As she walked back along Victoria Embankment, then up towards Charing Cross, two quite different thoughts clamored for Maisie’s attention, both of which she tried to dismiss. The first was in connection with Richard Stratton. Of course she remembered Stratton—as Caldwell knew only too well. She and Stratton had crossed paths during several of her investigations in the past; in fact, she’d met him at the conclusion of her first case after Maurice retired. It had been obvious that Stratton was sweet on her, and she had been drawn to him, to his straightforward manner and clear head in the most difficult situations. Not for him the cheap joke or spear of sarcasm—he was no Caldwell. Stratton had placed the needs of his son before his work with the police, which surprised many, as he had been a young chief inspector, and was destined for an even more promising career ahead—especially following his transfer to Special Branch, and work on the hinterland of the Secret Service, along with Robert MacFarlane, who was now more deeply entrenched in one of the country’s intelligence divisions. Yet Stratton found working with MacFarlane difficult—the Scot’s brusque manner and dismissive tone had added weight to his decision to leave the police. In choosing to become a teacher, he was returning to the job he had trained for before the Great War. Now, Maisie wondered if she might encounter Richard Stratton again.
The second, more worrisome thought was one brought to the surface by Caldwell’s question. Your client might be the killer, Miss Dobbs—thought of that, have you?
It was an impertinent comment, one designed to wrong-foot Maisie. Caldwell might be sharing knowledge with her, but it was only because he wanted her help in return. And yet the question lingered, and she wondered if her defense of Francesca Thomas might have been too quick. Because the truth was that she had doubted her client, and though she would defend her until proof indicated otherwise, Maisie knew that she had to keep a door open to the possibility. Francesca Thomas was a woman of fierce intelligence and unquestionable bravery—but she was also a trained killer.
Dorothy Addens was out at work when Maisie called, as she had hoped. Enid Addens answered the door, at once looking up and down the street and back into the house, as if a ghoul might emerge from the bushes and enter her place of safety.
“Might I come in for a moment, Mrs. Addens?” asked Maisie.
“Yes, of course. My Dottie could be home any minute, though, and she gets very funny, what with the police coming round.”
“I thought they hadn’t been here since about the time your husband died, Mrs. Addens.”
The woman pulled out a chair for Maisie but remained standing, leaning against the wall in front of Maisie, as if she were afraid to settle herself too close to the visitor.
“Well, that’s right. They came once, and then the inspector came again. But all the same, you have to be careful.”
“Mrs. Addens, to all intents and purposes, your husband’s death was at the hands of a thief, someone who knew or guessed he had his wages tucked into the pocket of his overalls. Have you reason to fear this man might find you?”
The woman shook her head, and folded her arms. “No, of course not. I couldn’t see how he could find us anyway, I mean, it’s not as if Fred kept his name and address on show. And I’m sure none of his workmates knew where we lived, though they might have known about the darts team at the pub down the road—you know how men talk. He might have told them about winning a lot—which he did. I never begrudged him a half pint at the local, though, not like some women would. He was a good man, and he worked hard—and he never came home having had too much. No, he just needed a bit of a change in his pocket and to forget his work for a bit. He was a good man.”
“You met him when you worked for the railway, didn’t you?”