Waking next morning in a long room reminiscent of a medieval banqueting hall, Rob thought momentarily he had died and gone to heaven. Plump painted cherubs trailed garlands of flowers across a high ceiling, strips of gossamer fabric entwined between their thighs. Blinking, he looked down, saw sunlight streaming through casement windows, gilding seasoned wooden floor with more gold than decorated the edges of the pale blue ceiling. ‘Where the hell am I?’ he asked a woman clad in angelic white, who stood at the foot of his bed, writing on a clipboard.
‘Some minor duke’s palace, I believe,’ Nurse McGill answered, her accent indicating a Scottish upbringing. ‘The Yanks requisitioned it a few months ago. They needed a solid structure away from the waterfront. Jerry still strafes the port occas
