Maisie passed the Crown and Anchor, but did not enter. While she could not prove it, she suspected that Albert Durant had visited the pub to speak to Frederick Addens when he discovered that Carl Firmin had died, which was some time after the event. While there had been questions regarding the fact that both men had been murdered while in possession of more than a small amount of money, as Maisie informed Billy, it was a coincidence that had no other truth deeper than facts on the surface: one man was doing his job as a banker, and the other had received his wages. But, Maisie thought later, perhaps there was a deeper truth after all, in that both men had committed themselves to life in their adopted country, and each in his own way had done well.
She moved on to the flat where Albert Durant and his wife had prepared for the birth of their child. She was not allowed access to the flat, but had already spoken to Caldwell, who—when she explained the reason for her call—promised he would be in contact as soon as he had spoken to Durant’s in-laws regarding the disposal of his remains.
Maisie visited Carl Firmin’s widow and Leonard Peterson—formerly Lucas Peeters—on each occasion informing them that she was not at liberty to reveal the name of the killer, adding that, because the perpetrator was of foreign nationality, there were other considerations, including the penalty to be levied by the judicial system of another country. She hated the lie. To Irma Firmin, she explained that the scar on her husband’s leg had been caused by a wound sustained when the line of refugees was strafed by enemy fire. The widow shook her head and sighed. “I knew it was something like that—he had a rough time of it, poor sod.”
A drive to Norfolk on a fine day took Maisie to the home of Clarice Littleton, to whom she gave more information, having received a promise to keep all details confidential.
“Gervase Lambert—really, Bertrand? I never would have thought it. He was a good boy—a bit of a scamp when he liked, but he was a boy. He made people laugh. I know Rosie took him under her wing, but . . . what on earth made him do it? After all this time?”
“Possibly the shock of learning the truth about his brother’s death—and finding out that the men who had been as good as brothers to him had borne the ultimate responsibility. It must have been a staggering blow to his mind and soul. It seems he went on to convince himself that his brother could have been saved, that instead of collectively ending Xavier’s pain and terror, the friends could have worked together to bring him through. Gervase felt betrayed, and betrayal by ones we love is a dreadful thing. Gervase had placed these men on a pedestal. They had been so young and brave when they escaped Belgium, yet one by one he took them down.”
Littleton was quiet before speaking again. “One thing—I hope they let Gervase see that grave, so he can pray over his brother’s last resting place before they exhume the remains. If he has to go to his death, it’s the most honest thing they can do for him.”
“Yes, it is the most honest thing, Clarice.”
And when it came time for Maisie to leave, she pressed a card into Clarice Littleton’s hand. “It’s Robert Miller’s new address. I’m sure he’d love to hear from you—if you’ve time.”
Louisa Mason passed away with Maisie and Billy at her side. She had not wanted to see Anna again, nor Anna her grandmother—it was as if they were both complete in their communication with each other. Louisa asked Maisie once more to make sure Anna had good people to raise her. As Maisie said “I promise,” she felt the woman’s fingers become heavy in her hand, and the cold begin to reach up from her fingertips.
“I hope she’s at peace,” said Billy, running the edge of his cap through his hands.
“Me too, Billy. Me too,” said Maisie.
On a showery afternoon in London, Maisie met Richard Stratton for a cup of strong urn tea and a plate of toast and jam at the café where they had met so many times. Maisie felt comfortable there in the ordinariness of the place, where the clattering of cups and saucers and the coming and going of other patrons offered a sense of being cocooned in the warmth of humanity, rather than the cold edge of conflict.
“Another job done then, Maisie,” said Stratton, setting the heavy white cup onto its saucer.