“Oh, I wouldn’t do that if I were you. Bad for the constitution.”
The revolver was confirmed to be a Ruby, although the “weapons man” had not yet come to a conclusion about when it was last fired. Maisie did not expect an easy answer. She had known as soon as she looked at the gun that it had been cleaned well and by someone who knew how to look after a revolver. Although it often seemed like yesterday, some eighteen months earlier Maisie had been pressed into work with the Secret Service, which in turn required she learn to use a gun—and part of her training was in understanding the importance of cleaning her weapon to military standards, ensuring that every speck of dust was removed whenever it lay dormant, so that when the time came to use it, she could feel confident her revolver was in full working order. She made her way back to Fitzroy Square, pondering the fact that the same brand of revolver had been discovered twice—one at the scene of Rosemary Hartley-Davies’ death, and one in Albert Durant’s flat. It had also been implicated in the killing of both Durant and Frederick Addens.
Billy was already at his desk when Maisie entered the office.
“Hallo, miss. Ready for a cuppa? I know you think I do nothing but drink tea all day, but you look all in. A cup would do you the power of good.”
“I’m all right, Billy—perhaps later. Did you find Mike Elliot? And what about the publican at the Crown and Anchor? Come on in and tell me what you’ve found out.”
Billy followed, notebook in hand. Although he’d loosened his tie, he had kept his jacket on. He took a seat alongside Maisie at the table as she pulled out her own notebook.
“Did you find that woman—the one who worked with Rosemary Hartley-Davies during the war?” asked Billy.
“I did indeed. She’s very strong, forthright. And though I don’t think she was fearful when I first arrived, by the time I left, she had changed her mind and seemed rather unsettled. Mind you, that’s hardly surprising.” Maisie went on to recount the events that followed her visit to see Clarice Littleton.
“And you reckon she’s in Norfolk somewhere.”
“I do, and I would like to know where, exactly, she is.”
“I’ll see what I can find out, if you like.”
“Thank you, Billy.”
“And what do you make of the Ruby in Albert Durant’s flat?”
“I don’t know. It could be a weapon he’d had for years—perhaps even before he left Belgium. It begs the questions, why did he have the gun, and how did he obtain it? And who owned the revolver—same type—used to kill Rosemary Hartley-Davies?”
“Well, miss, Durant had it for protection, I would imagine. And if there were a lot of them guns around, it might not have been so hard to get your hands on one.”
“But what if he’d obtained the Ruby since coming here. Why?”
“Again, for protection—possibly.”
“Which brings us back to square one—who was he afraid of? You don’t expect a banker to be afraid for his life, do you, Billy?”
Billy frowned. “You did about ten years ago! But you’re right, miss, we need to find out the names of the other men in that photograph. I mean, it’s a thread, and you’re always saying we have to pick at the fabric until we find a loose thread. They might not have known him that well, but there again, finding one might lead to someone else.”
The telephone rang. Billy stood to answer it at Maisie’s desk. He gave the office number, and listened.
“Just a moment, Miss Littleton,” said Billy, before holding out the receiver for Maisie to take.
Maisie looked up and reached for the telephone. She nodded to Billy, indicating that he should remain in the room.
“Miss Littleton. It seems I left you only a short time ago—is everything all right?”
“Yes. Yes, I’m all right. Look, I’m in a telephone kiosk, and I don’t have many coins on me. I remembered the names of the two other men—Carl Firmin and Lucas Peters, though I think he spelled it with two e’s, so it’s P-double-e-t-e-r-s. And he might have changed it by now.”
Maisie pulled a notepad towards her and began to write. “Yes, I’ve got that. Have you any idea where I can find them?”
“I know where the records are—from the association. Rosie passed them all on to another refugee association, I think in Greenwich. I can’t tell you any more than that—I’ve tried, but I can’t recall the name of the woman who runs it.”
“But about Peeters and Firmin—do you have any idea where I might find them?”
“No, I’m sorry—and I must go n—”
She heard a series of beeps, the telephone signal for more coins to be put into the slot and button “A” to be pushed. But no more coins were forthcoming, and the line disconnected.