“My name is Mr. Gervase Lambert and I am from the Belgian embassy. My superior, Dr. Francesca Thomas, instructed me to hand this to you personally.” He held out the large buff-colored envelope he had been carrying under his arm. “And if you would be so kind, I am required to obtain your signature.” He took a slip of paper from the inside pocket of his jacket and handed it to Maisie before uncapping a pen taken from the same pocket.
Maisie signed the chit confirming delivery of the envelope, and before she could thank the messenger, he was gone, hurrying in the direction of Warren Street. Maisie took the envelope up to her office, along with post she had picked up from the hall table. She placed the letters on her desk, then stepped through to the main office, where she opened windows overlooking the square so a breeze might air the office. A few sheets of paper flapped on Billy’s desk, so she secured them with a paperweight. It was then that Maisie saw a note left for Billy in Sandra’s handwriting—it must have been placed there on Monday. It was to the effect that Dr. Elsbeth Masters had telephoned, and could he return her call at his earliest convenience. Maisie knew Dr. Masters—she was a specialist in psychiatric care, the doctor to whom Doreen Beale had been referred in the dark months following her young daughter’s death. Hearing Billy’s distinctive step on the stairs, she moved away from his desk into her office. She was opening the large envelope when he entered, whistling.
“Afternoon, miss.” He ran his fingers through his hair, which Maisie noticed had become flecked with silver over the past year. “It’s another sticky one out there, ain’t it? My neighbor—old boy with seaweed hanging off the gutter, says it helps him predict the weather—he reckons it’ll be a lot cooler towards the end of the month, and then we’re in for a chilly autumn. Right now I could do with a bit of chilly—another round of thunder and lightning to clear the air would be nice.” He drew breath, but barely paused. “Anyway, how about a cuppa? I feel like a man just come in from the desert.”
“Lovely, Billy. Then we have work to do.”
Billy nodded and set about removing his jacket, rolling up his sleeves and taking the tray along to the kitchenette at the end of the corridor. His absence gave Maisie an opportunity to peruse the notes Thomas had sent regarding Albert Durant.
According to Thomas, Durant’s English wife had died in childbirth a couple of years earlier. Ten years his junior, she’d been felled by a blood clot. The baby died with her. Maisie closed her eyes to gather her thoughts, placing one hand on her chest; the pounding felt as if it would ricochet into her ears. The loss of the child she had been carrying, delivered during an emergency operation following James’ death, was not as raw as it had been—time had healed the immediate physical and emotional wounds. But if those scars became irritated by a stranger’s comment or an unguarded thought, it was as if her memories conspired to drag her under in a wave of grief. She composed herself, using lessons learned in girlhood to temper her breathing and gentle her mind. Only when she felt settled could she continue reading.
Durant was successful in his work, and had moved into the spacious Maida Vale flat with his then-pregnant wife—it appeared the property was the perfect London home for a successful man and his family. Durant was not known to engage in pastimes, though Thomas noted she had discovered that, indeed, once a fortnight he would take a train to Reigate and retrace walks along the southern flank of the North Downs, rambles that he and his wife had enjoyed until quite late in her pregnancy.
“Facing down his dragons,” whispered Maisie, as Billy entered the room, tray in hand.
“What’s that, miss?” asked Billy.
“Oh, nothing—just talking to myself.”
“First sign of madness, that.” He set the tray at one end of the table. “Right, then, let’s get this down us, and we’ll have the case solved in an hour, you watch.”
Soon they were seated together, the case map pinned out before them. Billy did not seem in a rush to begin; instead, he read aloud the headlines from a newspaper given to him by his Fleet Street contact.
“They’ve got Churchill in again. First Lord of the Admiralty, he is.” He turned the page. “That’s him off the sidelines—now let’s see if he can do better than he did the last time.”
Maisie nodded, picking up a red crayon. She would not comment—her late husband had been engaged in work sanctioned by Churchill via his many contacts. In his case the contact was John Otterburn, a man Maisie hoped never to see again. She knew only too well—as did many—that Churchill had been a fierce critic of the German chancellor, and worked behind the scenes of government to prepare for a war he deemed inevitable. The member of parliament Nancy Cunard might have observed that “Churchill is finished” a few years earlier, but Maisie was aware that the portly man had been far from a political non-entity.
“And you’d better get some petrol in that motor car of yours, miss—motor spirit is going on ration soon. So you’ll need to get your coupon book.”