She shook her head.
"Did you answer it?"
"No. I didn't see the point. In any case, Michael had told me to be careful of anyone wanting to see me on his behalf."
Maisie inclined her head. "Why did he do that, do you think?"
The woman looked at Maisie and stared into her eyes for what seemed to be a long time, though Maisie held her gaze. Then she stood up, knelt down, and pulled back the threadbare carpet to reveal a small section of loose floorboard.
"I've done this in every place I've lived in since the war. I don't know why-it was just what Michael asked of me. To be careful."
She lifted the board and pulled out a parcel bound with rubbered cloth and string-the same type of cloth that had protected Michael Clifton's letters and journal for years, while buried in the soil of a French battlefield.
"Do you know what's in here?" asked Maisie, taking the parcel.
Peterson shook her head. "No. It wasn't my property. I asked him if I should return his belongings when I sent that last letter, and received just the one letter back. He said he understood my sentiments, that the war had filled us all with fear and bravery both, and you never knew which would claim the best of you-that was what he said. And he asked me to keep the parcel safe, and that he would find me after the war. He said that if he didn't come, it meant he didn't need the things, or he was dead. And if he was dead, it wouldn't matter anyway." She began sobbing again. "And he said that if he found me again after the war, he'd whisk me off and take me to America as his wife. I suppose I never stopped hoping that he'd turn up one day. Stupid of me, really."
Maisie cast her eyes around the aching loneliness of the bed-sitting-room, a cocoon of solitary existence in a building of such rooms where women of a certain age-of her age-tried to fashion their lives to meet a circumstance never imagined in their earlier years.
"May I ask you a couple more questions?" asked Maisie.
"Yes, that's all right."
"Did you have more letters from the person who sent that first inquiry?"
"I might have," replied Peterson, "but I've had to move a few times, what with the rent going up and then losing my job."
"Where do you work now? Are you still a nurse?"
She shook her head. "I just couldn't bear it anymore, after seeing all those boys die. So after the war I went on a commercial course. That's what I do now. I'm in a typing pool, but I've been going to night school for my bookkeeping, and I'm up for promotion."
"And the next you heard was from Mr. Mullen?"
"Yes."
"Did he scare you?"
"No," said Peterson. "Not at first, anyway. He was all nice, friendly. Then he started getting, well, pushy. Kept asking me if Michael Clifton had given me anything for safekeeping. I was scared, so I said no. Then he came round with the advertisement, the one placed by Mr. and Mrs. Clifton. He kept on at me to reply to it, saying there could be money in it, because Michael was not only a rich man, but a rich man's son, and that we could all benefit from it. I didn't want to do it, then I thought they might want to meet me, to know someone who Michael knew, you know, the girl who sent him the letters. I thought about my brother and how my mother and I liked it when one of his pals came to see us after the war. It was only for a chat, but it meant the world to my mother."
"So you wrote to Michael Clifton's parents, and you went with Mullen to the Dorchester-is that right?"
"And we had a row, a nasty row. He started getting even pushier, and I knew I didn't want to see Mr. and Mrs. Clifton with him, I didn't want them to get that sort of impression of me. At first he seemed to be not such a bad sort, but then, when we were outside and that other man came up to us-"
"What man?"
"I don't know his name." She lifted the cup to her lips and sipped the piping hot tea. "He was quite tall, taller than Mr. Mullen, and I think he'd known him before."
"What did he look like-can you tell me anything else about him?"
"I didn't like to look at him, to tell you the truth. He didn't talk to me, but I knew he was Mr. Mullen's boss. He had that sort of look, you know…" Her voice trailed off as she searched for the right word. "Authoritarian. Yes, he looked like someone with a lot of power. I thought he looked as if he had it in him to be a bit cruel." She shrugged. "Mind you, I've never liked those cravat things on a man, makes them look as if they've got nothing to do all day, and that's not very attractive."
Maisie noticed that the woman was still shaking as she set the cup down on its saucer.
Peterson continued. "After he had a word with Mr. Mullen-I was standing to one side-off he went. Mr. Mullen took my elbow to steer me into the hotel, and because I didn't want to see Mr. and Mrs. Clifton, we started rowing again, and he was very angry with me. The doorman ended up telling us to leave, so I went off, but I'm sure Mr. Mullen went back to the hotel. He was dressed up a bit more than usual, so no one would've considered him out of place, and I'm sure the doorman thought I was the troublemaker. Mind you, Mr. Mullen probably knew another way in. He looked quite scared though."
"Are you afraid, Elizabeth?"
"I think that man had something to do with Mr. Mullen being dead. I saw it in the newspaper that he'd been found murdered." She rubbed her arms and shivered. "Yes, I am a bit scared."
"Is there anywhere you can go? Is your mother still alive?"
"She's in a home now, but I've an aunt and uncle in Shooters Hill."
"Would you be able to stay there?"
"Yes, I get on all right with them. I could go there."
Maisie looked at Billy. "Would you escort Miss Peterson to her uncle's house, Billy?"
"We can go as soon as you're ready to leave, Miss Peterson."
"I can pack my things in five minutes."
"Do you need to speak to your employer? If you like, I can make a telephone call on your behalf so your job is safe."
"No, it'll be all right, Miss Dobbs. Thank you very much. I've done a lot of overtime lately, so it won't hurt. I'll get in touch with them. They know I'm a good worker."
"Good. You pack your bag now, and Mr. Beale will leave with you. Take any valuables."
Elizabeth Peterson went to a chest of drawers and pushed a few items of clothing into a case she pulled from under the bed, while Maisie and Billy washed and dried the cup and saucers.
"Will you look after Michael's things?"
"Don't worry, everything is going to be all right. Either I or Mr. Beale will come to bring you home when it's safe to return."
"Will it be long?"
Maisie shook her head. "A day or two." She motioned for Billy to open the door and check the way out. "We'll leave by the back, if we can, Billy."
She watched as Billy steered Peterson along the alley at the back of the hostel, and did not turn to go back to her motor car until she saw him hail a taxi-cab. She looked both ways along the alley and went on her way. Before returning to her motor car, she went into a telephone kiosk to place a call.
"James?"
"Maisie-don't tell me, you can't meet me for supper."
"No, that's not it. James, does your office have a safe?"
"Do you mean the sort of safe behind a portrait of the Laughing Cavalier, moving eyes and all?"
"As long as it's a safe safe, James, and it's in your personal office, where only you have access to it, I don't mind if it's behind the Mona Lisa making eyes at you!"
"I have a safe, Maisie, a very good safe. It's next to my desk, and only I know how to get into it."
"I'll come to your office now. If you like, we can have supper in your neck of the woods, or stick to the original plan."
"Right you are. Does this mean I won't have the pleasure of driving you home afterward?"
"Not this time."
"Maisie-I can't wait to see you."
She held her breath for a second before answering. "Can't wait to see you, either."