As she walked to the flat’s garden entrance, she was aware of cigarette smoke curling up into the air, and was not surprised to see the silhouette of a visitor seated in one of her wicker chairs outside the French doors leading into her home.
“You could telephone first, you know,” said Maisie.
“I didn’t break in this time—I thought I’d just wait for you.” Francesca Thomas took another draw of her cigarette. “A good send-off for Tom?”
“Yes, it was a lovely evening.” Maisie joined her on the terrace, taking a seat in a wicker chair. “I have something for you,” she added.
“A report? I dread to think what you’ve concluded about me.”
“I have a report—with no criticism, just the facts as they emerged since the last time you were here.”
“Good. I think I’m under a big enough microscope already.”
“You didn’t know who Gervase Lambert was when you took him on, did you?”
“He was simply a qualified applicant with a superb grasp of English and also French as it is spoken in Belgium. I had no reason to suspect him.”
“Until you did—and even then you didn’t believe it.”
“He was a mild-mannered young man, with good references. He was considered trustworthy with delicate information—he had none of the hallmarks of a killer.”
“Dr. Thomas—Francesca—I don’t know what you consider to be the hallmarks of a killer, but a somewhat common one is that of a person terribly wounded by circumstance, and your assistant fell into that category. He was not a man who killed for the sheer joy of the chase and the final surrender, but a person who was trying to vanquish ghosts he never knew existed until Carl Firmin came to make his confession.”
“Firmin should have stopped at the priest.”
“It would have saved lives had Gervase never known the truth, but truth has a certain buoyancy—it makes its way to the surface, in time.” Maisie sighed. “What will happen to him?”
“He is currently imprisoned—I cannot say where. He is awaiting certain . . . certain judgments from the British government. It is a highly confidential, delicate matter; however, we are endeavoring to get him transferred to a prison in Belgium. His life—or death—will be no easier, wherever he is.”
Without looking at her guest, Maisie asked another question. “When you came to me on the day war was declared, why weren’t you honest with me? Why didn’t you tell me about Addens, about his role in the resistance, and that there were others in the same group who’d remained in England? Why was I left to waste precious time fumbling in the dark, when you suspected Addens was not the killer’s first victim? You knew about Firmin’s death, after all.”
Thomas was silent for a minute, then sighed. “In a nutshell, I suppose it’s the habit of keeping secrets, Maisie—to the extent that even talking in this way with you is difficult.” She lowered her voice and turned her head as if to detect the presence of another. “I deal with highly confidential information all the time, and I’m used to protecting people, keeping their secrets. That is my world. I have to take utmost care when I provide or receive information. And I made an error, I know that now. My training, almost my entire adulthood, has required me to live a life apart—and if I am brutally honest with myself, in this instance it was to the extent that I had detached in such a way that I did not suspect Gervase. Add to that the obvious issue of keeping details of our resistance work under wraps as far as possible, and certainly not allowing it to become part of a reported crime and fodder for the press. Suffice it to say, we know—as do you—there are German infiltrators in Britain, and we cannot afford even the slightest hint at our plans for future intelligence efforts.”
Maisie allowed more time to elapse before she spoke again. “I have something of importance to the case.”
Thomas drew on her cigarette. “No more shocks, please.”
“It’s a map indicating the location of Xavier Bertrand’s remains. At the very least, perhaps Gervase could be allowed a visit to pay his respects.”
“I doubt that, but I will take the map now, and be on my way.”
Maisie took a key from her pocket, let herself into the flat, and returned with an envelope, which she handed to Thomas.
“Thank you, Maisie. I suppose all that remains is for you to send me your bill.”
“It’s in the envelope,” said Maisie.
Thomas gave a half smile and began to walk towards the side gate. Maisie accompanied her to the front of the property.
“I don’t know much about your work, Maisie, but I would imagine that this was not an easy case.”
Maisie looked up into the night sky, at the stars visible between barrage balloons. “Death is never an easy case, Francesca.”
The following afternoon, Priscilla arrived at Maisie’s office at four o’clock. Sandra had left early, and Billy was visiting a new client, and would not return until Tuesday.
“Are you ready?” asked Priscilla.