“One part of me believes there is a very strong argument for this visitor being Durant, and that there was a connection between the two that began when they were refugees and continued through their time in England. On the one hand, it’s hardly surprising that there was some communication between them, but on the other, I wonder what news he brought that could have led to a reaction so obvious that Smitty remembered it weeks on.”
“I was wondering that too,” said Billy, running his fingers back through his hair.
For a fleeting moment Maisie thought she should tell him to be aware of the habit, for beyond Billy’s fringe his hairline was receding, and he might be making it worse. But perhaps the constant running of fingers along his scalp had nothing to do with the loss of hair. It was just Billy getting older. “I want to know if they knew each other before they came here,” she said, her tone resolute. “We know they came from the same area, but that doesn’t mean they knew each other.”
“This is where you wish they were from over here, then you could just whip to wherever they came from and have a word with the neighbors.”
“Hmmm.” Maisie doodled on the edge of the case map with a red wax crayon, feeling Billy’s eyes upon her.
“Miss, what with the train services stopped all over the place, I can tell you right now that you could never get over there. Even for a day. And it’s not only the trains and ferries that have stopped going to the Continent—there’s no aeroplanes going either, not for us civvies, anyway, as far as I know—so that idea won’t work.”
Maisie looked up at Billy. “You’ve heard that old phrase, haven’t you? ‘There’s more than one way to skin a cat.’”
“I never liked that one. I mean, who would want to skin a poor cat anyway?”
Maisie stood up and went to her desk, lifting the telephone receiver as she looked up at Billy. “I read that it refers to catfish—they’re from America somewhere, and the people there call them ‘cats.’ It’s about skinning a fish. And there’s one or two different ways to do it.” She began to dial. “I could do with that cup of tea now, Billy—I know you’re gasping, and you do make the best strong brew.”
Billy gathered his notebook and pen and left the room, knowing Maisie was sending him from her office because the telephone call she was about to make was private—and they both understood why.
Maisie dialed a number known to her by heart.
“Yes!” a voice boomed, its timbre rich and round, with a resonance suggesting weight and strength—and that the man who answered would not suffer a fool gladly.
Maisie held the receiver away from her ear for a second, then brought it back to speak.
“Hello, Robbie,” said Maisie.
“Hello, lassie. And if it’s Robbie you’re calling me, and not MacFarlane, then you’re about to try to butter me up, and this is not a good day to try any buttering.”
“I didn’t expect it to be, Robbie. But I need your help.”
“What can I do for you? And please make it easy.”
“I think you owe me one or two favors, don’t you?”
“Aye, lass, I do. More than one or two. So go on, tell me what it is.”
Maisie paused, wondering if she wasn’t making a great error in taking Robert MacFarlane into her confidence. But on the other hand, it wouldn’t be a stretch to assume Robbie knew everything she was working on anyway.
“Hurry up, lassie—I’ve not got all day. The clock is ticking, the sun is nowhere near the yardarm anywhere in the British Isles, and my patience is being tested.”
“Do you know if I could get on a government aeroplane to Brussels?”
“What do you want in Brussels?”
“I would like to travel on from there to a small town outside Liege, just to talk to a few people. A day’s work at most. I would jump at the chance of a driver if you could get me one, and of course I will pay all costs.”
“No.”
“Robbie, is that ‘No, there are no aeroplanes leaving for Brussels’? Or ‘No, you can’t get on an aeroplane’? Or is it ‘No, you don’t have to pay because we still owe you money’?”
“It’s ‘No, because I won’t let you fly into danger.’”
“You didn’t mind in 1938, did you?”
“That was different.”
“Yes, it was far more dangerous. This is just to get some answers to questions, and I’m not going there to do business with Nazis.”
There was silence on the line, though Maisie could hear MacFarlane breathing, then turning the pages of a book. He swore in a whisper and returned to the call.
“You don’t like flying—in fact, you hate it.”
“I can do it if need be, as we both know. What about it, Robbie?”
“It can be arranged. The aeroplane will not be leaving from Croydon or anywhere fancy now, and it won’t be comfortable—you’re likely to be in a Lysander normally used for aerial surveillance, and it will be landing in a field, not an airport in Brussels. But I daresay I can get a motor and driver for you, if you’re not in the bushes losing your breakfast.”