Little Charlie held out his arms to Jenny Barrington. “Mummy. Mummy—we saw fire engines!”

  Jenny Barrington reached for the child and held him to her. “Mummy’s going to a very important meeting with some very important people. Be a good soldier until I get home, won’t you?”

  As if he felt the tension in her body, the child clung to the only woman he had known as his mother and began to whimper.

  “Now, now, let’s be a big boy,” said the nanny, reaching for her charge. She took young Charles Barrington, who buried his head in her neck. “I’ll give him a spot of lunch, Mrs. Barrington, then put him down for a nap.”

  Maisie remained at the house to talk to the nanny and housekeeper, informing them that Mr. and Mrs. Barrington would be away from home for some days attending to an important family matter. She took one last look at the photograph on the mantelpiece, of a happy Miles, Jennifer and Charlie Barrington, and left the house. As she walked down the steps leading to the pavement outside the Barrington residence, a black Buick drew up alongside the mansion. Mark Scott emerged from the back of the motor car and opened the passenger door for Maisie.

  “I figured I wasn’t such a great driver in London, so it seemed a good idea for me to get the pro on the job,” said Mark Scott, nodding toward his driver as the vehicle moved off along Green Street. “We’re on our way to Scotland Yard. Mac says he’ll need a statement from you, and I’ll be handing over all matters concerning Jennifer Barrington to another embassy employee. It’s a formality now.”

  “Mark—it was always a formality for you, wasn’t it?”

  “Maisie, I’m sorry, but—”

  She cut him off. “It’s all right, Mark—I’m not blaming you. I’m not upset with you, and I didn’t really expect you to tell me what you’re doing here, but perhaps at some point you could see fit to trust me.”

  “It’s been a very delicate assignment, Maisie, but I can tell you something in the meantime. And more later—in a couple weeks’ time.”

  “You don’t have to, you know, I—”

  “I’m working directly for the president of the United States of America,” he said in a low voice. “He’s my boss—and not just because he’s everybody’s boss if you work for the government. I mean, he’s my boss for what I’m doing now.”

  “And then what—what happens in a couple of weeks’ time? If your work is at an end, what happens then—to us?”

  Maisie telephoned the office just before leaving Scotland Yard. Mark Scott had departed earlier, after officially introducing the consular officer who would be their point of contact in the case of Jenny Barrington, an American citizen charged with the crime of accessory to the murder of Catherine Saxon.

  “Are you all right, Billy?” said Maisie.

  “The old gammy leg is a bit more gammy—that fellow wasn’t exactly like a feather to take down. Pity it wasn’t Walkinshaw, he would have been easier. I hoped this one would be a nice soft cushion, but I whacked my knee on the pavement. I reckon I’ll be as right as rain though, given time.”

  “Billy—go down to Hampshire early to see Doreen and Margaret Rose. No need to come back until Monday afternoon, at the earliest. I don’t know about you, but when a case like this ends, I just want to sleep.”

  “It’s over then, miss,” said Billy.

  “More or less. There are a few i’s to dot and t’s to cross, then it’ll be done—and we’ll be onto the next thing.”

  “I’d be happy just to work on some nice easy cases for a while, wouldn’t you?”

  “I would, Billy—let’s see how it all goes.”

  “Right, miss—see you Monday afternoon then.”

  Frankie and Anna were at Chelstone station to meet Maisie.

  “That poor pony can’t pull all of us along, can she?” said Maisie.

  “She’s a strong little thing,” said Frankie.

  “Tell you what, Dad—you take my bag and go back with the dogs, and Anna and I will wander along the lane. Ask Brenda to put the kettle on.”

  Frankie Dobbs instructed the dogs to stay aboard the cart, while Anna clung to Maisie’s hand. They waved Frankie on his way, while Emma and Jook looked back, tongues lolling.

