Stepping off the tram, Maisie looked up and down the street, taking stock of her surroundings. When the tram had moved off, she glanced across the road. She had no idea where she should start. How would she ever find Elaine Otterburn? The task seemed ridiculous—it was as if she had been asked to go to Chelsea and locate a person. But she had to start somewhere. She scratched her forehead where the wig had chafed her, causing a rash.
Elaine was a woman who liked society. She liked going out, and she liked to be noticed. It was mid-afternoon. Where would such a woman go, if she was not at home? Where might a woman who liked to be the center of attention be found? Maisie began to walk along the street, pondering the question. She suspected Elaine was not a shopper, but would accompany her women friends on an expedition to look at new clothing if it meant a chance of laughter, of company. And of course she might be in a restaurant, or a bar—what did they call them? Beer halls? Maisie wondered if Elaine would go to a beer hall. She realized she could just imagine it. Leslie had described the beer halls to her—they’d been the chosen venue for Adolf Hitler to address the crowd in earlier years. On those occasions, most of his audience had been drinking for some time, and many harbored an opinion about their situation—a job or lack thereof. The man who was now the chancellor took advantage of the situation, his rhetoric mirroring the temper of the times, reflecting the mood of the people and milking it for all it was worth. According to Leslie, Hitler’s eyes would almost pop out, sweat would pour from his brow, and spittle would fly as he barked out each syllable. The crowd devoured every word, more inebriated with drink and hyperbole as the minutes passed. “And he goes on for a long time,” added Leslie.
Maisie took a photograph of Elaine Otterburn from her bag and prepared to cross the road in the direction of what she thought looked like a very good women’s clothing shop. It was next to the café recommended to her on one side, and a gentlemen’s tailor on the other. Along the street were other shops—a hardware store, a grocer’s, then another store selling general goods. There was a shop selling artists’ materials, a bookseller’s, another clothing shop, a pub, a restaurant, and another café. She turned around again. From the look of streets close to the shops, it appeared to be a nice area—what Priscilla might call “bohemian,” certainly, but not a slum. Not top-drawer, either. It seemed a place that would attract those who liked a bit of color in their days—and nights. She could see a couple of shuttered music halls and a nightclub. Leslie had told her there used to be more, but many had closed down. And there were once a good number of small publishers in the area, selling magazines, broadsheets, opinion papers, books—though most had closed now, and the people who had worked on them had all but ceased to exist. There were, he said, “underground” presses, daily or weekly news and opinion from those opposed to the Nazi regime, published by people who railed against the loss of freedom in the name of keeping the country safe.
As she crossed the road, Maisie felt a whisper of cold air across the nape of her neck—a familiar sensation, where a scar ran just below her occipital bone. A shrapnel fragment had caught her flesh when the casualty clearing station where she was working in France, in 1917, had come under enemy fire. The same attack had almost taken the life of Simon Lynch, her former fiancé. The scar was barely visible now, yet it served her in its way, giving a warning when there was something close that demanded her attention. It was all but calling to her now.
She turned around. A man had stopped to look in the tailor’s window before stepping inside, the bell over the door clanging as he entered. Maisie watched as a woman crossed the street behind her; she was walking toward the grocery shop. There were others in the vicinity—it was not a deserted thoroughfare—but nothing she saw explained the sense she had that someone was following her.
Entering the recommended café, Maisie took a seat. When the young waitress approached, she ordered a coffee with hot milk and some apple strudel. She was very hungry. Soon the waitress returned to the table, using the palm of her free hand to smooth out the white embroidered tablecloth. She placed the coffee and strudel on the table and dipped as if to curtsy. Maisie smiled at her and held out the photograph of Elaine Otterburn.
“I wonder, have you seen this woman in your café?” she asked in German. “She is the daughter of one of my oldest friends, and though I know she lives here in this area, I have lost her address. I know I’m hoping for a miracle, but your café is just the sort of place she loves!”