Maisie stepped into the parlor and took a seat in the armchair nearest the cold fire grate. The armchair was part of a “three-piece suite” and was probably a good number of years old—not ancient by any means, though the design was very much a hallmark of the previous decade. Faded tapestry upholstery and curved wooden arms reflected an Art Deco styling. A variety of framed family photographs hung from a picture rail, and above the fireplace a mirror was secured with a solid brass hook and a sturdy chain.
Firmin seated herself on the settee, close to the arm. A table next to the settee held a lamp and an ashtray. She pulled the ashtray closer, took a packet of cigarettes and a box of matches from the breast pocket of her boiler suit, and lit up. She shook out the flame of the match and dropped it in the ashtray. “I’d offer you one, but I can tell you’re not the type.” She inhaled deeply on the cigarette and flicked ash on top of the match. “I don’t sit in here much, but my mother liked it. This was her place—rented, of course—but it’s only me here now, and I spend more of my time back in the kitchen. Lucky the rent is fixed, or I’d be out on my ear.”
“Mrs. Firmin, this is my card.” Maisie passed her calling card to Firmin. “As you can see, I am an investigator. My client, one who has sympathies with the Belgian people, has asked me to look into the deaths of two former refugees who made new lives for themselves here during the war. And like your husband, they both remained in the country after the Armistice.”
“My husband is dead, Miss Dobbs.” Firmin looked at the card and placed it on the table, next to the ashtray. “And I doubt there’s anything I can help you with.”
“Let’s see, shall we? First of all, when did your husband pass away, Mrs. Firmin?”
“A year ago. August 1938. Probably best he went, because he couldn’t have stood this—barrage balloons, sandbags, armies on the march, and us just waiting for bombs to drop.”
“How did Carl die?”
“Died by his own hand.” Firmin drew on her cigarette and blew a smoke ring. “Got on a train, went down to Folkestone, and bang! Put a gun to his noddle and topped himself. Not very pretty, and I had to identify him by a scar on his leg—he copped it in Belgium, when he was coming over. Apparently a group of them made their escape together, though a couple wouldn’t leave without their families. Something happened on the way—he wouldn’t talk about it—and he was wounded. I never found out how he’d been hurt—would you believe a man could be that closemouthed with his own wife? It could have been a knife, a bullet, falling over an ax—who knows?”
Maisie made a note in her book. “He died in Folkestone, August 1938.”
“Better get it all in. The fourth of August, it was.”
Maisie stopped, and looked up at the woman. “The fourth of August?”
“What—that your birthday or something?” She shrugged. “He always got a bit on edge that time of year, and I just left him to it. He said it was on account of the memories, of things that happened, you know, in the war. He’d been over there, back to Belgium, for a visit a couple of months earlier. He was only gone about three days. I couldn’t go with him—we didn’t have the money for that—but I could see he had to go.”
“Did he ever say anything specific about those memories?” said Maisie.
“Not a peep,” said the woman, drawing on her cigarette again. She pressed the stub into the ashtray and leaned towards Maisie. “Is this going to take long? I’ve been at the factory since the middle of the night, and I don’t have a lot of time to myself to get a bit of shut-eye and do something human before I go back there again.”
“I’m so sorry—just one more thing.” Maisie took photographs of Frederick Addens and Albert Durant from her bag. “Have you ever seen either of these men?”
Firmin reached for the photographs. She shook her head. “No, never met either of them. Why?”
Maisie nodded. “I’m afraid they’re both dead, and I believe they were acquainted with your husband. The first died in August, the other a few weeks later.” She replaced the photographs in her bag.
Firmin shook her head, pinched out the cigarette, stood up, and put the remains in her pocket. “Well, I’ve never seen them.” She turned towards the door.
Maisie came to her feet and followed Firmin. “Did Carl keep in touch with any friends from Belgium, others that came to this country?”
“Not as far as I know.” She led Maisie towards the front door. “The only Belgian I ever met was that woman from the embassy, or consulate, or whatever you call it.”
“Really? Someone came after your husband died?”