  As Maisie and Anna walked along the lane to Chelstone manor in the balmy early evening warmth of late September, they were flanked by fronds of cow parsley moving back and forth along the verge, caught by a breeze spiced with the smell of hops lingering on the air from the recent harvest, and with the sweetness of late varieties of Kentish apples still to be picked. Maisie closed her eyes for a moment, listening to the sound of the child beside her skipping along while giving a running commentary on what happened at school today, and how the soldiers who took away the bomb came back with some sweets, and all the children were very excited because they didn’t get many sweets. Every stored thought bubbled up to the surface from Anna’s mind to be laid before Maisie—and Maisie felt every word as if it were a jewel to be held and cherished, to be encouraged and rewarded. This walk, this place was her home, and in that moment she knelt down and swept Anna into her arms and held her tight, an image of Jenny Barrington in her mind’s eye, and her commitment to Catherine Saxon in her heart—she had revealed those responsible for Catherine’s death, but at what cost? She knew, then, in the deepest part of her being, the lengths to which she would go to keep her child, and her heart bled even more for Jenny Barrington—and for Catherine Saxon and the child they both loved.

  Maisie and Anna arrived at the Dower House to see Brenda waiting at the kitchen door.

  “Anna, Uncle Frankie is at the stables,” said Brenda. “He said you’re to go down there now to help put your pony away. Emma can go with you, so get along there now, there’s a good girl.”

  Maisie could see Anna was torn, not wanting to leave her. “Go on, Anna—I’m not going anywhere, and besides, I’ve got to help Auntie Brenda anyway.”

  The two women watched as Anna ran down the path to the stables, flanked by Emma.

  Brenda held out her arms to Maisie. “Hello, love. Your dad said you looked all in.” She stood back for Maisie to step into the kitchen, and pulled an envelope from her apron pocket. “This came today, Maisie—from the Ministry of Health.”

  “I think I know what it is—my hearing is set for October the fifteenth.”

  “Not long to go now then,” said Brenda.

  Maisie read the letter, confirming the news MacFarlane had already given her.

  “I think I’ve prepared so much, I’ll get it all wrong.”

  “We’ll be there for you, waiting outside.” Brenda’s voice was soft, reassuring. “And I almost forgot—your American friend telephoned. He said he would telephone later, but he wanted to know if it was all right to invite himself down for lunch on Sunday. I didn’t know what to say, I mean, I know they can be awfully familiar, these Americans.”

  “So—what did you say?”

  “I hope I did the right thing. I didn’t want to offend him, so I said yes of course, the more the merrier.”

  Maisie nodded. “And that was exactly the right thing to say, Brenda—everything’s all right. But do you think we have enough food to go ’round, because I’m sure Douglas and the boys will come?”

  “Oh, there’ll be enough. We always manage don’t we? And we’ll keep on managing. Now, why don’t you go along to the library and have another five minutes to yourself before our little whirlwind comes back up here.”

  Maisie followed Brenda’s instructions and made her way to the library. Having been Maurice’s housekeeper for years before his death, Brenda understood without being told that it had been a tumultuous day, a day when the heavy lifting on a case had been completed. Yet there were still questions to be answered, not least whether she was doing the right thing in trying to do her best for little Charlie Barrington.

  “So you see,” said Maisie, supporting Priscilla’s head so she could take sips of water from a cup with a long spout. “Catherine Saxon’s father managed to block any newspaper reports of her death in the American newspapers. At first blush it might seem like something he would encourage to further his cause. Initially, I imagined he might make a statement along the lines of, ‘My daughter was killed in London, look how bad it is over there, so let’s keep America well out of it.’ However, apparently the senator was canny enough to realize that other unwanted news could well be revealed about the daughter he considered to be something of a liability, and it might reflect poorly on him.”

  “I’m amazed you’re telling me,” said Priscilla, the bandages rendering amazed to sound as if she’d said amaved.

  “I’m keeping you entertained,” said Maisie. “And besides, by the time you’ve had a nap and then come round again, you’ll have forgotten everything.”

  “You mustn’t make me laugh. I’ve had skin gwafts,” said Priscilla.

  “Make her laugh all you want!” The voice came from behind Maisie. The doctor with a discernible Antipodean accent had entered the room and was now standing next to Priscilla’s bed, the ward sister at his side. “You can go home in a week, if you’re good, Mrs. Partridge, and we’ll line up the next round of grafts. You’re doing well—and laughter is always the best medicine.”

  “Hard to laugh, Mr. McIndoe, when your flight lieutenant son could be in the ward next door at any time,” said Priscilla.

