Littleton was a tall woman with shoulder-length hair in a mass of black curls, some of them turning gray at her temples. It seemed to Maisie that perhaps in the past the woman had tried to control her hair, but had given up and now allowed the curls to cascade down. She wore a summer linen skirt, a white blouse, and a short black jacket, which she took off and draped across a sofa upholstered in a fabric of geometric designs popular fifteen years earlier. Her black leather sandals were likely worn for comfort, not fashion. As they entered, she ran her hands along the mantelpiece over the fireplace until she found a pencil. Inviting Maisie to take a seat on one of two leather armchairs, she twisted her hair and pinned it into a high chignon, using the pencil.
“That’s better. I can’t remember a summer when I have felt so sticky all over, even when it rains.” She smiled at Maisie. “You know, this is terrible of me—I’ve dragged you in here and I don’t know your name or why you were outside my door. I might not even be the person you’re looking for. I just hope it’s Clarice Littleton, or I’m going to have to show you back out again!”
Maisie returned her smile. “You’re exactly who I’ve come to see.” She reached into her bag, now set alongside the armchair, and passed a calling card to Littleton.
“Oh my goodness, private investigations. I do hope you don’t think I’ve nabbed someone else’s husband.”
Maisie shook her head. “Not at all. But I think you might be able to help me. May I ask you some questions about an association you volunteered with during the war—”
“Belgian refugees,” Littleton interrupted. “You’re here about Albert Durant, aren’t you?”
“Yes, I am. I have been retained by the Belgian embassy to look into the case. Of course, Scotland Yard are investigating, but the embassy wishes to conduct its own inquiries, and I have worked with their representatives before.”
“Right, I see.” Littleton nodded. “He only lived a few streets away. I didn’t keep in touch with him—I didn’t think it was right, and of course there were so many who came through, and you can’t keep tabs on everyone. But I would send a Christmas card, and of course a card of condolence when his wife died. That was terrible, after all he’d been through.”
Maisie nodded. She wavered between asking more questions about Durant and telling Clarice Littleton about the death of Rosemary Hartley-Davies. She didn’t want her to lose track of whatever memories she had of the dead man once she’d heard about the murder of her former fellow volunteer, so she would take the chance that holding the information just for a while would not alienate the woman.
“Miss Littleton, could you tell me how you came to volunteer for the Ladies’ Refugee Assistance Association, and describe your interactions with the refugees—how well did you come to know them, and how long were you in communication with them?”
“I was roped in by my friend Rosie Miller—well, that was her maiden name, and we’d known each other since school days. She married Rupert Hartley-Davies just before he left for France. Needless to say, she was completely devastated when he was killed—I mean, it was happening to everyone we knew, it seemed, losing a sweetheart or husband, or they were coming home wounded, so you tried not to show how affected you were.” She looked at Maisie. “I’ll be absolutely frank—I became fed up with all that ‘just get on with it’ nonsense pretty fast, you know. I wanted to scream from the rooftops, so to see all these ramrod-straight backs made me rather angry, to tell you the truth.”
Maisie glanced up at the mantelpiece at the photograph of a young man in uniform, alongside a single fresh red rose.
“Anyway, Rosie pulled me in,” continued Littleton. “She said we both could do something worthwhile, and it would take our minds off everything else, and there were other women involved, so why not just get stuck in? And so we did. We weren’t the only association trying to help, but a good number of refugees—women, boys and girls, and the elderly—were being sent to us. When they arrived, we did several things—registered their names and any other pertinent details, then we set about supplying them with what we termed their basic human needs. Many had left with only the clothes they stood up in, so if they needed clothing, we sent them down to our lady who worked in the room with all the unwanted items people had sent along. By the way, I should add, the association managed to get premises for next to nothing for the duration.”
“A generous landlord?”