If Clarice Littleton had taken precautions to render herself secure in Norfolk, Maisie had not been hampered by them. A few inquiries of neighbors at the cottage and a pub landlord led Maisie to the home of Miss Phyllida Lorimer, a friend of Littleton’s deceased aunt. Clarice Littleton showed no surprise when she came to the door to answer Maisie’s knock.
“I might have known you’d find me,” she said. “Come on—let’s go into the garden. Phyllida is having what she calls her ‘afternoon forty winks’ upstairs—she probably won’t rise until after four.”
Maisie followed Littleton into the garden, which swept down towards the river. Cast-iron chairs with blue-gingham-covered cushions were set around a matching table. Littleton pulled out chairs for herself and Maisie. “What do you want to know? Frankly, I think I’ve told you everything I can.”
“You left London for a reason, Miss Littleton. And I don’t think it was simply to make your cottage ready for the next holiday let. To my knowledge, both parties have withdrawn their bookings—so it’s a surprise you’re not staying there, isn’t it?”
Littleton shrugged. “Not really. Phyllida isn’t getting any younger, so I thought I would give her a hand until I go back to London.”
“Which is when?”
Littleton sighed. “Not sure. They say we’re pretty much in the line of fire, here in East Anglia—the Germans could whizz across on their way to London and make the most of bombing us at the same time. I wanted to make sure that Phyllida knew what to do in case of a bombing—she hasn’t an Anderson shelter, and I can’t see her staggering out into the garden anyway. But she should be all right with a Morrison table shelter in the house, though by the time she’d got herself in there, the bombing might be over. But having it there might be a comfort, at the very least—dogs always go under something when they’re frightened, so there must be something to it.”
Maisie nodded. “What do you know, Miss Littleton? There’s a missing piece of information you’re keeping to yourself.”
“I know only what you told me, and I did my own working out. Two of the men in that photograph of Rosie’s are dead—and so is she. That means two are left. And me. The woman behind the camera. I didn’t like the odds.”
“Actually, three of the men are dead—Carl Firmin died a year ago. It was decreed a suicide at the time, though his wife seemed to have her doubts regarding the police report.”
“Then there’s the other one. Peeters.” Clarice Littleton looked at Maisie, as if anticipating another question.
“There was someone else in the photograph, wasn’t there?”
“Just the boy,” replied Littleton.
“Just the boy, yes.”
“What was his name?” asked Maisie
Littleton shook her head. “I don’t really recall. Rosie just called him her little lamb, because he followed her everywhere. I’m sure he was placed with a family at some point—the refugee families were very tight, and would have taken in an orphan. And you’ve got to remember, we were only doing administration—it’s not as if we were putting up refugees ourselves. It was just that for a few weeks in the summer, Rosie had this work for a few of them, and I think she’d felt sorry for this group, that they’d come over together and had had it pretty rough.” Littleton sighed. “I mean, we all felt terribly bad for them, which is why we moved heaven and earth to find places for them to live, to work, and so on. But Rosie was a soft touch, one of those people who was a little more involved than she had to be—I think it was her way of dealing with the loss of her husband. That boy was well cared for, and those lads looked out for him too.”
“And you’re sure he was an orphan,” said Maisie.
“As far as I know, he didn’t have anyone. So yes, an orphan.”
Maisie looked into the distance, considering Littleton’s response, then turned back to her. “May I ask one more question?”
“Of course.”
“When I came to your flat, you were holding two letters you’d just received. I noticed one of the envelopes bore a striking resemblance to stationery used by the Belgian embassy. May I ask if they have made contact with you?”