“In time for tea, then,” said Bolton.
“Yes, in time for tea. I’ll see you then, Mrs. Bolton.”
As Maisie walked to her motor car, she considered the short but revelatory conversation with Rosemary Hartley-Davies. But it wasn’t what was said that gave Maisie pause. It was a photograph. Maisie had always been drawn to photographs, could not be a guest at someone’s house without lingering in front of a mantelpiece covered in framed photographs, or a series of images set on top of a piano rarely played. In case after case, she had discovered something from looking at a photograph. In this instance it was not the innocent face of a young man lost to war that had caught her eye, though she grieved the loss of the woman’s husband. It was another, more informal photograph taken in a field, or perhaps the gardens of a country home, that had claimed her attention. The scene was of a team of workers, each man wielding a spade, a fork, or a hoe, with a woman standing at the center of the group, holding a basket, as if she were delivering a picnic lunch. A child stood between the woman and one of the men. That one man—himself still a boy, really—to the left; she could have sworn it was a young Frederick Addens. And the woman, without a shadow of doubt, was Rosemary Hartley-Davies.
“She’s not come home from school yet,” said Brenda, taking a seat at the kitchen table opposite Maisie, who had arrived at the Dower House—the spacious property Maisie had inherited from Maurice Blanche—shortly after three o’clock. Situated just inside the estate entrance, the Dower House had once been part of Chelstone Manor, and was once the home of Lord Julian Compton’s mother until her death. Following her passing, Maurice—a long-standing friend of the Compton family—purchased the house.
“They didn’t want her in the class, but I said she should join the other evacuees who’ve come to the village, even though she doesn’t look quite old enough for school. After all, the poor little mite won’t want to be stuck here with me all day, though she seems to like following your father around. He says it’s like having you back as a little girl. She loves the horses—puts the boys to shame. She’s fearless, even around the big hunters. Anyway, the teacher says she’s catching up with the other children already.” Brenda continued her monologue, leaning towards Maisie. “I mean, it’s not as if anyone even knew if she could read or write, but she can. She knows her letters, so she’s obviously been to school somewhere. And at least the teacher got something out of her. She won’t read to the teacher, but Mrs. Evans—that’s her name—says that she can see her at her desk with a book, her finger on each word as she goes along. Her handwriting is neat, and she can answer the questions correctly—on paper—but you know, at that age it’s all very simple. ‘What color is John’s tractor?’ She’ll answer ‘red’—the right answer. All the children have to write in their nature books every morning, listing new things they’ve seen, and the teacher will help with spelling. She always puts ‘pony’ at the top, and then dog, cow, pig, and goes on to make a good list every day. But she won’t answer a question, won’t talk to anyone, and keeps to herself all the time—doesn’t mix with the others, and they just leave her alone. At least no one is picking on her, though what with her coloring, I’d say it’s only a matter of time.”
“What does the billeting officer say—any news from her?”
“Apparently she’s not one of the lot from the orphanage, or from the other schools evacuated on the same train. They’ve been in touch with teachers evacuated on trains leaving at the same time—some going down to Sussex with their children—but nothing’s come to light yet. They’ve even wondered if she managed to be taken to the wrong station and is expected in Ipswich or out in Hertfordshire, perhaps even down in Wales, but no answers have come back. There’s been so many thousands of them to deal with, it’s a wonder more haven’t got lost, although hopefully they’ve got a tongue in their head if they have. And there’s also been some questions about her birth certificate, and trying to find one for her.”
“Does anyone know her name yet?”
“She finally wrote it down for the teacher. It’s Anna—for all the good knowing has done. But at least it’s something to go on.”
“And she’s still hanging on to her case.”
“Won’t let it out of her sight. Even sleeps with it, otherwise I would have had a look.”
“Right then, time to think as if from another realm, as Maurice would have said.”
“Oh dear, I don’t like it when you talk like that. I knew Dr. Blanche only too well—after all, I worked for him for years—and when he talked about lateral thinking, whatever that is, I knew he was up to something.”