Maisie felt a second’s imbalance, as if she had knelt down to retrieve something from the floor, and had come to her feet too quickly. What was the urgent business that this woman—someone in whose presence she had always felt unsettled—wanted to discuss on a Sunday, and in the wake of the prime minister’s broadcast to the nation?
Francesca Thomas had spent almost her entire adult life working in the shadows. In the Great War she had become a member of La Dame Blanche, the Belgian resistance movement comprised almost entirely of girls and women who had taken up the work of their menfolk when they went to war. Maisie knew that with her British and Belgian background, Thomas was now working for the Secret Service.
“Dr. Thomas, I am not interested. Working with the—” She looked around again and lowered her voice. “Working with your department is not my bailiwick. I am not cut from that sort of cloth. I told Mr. Huntley, quite clearly, no more of those assignments. I am a psychologist and an investigator—that is my domain.”
“Then you are just the person I need.”
“What do you mean?”
“Murder, Maisie. And I need you to prevent it happening again. And again.”
“Where are you?”
“In your flat. I took the liberty—I hope you don’t mind.”
Chapter 1
As Maisie hurried from Priscilla’s house, fuming that Francesca Thomas had violated her privacy by breaking into her flat—a criminal act, no less—an angry, deep-throated mechanical baying seemed to fill the air around her. It began slowly, gaining momentum until it reached full cry. A woman in a neighboring house rushed into the front garden to pull her children back indoors. A man and woman walking a dog broke into a run, gaining cover in the lee of a wall. There were few people out on this Sunday morning—indeed, many had remained indoors to listen to the wireless—but those on the street began to move as quickly as they could. Maisie watched as each person reached what they thought would be a place of safety—running towards the sandbagged underground station, to their homes, or even into a stranger’s doorway. Shielding her eyes from the sun, she looked up into the sky. Nothing more threatening than intermittent clouds. No bombers, no Luftwaffe flying overhead. It was just a test. A test of the air-raid sirens situated across London. She looked at her watch. Twenty to twelve now. People began to emerge from their hiding places, having realized there were no metal-clad birds of prey ready to swoop down on life across the city. It was nothing more than practice—as if they needed practice for war.
Taking the path at the side of the property, Maisie approached her flat by the garden entrance. Dr. Francesca Thomas was seated on a wicker chair set on the lawn. She was smoking a cigarette, flicking ash onto the grass at her feet. The French doors were open to the warmth of the day, and Thomas leaned back as if to allow a beam of sunlight to bathe her face. Maisie studied her for a few seconds. Thomas was a tall woman, well dressed in a matching costume of skirt and jacket, the collar of a silk blouse just visible and the customary scarf tied around her neck, the ends poked into the V of the blouse, as a man might tie a cravat. The scarf was scarlet, and Maisie suspected that if it were opened up and laid flat, a pattern of roses would be revealed. Her thick hair, now threaded with gray, was cut above the shoulder and brushed away from her face. It was a strong face, thought Maisie, with defined black eyebrows, deep-set eyes, and pale skin. She wore a little rouge on her cheeks, and lipstick that matched the scarf.
Francesca Thomas did not look up as Maisie approached. Her eyes remained closed as she began to speak.
“Lovely garden you have here, Maisie. Quite the sun trap. Those hydrangeas are wonderful.”
Maisie sat down in the wicker chair next to her visitor. “Dr. Thomas—Francesca—you didn’t come here to talk to me about the hydrangeas. So, shall we go inside and you can tell me what was so important that you had to break into my house and hunt me down.”
Thomas shielded her eyes with her hand. “Yes, let’s go in.”
Maisie came to her feet and extended her hand, indicating that Thomas should enter the flat first. She paused briefly to look at the French doors. They appeared untouched, though no key had been used to open them.
“I won’t ask how you broke in, Francesca—but I will get all my locks changed now.”
“Never mind—most people wouldn’t have been able to get into the flat. I’m just a bit more experienced. Now then, let’s get down to business.”
The doors to the garden remained open. Francesca Thomas made herself comfortable on the plump chintz-covered sofa set perpendicular to the fireplace, while Maisie took a seat on the armchair facing her.
“Maisie,” Thomas began, “you will remember that during the last war many, many refugees from Belgium flooded into Britain.”