“So Jenny had no idea who the father was?”

  “None—I believe she would have told me. We don’t have secrets in our marriage, Miss Dobbs.”

  Maisie looked at Miles Barrington. “Mr. Barrington, I know you’ve mentioned Catherine’s brothers, but if you had to take a stab at who might have taken Catherine’s life, who do you think might have done such a thing?”

  “I wish I could say—and goodness knows, Jenny and I have talked about it, gone through everyone we know who Catherine also knew. And we’ve considered the people she talked about, who she’d met through her work. Neither of us could name one person we’d suspect. I mean, there are other women tenants—they’re the only ones who can come and go to and from that house as they like, aren’t they? And dear old Mrs. Marsh watches the place like a hawk, plus there’s always one of the women around anyway.”

  “Oh so you’ve been to the Welbeck Street house,” clarified Maisie.

  “With Jenny—I waited in the motor car for her while she ran in to take a dress up to Catherine. She had to go to a party or something with her brother—oh yes, that’s it—it was at the American ambassador’s house, over in South Kensington. She hadn’t a gown with her, so Jenny took one of hers over. Catherine hadn’t been here long, so it must have been in May or June—yes, that was it, because it was probably a hair before France fell, or she would never have got out. Knowing Catherine, it was probably touch-and-go and an adventure-filled journey.”

  “I see.” Maisie gathered her bag, which she had set on the floor beside the chair. “I think that’s all, Mr. Barrington.” She came to her feet. “Once again, thank you very much for your time.”

  “Absolutely,” said Barrington. “And please do not hesitate to be in touch if you have any additional questions—I’ll do anything I can to help. I’d like to see the end of your investigation as much as you, because all the time the killer is at large, Jenny won’t rest.”

  “I understand,” said Maisie.

  Barrington led her to the door, but as he opened it and was about to summon his secretary, Maisie turned to him.

  “I am sorry—one last question. Do you know Jonathan Tucker, by any chance?”

  “Tucker? Oh yes, of course—that Jonathan Tucker. He’s with a bank over on Threadneedle Street, isn’t he? I’ve seen the man a few times—at my club, I think it was. He came in once or twice with a colleague, if my memory serves me well. Can’t say much more about him. Seemed a bit of a stuffed shirt, if you ask me—old-school type. Not the sort to set the investment world on fire, after the war’s over.”

  “But you know he and his wife own the property where Catherine died, don’t you?”

  Barrington raised his hand to his forehead. “Good Lord, I had forgotten all about that. I remember Catherine mentioning the same thing.” He shook his head. “Terrible of me, forgetting that one. But has he said anything to assist you?”

  “I met Mr. Tucker and his wife this morning, actually. Lovely woman, I must say—the wife is a dear. But no, he didn’t give me any information that might really help.” She allowed a pause. “But the thing is about my business, every case is a puzzle, and sometimes one person will say something that suddenly”—she snapped her fingers—“that suddenly changes another person’s innocuous comment into a vital clue. It’s what makes my business a strange one, I suppose. People in my line of work depend upon that alchemy.” She rested her hand on Barrington’s forearm for just half a second. “Do assure your wife that I will find Catherine’s killer, come what may.”

  Having collected the rose cutting from the receptionist—who held the bag between finger and thumb while looking the other way—Maisie walked along the Strand and at Trafalgar Square caught a bus to Tottenham Court Road. She had taken off her gloves prior to the meeting with Barrington, but now her fingers hurt where she had snapped them—deliberately, at the time—because she wanted to make Barrington jump, if not into the air, then at least out of his well of self-assured complacency.

  A message from Robert MacFarlane taken in Sandra’s neat handwriting awaited Maisie at the office. A trunk telephone call had been booked for the following day from his office to the home of Mrs. Amelia Saxon in Boston. She was instructed to be at MacFarlane’s office no later than half past three in the afternoon, which was half past ten in the morning in Boston. Mrs. Saxon had been informed and would be waiting for the connection.

  Boston.

  Following the death of her husband, when she was finally well enough to leave the hospital in Toronto, the city where she and James had made their home, Maisie began a quest to put as much distance as she could between herself and the tragedy. So much of that bitter time was a blur of memory now, a gauzy film through which she tried to identify who she had been as she navigated the early days of widowhood. She had stayed at the Boston home of Charles Hayden, the doctor Simon—her first love—had become friends with in France, and his wife, Pauline. They had three daughters, one of whom she had heard was now an army nurse. Then she’d left, sailing for India—to the place where she had accepted James’ proposal—until, finally, it was time to return to England. Brenda had summoned her home in a letter telling her in no uncertain terms that it was time, that her father was not getting any younger, and she should not be afraid because she would be loved and cared for as she endured her lingering grief. Her penultimate stop was Gibraltar, where her courage had failed her, and she knew she could not face England—and that sojourn had led her to Spain, and to the convent where she had become a nurse in another war. Then she came home, and there was the assignment in Munich.

