“Do you know how many you helped?”
“Hundreds. Of course, we weren’t the only people doing this—and there were government departments as well. We were in touch with the other associations—some were just for men, and some helped women and families. But I would say a good few hundred passed our way, and when we closed the association in 1920, we still had money in the kitty, so we kept it in hand to help out if any stray inquiries came in. Some of our refugees ended up doing well for themselves—not afraid to try their hand at business, or work very hard for someone else. They were incredibly stoic. One of our refugees became a banker and helped with the financial side of things—not that it involved too much accounting, though it was nice to have the help.” She leaned forward and took one of the biscuits. “I almost forgot I was hungry. Anyway, that’s it, really.”
For the briefest few seconds, Maisie wasn’t quite sure what she might say—it was rare for such a fortuitous coincidence to be revealed so soon in a conversation.
“Mrs. Hartley-Davies, was your banker a man by the name of Albert Durant, by any chance?”
The woman smiled, yet it was an unsettled smile—the sort of smile balanced between joy and shock, with an involuntary twitch at the side of the mouth. “Yes. That’s right. Mr. Albert Durant. Dare I ask how you know this?”
“I am afraid I must inform you that Mr. Durant has been murdered. He is one of the men I wanted to ask you about—you see, I am trying to find out anything I can about two murder victims, who both happened to have been refugees from Belgium. Both had gone on to marry English women, and in the case of the other man, his children are now grown. Mr. Durant’s wife died in childbirth, as you probably know.”
Rosemary Hartley-Davies stood up and stepped towards the fireplace. She took a packet of cigarettes and a lighter from behind a framed photograph of a man in the uniform of an infantry officer.
“Excuse me,” she said, as she walked out onto the terrace. “If I smoke this in here, schoolmarm Bolton will be after me. Believe it or not, she was my nanny when I was a girl—she may be well over seventy now, but she rules my little roost like a mother hen. I am not top dog in my own home.”
As Hartley-Davies lit up her cigarette, Maisie finished her lemonade, giving the woman time to compose herself. After a moment she joined Hartley-Davies, who was now seated at a wooden table set to one side of the French doors. An older Alsatian had lumbered from the lawn to join her. Maisie had not seen any sign of a dog when she first arrived.
“This is Emma—my best friend. She was having a little sleep under the willow tree. Emma’s pushing nine now, so we’re both quite settled together, aren’t we, Em?” She nuzzled the animal, who looked back at her owner with the bluish-white eyes of a dog who had diminished vision. “But do not be fooled by her. She may have poor eyesight, but she can hear very well. She won’t bother you unless I seem bothered—and she knows how to show her teeth. I think she could go to fourteen or fifteen—her mother made it, and so could she. She’ll be all right with you—just hold out your hand, let her have a sniff.”
Maisie held out her hand to the dog, who duly put her nose to Maisie’s fingers. “Mrs. Hartley-Davies, I—”
“Yes, I know—you want to ask me about Albert Durant.” She flicked her cigarette into a flower bed. “Might you be able to come another day? Perhaps tomorrow? I don’t think I can talk about it at the moment. You see, he was such a helpful man, so very kind, I always thought, and I’m rather shocked to hear he’s dead.”
Maisie came to her feet. “I could come tomorrow. I’ll drive over in the afternoon, if that’s all right. My house is near Tonbridge, and it’s a pleasant journey.”
“It’s a bit of a distance for you, but I would appreciate the time to compose myself.” Hartley-Davies remained seated, but turned to look out at the garden. The dog lay down at her feet, lifting her head as if to provide a place for the hand of her mistress to settle.
“Of course. Thank you for seeing me, Mrs. Hartley-Davies. And it’s all right, I’ll show myself out.”
“Oh, you won’t need to do that,” said Hartley-Davies, bringing her attention back to Maisie. “I daresay Mrs. Bolton will be waiting outside the drawing room door, ready to escort you to the gate. She’s nothing if not vigilant, is Mrs. Bolton. Rather like my Em—but she can see and still hear a pin drop.”
Maisie left the drawing room and, as predicted, the housekeeper was close to the door, arranging flowers in a large Chinese vase on the hall table. She put down the scissors she was using to cut stems, and wiped her hands on a cloth.
“Allow me, Miss Dobbs.” Bolton opened the front door for Maisie. “Will you be calling again?”
“Yes,” said Maisie. “I’ll be back tomorrow afternoon—I would say around three o’clock-ish.”