“So if I put a foot wrong, a trapdoor opens and I’m lost forever—is that it?”
“Not quite, but it’s important for you to know the lie of the land.” MacFarlane pushed a document toward Maisie. “You’ve already signed one of these in the past, but just to make sure, we’d like another signed copy for our files.”
“Is this the ‘Cross my heart and hope to die, I won’t tell anyone’ promise to king and country? Official secrets and all that?”
“Yes.”
“So you think I am still going to say yes, even given the risks you’ve described?”
MacFarlane grinned. “We know you are.”
“How?”
“Because after everything you’ve been told in this little meeting, if you say no, I’ll have to kill you. Now then, lass, sign the bloody form and let’s get on with it. You’ve got some training to do.”
“Training?” said Maisie as she picked up the navy-blue fountain pen Huntley had passed to her.
“Give me a few days, and you’ll be shooting like a sniper, Maisie. And you’ll know how to kill a man—so he doesn’t kill you first.”
“Did you see any flats you liked, Maisie?” Priscilla handed Maisie a gin and tonic. “Don’t worry, I only waved the bottle over your glass so the tonic absorbed a few fumes.”
Maisie took the glass. “I think, after this afternoon, I could do with a real one!” She moved the glass as Priscilla reached to take it from her. “No, not really—it’s still a bit early for me. Perhaps a little later I’ll have a normal gin and tonic, though.”
“No luck with the flat-hunting, then?” Priscilla slipped off her shoes and made herself comfortable against the opposite arm of the sofa.
Maisie shook her head. “I’m looking for something light and airy, overlooking a square or with a garden, perhaps, and close to the Underground.”
“What about Fitzroy Square? It’s still not the best area, but you like it there.”
“Fitzroy Square means work.”
“Not anymore—you’re a woman of leisure now.” Priscilla sipped from her glass and regarded Maisie. She began to tap one manicured red nail against the crystal. “Don’t tell me you’re going back to work in Fitzroy Square. Oh, Maisie, give yourself some breathing room, for heaven’s sake.”
“Don’t worry, Pris, I’m not—as yet—returning to work. Mind you, I am leaving your clutches soon, but probably only for a week or two.”
Priscilla leaned toward the low table in front of them, picked up her silver cigarette case, and began to press a cigarette into the long holder she favored. “Where are you off to? Pray tell.”
“Paris. It’s to do with Maurice’s estate—the property there, and—”
“Excellent! I shall come too—we can trip along to see a wonderful dressmaker I know near Montmartre. She can copy that costume—”
“Oh dear, Pris, I’m so sorry . . . but Mr. Klein is accompanying me. I won’t have a moment to myself.” Maisie felt herself panic—Priscilla was not easily fobbed off. “But how about closer to the end of my visit? We can stay in a hotel—you choose.”
Priscilla tapped the glass again and lifted the cigarette holder to her lips. Only after she’d exhaled a single smoke ring into the air did she speak again. “You’re up to something, Maisie. I can tell.”
“Pris, I promise you I am up to nothing more than looking after Maurice’s estate and ensuring that his wishes for his medical clinics for the poor are followed to the letter. I have things to do in Paris, and when they’re done, then you can take me to your little dressmaker.”
“She’s five foot ten.”
“Your big dressmaker, then.”
Priscilla sighed. “Well, if you say you’re not up to something, I’ll take your word for it.” She rattled the ice cubes in her almost empty glass. “Oh, I nearly forgot to tell you—well, it might have been a deliberate omission. You probably don’t want to hear it. Lorraine Otterburn telephoned today, wanting to know if you were in town. She said she and John would love to see you, and could they come here soonest?”
Maisie held out her glass to Priscilla. “You can make me a proper one this time.”
Priscilla took the glass. “Well?”
“No, the Otterburns can’t come anywhere to see me.”
