of an accepted practice among those from foreign lands.”
“I never needed to. The Vikings were kind enough to leave their names behind centuries ago, so my name is not unusual in this kingdom. Indeed, to me, an Andersen in Denmark Street seemed a perfect match.” He shrugged. “It is surprising, though, to have an acceptable name that originally belonged to marauding and cruel invaders.”
Maisie smiled. “Thank you, Mr. Andersen, you’ve been most helpful.”
The man inclined his head and shuffled back to his workbench.
SHE SAT IN the MG for some moments before moving on to the war records repository. The cards were falling into place. It was one thing to know, in some way, what had happened in a case such as Heronsdene, but another to understand the layers of truth and the web of lies that held a story together. Now she was acquiring a transparency, more able to interpret a chain of events in a manner that made sense. She sighed, checked the flow of traffic, and pulled out into the Charing Cross Road. One thing was clear, and that was that the man of the cloth had told another lie, for the violin was collected two days
Maisie had visited the War Office Repository on Arnside Street before and was struck again by how much it reminded her of a library, with its polished dark wood floors and whispered conversations between visitors, who sat at refectory tables while poring over manila folders and onionskin papers. Today there were two couples and a woman on her own. Maisie thought the couples might be parents of soldiers lost to war or taken prisoner, and hope had kept them searching for a sign, perhaps one word, a sentence, a comment by a commanding officer that might give hope that their son was alive somewhere. Then again, it could take years to face up to the truth of a loved one’s loss—how well she knew that herself—and perhaps the lone woman was at last curious, after years of widowhood, to know the circumstances of her husband’s death on a foreign field.
Maisie placed her hand on a bell mounted on the counter. Less than a minute after the chime, a young man appeared, a pile of large envelopes under his arm. Maisie gave him her name, and explained that she had received a clearance to view two records. The man placed the envelopes on the counter and ran his finger down a list of names.
“Ah, yes, there you are.” He pointed to a table by the window. “If you take a seat, madam, I’ll fetch the files for you.”
Maisie thanked him and sat at the table indicated while she waited. There was no view to speak of, simply rows of rooftops extending off into the distance. Sun glinted off skylights, and she watched pigeons swooping back and forth, and sparrows alighting on gutters, and listened to the sounds of the river in the distance. It occurred to her, as she waited, that she would try to see Maurice on the way back to Heronsdene. Of course, she would see her father, but she wanted to talk to her former mentor, as in their days together.
Until now, she had avoided reflecting upon the cremation this morning, busying herself with those aspects of her investigation that must be accomplished before she returned to Heronsdene. Though she had at first been taken aback by Margaret Lynch’s decision not to have Simon laid to rest with a gravestone at his head, she had come to understand both the wisdom and the sacrifice inherent in that choice. And she was filled with admiration, all other feelings having burned away within her as Simon’s mother leaned against her, seeking her support. And she wondered about that movement, and those often elusive events, conversations, or thoughts that rendered the path clear for forgiveness to take root and grow in a wounded soul.
“Here you are, madam, Sandermere and Martin, though as you can see we have two names for the corporal, on account of his being enlisted under one name and then taking another—which, according to the record, was his in the first place.”
“I understand. Thank you. I shan’t be long.”
“Take your time. We close at five o’clock.”
Maisie had handled such records before, had spent time at the repository searching for clues, inconsistencies and truths in the papers of those, alive and deceased, who had served in the war. But when she came to the moment of opening the records of the dead, she undertook the task with a deep respect and reverence because, whatever might have been said about the man by his commanding officer, he had given his life for his country. Whether that gift was given willingly, perhaps with regret, or with anger was not relevant, once that life had been lost.
She discovered that Henry Sandermere had been killed by a sniper in the Somme valley shortly after his return from leave, in early July 1916. The report from his superiors was complimentary, and he would soon have received a promotion to captain had he lived. Nothing about the death was unusual. Officers were, for the most part, drawn from the families of the landed gentry, the aristocracy, families of wealth and privilege. Centuries of advantage, of —at the very least—better nutrition, had resulted in such men being, on average, taller than the rank and file. It was no surprise, then, that the sniper found an officer an easy target. And the regular soldiers were canny, learning quickly to keep their heads away from the parapet.
Corporal Willem van Maarten’s file was somewhat fuller, given that notes had followed him from the reformatory. Maisie had known that many boys and men incarcerated at His Majesty’s Pleasure were enlisted with the promise that their service would render sentencing void, unless they committed criminal acts while in the army. Youth did not spare one the opportunity to serve, though van Maarten’s record contained two letters of complaint from the boy’s father, who was concerned at his son’s age upon enlistment. An official note had been attached to the letter, to the effect that the boy wished to remain in the army and to serve in France. She shuddered to see a letter from the reformatory with the words RELEASED TO THE ARMY stamped across it.
There were also notes pertaining to the issue of whether Corporal van Maarten had been taken prisoner and then confirmation, in September 1916, that he was presumed dead. The telegram to his parents had been sent just one day after the Zeppelin raid. The final comment by his commanding officer had described his service record as exemplary
Maisie did not need to make notes on an index card, for she had already garnered the information required, and those details she wished to retain were lodged firmly in her mind. She replaced all notes in the manner in which they had been given to her, collected the folders and her belongings, and walked back to the counter.
“Got everything you want?”
“Yes, thank you.”
“Well, if you need anything else, you just come back and we’ll help you out.”
Maisie looked around the room, at the solitary woman holding her hands to her forehead, leaning forward as she read, shaking her head. She would prefer never to have the need to come to the war records repository again,
