“I suspect you’re right about the sleeping powder, though a deep sleep without the help of drugs can have the same effect. But yes, you’ve probably hit the nail on the head. What happened next? He’d tied you, silenced you—did he speak to you, ask you the whereabouts of anything?”
“He loosened the gag and asked where the files were. I told him I didn’t know about any bloody files—what did he think I was? My sister’s blind crippled secretary?”
“What about his voice?”
“What about it? Ordinary. No regional accent. I would have put him as a middle-class mister nobody—no dropped aitches, no north country dialect, no southern rolling of the r’s—nothing to distinguish him at all. Except that bloody Brylcreem on his hair. He must have plastered the stuff on. Isn’t that what they call the RAF now? ‘The Brylcreem Boys.’ I was listening to the wireless and heard it the other day. Maybe he’s a bloody aviator.”
“He definitely asked for the files, though,” reiterated Maisie.
“Files, records, I can’t remember the word he used. I have no idea what he meant.”
“I understand Rosemary passed all the Belgian refugee records onto another association after the war.”
“Probably. I know she had a big sorting-out when we moved to Etchingham. She might have kept something, but that was behind her by a good few years. We all lived a very quiet life, really. Too quiet, I thought. I often asked her why she didn’t have company.”
“What do you think prevented her from expanding her social circle?”
Miller turned, as if to look at Maisie. “Honestly? I think she was trying to keep us in a bubble, the sort of little world we were in as children. There was Rosie, me, and Mrs. Bolton—and usually a dog of some sort or another. I think she was comfortable like that. I suppose it felt safe—isn’t childhood supposed to be safe?”
Maisie sighed. “Not for all children, Mr. Miller.” She came to her feet. “Would you recognize that voice again—the man who killed your sister and Mrs. Bolton?”
Miller sighed. “I think I would. Yes. If necessary.”
Maisie nodded, reached for his hand. “I’ll leave you to rest here now. There’s a nice breeze coming in from the garden. Is there anything else you need? There’s a wireless in here now, so I can turn it on if you like. Or I can take you back to your room.” Miller shook his head. “Lady Rowan will insist upon your presence at dinner, and I wouldn’t cross her if I were you. One of the men—probably Lord Julian’s valet—will be along to help you dress for dinner, if you require some assistance. And you can go outside. Here’s the bell.” Maisie took Miller’s hand and reached it towards a bell pull close to the wall. “There are stables here. My father was once the groom, and he helps Lady Rowan decide on matters to do with the breeding of racehorses. We could get you down there, you know—just to be around them.”
“I can’t bloody ride, though, can I?”
Maisie looked at the man in the wheelchair before her. “Mr. Miller, you still have working arms, and the horse can see. There’s a strapping groom, a strong chauffeur, and some very hefty gardeners, so I am sure they can get a man in the saddle.”
A shy smile began to form at the corners of Miller’s mouth. “Do you think—?”
“In your good time, Mr. Miller. Now then, I’ll allow you a rest before Lord Julian’s valet comes for you. I should probably have mentioned—there’s no lunch on a tray in your room at Chelstone. Unless you go down with a frightful cold, you’re expected in the dining room. Lord Julian has a military attaché from the Canadian embassy here today—troops from Canada are going to be coming over at some point, and will be setting up camp not far away. The officers are to be billeted here.”
“I—I—thank you, Miss Dobbs.” Miller lifted his hand across his brow, brushing back his hair. “But it isn’t Miss Dobbs, is it?”
“It’s my maiden name, and the name I use in my work. It makes things easier. Lord Julian and Lady Rowan are my late husband’s parents.”
“I’m sorry—”
Maisie interrupted Miller. “You know, you might be able to do me a favor. Our little evacuee has a—well, I suppose you could call it a surprise—coming her way later on, so I’d like her to be distracted. She’s barely uttered a word since she came here, as I explained, though I believe we may make headway today. Might I send her to visit, with Emma?”
“I’m not very good with children—I mean, I haven’t even seen one since I was in France. I don’t know what I should do.”
“Just talk to her, tell her what Emma was like as a puppy—I’m sure you have stories. And if you don’t—make them up. I’ll ask Mrs. Dobbs to bring her across this afternoon. You can sit in the garden with her. It’ll make a nice change, following all the war talk you’ll have to endure over lunch.”
Chapter 16
“Ready then? George is up at the gate, waiting.”
“Just a minute, Dad. I want to telephone Billy.”
“At home?”
“He’ll understand.”
Maisie went into the library to place the call.