  The doctor took a clipboard hanging at the base of the bed and made a few notes on Priscilla’s progress, speaking as he wrote. “I’ve never had two patients from the same family before, so I expect I’ll only see him when he comes in to visit his pals and proceeds to lead them away from the straight and narrow down to the pub.” He replaced the clipboard. “I would imagine in a year, eighteen months, you’ll have seen the back of me, and in the meantime, life can go on as normal between your operations.”

  “He doesn’t know what my life’s like,” said Priscilla as Archibald McIndoe left her room. “It’s not normal, and I can’t laze around all day doing nothing.”

  “That’s exactly what you can do, and when it’s time for you to stop languishing, you’ll have plenty of people to chivvy you along,” said Maisie, rising from the chair. “And you’ve more company coming in now, so I must be going.”

  “Maman!” Tim Partridge entered the room, followed by his younger brother. The boys took up places on either side of their mother’s bed, reaching down to kiss her.

  “You’ll fuffocate me, boys!” said Priscilla.

  “Tarq, we’re going to have to remember that one—fuffocate!” said Tim.

  Maisie turned as she reached the door, to see Priscilla trying to attract her attention by waving one bandaged hand.

  “What about the Amewican?” said Priscilla.

  “Nothing to report there, Pris,” said Maisie, giving one last wave as she left the ward.

  Mark Scott telephoned the Dower House that Saturday evening, a call Maisie took in the library.

  “Maisie, I am so sorry, but I can’t make lunch tomorrow. I know I talked my way into it, but I—I’ve to report to DC. I’m heading out soon, flying via Lisbon.”

  “Is your work finished here, Mark?” asked Maisie.

  “Pretty much—but there’s another assignment on the table. That’s what I’m being summoned back to discuss. Not something to be dealt with in a diplomatic bag, or a trunk call from the embassy.”

  “Then it’s good-bye, I suppose,” said Maisie.

  “I—I can’t say anything.”

  “Can you tell me about this assignment of yours, the one you’ve almost finished?”

  “Soon.”

  “Mark—what do you mean? Soon? Don’t toy with me.”

  “It’s not over, Maisie—we’re not over. But—but trust me.”

  Maisie took a deep breath. “Frankly, Mark, I have more pressing things to worry about. There’s still work for me to finish on the Catherine Saxon case, and there’s a little girl who’s more important than anything else. Anyway—look, I have to go now. It’s Anna’s bedtime. Good-bye, Mark.”

  “Maisie—”

  She replaced the receiver, standing still for a moment before walking across to the table that held a bottle of sherry and another of single malt whisky, the latter having been Maurice’s tipple. She poured herself a glass of the whisky, and sat in the wing chair alongside the fireplace. Looking across to the opposite chair, where her mentor would sit in the days when she sought his counsel during work on a case, she raised her glass and took a generous sip, brushing away tears with her fingers.

  “Well, Maurice, I suppose if you play with fire, you deserve to get burned, don’t you? I can’t say I went into that without knowing how it might end.”

  Chapter 19

  Maisie sat at the head of the long table in her office, with MacFarlane and Billy on either side of her.

  “So Miles Barrington was the man those other ladies had seen coming and going a few times at the Welbeck Street house,” said MacFarlane.

  “And that’s why at one point I wondered if Miles Barrington was having an affair with Catherine,” said Maisie. “But he wasn’t, was he? I went back to Pamela Lockwood again to go over some ground I’d already trodden during an earlier meeting—and was able to confirm I’d taken a leap in the wrong direction. He was coming to the house time and again trying to get Catherine to drop the whole idea of getting Charlie back, or at least to agree to some other arrangement that would allow the child to remain with them. He’d come at odd times, hoping to catch her off guard, and for her part, apparently at one point she’d even suggested sharing the child, which would never have worked, would it?”

  MacFarlane nodded. “I had a word with the doctor across the street—what’s his name?”

  “Chester.”

  “Right, him. He said Saxon was troubled not only by some lingering physical ailments following the birth of her son—and I told him I didn’t want to know any more of that personal women’s business than was necessary, no female details—but he said she also suffered with a sort of severe neurosis he’d seen in only a few new mothers. All up and down they are, and off kilter, though most people only ever saw Catherine Saxon when she was on the up, because she was carried along by her work.”

