“Yes—egged on by Rosie’s name. She was very well connected socially.” Littleton glanced out of the window as if to gather her thoughts, then brought her attention back to Maisie. “Where was I? Oh, yes—once they were clothed and fed, we found the refugees lodgings. At first people were very accommodating—we had a good number of names on our list of possible foster families. That’s what we called them—‘foster families.’ And during the registration we checked any personal documents refugees brought with them, and helped to get them identification cards. If they could do a job of work, then we would find them a position if we could—seamstress, secretary, plumber, clerk . . . many of our refugees were very able when it came to work, and of course with our boys all over there, and women having to do all manner of jobs, the extra help was needed—and they wanted to work. Within a short time, a lot of the refugees were very self-sufficient. We tried to direct the families to the Belgian villages that had been set up—they even had their own churches and used their own currency in those places.”
“So you became very organized and very efficient very quickly,” said Maisie.
“Miss Dobbs, I think it’s fair to say that some of our volunteers were like regimental sergeant majors—they threw themselves into the work and did what had to be done, and the rest of us did the same. It took your mind off your own problems and straight onto another’s, and with our men fighting over there, what was it to give up your days to help people? At least we weren’t in trenches.”
Maisie nodded. “Yes, you’re right, of course. Did you keep in touch with Mrs. Hartley-Davies?”
Littleton shrugged. “We were quite pally at one point, but when her brother returned home, she became obsessed with being his helpmeet, I suppose you could say—though they were siblings, not husband and wife.” She seemed wistful for a moment. “Actually, when we were all younger, everyone thought it was going to be me, that because Rosie and I were such good friends, Robert and I would marry. But I met David instead, and that was it, as far as I was concerned.” She looked up at the photograph. “We were going to be married on his next leave, but he never made it to the next leave. He’s buried near Albert—it’s a town in Belgium. I’ve been over there a few times. I was going to go again soon, but not with the war, not now, and travel across the Channel is at a standstill anyway.”
“So were you courting Robert Miller at one point?” asked Maisie.
“Oh, not really. It’s just that we got on so well, and we’d known each other for years, so everyone jumped to the conclusion that we would one day throw in our lot with each other. Then at a party, just before the war—we were all there, of course, the Littletons and the Millers—I met David, and my world changed. We fell in love. And there would never be anyone else, not for me.” She sighed. “Anyway, now I have a job four mornings a week, including Saturdays—very easy, in a dress shop. And I’ve joined the Women’s Voluntary Services too. I can put all that work in the last war to good use. It left me with an ability to organize anyone to do anything, you know.”
“Yes, I am sure it did, Miss Littleton.” Maisie paused. “Miss Littleton, I am afraid I have some news for you, and it’s very bad news. Mrs. Hartley-Davies is dead, along with her housekeeper. She was murdered, and it’s likely the attack is connected to the death of Albert Durant, and that of another Belgian refugee, Frederick Addens.”
For a few seconds, time seemed to cave in on itself. Clarice Littleton stared at Maisie, her shock registered in the involuntary movement of a muscle under her right cheekbone, which gave the impression that she was trying to stifle a giggle. Her eyes closed, and her breathing quickened.
“Miss Littleton, please put your feet up, go on, lie back. I can guess where the kitchen is—I’ll make some tea.”
Clarice Littleton did as instructed, while Maisie plumped a pillow and placed it under her ankles. She pressed two fingers to the woman’s forehead and then lifted her wrist and felt her pulse.
“You’ll feel more stable in a moment—the shock caused your blood pressure to drop.”
A few minutes later, with a cup of sugared tea clasped between two hands, Clarice Littleton was sitting up, the color now returned to her face.
“I’m so sorry. You know, since David was killed in action, every time I hear of someone I know dying, it’s as if I am falling down a big hole—as if I’m hearing the news of his death all over again.” She sipped her tea. “And if this war goes the way of the last, I suppose I will hear that news over and over again, only this time it will be the sons of women I knew when I was a girl—those who were lucky enough to be married.”
“I’m sorry, but I must ask you some questions.”
Littleton sighed. “Yes, I suppose you must. I knew Rosie better than anyone else involved in the association, and I knew one of the dead men. The other doesn’t really ring a bell.”
“I wonder if you wouldn’t mind looking at this.” Maisie held out the framed photograph taken from Rosemary Hartley-Davies’ house. “It’s quite old, from the war, and the faces aren’t very distinct. Can you tell me anything about it?”
Littleton set down her cup and saucer on a side table and reached for the photograph. She shook her head.
“No one familiar to you?”
“Oh, no, it’s not that. I looked at this photograph, and it was as if time had wrapped her arms around me. Look at the laughter—a sunny day in a hay field, people with broad smiles, and yet so much grief to weather. How could we ever smile in those days?”