CHAPTER 3
The estate agent, Hugo Watson, fumbled with a set of keys until he found one that fit the door of the house overlooking Primrose Hill. Maisie had known from the moment she met Watson on the pavement alongside the Georgian building that the property wasn’t quite for her. She was about to tell him that she did not want to waste his time when she realized how crestfallen he would be if she didn’t at least view the first-floor flat—a recent conversion, and therefore in good order. According to the description she’d received via post, the flat comprised two large bedrooms and a bathroom, plus drawing room, dining room, and kitchen, with a maid’s scullery beyond. A further small bedroom would be suitable for a live-in housekeeper. At time of reading, Maisie had smiled. “I’ll be my own maid—fully trained and experienced!”
“This way, Miss Dobbs.” Watson ushered her into the entrance hall, its red tiles polished to a shine, with a matching red runner of carpet leading toward the wide staircase giving access to the upper floors. “Up the stairs we go.”
Maisie glanced at Watson and smiled. Up the stairs we go? She assumed he must be quite new to the work, and thus was endeavoring to be seen as more adult by speaking to her as if she were a child. She could not wait to leave.
“This is it, Miss Dobbs. I am sure you will agree that it is a beautifully appointed residence. Fresh decoration and a new kitchen—the owner has made a significant investment to attract the right tenant.”
“I was really thinking of making a purchase, Mr. Watson.”
“Keep an open mind until you’ve seen this property, Miss Dobbs.” Watson inserted a second key, turned the handle, and pushed open the door into a small entrance hall flooded with light. The drawing room windows before her, which looked out onto the street. The smell of fresh paint and new carpet was strong, and for a second Maisie held her hand to her nose.
“Note the small but airy entrance, leading straight into the drawing room. A warm welcome for guests—and the view is a pleasing one.”
Maisie felt a chill in the air around her, and wondered why estate agents didn’t ensure a property was at least warm when a potential resident entered. She felt unsettled. What might have come to pass in this flat; what past sadnesses lingered in the fabric of the building? The sensation that she and Hugo Watson were not alone rendered the very air around them heavy. Her chest tightened, and she coughed.
She turned to Watson. “Is there someone else here?”
“I—I—beg your pardon?”
“I had a feeling that we were not alone, Mr. Watson. Is someone else in the flat?”
Watson looked at his feet as the sound of a door opening caused Maisie to turn around.
“I’m sorry, Maisie—it was the only way to see you face-to-face.” The voice was deep, its mid-Atlantic rhythm giving away the identity of the man who stepped into the drawing room through a doorway to the right. “How sharp of you to know that someone else was here.”
Maisie felt color rush to her cheeks, and she struggled to keep her voice calm. “Mr. Otterburn. I might have known you would find a way to see me.” She turned to Watson. “And to think I put your manner down to first-day-on-the-job nerves. You’ll have to answer for this breach of my privacy, Mr. Watson.”
“I—I—but . . .” Watson could not even stutter his words.
Maisie turned to leave. “Oh, just leave me alone—both of you.”
“Maisie—stop! I need your help. Lorraine and I—we’re desperate.” Otterburn’s voice was strained.
Maisie turned to face the man she held responsible for her husband’s death. The shock of witnessing the small experimental fighter aircraft James was testing fall to earth over farmland in Canada, had led Mais
ie to lose the child she was expecting; her daughter had been delivered stillborn, and Maisie bore physical scars of the fight to save the babe’s life and her own. James should not even have been flying. Otterburn’s two children—both adults—were accomplished aviators, and his indulged daughter, Elaine, was rostered to be in the cockpit that day. Instead, she was nursing a hangover, so James had stepped up in her place.
And now John Otterburn had used his contacts to corner Maisie.
Watson slipped out of the flat as she faced her nemesis. She noted the gray pallor, the drawn look to his face, the bluish pockets under his eyes.
“I wish I could have met you in a different place, Maisie. Somewhere we could sit in comfort.”
