She was gone before Maisie could thank her, so she reached into her bag for her pencil and notebook, which she opened to a blank page. She laid out the folders and picked up each one in turn. The ages of the young men when they arrived in England were similar—fourteen, fifteen, sixteen. As Golding had observed, little more than boys. And confirming Golding’s comment, Maisie could see that they all came from an area not far from Liege. She wrote down the first and last names of each man, along with details of any family members he had traveled with. Death, it seemed, had stalked them on their journey to the coast, for by the time they reached England, several were alone in the world—except, perhaps, for one other.
While there was not much of note in the files, Maisie jotted questions as she read. Did the young men know each other? If so, how? There was nothing to indicate common schooling—only the proximity to Liege—that in itself would have drawn them into a tight group. She had hoped there were at least two who came from the same community, who knew the same people. But then, why would these boys have known each other, apart from managing to find a way onto the same boat for a crossing of the English Channel? Could they have met on the journey, the arduous walk to freedom? Maisie sat back, considering her questions, reaching for each file in turn and reading a second time before stacking them in a pile. She consulted her wrist watch, and could hear voices in the corridor signaling that Golding’s “girls” were on their way to begin preparing the boxes for transit to London. She closed her notebook, but before leaving the room, she pulled the box towards her and leafed through a few remaining files—mainly women and children, a few more boys. She lingered over the final file. Something was amiss, though she could not quite put her finger on what was making her go back and forth, rereading every note on the refugee.
Miss Hatcher entered the room, with another young woman following her. They both held shorthand notebooks and pencils.
“Sorry, Miss Dobbs, but we have to get to work in here now. I hope you’ve found everything you’ve been looking for.”
“Do you happen to know what might have happened to this one?” Maisie passed the folder to Hatcher, who took a cursory look at the information—most of the pages contained only short answers to mundane questions.
Hatcher shrugged. “Not much information there—he couldn’t even write a full name. But as far as I know, some children arrived on their own and couldn’t speak or write in English. I would have thought someone of this age would have been situated with a Belgian family who’d already found accommodation, or placed in a children’s home. There were also British families of Belgian extraction who took in refugees. There’s no forwarding information, so I would imagine this one was sent back to his home country, eventually.” She placed the file in the box and looked at Maisie. “Anything else we can do?”
Maisie shook her head. “No, that’s all right—I’ve gathered as much as I can from the notes. I’m obliged to you for your help.”
She returned to the motor car and sat for a while, the engine idling, before putting it into gear and moving off into traffic. She knew it was even more imperative now that she reach Lucas Peeters—perhaps for no other reason than to save his life.
At the office, Maisie read a note from Billy, and another from Sandra, who had come to work after Maisie’s departure, and left before her return. Telephone calls had been received, and their messages transcribed in Sandra’s neat hand, with time and date recorded, along with a personal note regarding her impression of each call’s urgency. There were messages from Lady Rowan Compton regarding the imminent arrival of Rosemary Hartley-Davies’ brother. Maisie had arranged for Robert Miller to be brought to Chelstone Manor on Wednesday morning, but just for a fortnight at most, as it transpired that a cousin with whom his family had been in touch only sporadically over the years had offered accommodation at his home in Wiltshire. Miller, it seemed, was not without funds, as both he and his sister had inherited money from their parents, and Rosemary had received a significant legacy from her late husband, a sum that would pass to her brother in due course. Maisie suspected Miller would in time move into a home of his own, though he would always require a companion to assist with everyday needs; but for now he should have a place of rest while he recovered from the death of his sister and Mrs. Bolton. Maisie could only agree with Brenda when her stepmother observed, “Well, at least he’s got money tucked away—think of the thousands that haven’t. And who’s looking after them? I’ll tell you who—the poor women they came home to, that’s who does the looking after, and with precious little to help them!” Whatever Miller’s circumstances, she would at least have the opportunity to question him at Chelstone.
There was a message from Priscilla, and from Brenda, who asked when Maisie would be at Chelstone, and whether she could come early again, instead of waiting until Friday. The note from Billy was by way of an update, informing her that he was trying to find out more about Lucas Peeters, as well as continuing work on another case involving a woman who had not believed her husband when he said he had joined the army. The man had not arrived at the barracks he had stated as his destination, and the army had no record of his enlistment.