Maisie held up her hand to stop Thomas from saying more. She looked at Lambert.
“Hello, Gervase. I’m sorry if my telephone call caused you to panic. It seems you had to leave the office to finish your job in case I was in contact with Dr. Thomas first.”
“You do not understand what has gone on—I will kill you if you take another step. I don’t want to kill an innocent woman, so just leave. It will all be over soon.”
“It can be over immediately. You can put down the gun, and you can stop this now.”
“I’ll go to the gallows anyway—but I’m not scared. They deserved it, all of them, for what they did. You have no idea.”
“In fact I do have an idea.” Maisie kept talking. “Your name is Gervase Bertrand. You came here as a small boy. You left Belgium with your brother, Xavier, and your mother, though she died on the journey from your home near Liege. But Xavier kept going—because he had to. And you were among others—his friends, the friends he fought alongside: Frederick Addens, Albert Durant, Carl Firmin. They were the main ones, weren’t they? All in the snaking line of people making their way to the coast, and—everyone hoped—to safety in England.”
Francesca Thomas lifted her chin just enough for Maisie to see. Keep going.
“Your brother and his cohorts were all wanted by the enemy, were all being sought by the Germans—they were fierce resistance fighters, weren’t they? Your mother was both fearful for her boys, and so proud of Xavier. And of course you looked up to him—he was your hero.”
Tears welled up in the young man’s eyes. He pressed his lips together; beads of perspiration stood out on his forehead and cheeks, and ran down his temples. His now-Brylcreemed hair was slicked back, the smell beginning to pervade the room.
“But here’s what happened—what no one believed would happen. You and the other refugees were strafed by a German aircraft. They believed resistance fighters were there among the stumbling line of people, and they took aim. One of the people brought down was Xavier—and he was hit trying to save you. He was a hero, Gervase—a true hero.”
“But they killed him—they killed him!”
“He was mortally wounded—he was in terrible pain, and there was no means of stopping his agony, his terror. And what did he say to them, his friends? If you remember what happened, what did he say?”
“I don’t remember. I don’t remember any of it. I don’t remember . . . I don’t even know if I was there.” Gervase Bertrand was weeping now.
“But you know what happened, don’t you? He asked them to kill him, didn’t he? He asked them to kill him because he knew he would die, and he knew they would never abandon him all the time he was alive—he wanted to die to save his friends.” Maisie put her hand to her mouth, the story catching in her throat, but saw the panic in Francesca Thomas’ eyes and went on. “So, here’s what happened. Each of the boys had a Ruby revolver. They’d been manufactured cheaply, were not in short supply, and they had been issued to the boys by whoever was instructing them in their—let’s call them ‘assignments.’ They took their identical revolvers, put one bullet into each revolver, and then placed those revolvers under a coat. With Xavier screaming in pain, screaming at them to get on with it, they each took one revolver, and having expressed their love of him, their admiration, and having made a promise to look out for you until you reached manhood, they stood back and they took aim. Xavier was released from his pain instantly. No individual boy would ever bear the guilt of killing Xavier—by swapping the revolvers, perhaps, they could try to disassociate themselves from an act they abhorred. They buried Xavier and, because they believed marking the spot with a cross and a name was a risk, drew up a map and notes so that his grave could be found again. That map was held by the young man they all considered to be the one best suited to keeping a document safe—Albert Durant. And they agreed that the only truth you should ever know was that your brother was a hero. They saw you to the cusp of manhood, but by then you were on to greater things—an education paid for by someone else. And at some point they decided you should have Xavier’s weapon, something of his, to keep in a drawer, a memento.”
Gervase Bertrand began to weep, and as he seemed to falter, Francesca Thomas came to her feet and knocked the revolver free with her knee, pushing Bertrand backward and slamming him into the wall.
At the same time, Maisie picked up the revolver, aiming it at Thomas and her assistant.
“Now stop, or so help me, I will shoot both of you.” She looked at Thomas. “And you of all people know I can use a gun.”
“Maisie, what did I say about diplomatic immunity?” MacFarlane’s heavy frame seemed to fill the doorway as he turned and beckoned in two men, one in plainclothes—Maisie assumed he was with the Secret Service. The other was Billy. “Put that down, lass—I’m here now.”