  She remembered the comment the obstetrician, Chester, had made, and her response. Yes, she was right—war might be considered a man’s game, but women always ended up where there were wars, and suffered the lingering scars. It appeared she might have been in the same orbit as Catherine Saxon, yet not at the same time. But it was the mention of Boston that inspired Maisie to go to the filing cabinet where notes on old cases were kept. She pulled out one in particular, not because it had immediate bearing on the case in hand, but because there was a resonance, a sense of being in a certain place before, with only a slight alteration in the landscape.

  During her apprenticeship, Maurice Blanche had taught her that it was a strange phenomenon, but sometimes cases appeared to come around again. In the same way that styles of women’s clothing were repeated over the seasons, there were subtle differences with each incarnation, and he advised her to consider such cases with increased interest. “A case that mirrors another should command our immediate attention to both that which is past, and the present investigation—there is possibly something for us to learn beyond enhancing our skills of detection, of inquiry. If a case has that resonance—and you will know it, because you will hear its echo in your questioning mind—then take heed. Go back to the notes, and most particularly, remember how you felt during the process of that earlier investigation.”

  On the desk before her, she opened the file pertaining to the murder of Michael Clifton, a young Bostonian who had traveled almost six thousand miles to England from land he had purchased in California, when he had read news of the outbreak of war in August 1914. His remains had been discovered in France some eight years previously, in 1932, and Maisie had been approached to find out what had happened to him. Her inquiry had revealed all manner of family disruption, and ultimately the truth of what had come to pass after Michael Clifton had fallen in love with a married woman, in Paris. She would never forget this case because it was during the course of her investigation that her beloved mentor had died, and she had not begun work on a case since that time without asking herself how he would have approached the inquiry, and what advice he might offer her. There were times when she felt alone in her work, and only memories of Maurice—imagining he were with her, pressing her to use every tool at her disposal, giving her a confidence that guided her as she brought a case to a satisfactory conclusion—sustained her in the most difficult of endeavors.

  Michael Clifton’s people had come from Boston. Another coincidence. But that was not why she was drawn back to the case. She wanted to read her own notes, to identify what she had felt at the point at which she knew how the love affair that Michael had embarked upon had come to an end—and yet Michael’s story had not quite concluded there.

  She sat back, leafing through the file, studying notes and photographs. She checked her watch. She dare not telephone the Tucker household until the morning, after Jonathan Tucker had departed for his train to London. She would wait until nine. Then, having made the call, she would visit Jennifer Barrington. She closed the folder, but as she lifted it to take back to the filing cabinet, a small sheet of paper fell out. It was a copy she had made of a poem—the poem she had found in Michael Clifton’s belongings, which had helped her close the case. It was also the poem that at the time seemed sent by Maurice, a warning not to tarry when it came to matters of the heart. The verse was by Elizabeth Barrett Browning, and at this moment there was one line that seemed to command her attention, as it had upon that first reading.

  Love, when so you’re loved again.

  She slipped the sheet of paper back into the file, and replaced it in the filing cabinet. But the words remained with her as she collected her bag, closed the office and made her way downstairs. She was repeating them to herself as she stepped out into the square, hearing the heavy door slam behind her.

  “Does the lady need a ride home?”

  Maisie turned to see her partner in the investigation leaning against the black Buick. “Oh Mark, how on earth do you know where to find me all the time? I could have been out with a client, and gone directly back to the flat.”

  “I’m paying attention, Maisie. I’m just paying attention. Come on, let’s get a bite to eat and I’ll take you home.” He put his arm around her shoulder and opened the automobile’s passenger door. “Really, I should kiss you now—give MacFarlane’s boys something to report on.”

  “MacFarlane’s boys? Where?” said Maisie, beginning to pull away.

  “Don’t bother, Maisie—he probably knows about us already, because he’s always got someone on your tail. The last thing he wants is to lose you.”

  “What on earth do you mean?” asked Maisie.

  “MacFarlane’s got plans for you—professional, I mean—and the last thing he wants is someone valuable to his cause leaving for the other side of the Atlantic.”

  “But I’m not going anywhere, Mark.”

  “I know. And neither am I.”

  She looked at Mark Scott as he started the motor car and pulled out onto Warren Street.

  “And before your eyes completely pop out of your head at what I just said, did you make any progress on the case today?” said Scott. “I mean, we might as well do some work now we’re here together.”

  “Actually, yes, I did. I made some progress.”

  “Tell me about it then.”

  “I believe I know the why, and I know the how. I just want to make sure I have the right who, and that all the other players are in their correct place, so to speak. It’s like a game of chess.”

  Scott braked hard. “You know that much? Last time we talked, you said you had some pieces and were still trying to fit them together.”

  “And as I just said, I made progress. It’s what I do. I take a few steps every day, and I wait. I throw hooks out into the wild mysterious sea and I wait. I don’t have the fish on the line, but I know I have the right hook. And I’m rather sure I know the fish.”

  “Let’s go over to Pete’s—see what he’s got on the menu. That okay with you?”

  “You’re a creature of habit—but that would be lovely. Thank you.”

  “And you can tell me everything, Miss Dobbs.”

  “Perhaps not everything, Mr. Scott.”

  He reached across, took her hand and lifted it to his lips.

