Maisie nodded. How could she forget? Over a quarter of a million people had entered the country, fleeing the approaching German army, the terror of bombing and occupation. Most had lost everything except the clothes they stood up in—homes, loved ones, neighbors, and their way of life—everything they owned left behind in the struggle.
“At one point, over sixteen thousand people were landing in the coastal ports every single day,” Thomas continued. “From Hull to Harwich, and on down to Folkestone. It went on for months.”
“And yet after the war, they left so little behind,” said Maisie. “When they left, they might never have been here in England—isn’t that true?”
“Yes. They were taken in, and in some areas there were even new towns built to house them—they had their shops, their currency. And after the Armistice, Britain wanted the refugees out, and their own boys home.”
“And I am sure the Belgian people had a desire to return to their country too.”
“Of course they did. They wanted to start again, to rebuild their communities and their lives.”
“But some stayed,” said Maisie.
“Yes, some stayed.” Thomas nodded, staring into the garden.
Maisie noticed that Francesca Thomas had not said “we” when referring to the Belgians, and she wondered how the woman felt now about the heritage she had claimed during the war. In truth she was as much British as she was Belgian. Maisie wondered if in serving the latter she had mined a strength she had not known before, just as Maisie had herself discovered more about her own character in wartime. She rubbed a hand across her forehead, a gesture that made Thomas look up, and resume speaking.
“There are estimates that up to seven or eight thousand remained after the war—they had integrated into life here, had married locally, taken on jobs, changed their names if it suited them. They didn’t stand out, so there was an . . . an integration, I suppose you could say.” Thomas gave a wry smile.
“But life is not easy for any refugee,” said Maisie.
“Indeed. They went from being welcomed as the representatives of ‘poor little Belgium’ to their hosts wondering when they would be leaving—and often quite vocal about it. And although there were those villages set up, they were not places of comfort or acceptance in the longer term. But as I said—most refugees went home following the war.”
“Tell me what all this has to do with me, and how you believe I can help you?”
Thomas nodded. “Forgive me, Maisie—I am very tired. There has been much to do in my world, as I am sure you might understand. I begin to speak about the war, and a wash of fatigue seems to drain me.”
Maisie leaned forward. Such candor was not something she had experienced in her dealings with Thomas. She remembered training with her last year, before her assignment in Munich. Thomas had drilled her until she thought she might scream “No more!”—but the woman had done what she set out to do, which was to make sure Maisie had the tools to ensure her own safety, and that of the man she had been tasked with bringing out of Munich under the noses of the Nazis. Now it was as if this new war was already winning the battle of bringing Thomas down.
“I want you to do a job of work for me, Maisie. This is what has happened. About a month ago, on August the fourth, a man named Frederick Addens was found dead close to St. Pancras Station. He had been shot—point-blank—through the back of the head. The position in which he was found, together with the postmortem, suggested that he was made to kneel down, hands behind his head, and then he was executed.”
“So he could well have seen his killer,” said Maisie. “It has all the hallmarks of a professional assassination.”
“I suspect that is the case.”
“Tell me about Addens,” said Maisie.
“Thirty-eight years of age. He worked for the railway as an engineer at the station. He was married to an English woman, and they have two children, both adults now and working. The daughter is a junior librarian—she’s eighteen years of age, and the son—who’s almost twenty—has now, I am informed, joined the army.”
Maisie nodded. “What does Scotland Yard say?”
“Nothing. War might have been declared today, but it broke out a long time ago, as you know. Scotland Yard has its hands full—a country on the move provides a lot of work for the police.”
“But they are investigating, of course.”
“Yes, Maisie, they are investigating. But the detective in charge says that it is not a priority at the moment—it’s what they call an open-and-shut case because they maintain it was a theft and there were no witnesses, therefore not much to go on—apparently there was no money on Addens when his body was discovered, and no wallet was found among his belongings at the station. And according to Scotland Yard, there are not enough men on the ground to delve into the investigation.”
“What’s his name?” asked Maisie.
“Caldwell. Do you know him?”