“We did, though—and make no mistake, as bad as it was in France and Flanders, and in all those other places where men fought, there were times of laughter. Just because the circumstances might be almost intolerable does not mean there are not moments when the light shines in.” Maisie looked down at her hands and rubbed them together, remembering.
“Anyway, yes, I can tell you about this photograph. And it’s simple, really—I was the photographer. Not terribly good, I confess, but I was on the other side of the camera.”
“Then what can you tell me about the young men either side of Rosemary?”
“It’s coming back to me now. This one is Albert and this one is Frederick—until I saw his face, the name didn’t click, but now it does. Gosh, I wish I could remember the names here—I think that one was Peter and the other Thomas. Or was his surname Thomas? I can’t remember the others—it will probably come back to me later. And then there was this little scamp. I can’t recall his name at all. He arrived in England alone, but with the older boys. I think his mother died on the walk through Belgium—though I could be mixing him up with someone else. But there were deaths on the journey. If you add malnutrition, thirst—and of course fear—those things could quickly conspire with some disease or another to bring them down.” Littleton looked down at the photograph again. “This was taken on one of the farms Rosie’s father owned. Rosie said they needed extra help with the haymaking, so she arranged for a number of the lads on our books who had either not yet found a job or were only getting piecemeal work to go down to Sussex—they stayed in the old hopper huts, and the farmer provided food and so on. I went down to visit, just for a couple of days. You could see how much good it was doing everyone—their cheeks were rosy, they’d put on weight, and for those lads, it helped to be doing a job of work in the open air. I mean, what were they? Fifteen or sixteen, something of that order. That was the summer of 1917, I think. Or was it 1916? I should remember, shouldn’t I, but sometimes I look back and it’s all a bit of a blur, with certain moments standing out. David was dead by then, killed at Neuve Chappelle in early 1915—so it was after that.”
“Could you find out the names of the other men for me?”
Littleton shook her head. “Oh dear, I’m not really sure what happened to the records. At the end of the war we were assisting with repatriation, and of course Rosie had left the association by then, as her brother was in a military hospital in Surrey. I left too, to look after my mother—she’d gone down with that terrible flu, as had my father. It didn’t kill them, but it certainly shortened their lives. Anyway, you don’t want to know all that, do you?” She tapped the photograph against her palm. “There is a woman who might well know if the files are still available. The association merged with another after the war, and of course when all the repatriation was done, it was disbanded, but the information might be lurking somewhere, though it could well be in several places. You see, we had a card file with basic information on everyone as they came in that we could get to quickly, then we began establishing proper records so we could assist with jobs and—with a bit of luck—refugee repatriation at the end of the war. We knew it had to happen eventually, even though at times we thought it would never end.” Littleton sighed. “Anyway, you never know, these records might one day be important to someone.”
“They’re fairly important to me, Miss Littleton. So if you can find out how I might have access to them, and a name of someone to contact, I would be very much obliged to you.”
“I’ll do my best.” Littleton took Maisie’s card from her pocket and looked at it again. “‘M. Dobbs. Psychologist and investigator.’ That sounds very good, doesn’t it? How does one get to do what you do?”
Maisie smiled and came to her feet. “A long and arduous training, Miss Littleton.”
Clarice Littleton made as if to stand.
“I can let myself out,” said Maisie. “You stay there, and I suggest you rest for the remainder of the afternoon.” She paused, wondering if she should add the caution she felt was necessary. “One thing, Miss Littleton. Do take a measure of extra care—please do not just open the door to anyone, and use the chain on the door if necessary. I don’t want you to live in fear, but you must consider your personal security. I believe Rosemary was killed because she knew something about the killer. You might not have the same knowledge—it sounds as if she’d been rather more involved in the lives of a number of the refugees. But your friendship with her and the work you did for the association render you vulnerable.”
“I can take care of myself, Miss Dobbs.”
“Not against a man with a revolver.”
Littleton rubbed her forehead. “I’ll see if I can find out about the files, then perhaps go to stay with an old friend in Norfolk. I can take some time off work.”