“Then they’re not looking hard enough.”
“Francesca”—Maisie set her glass on the tray and leaned forward, her hands on her knees—“as far as we know there were no witnesses. No one to see who shot Mr. Addens. We know the weapon used, but already my assistant, Mr. Beale, has voiced some doubts. The police believe it was a Browning of a certain type that was copied and sold as a Ruby, which were manufactured in Spain in great numbers during the war, and supplied in the main to the French, and then—and this is interesting—to the Belgians. More to the point, it is somewhat easy for a novice to use but can also go off when you don’t want it to, or fire several shots instead of the intended one. Perhaps the killer only meant to fire one bullet into Frederick Addens but was a neophyte when it came to handling a gun, and could not control the firing mechanism.”
Maisie reached for her glass and took a sip of wine. She sat back, rolling the stem between finger and thumb as she considered her words. Francesca Thomas made no attempt to interrupt. “Frederick Addens might indeed have known his killer,” Maisie continued, “but by the same token, the killer might be someone who knew him and knew when he would receive his wages. In defense of Caldwell’s department, there is not much to chew on. I wonder why you didn’t tell me about the money Addens was carrying.”
Thomas shrugged. “I thought I had. I thought I’d noted it in the envelope of information I sent over to you.”
“We received his date of birth, details of his entry to the British Isles, his work, and his family,” said Maisie. “We know where he worked, what he did, where he lived. But I did not know his father and brother were killed in the war. We had to discover ourselves how he came to be an engineer for the railway—and it wasn’t particularly hard to find out. And I didn’t know he had just been paid, therefore had money in his back pocket.”
“He was foolish—he should have known better,” said Thomas.
Maisie leaned forward. “Why? Why should he have known better? An ordinary man going about his ordinary work and on a payday receiving an envelope with a wage that would not buy a couple of nights at the Savoy. I would imagine that his mates did the same—put the envelope in the back pocket and either go home or, like Addens, go back to work for the overtime. And with the extra trains being laid on because the government has been preparing for yesterday’s announcement for months, the overtime was there for the taking.”
Thomas topped up her own glass and reached across to pour more wine into Maisie’s, which was still half full. “I meant that anyone—anyone—should have known to be careful, given the greater number of refugees moving into the country in recent weeks. Especially someone who was once himself a refugee. He should have remembered how desperate people can become.”
Maisie allowed silence to descend upon the conversation—silence except for a couple of blackbirds in the garden’s lilac tree, followed by the crisp domestic sounds of Thomas breaking off a piece of the bread and cutting another slice of apple.
“And now it seems Mr. Durant is also the victim of theft, and killed in the same manner,” said Maisie. “I would like to know if there was ever a connection between the two men,” she added. “I think you might know.”
Thomas shook her head. “Apart from both being Belgian—no. There’s no connection, as far as my information is concerned. A railway worker and a banker? They might be Belgian, but let’s both admit, this is England. A banker would have little to do with a man wielding an oily rag and a spanner.”
“Therefore they had never met, never heard of each other, their paths never crossed—and it was just a coincidence that these two men have been murdered. And on top of it all, you have asked me to find the killer.”
“I didn’t expect there to be a second murder.” Thomas held her glass to her lips and finished her wine. She reached for another slice of bread and cut more cheese. “I’ve not eaten all day—I’ll have one more bite and then I must go.” She bit into the makeshift sandwich, set the remains on her plate, brushed her hands against her table napkin, and reached into her bag. “Here, some information on Albert Durant. The police might have the same details for you tomorrow, but you should have this. He was a very clever man—his job was not exactly as an ordinary bank clerk, but one who dealt with the needs of the better-heeled customers, the sort who wanted to move money around.”
“He helped the rich get richer, then,” said Maisie.
“I suppose you could say that.”