“There is no comfort for me in your presence, Mr. Otterburn.” She walked to the window. Outside, trees bare of leaves were picking up a cold wind, blowing back and forth. It seemed to Maisie as if they were fingering the sky, scratching toward bulbous gray clouds to bring rain. She turned back to Otterburn and sighed. “You might as well tell me what this is all about. Then we can be done with it.”
“My daughter has vanished. We don’t know where she is.”
“That’s not news. I understand from Mrs. Partridge—who is far more au fait with these matters—that the whole of a certain strata of London society knows about Elaine abandoning her husband and child.” Maisie pressed her lips together. She wished she could sound less bitter. It was an unwelcome feeling, as if she could sense her heart becoming harder with every word.
“No, it’s not news. But I do need your help.”
“Oh, spare me the intrigue. You have people everywhere who can find anyone and—as I know only too well, you can even have them murdered.” She could not help but refer to Eddie Petit, whom she’d known since childhood, an innocent man who had become an unwitting victim of Otterburn’s undercover machinations to strengthen Britain’s security.
“I cannot seem to find my own daughter, and I understand you will soon be in the place where I believe she is now residing.”
“As I said, you have people everywhere,” countered Maisie.
“She appears to be very good at either avoiding discovery, or when approached, refusing to come home. We understand she is in Germany, most likely Munich. Her child needs her, Maisie.”
There was silence in the room. Maisie bit her lip and felt her jaw tighten. She turned away toward the street again, toward a windowpane spattered with raindrops racing down to the sill.
“I suppose I should not be surprised that you have knowledge of my travel outside England.”
Otterburn was silent.
Maisie raised a gloved hand and wiped away the condensation where her breath had caught the window. “I don’t know what I could do anyway. Elaine has no reason to listen to me, even if I found her. She has her own plans and her own life. If she has abandoned her child, that is her loss.” Her voice caught at the last word.
“Please, Maisie. I was never a good father to my daughter—an indulgent father, but never a good father.”
“That makes no difference. She’s a grown woman.”
“I believe you can bring her home to her child. I beg of you, please—”
“Stop!” Maisie rubbed her forehead and once more turned to face John Otterburn. “Stop.” She walked toward the door, but halted. Without turning her head, she spoke again. “I have no sympathy for you, your wife, or your dilettante daughter. But I ache for her baby.” She felt pressure on her chest. “If I discover her whereabouts—oh, and that is a huge ‘if’—then I will endeavor to see her. But only once. No more. And I will not beg. I will not force her. I will make one request, and that’s it. I have more important work to do—as you probably know.” She took a deep breath, as if to garner strength. “Send any information you have regarding her whereabouts to me, care of Mrs. Partridge. And that will be it.”
“Thank you. On behalf of my wife and myself—thank you.”
Maisie turned the door handle and left the flat without looking back.
Where should she go now? She had no home in London, no place that was hers. There was no anchor. Her father and stepmother lived in their own bungalow on the edge of the village of Chelstone, and although Priscilla was always saying, “Our home is your home, Maisie,” she felt at sea, adrift. She continued to use her maiden name because it held her tight, whereas her title by marriage, and James’ name, Compton, only served to make her widowhood feel even more acute. She was a married woman without a husband. And yet in Spain she had come to terms with her loss. In the daily grinding work of tending the wounded of a terrible civil war, in the simplicity of her life there—a nun’s cell, a bed with straw mattress, a small rug, and a window to look at the sky when there was time to gaze—she had rediscovered the raw material of her character.
In November 1937 she had left the convent, now a small field hospital. She had funded an ambulance, and there was no want of medical supplies. She had done all she could for the people of the village, and for the men who fought on behalf of Spain’s working citizenry.
Sister Teresa had lifted her hand to Maisie’s cheek as the motor car idled with Raoul, Maisie’s driver, at the wheel, ready to take her back to Gibraltar, where, together with Priscilla, she would board a ship bound for Southampton.
