“Just as I was getting used to it,” said Maisie.
Thomas smiled as she pulled out a chair at the head of the table and held out her hand to indicate that Maisie should sit next to her. Opening a file on the table in front of her, she explained her presence at the manor house.
“You are now aware that not only do I work on behalf of my own country, but also Britain—in the interests of Belgium, you understand. Mr. Huntley thought it would be a good idea for me to have some involvement in preparing you for your assignment.” Thomas took a deep breath. “I think he believes another woman’s perspective might help you feel more at ease.”
Maisie had opened her mouth to inform Thomas that she felt quite at ease when the other woman raised her hand.
“And anyone who says she is perfectly all right as she prepares for such an expedition is, my dear, not facing the truth of the matter. There’s no need to feel you must put me at ease—a healthy dose of doubt may well keep you safe. Now, to work. We’re going to look at Leon Donat.”
“I’ve already been briefed on Mr. Donat—I’ve read his dossier a dozen times. In fact, I can tell you what he might have for dinner on a day like today.”
“And that is?”
“Liver and bacon, mashed potato, gravy, and cabbage. Steamed apple pudding for afters, then some cheese and biscuits with a glass of port. He never takes a first course, and goes straight to the main.”
“Good work.” Thomas pulled out a collection of photographs from an envelope. “This is a little different.”
Francesca Thomas laid out five photographs of Leon Donat—some formal, at an event; some informal, probably taken at the family home. One by one, Thomas asked Maisie to study each photograph and point out aspects of Donat’s physiognomy she’d noticed, or the way he stood, folded his arms, or clasped the ring on the third finger of his left hand.
“Good. Now then, look at this photograph.”
Maisie picked up the print Thomas pushed toward her.
“What do you see?” asked Thomas.
Maisie studied every aspect of the man whose eyes seemed to stare back at her. “Well, I’ll be honest,” she said. “I’m not sure. Something’s different. Yes, the area around the nose, the folds here”—she ran her finger across her own skin, just below the left cheek—“all right, yes, he looks as if he’s had a tooth removed. He’s swollen.”
“Well done. He had been playing with the son of his manager at the factory in Hertfordshire, and had just been hit by a ball on the cheek. It was the factory summer picnic.” Thomas paused, and then pushed another photo toward Maisie. “What about this one?”
Maisie reached for the photograph and again focused on the features. “Here too he looks different. Perhaps a slightly changed haircut.”
“No. Wrong. Look again.”
Maisie squinted and shook her head. “The eyes look different. Perhaps it’s the angle—the way he’s looking at the camera.”
“No. Try again.”
Maisie tried to disguise a sigh. She was tired. The week had tested her mentally, physically, drained her spirit—and now Thomas seemed determined to whittle away any confidence she had left.
“The need for accurate observation could save your life, Maisie,” said Thomas.
“All right. Let’s just say it isn’t Leon Donat.”
Thomas smiled. “Doubt has many faces, Maisie. It can trip you up or be your friend. Good. You’re right. This is not Leon Donat. What about this one?”
“Yes, it’s him.”
“This?”
“Yes.”
“And this?”
“No.”
At last Thomas gathered the photographs and returned them to the envelope. Maisie had been tested on her recognition of Leon Donat until her eyes smarted and she felt herself fighting to keep them open.
“Now to the next thing on the agenda,” said Thomas.
Maisie looked at the clock set on the mantelpiece. “It says on my timetable that I have a safety briefing in five minutes. In the gymnasium.”
“Yes, that’s right. But your briefing is not in the gymnasium, it’s right here. With me.”
Maisie met Thomas’ eyes. She knew that beneath the scarf worn at her neck, the woman before her bore the scars of hand-to-hand combat. As a member of La Dame Blanche, she had sought to avenge the death of her husband, killing the man who had taken his life. She had been prepared to die in the attempt.