Francesca Thomas was sitting alone at a table set in the shadows of the busy Lyons Corner House. Maisie joined her, slipping into the chair opposite as Thomas stubbed out a cigarette in the ashtray. A waitress in the distinctive Lyons uniform—black dress with red buttons, white apron, and a black-and-white band with pleated edges across her forehead—had seen Maisie take her seat, and began to weave between the tables towards them.
“You can tell why they call a Lyons waitress a ‘nippy,’ can’t you?” said Thomas. “I’ve been watching them at work—they nip everywhere. They’re like little mice, nipping back and forth between the tables.”
The waitress reached the table, and flicked open a notebook to take their order.
“A pot of tea for two and a couple of Eccles cakes, thank you,” said Thomas.
Repeating the order, the waitress said she would be back immediately with the tea and cakes.
“You must have known Eccles cakes are my favorites,” said Maisie.
“Just something I remembered.” Thomas shrugged. “Do you have the photograph?” She reached into her handbag and brought out a pair of tortoiseshell-rimmed spectacles as Maisie handed her the photograph. “Ah, that’s better,” she said, and began to study the print.
Maisie watched Thomas’ eyes move, as if concentrating on one face after another. She saw her gaze linger in two places, but no movement indicating unexpected recognition—except perhaps once, when the ridged skin between her eyebrows crinkled to form a well-worn frown. She shook her head and passed the photograph to Maisie.
“I could pick out Addens and Durant from the photographs I’ve received since their deaths—I wanted to at least know what they looked like. But no, no one else. And if that woman is the latest victim, Rosemary Hartley-Davies, then I would say she is a bit of a flirt, wouldn’t you?”
Maisie looked at the photograph. Without doubt, Hartley-Davies was having a good day despite any observations Billy might have made about her expression in the photograph. Those present in the field—she now thought it must have been during haymaking—seemed sun-kissed, even in the sepia tones of the photograph. They were smiling, and if there were clouds overhead, they weren’t apparent. Hartley-Davies seemed at ease among the men, and the boy appeared to be leaning into her, as a child would his mother.
“I wonder who the boy is,” said Maisie.
“Probably a farm worker’s child.”
“Yes, probably—country children always work throughout the summer. It’s all hands on deck, helping with the harvest, picking fruit and hops.” Maisie slipped the photograph back into her bag. “Anyway, I wouldn’t have taken Hartley-Davies for a flirt—I think she’s just at ease. Perhaps her work and the knowledge that she was helping people took the edge off her grief.”
“And we both know what that’s like, don’t we, Maisie?”
The question, posed as a throwaway comment, felt akin to a fine blade entering Maisie’s heart. She opened her mouth to speak, but was grateful when a voice broke in.
“Pot of tea for two, and your Eccles cakes,” said the nippy, unloading her tray onto the table. A cup, saucer, and plate were set before each woman, with the teapot and milk jug between them. Another plate bearing two cakes was placed on the table. “Would you like anything else?” asked the girl.
Maisie shook her head, still unable to speak. Thomas reached for the teapot. “Thank you, that will be all.” She poured for both Maisie and herself, and pushed the milk jug towards Maisie. “I’m trying to take it black and definitely without sugar. Preparing myself in case we can’t get any in the days to come.”
“I think we’ll be all right for milk,” said Maisie. She cleared her throat, still stung by Thomas’ comment. “Anyway, there’s more to discover about Hartley-Davies, and I am sure I will be able to identify the other men in the photograph soon. I’m seeing another woman later—another volunteer who worked with Hartley-Davies to assist refugees.”
“With any luck she’s lending a hand again—they’ve been coming in thick and fast since the Sudetenland was sold to the Nazis by this government, and since Poland was invaded, who knows which sovereign land will be next on the Fuhrer’s list?” Thomas sipped her black, bitter tea and winced. She cut a small wedge from her cake, and finished it in one bite. She pushed the plate away.
“Have you had any reports from Scotland Yard?” asked Maisie.
“Your friend Caldwell keeps in touch, but even I can see how difficult this might be—which is why I called you in.”
“I would have liked to be further along, to be perfectly honest.”
“You will be, Maisie.” Thomas took up a paper napkin and dabbed her mouth. “I have every confidence. Telephone me when you have more news. Now, I must go.” She reached into her bag as if to find her purse.
“No, that’s all right—I’ll pay for this. You’ve hardly touched your cake anyway. And I’ll telephone you in a day or so unless there’s more to report.”