She always kept a pair of gloves in the knapsack. She put them on and reached into the hollow, pulling out a broken earthenware cream soda bottle. An empty wallet. A cricket ball. Then her hand touched something else—a cylinder of some sort. As she brought it out, she saw it was a tall, narrow urn of tarnished, greening copper. She knelt on the ground and shook the urn close to her ear. Nothing. The urn was light—if it had contained the ashes, then all were now laid to rest under the tree. She sat back on her haunches, closed her eyes, and prayed the urn contained what she had set out to find. She unscrewed the lid and looked in: a cone of rolled paper. She pulled it out, put the urn to one side, and flattened the paper before her. There was no doubt. She had found the map indicating Xavier Bertrand’s resting place.
Maisie lingered in the clearing, the map in her knapsack, the urn again in the hollow part of the tree, though now it contained a photograph of Albert Durant and another of his wife, taken while standing alongside their woodland secret place on a fine day. She listened as a quickening breeze rustled through the tree canopy, and watched dragonflies skim across the pond beyond. In time she came to her feet, ready to be on her way, though she felt compelled to speak aloud.
“I will bring him to you, Elizabeth.” She placed her hand on the inscription Albert and Elizabeth Durant had left in their secret place. “I promise.”
Maisie and Anna were rarely apart from the time Maisie arrived late Friday afternoon, until Sunday evening, or Monday morning, when Frankie and Brenda returned to the Dower House. They visited Robert Miller, who had accepted an invitation from Lord Julian to remain longer at Chelstone Manor, and Lady Rowan, who delighted in having the child in her midst. Maisie watched as Anna rode her pony, and though Frankie was not present, Robert Miller was in his wheelchair at the side of the paddock.
“I might not be able to see you, young lady, but I can hear that trot—come on, make her step out. One-two-one-two—count as she makes her strides.”
In a quiet moment, while Anna was attending to the pony, Maisie asked Miller if he knew Gervase Lambert. “No,” he said, “can’t say that the name rings a bell. But then, Rosie had friends I was not aware of. At first—when I was feeling sorry for myself—I thought she was embarrassed about me. Then I realized she wanted to keep certain liaisons secret, though I bet Mrs. Bolton knew.”
In time she would tell him the truth.
While working with Maurice Blanche as a green young assistant, Maisie had followed a certain routine when closing a significant case where lives had been lost. There was always a point where her work was done, and it was time to conduct what she referred to as her final accounting. Maurice had instructed her that in visiting places and people pertinent to the case, as an investigator she was doing something akin to washing the laundry, then airing and pressing the linen before putting it away. The final accounting allowed her to immerse herself in the next case with renewed energy. It was time, now, to draw a line under the case Dr. Francesca Thomas had entrusted her with on the day war was declared.
During a visit to their home, she explained to Enid Addens and her daughter, Dorothy, that Frederick had been a hero, that he had undertaken resistance work before leaving Belgium, and that while he had not fought with an army, he had served his country with the heart of a soldier. And she had added that she could not reveal any more details, given the nature of Frederick Addens’ involvement in actions against the invading army, as the current state of war with Germany had placed Belgium once again in a vulnerable position. However, she informed them that the person responsible for the murder of a good husband and father had been found, and would pay the price for his crime. “Frederick Addens was a hero,” she reminded them again. “In that you can—I hope—take some comfort.”
“He was always our hero, Miss Dobbs,” said Dottie Addens, standing behind her mother, her hands on the older woman’s shoulders. “But thank you all the same.”
Frederick Addens’ daughter accompanied Maisie to the door, where she repeated her thanks, but added a comment that Maisie had been half expecting.
“I knew it was something to do with the war. He never spoke about it, and Mum didn’t know, but it was something he said once, when we—Arthur and me—were younger.” She looked over her shoulder into the house, as if to ensure her mother could not hear. “My brother was a bit of a lazy one when he first left school. Couldn’t get a job, didn’t really look for one. It didn’t last long, but I remember Dad giving him an earful, and then watching Arthur walk up the road, kicking a stone along. Dad shook his head and said, ‘Look at him. When I was that age, I was fighting for my country—I was taking my life in my hands for freedom.’ Dad never mentioned it again, and I never said anything, but I knew he hadn’t been in the army, so he must’ve been doing something else. Then as soon as you came along, I reckoned the something else had caught up with him.”
“He was extraordinarily brave, your dad,” said Maisie.
“I know,” she said, wiping a hand across her eyes. “Anyway, thank you—I’ve got to go to Mum now.”
As the door closed behind her, Maisie could hear Enid Addens speaking to her daughter.
“I bet she doesn’t know who killed him. She was just letting us think she did.”
“I don’t think it’s that simple, Mum. I think it’s because it’s a secret—you know how these people are.”