Chapter 19
Maisie reclaimed her motor car, and with Billy by her side in the passenger seat, she made her way through London traffic to St. Giles’ Hospital in Camberwell.
“You know why she went there, don’t you?” said Billy.
“Why who went where?”
“Why the old girl went to St. Giles’—she could have gone to a couple of other hospitals. I reckon she went there because it used to be the workhouse infirmary—it was where the poor went and they knew they would get help.”
“I wonder if she knew about the other voluntary hospitals,” said Maisie.
“P’raps.” Billy was quiet for a moment. “You know, miss, that Gervase Lambert—Bertrand, whatever his name is—I reckon Dr. Thomas knew he was the one. P’raps not—what’s the word—consciously. But I bet she had an inkling.”
“I believe she had her suspicions quite early on, when I was giving her reports on our progress.”
“Why didn’t she do anything about it?”
“Even the sharpest knife, someone such as Francesca Thomas, makes mistakes. Like me, she was probably waiting for proof.” Maisie paused, weaving around a horse and cart as they approached Vauxhall Bridge. “It’s this business of knowing the who, but not the why. Maurice always said that sometimes we instinctively know the identification of the perpetrator of a crime, but we don’t trust ourselves—or perhaps we cannot be trusted, in the circumstances. Which is why the ‘why’ is so important.”
“And you can’t wait too long before you move on the why, once you’ve found it.”
Maisie felt Billy looking at her. “I cut it fine, I know—probably when I wanted to completely rule out Peeters. At first I couldn’t see why Gervase might want to kill Dr. Thomas—but then it was evident. She stood for everything he’d lost. Now, it begs the question—did he know about her before he became her employee? My guess is that he made his application to the Belgian government in London to use his skill in language, and of course he was born in Belgium. I doubt he knew exactly who Thomas was, but it soon became evident. It might only have been a passing comment made by Thomas herself. As far as I know, Thomas was not working in a government-sanctioned resistance capacity until 1916, but my guess is she was active before that, though of course she was working in England at the start of the war.” Maisie shook her head. “It might only have been a slip of the tongue, perhaps during Firmin’s confession, that linked her to the boys, and by association, to the death of Xavier Bertrand. And of course, once Gervase knew she was with the resistance in Belgium during the war, he found another victim anyway. I believe any combination of these possibilities could be revealed when both Gervase Bertrand and Dr. Thomas have been questioned.”
“And what about this map—what about the place where his brother was shot?”
Maisie slowed the motor car as she came alongside St. Giles’ Hospital, maneuvering the Alvis parallel to the curb in front of the redbrick building with its distinctive white trim around the windows. A redbrick wall separating the hospital from the road had been designed to resemble a long garland hung from pillar to pillar.
Maisie turned to Billy as she turned off the engine and held the ignition key. “I believe Durant had it, and left it in a place of safety. I think that’s what Bertrand was searching for in his flat.”
“That’ll be like finding a needle in a haystack.”
“I don’t think so,” said Maisie. She looked at her watch. “Anyway, we’d better get going. If we miss visiting hours, they won’t let us in.”
It was clear that beds positioned on either side of the long ward and perpendicular to the wall had been spaced according to an exact measurement—it was a measurement checked by the ward sister every day, and quite possibly by the matron during her rounds. Each cast-iron bed had been allocated two pillows, a top sheet, a bottom sheet, and one blanket. In the center aisle a desk was used by the staff nurse, with ancillary rooms at either end of the ward for the use of the sister, the doctors, and the nurses. The sterilizing room held an autoclave, bottles, bedpans, and various other equipment. Maisie thought she could wander blindfold into the equipment room and find everything she might need—every item had its designated place, and woe betide the young nurse who made an error.
Having asked for Mrs. Louisa Mason, they were directed to a bed at the far end of the ward. A screen had been pulled around the bed.
“Are you family?” asked the staff nurse.