Maisie felt her breath catch in her throat. “Dr. Thomas, I wanted to ask you about a man named Carl Firmin. He died last year.” She leafed through her notebook. “On the fourth of August—exactly one year to the day before Frederick Addens was murdered. I visited Firmin’s wife because it came to my attention that he had associated with both Frederick Addens and Albert Durant, and I know he knew Rosemary Hartley-Davies. I understand you visited his wife following his death.”
There was a noticeable pause before Thomas responded. “Yes, I did. My role here changes all the time, but it fell to me to visit her, given her husband’s position as a former Belgian refugee. It was a respectful visit, in consideration of his service to his country—I mean—”
“What service to his country?” asked Maisie. “According to my findings, he was little more than a lad when he arrived here. His life had been under threat in Belgium, so he left and entered British waters as a refugee. How had he served?”
“Forgive me—an error of speech. He served Belgium only in assisting his fellow countrymen even after arrival in Great Britain. He was known to keep in touch with other refugees. He was loyal, and that was worth my visit.”
“I see. His wife said you were asking for documents that might be of interest to Belgium.”
“If we are to be able to reflect on the Great War—and, indeed, on this war—and learn, then the recollections of the ordinary people will be valuable indeed. I wanted to make sure we had a chance to make a case for preserving any diaries Firmin might have kept, before they were destroyed. The bereaved will either get rid of things indiscriminately in their grief, or keep them very close to hand. If Mrs. Firmin was of the former, then we wanted to have her husband’s papers before she disposed of them—that’s if such papers existed, and it was my job to find out. Most important, though, it was my job to collect official documentation belonging to a deceased Belgian national—a passport, a certificate confirming status as a refugee, that sort of thing. We’ve done the same with papers belonging to Frederick Addens and Albert Durant, as you know. After all, we don’t want them falling into the wrong hands and aiding a spy—and let it be said that such things can and do happen.”
“Yes, that makes sense.”
“And your progress on the case, Maisie?”
Maisie unwound the telephone cord from her fingers and let it drop. “The threads are leading somewhere, Dr. Thomas.” She paused, allowing her words to linger in the air, just as microscopic drops of a fragrance might remain long after a woman had used an atomizer to apply perfume to the soft skin under her ears, or to her wrists. “In fact, I would say that I am close.” Another pause. “But of course, you have to remember, I must take due care, for if I pointed the finger towards the wrong person, it would lead to a tragedy, so I take my time.”
“Surely there’s a risk involved—Maisie, if you have a name, you must tell me.”
“As I said, I am close, Dr. Thomas—though not close enough yet.”
“Right you are. I trust you implicitly.”
“One more thing—do you find it interesting that Firmin and Addens died on the same date, one year apart?”
“It’s probably just a coincidence, but if not I am sure you will discover the link.”
“Thank you. I’ll report again before the week’s end.”
“Good enough,” replied Francesca Thomas, ending the call.
With the long tone of disconnection ringing in her ear, Maisie set down the receiver, turned off the light, and opened the French doors to the garden. There was a chill in the mid-September air. She pulled her cardigan around her and sat down in a wicker chair.
It seemed that no matter how many times Francesca Thomas had invited Maisie to address her by her Christian name, she always reverted to “Dr. Thomas.” Sometimes she felt like no more than a girl alongside the other woman, who was, in truth, only a few years older than Maisie. But such feelings were not the aspect of their conversation that troubled her, as she looked up at the night sky, now accustomed to the darker shadows of barrage balloons floating above. Thomas had lied to her. She had slipped up and lied. But was the error deliberate? And could it be that, having asked Maisie to investigate the case of Frederick Addens, she now wished she had left well enough alone? What was the risk that Francesca Thomas was taking? But more to the point—what other risks might she take, and why? Yes, it was true, Maisie did not want to point a finger without all the evidence to hand. Maurice had cautioned her against such a move from the very beginning. “No matter how loud the wolves bay, no matter how much they want blood to atone for a terrible loss of life, Maisie, you must take your time. Know that the moment you feel pressure bearing down, you are primed to make a mistake. You can never bring back the life of an innocent swinging dead in the hangman’s noose.”
Yes, perhaps “Dr. Thomas” was best, thought Maisie. Distance, rather than familiarity, would serve her.
“Morning, hen.” The voice boomed into the receiver as Sandra passed it to Maisie. She had no need to introduce the caller, for Maisie could hear MacFarlane asking for her from a distance of several feet.