Hartley-Davies sighed, thanked Mrs. Bolton, and watched as the older woman left the room.
“It’s her way—she will always give me what she thinks I need, not what I would like.” She glanced from the closed door through which the housekeeper had departed back to Maisie. “Now, perhaps you’d tell me what this is about.” She sipped her lemonade and shivered. “Lemons always make me do that—I love the little shock to my tongue, but it’s as if a lightning strike has gone through me.”
Maisie smiled, took a sip of her lemonade, and tried not to reveal that she experienced the same reaction with lemons.
“I am investigating two crimes that might be related in some way, so I must impress upon you a need for confidence in this matter.”
“Of course.” Hartley-Davies pulled off her scarf and shook out her hair, which was the silver of someone who had lost the color early. As if intuiting Maisie’s thoughts, she lifted a few strands. “It went this color almost overnight in 1915—shock of hearing my husband had been killed at Arras.” She took another sip of lemonade. “I cannot believe that, with a war coming—and let’s face it, we’ve all known it was coming for years now—anyone would feel like committing a crime. After all, you want to look after each other, not cause trouble . . . I would have thought. Wouldn’t you?”
“Yes, I would. But it happens. There have been many dispossessed and disenfranchised people in dire straits in recent years, and sometimes desperation leads in turn to a desperate measure to obtain money. That’s what the police think in this case—that two men were killed for the money they were carrying at the time. I have a client who has asked me to look into the matter . . . for personal reasons.”
“Right—so let’s get to it. How on earth can I help you?”
“Your name is associated with the Ladies’ Refugee Assistance Association. Could you tell me exactly what you did, and how many people you served? I’d also like to know if records are still held—or were they destroyed, or sent on to other authorities for safekeeping?”
“All right. The lion’s share of the refugees came from France and Belgium, and they started coming more or less as the German army was approaching wherever they lived. If you knew any of our men who were over there, then they might have told you about seeing entire villages and towns on the move, trying to get away with whatever they could carry or put on a horse and cart or a handbarrow.”
Maisie nodded. “Yes, I understand. I was in France myself—close to the border with Belgium. I was a nurse.”
“I thought you might have been. Don’t ask me why—I just think you can always tell people who’ve been out of the little milieu they were born to. Anyway, when the refugees came in, there was a specific procedure required to register with the authorities. And everyone was doing their best, believe me. We knew they must have all had a horrible time of it. But a group of us—we had all been at school together, and to a woman our husbands or fiancés were over in France—we decided to help out, to fill the gaps, as it were. We set up a clearing house where we helped refugees, whether men, women, children, or families. If they had no home, we found accommodation. If they needed a good meal, then we made sure they were fed—we’d taken on premises that had been empty for a while, and secured a good rate from the landlord, so we had plenty of room to offer various services. Once they were settled, we found them work, and if they needed to establish contact with someone they had known at home, then we liaised with the Red Cross, who were wonderful to deal with—plus the Germans trusted them too, so we were able to do a fair amount.”
Hartley-Davies finished her lemonade in a few gulps, and shuddered. “That’s better. Now my teeth are well and truly on edge. I suppose you might want to know how all this was funded. Well, what have you got to lose, after your beloved husband has gone to war and you’re worried sick? I was never one to sit around, and I’m not shy either—so we asked for money. If I was invited anywhere, I would always make sure I told a few heart-rending tales of the flight from the Hun, or the poor state of the little children, and how we were struggling to help them. And then I would say, ‘A pound or two is always welcome.’ Everyone knew we were after more than a pound or two, and it’s amazing what you can wheedle out of people when they are riven with guilt at not doing their bit.”