotten and washed away, but there was enough left for Badger’s old friend Walter Brannigan to make a positive identification. Father’s been running around all day, trying to find out everything he can. As though he wouldn’t be the first one they’d tell if anything more came to light!”

The Arabica favoured pretensions of India and the Middle East, with a profusion of intricately patterned draperies. Later, the dim, low-hanging lamps would deepen the illusion; but for now, the fading sunlight slanting in from the cast iron shopfront only exposed the shabbiness of the sham. Avery’s coffee had come unsummoned, the privilege of regular patronage, but so far he seemed oblivious to it. He muttered, “You didn’t have to come here to tell me this.”

“Of course I did. This is our brother we’re talking about. Do you really think we’d resort to a mere letter — or worse, a telegram — or have the solicitors handle everything as usual? Well, Father might; I won’t. This sort of thing wants a good, honest, face-to-face conversation, in my opinion. It goes well beyond any petty feud.”

“It was never a petty feud.”

Eric had remained silent through the whole of the conversation between Avery and Rory. He’d gone from stunned to sullen and now he was approaching surly. He thought he knew his friend, and now … What was this? Avery’s father was the same Quentin Darrow of Looming Press, Eric’s boss? How had Avery gone all these years without mentioning this connection to Eric? Could “Avery Ferrett” even be his real name, given that the rest of his family went by “Darrow”?

Plastering on his stiffest upper lip, Eric turned to Rory and said, “Avery never talks about his family. I didn’t even know he had a sister.”

“Oh! Well, there’s just the three of us: Avery’s the eldest, Badger’s a year younger, and finally there’s me. Though I suppose it’s really just me nowadays, since Badger’s disappearance. Avery stopped talking to everybody back when —”

“Let’s just say the pater didn’t take kindly to my extended tour of the Argentine,” Avery said. “Especially given Badger’s reported heroics.”

Rory glanced from Avery to Eric and back, then shrugged. “That’s the easiest way to put it, I suppose. Anyway, Badger and Avery never got on. Honestly, I think that half the things they did, they did to spite the other. When Avery began to moan about the pointlessness of the War, Badger immediately went and volunteered … and discovered that he absolutely hated Army life. So he applied for a transfer to the RFC, which caused a bit of a stir, let me tell you. Fighting with aeroplanes was still quite new to us, and we’d heard stories of pilots who died simply from taking off a little too fast or a little too slow, without having met the enemy at all. In the end, Avery here found a spirit medium, one Madame Davidova —”

That was enough to distract Eric momentarily from his grievances. He’d met Madame Davidova a handful of times, and had come away each time more convinced that she was nothing but a theatrical fraud. Avery’s faith in her, however, was absolute, and Eric had never bothered to wonder where it had begun.

“Madame Davidova,” Eric snorted. “What did she say?”

“That a transfer to the RFC would absolutely mean Badger’s death in the War. Father being Father, he didn’t simply pooh-pooh the warning, he embraced Badger’s new role in the War so hard you’d think it was his own idea. Avery, meanwhile, threw up his hands in exasperation and ran off to Argentina.”

Avery said, “He should have listened. Madame Davidova is never wrong.”

“Badger got through the War totally unscathed, didn’t he?”

“No, he didn’t. The War technically ended only when the treaties were signed in June the next year, so Badger’s disappearance still counts as having happened during the War. And if Madame Davidova says he died, then I’m afraid that must have been what happened.”

“I can’t believe you’d be so cold about Badger, of all people.”

Refusing to meet his sister’s eyes, Avery muttered, “As you said, we never got on.”

Rory turned back to Eric and shook her head. “You see what I have to work with? I’ve been trying to get him and Father in the same room since the War ended. So far, that’s happened only once, and it wasn’t even my doing. Avery had a friend, three years ago —”

Avery gave a start. “Rory —”

But Rory evidently found the story too good to shut up. “This friend wanted a job, so Avery here got down on his hands and knees — figuratively, of course — to beg Father for something, anything, on this friend’s behalf, even if it was only evaluating new manuscripts. Which just goes to show that my dear brother can in fact swallow his pride if he wants. Now, if only he could do it again so we can put this stupid feud behind us.”

#

Rory Darrow’s Aster coupé purred away from the kerb outside the Arabica, leaving behind nothing but an accusatory silence. Freed from the need to maintain civility for her sake, Eric glared at Avery, and Avery studied his hands as they lay limp and sweating on the table.

“When,” Eric asked at last, “were you going to tell me? Were you ever going to tell me at all?”

“I was hoping I’d never have to.”

“Who are you, really? Avery Darrow?”

“I only use that name to sign my cheques.”

“So that’s how the bank knows you … and his Majesty’s government too, no doubt. Does Avery Ferrett actually exist?”

Avery shifted uncomfortably. “That actually started as a childhood game. Badger was Badger, obviously, and I was Ferret. Badger never grew out of it as I did, I suppose. But then, much later, when I wanted to get away from the family —”

Eric slammed his open hand down on the table, making Avery jump. Elsewhere in the Arabica, conversations halted and heads tried not to turn. Eric leaned across the table, into Avery’s face, and hissed, “You’ve been lying to me since the day we first met.”

“Eric, please, I promise —”

“I don’t expect you to tell me everything, Avery. It’s not my business, for instance, how you make a living. It’s not my business who else you know in this city, or what you get up to with them. And maybe it’s not my business what you choose to call yourself, but I really do think that at some point of our so-called friendship, you could have trusted me with something so fundamental as who you actually are. Or were you enjoying the secret knowledge of how my whole damned life is no more than a product of your meddling?”

“It wasn’t like that, Eric. I swear.”

“Sod off, Avery.”

Eric rose from the table and, without another word, marched out of Arabica and into the darkening night.