“Good morning, Robbie. Do you have some news for me?”
“Not the news you might have wanted—nothing doing this week. But on Monday morning—that would be September the eighteenth—at five sharp, your transport will be leaving from an airfield in Kent, not far from Bromley. Called Biggin Hill. We’ve got a Lysander going out of there into Belgium. None of your business what it’s up to, but he can take you. Very much on the QT, though. And because I owe you—as you so kindly reminded me—I’ve arranged a motor and a driver ready to take you on from there. That’s for my peace of mind, not yours. But—and this is a big but—you must be back at the airfield no later than three in the afternoon, and if you tarry, the driver is instructed to tap his fingers on the steering wheel and make a noise. I do not want to have to get on one of those bloody Lysander things to come and get you. This is all very improper anyway.”
“When did you ever worry about what was proper, Robert MacFarlane?”
“Granted. Everything I’m doing now is improper, and I sometimes think a nice cushy desk job at Scotland Yard would have been a better choice, but this is what they pegged me for, so this is what I do. One more thing. Wrap up warm for the journey and bring a flask of tea and one of those buns you like. There’ll be no steward offering silver service breakfast on the way. And I want you to get on the blower to me as soon as you return, so I know you’re safe and sound.”
“Thank you, Robbie. I appreciate it.”
“I would appreciate it more if I knew what you were up to, but—against my better judgment—I trust you. And speaking of trust, one more thing.”
“Yes?”
“You’ll see a lot going on there, at the airfield. You know what the government posters say, don’t you? Keep mum.”
As soon as Billy arrived at the office and they were settled, he recounted the results of his inquiries. Apparently, Clarice Littleton owned a cottage just outside Norwich, the property having been left to her by a maiden aunt. As a rule it was rented out during the summer months, providing a means of increasing her income—she would go to Norfolk on the train every two weeks to check the house and to welcome another family who had come to enjoy a rural respite alongside the river Yare. But with the declaration of war, the last two tenants of the summer season had canceled, and she had decided not to place an advertisement again until the following year. She had informed a local shopkeeper—as a favor to Littleton, every year he would place a card in his window with details of the cottage—that it might be safer altogether if she left London for the duration, she just wasn’t sure yet.
“I’m surprised,” said Maisie. “She seems to have been pretty open with the shopkeeper regarding her plans. The way she moved along the road after I’d visited her suggested a worried woman in a hurry.”
“Yes, but she told him all this last week, before she knew about the murders.”
“You know, Billy, I would place money on her not being at the cottage at all. In all likelihood she has contacts—friends, perhaps—who would put her up for a while. It was easy enough for you to garner this information, which means that if she is at some risk, it would be easy for a killer to know her whereabouts.”
“Are you going out there, miss?”
“To Norfolk? I really don’t wish to waste petrol, but I want to talk to her. If anything, I want to know she’s all right.” She glanced at her wristwatch. “It’s half past nine now, so if I leave by eleven, I can be there by early afternoon, and then return after I’ve found her and had a little chat. I’ll stay in a local inn overnight if necessary—the last thing I want is to drive in the blackout.”
“Then what?”
“Let’s see what she says. But I must also get to Chelstone to speak to Rosemary Hartley-Davies’ brother. And then there’s this.” Maisie took the ticket for the opera that she’d removed from the home of Rosemary Hartley-Davies. “It’s for the end of next week—I wish it were sooner.”
“Are you going?”
Maisie nodded. “If only to linger in the shadows, and see who sits in the seat next to the one indicated on this ticket.”
“You think it could be the murderer?”
“It could just be an old friend from school days who bought two tickets and sent one to Hartley-Davies, or the other way around. In any case, I hope the identity of the person who takes that adjacent seat will tell us something.” She returned the ticket to her desk drawer. “I’ll try to get a couple of seats in a box, so I have a good view of the audience. Interested?”
“Me? The opera? Oh, blimey, no—my ears would never take it, miss. You get a bloke singing away in a high voice, with his passion and spittle, and all he’s saying is ‘Let’s go down the road for a pint.’ No, not my cuppa at all. Take Caldwell.”