“Well, anyway,” said Sandra, fumbling in her handbag for her keys, “let’s go in.” She led the way along the path to the glass front door of the building. Maisie had bought the flat some years earlier, when its builder hit hard times after the market crash in 1929, and had to sell all his flats at a cut rate. Maisie had squirreled away funds for a down payment, but struggled to obtain a loan. Only later did she learn that her friend Priscilla—a woman of significant independent means—had in secret secured her mortgage by guaranteeing the loan.
The door to the flat swung open, and Sandra stood back. “After you, miss—I mean, Maisie.”
Maisie stepped into the flat, noticing the small box room to the right—it had been Sandra’s room when she’d lodged with Maisie for a short time some years earlier. They went past Maisie’s old bedroom to the left, and into the large drawing room. Maisie had removed her photographs from the wall above the fireplace before she moved out. Along with a painting of a woman looking out to sea, which reminded her so much of herself, they were now stored in the cellar of the Dower House at Chelstone, the home she had inherited from Maurice. In their place, Sandra had hung a painting of a vase of flowers. Otherwise the room seemed familiar. The furniture Maisie had acquired—a couple of pieces bought new, some given, others found in secondhand markets—was still in place, but books were stacked on the dining table and on the floor beneath the window, and the blinds were raised, so now Maisie looked out onto the dusky pallor of evening.
“I think you need a bookcase or two, Sandra.”
Sandra pulled off her gloves and unpinned her hat, setting them on top of one pile of books on the table. “I know, but I’ve had no time to think about it. I’m so sorry about the clutter—I’m afraid I’ve become a bit less than house-proud. We’ve been very busy at work, and of course Mr. Pickering is worried about—”
Maisie smiled, putting Sandra at ease. “This is your home, Sandra, for as long as you want to stay here. What you do inside these walls is entirely your business. Now, then—let’s have that cuppa. And you can tell me all you know about Leon Donat.”
Sandra reddened as she turned away toward the kitchen.
Once they were settled in front of the gas fire, Sandra poured tea, passing a cup and saucer to Maisie, who leaned back in the wing chair and took a sip.
“Oh, I needed that. A good cup of strong tea. My friend Priscilla favors one of those blends that always seem more suited to dabbing behind the ears than wetting the whistle.”
Sandra laughed. “My life might have changed, but I know how to make a good strong cuppa.” She placed the saucer on the table in front of her but held on to her cup with two hands, bringing it to her lips once again.
Maisie waited for her to speak.
“I suppose I first met Mr. Donat soon after I went to work for Lawr—I mean, Mr. Pickering. He came into the office to see Mr. Pickering, and he made a point of sitting down in front of my desk and talking to me, as if he really wanted to know who I was. He was interested in my studies, and what I had done, and when he asked what I did before I worked for you, I thought, Oh, here we go—he’ll have me chucked out now. But I went ahead. I told him, ‘I was in domestic service, sir. I was a maid in a big house in Ebury Place.’ And he didn’t bat an eyelid. Just looked at me and said, ‘Very well done, Sandra, my dear. Very well done.’ He never called me ‘Mrs. Tapley.’ And the next thing you know, Mr. Pickering is telling me he’s giving me more money because Mr. Donat said I deserved it. How about that?”
“You’ve worked hard, Sandra—going to the college while you were holding down not one but several jobs. That takes determination and spirit—an asset to any employer.” She paused. “So you liked Leon Donat?”
“Very much. And I think Mr. Pickering really appreciated his advice on business matters. At first he told me he was worried about having a partner in the business, but Mr. Donat listened to him, and only ever asked questions—and Lawrence . . . I mean, Mr. Pickering, sorry—he said that the questions made him think a lot about how he did things, especially with distribution. I mean, it’s all very well publishing all these books, but you’ve got to get them in front of people. Mr. Pickering spends a lot of time going to the universities and taking the books to show the lecturers. And we’re doing very well, all things considered. It was Mr. Donat who pushed him to look to the foreign markets, especially Germany, where they have a lot of publishing. First of all, Mr. Pickering said we couldn’t compete with the German publishers—that’s when Mr. Donat said, ‘What about translations? Sell the rights, and you don’t have to worry about sending over the books and trying to sell books published in English.’ And he was right. The first time he went, he did very well for us—treated Mr. Pickering like a son, as if it were a family business, and they both liked that. Then he went back to Germany a second time, to ‘bring home some more good news,’ he told me. He spoke several languages, by the way, whereas we would have stumbled over the German. And that’s when the terrible things happened.”