The Case of the Nazi Canary

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It was, or would be, the misty autumn of 1931. A suite of comfortable bachelor apartments in the highest tower of London's exclusive Sporting Club Square.

Sir Seaton Begg, former MI5 special operator now metatemporal investigator, reached across the fire-grate, singeing the sleeve of his smoking jacket. As he examined the silk, his aquiline, unconventionally handsome features were illuminated by the fire.

"What d'you make of that, Taffy?"

John "Taffy" Sinclair, Begg's best and oldest friend, and the leading Home Office pathologist, accepted the rectangle of yellow paper. The balding giant had the mild but sturdy rectitude of an East End bishop. Balancing a cup of Darjeeling in one hand, he sank back into the depths of his armchair to read. Moments later, with an impatient expression, he set the telegram aside.

"The National Socialists?" Taffy frowned. "Sort of German Mus-solini-ites? Aren't they even worse than the commies for going around beating up honest citizens? And, of course, there's that lunatic anti-Jewish muck."

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