Maisie sat in her walled garden after work, comfortable in a wicker armchair, a glass of wine on the table next to her. Another chair on the other side of the small matching wicker table was empty, awaiting a visitor.
The following morning, Billy would return to St. Pancras Station. Sandra would not be at the office—her work was only part-time, two or three days per week, dependent upon cases pending. The rest of the week she spent working at home for her husband’s publishing company. She had previously been employed in the company’s offices, however the couple decided to adhere to convention—it might not have gone down well with other staff had she continued working at the office following her marriage. That Maisie was reestablishing her business and needed help with administration had been something of a blessing for both of them, though Maisie wondered how long Sandra might continue working. Yet she felt nothing but joy for Sandra, who had known much sadness in her life, and was now happy in her union.
The gate at the side of the house rattled, and as Maisie looked up, Francesca Thomas emerged from the path into the garden. She wore a light jacket and skirt costume in a shade Maisie thought should be called “hazelnut”—it was a linen blend in a cream color that seemed to veer towards brown. Thomas had tied a dark green scarf at her throat—the customary disguise to hide the scar she kept from the world—and carried a pair of olive green gloves in her hand, along with a brown leather document case of a type that seemed as if it should be used to carry sheet music. A fashionable Robin Hood–style hat of nut brown felt with a green band sat atop her head, and a gas mask in its distinctive square box hung by a strap from her shoulder.
“I see you started without me,” said Thomas.
Maisie shrugged. “It took me a long time to realize that I can have a measure of wine in the comfort of my home without asking permission of anyone. Would you care for a glass? It’s French—just an ordinary white. It’s been steeped in a bucket of water under the sink all day, in an effort to keep it cool. I’ve been thinking of investing in a refrigerator, but I’m not sure—I think the noise would keep me awake at night.”
“I’d love a glass of wine any way you pour it, Maisie.”
“And I have some bread and cheese, if you’re peckish.”
“Thank you, Maisie. Yes, thank you.”
Maisie stepped across the threshold into her sitting room. A door to the right led to a passageway and a kitchen that was large enough for a table and two chairs. She prepared a tray with another glass, along with the bottle of wine she had opened just before Thomas arrived, and a plate with crusty bread and a wedge of cheddar. She added two smaller plates, two knives and two table napkins, plus a couple of apples from a bowl inside the kitchen cabinet. She carried the tray into the garden, setting it on the table between the two chairs.
“Fill your plate—I’ll pour you some wine. And take a few bites first. We’ll have a more constructive conversation if neither of us has a growling stomach.”
Thomas raised an eyebrow. “Well, you’re the trained nurse, so I had better do as you say, eh?” She picked up an apple, rubbing the skin with her napkin. “Lovely apples—russets?”
“My favorites. There are several orchards near my house—it’s in Kent, after all—and the farmer sends a boy over with a basket every Saturday morning in the season. My father has a couple of trees in his garden, and while they are still fresh, he will wrap each apple in paper, then lay them out in his shed for the winter. They keep until spring, easily. I’ll be getting more this Saturday—I’ll bring you some.”
Thomas thanked Maisie, placed a knob of cheddar on a quarter-slice of bread, and topped it with a wedge of apple. She took a bite and a sip of wine, and when she had finished the portion, she began to speak.
“So the police told you about Albert Durant.” It was a statement, not a question, and Maisie thought she detected a suggestion of annoyance in the other woman’s tone.
“Yes. Inspector Caldwell. I might have told you that Caldwell and I have not always enjoyed the most satisfying of collaborations, but it seems he has become a much—well, a much more likable person to deal with. He allowed me access to confidential files yesterday, and his explanation for the police seemingly dragging their feet on Addens’ death held water. They had little to go on—and on the face of it, it seems the attack really was a theft that became more aggressive than might have been intended.”