  “What did the Barringtons say about leaving Catherine’s rooms, after she was dead?” asked Billy.

  “Miles Barrington was wearing a mackintosh, which caught some of the blood when he killed the poor lass. So he took it off and bundled it up. Then he cleaned the blade, but Jennifer Barrington was in shock and just staring at the thing, so he knew he had to get rid of it and pronto. He was careful to wipe any surface either of them touched—his silk handkerchief came in handy—but he left the kettle to burn dry. Catherine had put it on the gas when he arrived, to make some tea. Or most likely coffee.” MacFarlane sighed, as if recounting the chain of events was exhausting him. “Then he picked up a pile of letters from the table and checked the drawers for more, because he knew a good number were from his wife, and would likely include a plea not to take Charlie away. Anyway, he managed to get Jennifer out of the house without making a noise which would wake Mrs. Marsh. On the way out, he flung the knife into that dingy old room, the one they call the cellar.”

  “How did he know there was even a room there?” asked Maisie.

  “He didn’t—but let’s face it, we’ve all been in houses with exactly the same rooms in exactly the same place, and we know a cupboard or the entrance to a cellar when we see it.”

  “And I suppose it was missed by the police because Scotland Yard handed over the case quickly after Mrs. Marsh found her, and any search was curtailed.”

  “Apparently a young constable was sent in to have a look around that room but missed the knife, probably because it was under the rusty old bicycle frame. In his defense, the lad had been up on duty all night, and it’s not as if you get a lot of light in there, and he probably didn’t have a torch on him. All those things add up.” MacFarlane shrugged. “But I can see what you’re getting at—it should have been found before you laid eyes on it. I can’t argue with you there.”

  “Then what did they do? How did the Barringtons get home?” asked Billy

  “Mr. Barrington had his motor car parked around the corner, so they went straight home and disposed of the coat. Not hard to do, when you think of it, what with great piles of rubbish everywhere. Just throw it in a sack on top of all the other sacks. But we’ve got people looking for it, all the same.” He shook his head. “More importantly, we’ve everything we need in the way of confessions. Those two were so beaten down by worry about losing the boy, that by the time Miles Barrington went for Catherine Saxon’s throat with a knife, I’m surprised they didn’t walk over to Scotland Yard and confess then, if only to get it off their chests. And it helped that you thought he was left-handed.”

  “That was a guess—I didn’t see him pick up a pen, but it was the way he rubbed his hands together, smearing an ink stain from his fingers.” Maisie shook her head, weariness settling upon her. “I feel sorry for everyone involved. It’s a piteous situation, and it has no satisfactory ending.”

  She looked up from her hands, feeling MacFarlane looking at her. The bandages were off and the cream given to her by Pete at the Italian restaurant had worked wonders, though now the scars itched.

  “You’re doing your best though, miss,” said Billy.

  “Aye, you’re doing what you can,” added MacFarlane.

  Maisie stood up and walked to the window. She stared up at the barrage balloons, then turned around.

  “You don’t know about the case of Michael Clifton, do you, Robbie?” She went on without waiting for him to reply. “It was a case we solved—if that’s the word—about nine or ten years ago, and it concerned an American who’d come to fight for Britain in the last war. I received the assignment through an old friend who lives in Boston—a doctor. You see, the parents of the young man—who were getting on, as you would imagine, and who knew only that, during the war, their son was ‘missing, presumed dead’—had received word that his remains had been found when a French farmer managed to plow up an old dugout. The ground began to fall in as the plow went across. They did not suspect murder, but had given the post-mortem report to our mutual doctor friend to have a look at, and really to interpret it for them—you know how convoluted these things can be. He said nothing to them about his suspicions, however, when the couple decided to come to England, he referred them to me, knowing that as soon as I saw the report I would spot certain inconsistencies.” Maisie paused, pressing her fingers to the bridge of her nose. “Right from the beginning, the mother had a strong feeling—an intuition, if you will—that her son had fallen in love before he died, and a child had been the result of the union. All she really wanted was for the child to be found, if she was right—and she was. The mother of Michael Clifton’s son had raised him as her husband’s, and the American went to his death not knowing he was to be a father. I was tormented because there was nothing I could do about the situation.”