“Yes. I know him—though we’ve not crossed paths in a few years.” Maisie paused. “What about Huntley’s department, or the Foreign Office? Surely they must be interested in the outcome of this one.”
“Chinese walls and too much to do—you know how it is, Maisie.” Francesca Thomas came to her feet and stood by the door, her gaze directed towards the garden. “I want you to investigate for me. I trust you. I trust you to keep a calm head, to be diligent in your work, and to come up with some answers.”
“I don’t do this kind of work for nothing, Dr. Thomas.” Maisie stepped towards the bureau in the corner, took a sheet of paper and pen, and wrote down a series of numbers. She handed it to Thomas. “These are my fees, plus I will give you a chit to account for costs incurred along the way.”
Thomas looked at the paper, folded it, and put it in her pocket. “I will issue you with an advance via messenger tomorrow, and I will also send you addresses, employment details, and any other information I have to hand on Addens. I take it you will start immediately.”
“Of course.” Maisie allowed a few seconds to pass. “Dr. Thomas—Francesca—” She spoke the woman’s name in a quiet voice, so that when Thomas turned it was to look straight into Maisie’s eyes. “Francesca, are you telling me everything?”
“A Belgian refugee—one of my countrymen—who made England his home and lived in peace here, is dead. The manner of his death begs many questions, and I want to know who killed him. That is the nub of the matter.”
Maisie nodded. “I will expect your messenger tomorrow—at my office in Fitzroy Square.”
Francesca Thomas picked up the clutch bag she had set upon the sofa. “Thank you, Maisie. I knew I could depend upon you.” She left by the French doors; seconds later Maisie heard the gate at the side of the house clang shut.
She stepped into the walled garden. Beyond the brick terrace and lawn, she’d planted a perennial border to provide color from spring to autumn. The hydrangeas admired by Thomas had grown tall and covered the walls, their color reflected in an abundance of Michaelmas daisies. She strolled the perimeter of the garden, deadheading the last of the season’s roses as she went. This was ground she knew well—investigating a death in suspicious circumstances was home turf. But two elements to her brief bothered her. The first was the matter of a designed execution. Such acts were often planned when the perpetrator considered the victim to have committed an unpunished crime—and if not a crime, then an error for which forgiveness could not be bestowed. Or perhaps the man with the bullet in his skull had seen something he was not meant to see. And in those cases, the person who carried out the assassination might not be the person harboring a grudge.
The second element that gave Maisie pause was that she believed Thomas might not have been as forthcoming as she could have been. In fact, she might have lied when she had told Maisie there was nothing more to tell. I want to know who killed him, that is the nub of the matter. The words seemed to echo in Maisie’s mind. Indeed, she had a distinct feeling that there was much more to the nub of the matter—after all, during the telephone call which Maisie had taken at Priscilla’s house, Thomas had suggested that murder might happen again. And again.
“Well, the balloon has well and truly gone up now, hasn’t it?” Billy Beale lifted the strap attached to a box containing his gas mask over his head and placed it on the table. “Morning, miss. Sorry I’m a bit late—” He looked at the clock on the mantelpiece. “More than a bit, this morning. The trains were all over the place. Army on the move, that’s what it is—seen it all before, more’s the pity.”
Maisie had been standing by the floor-to-ceiling window, holding a cup of hot tea in her hand, when her assistant entered. She walked across to his desk. “Not to worry—I’ve not been here long myself, only enough time to make a cup of tea. Sandra’s late too.”
At that moment the door opened and Sandra Pickering came into the office, placing her handbag, a narrow document case, and her gas mask on her desk.
“I’m so sorry—you would never believe—”
“We’ve been in ages, Sandra—what kept you?” asked Billy, a glint in his eye.
“Take no notice of him,” said Maisie. “We’ve all had the same trouble this morning. There’s the army mobilization, and there are still a good number of children being evacuated.”