Michael Clifton clearly. He was laughing with the man next to him. The camera pulled back, and another man, an officer, came into view. The man was carrying a baton under his arm, and seemed to walk in that same matchstick-man manner, but he was evidently a more senior officer. He appeared to be taking the men to task, then looked around and came towards the camera, waving his baton. The screen went black, followed by a series of numbers.

'Do you remember that last incident?' Maisie turned in her chair as Gilbert stepped towards the light switch.

'I do indeed. Can't remember the man's name, but he was a bit of a killjoy. Waved his stick at me and threatened to put my camera into the mud. He should have tried it! Anyway, you don't forget those incidents. Mind you, they're not that unusual in my line of work, but rather unsettling when it's a man in a uniform threatening you.'

She stood up and smiled, holding out her hand. 'Thank you so much for your valuable time, Henry. It was kind of you to do this.'

'I owe Ben a favor or two,' said Gilbert, as he shook her hand. 'So this helped me pay down my debt.'

They turned to leave, and as the trio made their way to the front door, Maisie turned to Gilbert. 'I know you said that you don't remember everyone, but you must have become somewhat familiar with that unit; you mentioned that for a short time you lived alongside some of the soldiers you filmed.'

'As I said, you try not to get too close, for the sake of objectivity. But yes, I sort of took to that little group, though the American is the one who sticks out most.'

'Do you recall any conversations between the men?'

'That would be a tall order, Maisie,' Sutton interjected.

'I know, but-'

'The boys teased the American, but he could give it back to them, and it was all in good heart, from what I can recall. There was one sapper who mentioned that he-the American-was a man of some extensive property, out in California. And he teased him about his girl-she'd broken it off, but he was convinced the American wasn't wanting for female company when he was on leave. He'd not long returned from a few days away. Mind you, a handsome young fellow like that-can't imagine him spending much time alone when he was off duty.' He laughed. 'Anyway, as I said, it was all a long time ago now. I might have it wrong, and it could have been the other way around-you know, the other fellow on leave, that sort of thing. I'm really interested in the image in front of the camera, not the subject's private life.'

Maisie nodded.

After more good-byes, and some final conversation, Maisie and Sutton left and stood outside the house.

'Ready for a bite to eat?'

'Ben.' Maisie smiled. 'Would you forgive me if I decline your offer of lunch? It's a bit early for me in any case- that didn't take as long as I thought, and I have so much to do today. Watching your friend's films has given me a lot of food for thought.'

Sutton nodded. 'I'll hold you to our lunch another time-or perhaps you'd come with me to the theater, and supper afterward?'

'What a lovely idea, thank you. And I do appreciate your understanding, especially as it was so good of you to cash in a favor on my behalf. Oh, and Ben, may I trust you to keep what we have seen today to yourself-just for a while.'

'I'll not tell a soul, and I'll make sure Henry knows too. And cashing in the favor was my pleasure, Maisie.' He smiled. 'There weren't that many men doing what Henry was doing out in France, so I had an idea you might be in luck with his film. Serendipity, eh?' He smiled. 'Anyway, I hope I'll see you again soon. May I walk you to the tube, madam?'

They said good-bye at the underground station, and Maisie waved as she made her way down the steps and around a corner out of view. She waited a few moments until she was sure Sutton had left, then retraced her steps to Henry Gilbert's house and knocked on the door. When his assistant opened the door, Maisie asked if she could see Mr. Gilbert for just a moment.

'Maisie, back so soon! What can I do for you-did you leave something behind?' Gilbert took off a pair of spectacles as he walked towards her.

'I am sorry to bother you, but I have one quick question-do you mind?'

'Of course not. Fire away!'

'Is it possible to make a photograph of part of your cine film? I am sure there are appropriate words to describe this, but what I'd like is a picture from the last few seconds on that final piece we watched; something I can hold in my hand to study.'

'You mean the nasty ogre rushing at my camera?'

'Yes, that's it.'

'It's not a simple task, but it can be done.'

'I would be most willing to pay for your time.'

'First things first. I'll have the frame printed and sent to you. Roland here can take down the details.'

Maisie smiled. 'Thank you very much.' She paused. 'And if we could keep this between ourselves, I would appreciate it.'

Gilbert smiled. 'Absolutely. We don't want Ben to know you want a picture of another man, do we?'

Maisie blushed. 'No, we don't.'

Later, as she left the house for the second time, Maisie could not recall any part of the conversation with Ben Sutton either before they viewed the film, or on the way to the underground station. In fact, she could barely remember any interaction with him at all. But an image continued to flash into her mind's eye, of a man brandishing a baton as he reached towards the camera that was filming his every move.

Maisie stopped at a pie and mash shop on her way to Shoreditch, and had a large helping of meat pie with mashed potato and gravy, followed by a cup of strong tea. It was the sort of place she rather liked to frequent; the service was quick and the repast plain yet hearty, better described as fodder than as food. Though she never stayed long, she liked to watch the customers coming and going, an assortment of men and women, all of whom were working class and valued a good meal. And as Maisie would not bother to cook a meat pie just for herself, and she rarely stopped for a proper lunch, the break was a welcome one-even though the Clifton case remained uppermost in her mind.

She was thinking about lies. About the many times in the course of her work she had been lied to. It was a hazard of her occupation. She rarely missed a lie, seldom overlooked the sense of doubt that assailed her when she had been offered less than the truth. Indeed, she thought it was the presence of doubt-rather than certainty, perhaps-that led to cracking open many a case. Doubt. Was it an emotion? A sense? Or was it just a short, stubby word to describe a response that could diminish a person in a finger snap? When she felt doubt, she asked more questions of herself, though she also knew those questions were no guarantee that her attention would be pointed in the right direction. There's a lot of ifs. Yes, Billy had it right, there were a lot of ifs. What if. Without that question, she would not have decided to make a detour back towards the British Library. What if a librarian could identify the verse she'd found tucked into Michael Clifton's journal? And would such information have any meaning, any relevance to her search for the truth about Michael Clifton's death and the attack on his parents? As she walked along, she planned to spend only a short time in the reading room, which might allow her the opportunity to drop into Bourne and Hollingsworth on Oxford Street before dashing over to Shoreditch. She wanted to go to the shoe department to see if someone there remembered something of the Clifton story. It was an important London shop, so the buyer might have more detailed knowledge about the company in its final years than Billy had managed to uncover, or he might have remembered something after being questioned. She thought she could accomplish those two things and still be in Shoreditch at a reasonable hour.

The reading room of the British Library was pin-drop quiet. A librarian might tiptoe across the floor to replace a

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