“We will miss you, Maisie. Come back one day—come back when there is no more bloodshed. It is time for you to go home now. You will be safe, for you are very tightly held.”
Where do I belong? As Maisie emerged from the Underground and made her way toward Pimlico, she could not banish the thought. It was as if, having traveled for so long, she had changed shape and no longer fit in anywhere. It occurred to her that perhaps her financial independence hindered her ability to settle. After all, if the options were simple, so was the matter of choice. A nun’s cell, a bed, a mattress of straw, and a window to the sky. Perhaps that was why it had been easier to remain in a place of danger than to sail for England, where there was so much more to fear. The past, her happiness with James—memories brushed against her skin like gossamer shadows, alive but not alive, ghosts standing sentinel, watching as she went about her daily round.
She sat on the wall outside the flat she owned, now rented by her former assistant, a young woman she had encouraged to move beyond the bounds of domestic service to greater success in her education and work. Sandra was also a widow.
“Miss Dobbs . . . I mean, Mrs. Compton . . . your ladyship . . . oh dear, I’m getting it wrong. Are you all right?” Sandra Tapley approached Maisie. “Have you been waiting here long? Oh my goodness, you look all in—come on, let’s get you a cup of tea.”
Maisie looked up to see a quite different young woman from the one she’d once employed to help with administration in her business. Sandra seemed to carry herself with more confidence—gone was the slouch of despair that seemed to press down on her as if it were a weight on her back. Maisie wondered if her own posture had changed as grief settled into the fibers of her body.
She stood taller, mindful of her bearing and how she would feel if she allowed her frame to reflect her emotions. “I was out on a few errands, and I thought I would drop by. I’m sorry, Sandra—I should have telephoned.”
“Not at all—you never need to telephone, miss. . . . After all, this is your home—”
“The first thing we have to get sorted out is that you can call me ‘Maisie.’”
“Well, anyway,” said Sandra, fumbling in her handbag for her keys, “let’s go in.” She led the way along the path to the glass front door of the building. Maisie had bought the flat some years earlier, when its builder hit hard times after the market crash in 1929, and had to sell all his flats at a cut rate. Maisie had squirreled away funds for a down payment, but struggled to obtain a loan. Only later did she learn that her friend Priscilla—a woman of significant independent means—had in secret secured her mortgage by guaranteeing the loan.
The door to the flat swung open, and Sandra stood back. “Aft
er you, miss—I mean, Maisie.”
Maisie stepped into the flat, noticing the small box room to the right—it had been Sandra’s room when she’d lodged with Maisie for a short time some years earlier. They went past Maisie’s old bedroom to the left, and into the large drawing room. Maisie had removed her photographs from the wall above the fireplace before she moved out. Along with a painting of a woman looking out to sea, which reminded her so much of herself, they were now stored in the cellar of the Dower House at Chelstone, the home she had inherited from Maurice. In their place, Sandra had hung a painting of a vase of flowers. Otherwise the room seemed familiar. The furniture Maisie had acquired—a couple of pieces bought new, some given, others found in secondhand markets—was still in place, but books were stacked on the dining table and on the floor beneath the window, and the blinds were raised, so now Maisie looked out onto the dusky pallor of evening.
“I think you need a bookcase or two, Sandra.”
Sandra pulled off her gloves and unpinned her hat, setting them on top of one pile of books on the table. “I know, but I’ve had no time to think about it. I’m so sorry about the clutter—I’m afraid I’ve become a bit less than house-proud. We’ve been very busy at work, and of course Mr. Pickering is worried about—”
Maisie smiled, putting Sandra at ease. “This is your home, Sandra, for as long as you want to stay here. What you do inside these walls is entirely your business. Now, then—let’s have that cuppa. And you can tell me all you know about Leon Donat.”
Sandra reddened as she turned away toward the kitchen.
Once they were settled in front of the gas fire, Sandra poured tea, passing a cup and saucer to Maisie, who leaned back in the wing chair and took a sip.