“Very observant,” said Littleton, raising her eyebrows. “It seemed the sort of letter they’d sent to a dozen people or associations. It mentioned the deceased Frederick Addens and said that it was their duty to collect any information as it was important to the Belgian government, and they thought I might have known him. It was sent from the office of someone called Dr. Francesca Thomas. I sent a quick reply that very day—before I left the house. I said I had been acquainted with him when he was a new arrival in England, and that I’d had no contact with him in over twenty years.”
“I see. Yes, I think it might be just a formality, gathering information on someone who’s died—but you did well to reply straightaway.” Maisie once again consulted her watch. “I must get on the road soon. The last thing I want is to be out in the dark, or even at dusk, with my headlamps off.” She reached across to Clarice Littleton and took her hand. “Miss Littleton—Clarice—I know you’ve told me all you can now, however, the killer might think you know more than you do. You are not secure here. Finding you did not present me with a challenge, so I can only assume someone else would have similar fortune, if they were searching for you. Is there anywhere else you can go?”
“Yes, I suppose so—I’ve an old school chum who lives in Yorkshire. I could go to her.”
“Please pack your belongings and I will drop you at the station in Norwich. I would like you to leave without delay. You can make up a story for Phyllida. Just make it stick—Cornwall would be my suggestion, if you are telling tales. It’s lovely at this time of year, and perhaps you can invent a friend who is having trouble with her children now that their father has been called up into the army.”
“I’ll be about five minutes—two to pack and three to have a chat with Phyllida.”
As Clarice Littleton ran into the house, Maisie strolled down to the river. The current was calm and steady, appearing to meander with ease as it made its way to the North Sea. In that moment, she felt the passage of time, the flow of the years, and the way in which death had stalked her—even in her choice to join Maurice in his work. Her thoughts returned to the reasons for a premeditated murder. She knew only too well how blame could eat into a soul, and she understood how hard it could be to forgive—hadn’t she suffered a lack of compassion towards the woman she’d held responsible for her husband’s death? And the path to forgiveness had not been an easy journey for Maisie, but she had come to learn that it was the only way to break free from the dark grief that could grow like bindweed around the heart, pressing into the fibers of her goodness, rendering her unable to feel anything but anger, and precluding any understanding of why events had unfolded in a given way. Forgiveness had been the only way to release herself, because she had not been able to prevent James’ death.
An image of the girl Anna came to her. Poor Anna, as homeless and rootless as the boy Rosemary Hartley-Davies had called her “little lamb.” Children, Maisie believed, could often only see their world in black and white, never shades of gray—which meant the hard-found forgiveness that provides respite from the dark melancholy of blame might never lift from the soul of a wounded child. And Maisie wondered, then, what she could do to bring light into Anna’s heart, so that a smile was not just a movement made by her lips because she thought it was expected of her, but an immediate and unlimited response to deep-felt joy and complete contentment. What could she do to help the child feel safe?
Chapter 14
Sandra looked up from her desk when Maisie arrived, her document case in one hand and her shoulder bag in the other.
“Miss—what happened to your gas mask?”
“Oh, blast! Did I leave it here yesterday?”
“Yes, it’s on your desk. Better not do that again—I mean, you never know, do you?”
“You’re right—I’ll try to remember. But it’s such a silly thing—it gets in the way when it’s around your neck, and when I’m in a hurry, I always forget. Here, I’m going to get it now and hang it on the back of the door—then I’ll see it as I leave.”
Sandra smiled. “You’re not the only one who forgets. Apparently there are shelves upon shelves of them in lost property at the railway stations, and people keep leaving them on the buses and trams. There was a man talking about it at the bus stop this morning—you know, one of those old military types with the handlebar mustache. He said that the army should let off some sort of nasty-smelling bomb, you know, harmless, but one that spreads a stink. He said that would make everyone remember their gas masks a bit sharpish. I don’t know if I would care for that.”
“It would make you very sick indeed, Sandra. I remember when I was—” Maisie stopped, and shook her head. “Anyway, how are you feeling, Sandra?”
Sandra’s complexion was heightened. “Much better. Much better—I feel a bit more, well, optimistic in myself. Lawrence has been wonderful, very understanding.”