  No, she would not tell him everything. Some aspects of the case she would hold close until she was ready to bring the killer to justice. There were other arrangements to be planned before she made her final moves. Eight years ago the Michael Clifton investigation was closed with one element of unfinished business over which she had no control. She would not let it happen again.

  Chapter 17

  Today I walked down a long street. The gutters were full of glass; the big red buses couldn’t pull into the curb. There was the harsh, grating sound of glass being shoveled into trucks. In one window—or what used to be a window—was a sign. It read: SHATTERED—But Not Shuttered. Nearby was another shop displaying a crudely lettered sign reading: Knocked But Not Locked. They were both doing business in the open air.

  Edward R. Murrow, broadcast to America, September 25, 1940

  “Hello, may I speak to Mrs. Tucker, please? My name is Maisie Dobbs—I wanted to ask her a question about the rose cuttings she gave me.” Maisie suspected Jonathan Tucker questioned the housekeeper about telephone calls made to the house during his absence.

  “Just one moment, if you please.”

  There was an hiatus of several minutes before Beryl Tucker came to the telephone, breathless.

  “Hello—Miss Dobbs. How very lovely to hear from you! Did your father like the cuttings?”

  “I’ll be taking them to him tomorrow, but in the meantime, I’m treating them as if they were newborn babes, and they seem to be doing very well.”

  “As long as they’re kept in water, they should survive—and remember to swaddle them in damp newspaper and the sackcloth bag for the journey. Is there anything else I can help you with, my dear?”

  “Yes, in fact there is one thing, Mrs. Tucker, though I must ask that this request be kept between us, at least for the meantime. And I am afraid I am going to have to leave you with more questions than answers, however, I wonder—would you be able to find a couple of photographs of your son for me? I’d like one from childhood, if possible, taken when he was a little boy of about three or four. And another as a young man. Might that be possible?”

  There was silence on the line.

  “Mrs. Tucker,” said Maisie. “I know this is a very strange request and I am going to have to ask for your absolute trust. I am at a very delicate point in my inquiry, and to reveal my reasons for asking for the photographs would be foolish, because I am only acting upon a . . .” She faltered in her explanation. “I’m acting upon a feeling I have, that I really must see those photographs of your son.”

  “Do you think—” Beryl Tucker began, then continued in a manner suggesting she had bolstered her resolve. “Of course. I have no idea why you might want these photographs—well, let me correct myself—really, I am frightened to even think about why you might want the photographs, but I know exactly which ones I can send, and I will do so as quickly as possible. If I set to it now, I can catch the ten o’clock post, and you might even get the envelope later this afternoon.”

  “Thank you very much indeed, Mrs. Tucker. And again, I would rather you didn’t speak to your husband about this—as I said, I am at a very sensitive stage in the investigation.”

  “I think I understand. And even if you had not made that stipulation, I would not have told Jonathan. I have many secrets from my husband, Miss Dobbs. Now then, I had better get on with the task. I have several letters to take to the post office, so one more won’t illicit any undue interest from my housekeeper.”

  Maisie thanked Beryl Tucker, and realized that in keeping certain confidences from her husband, the woman who had seemed downtrodden was in effect drawing a line in the sand only she could see, and it had made her bear an otherwise untenable marriage.

  Maisie checked her watch and revised her plan for the day. She would wait until tomorrow to see Jenny Barrington a second time, but she would visit Pamela Lockwood today. Then she would go to MacFarlane’s office for the telephone call to Amelia Saxon. She closed her eyes, leaned her elbows on the desk and rested her forehead on her hands. What if she was wrong? Was she taking what amounted to a wild guess and trying to make it fit what she knew so far about the murdered Catherine Saxon? There were so many unanswered questions, and she knew that at this point she had to go forward with a good deal of trust in her heart. She knew that death unsettled any family, but a murder was akin to a bomb dropping—the living were cast this way and that as debris from the investigation fell around them. Secrets would be revealed that were meant to remain buried; secrets that, perhaps, had little to do with the untimely death which would be uncovered despite all best efforts to wield the truth with a gentle hand. Those whose lives had intersected with the deceased might never be able to continue on as they were—people moved to another town, or a different country; they chose new paths, they grieved and they cradled their shock, never to be the same again. Was it any wonder that Maurice emphasized time and again the importance of a certain type of meditation—quieting her mind so that she might create a shield of protection around herself. “The onus is on you to be right, Maisie. To be absolutely correct in your conclusions because you will never be forgiven for an error, and you will cause a maelstrom of terror from which you, acting on behalf of the dead, will never recover.”

  And when she closed her eyes, she could see images of the London that greeted her every day as she left her home and made her way to the office, and along the streets of the city as she went about her business. She knew what a maelstrom of terror looked like, and she knew what it felt like in the heart, and she prayed that she would be given the means to minimize any suffering the next twenty-four hours might bring.

  Pamela Lockwood was, once again, dressed in a manner that seemed to underline her level of authority in the accounting offices of Derry & Toms, this time wearing a navy costume with pale lavender silk blouse and navy blue shoes. A brooch of amethyst stones was pinned to her lapel. Her greeting was cordial, despite there being no prior appointment made, and she pointed out different offices as she led Maisie to the same room where they had met before, and invited her to take a seat.