Journey to Munich Read Online Free PDF Page B

it.”
    â€œMy daughter has vanished. We don’t know where she is.”
    â€œThat’s not news. I understand from Mrs. Partridge—who is far more au fait with these matters—that the whole of a certain strata of London society knows about Elaine abandoning her husband and child.” Maisie pressed her lips together. She wished she could sound less bitter. It was an unwelcome feeling, as if she could sense her heart becoming harder with every word.
    â€œNo, it’s not news. But I do need your help.”
    â€œOh, spare me the intrigue. You have people everywhere who can find anyone and—as I know only too well, you can even have them murdered.” She could not help but refer to Eddie Petit, whom she’d known since childhood, an innocent man who had become an unwitting victim of Otterburn’s undercover machinations to strengthen Britain’s security.
    â€œI cannot seem to find my own daughter, and I understand you will soon be in the place where I believe she is now residing.”
    â€œAs I said, you have people everywhere,” countered Maisie.
    â€œShe appears to be very good at either avoiding discovery, or when approached, refusing to come home. We understand she is in Germany, most likely Munich. Her child needs her, Maisie.”
    There was silence in the room. Maisie bit her lip and felt her jaw tighten. She turned away toward the street again, toward a windowpane spattered with raindrops racing down to the sill.
    â€œI suppose I should not be surprised that you have knowledge of my travel outside England.”
    Otterburn was silent.
    Maisie raised a gloved hand and wiped away the condensation where her breath had caught the window. “I don’t know what I could do anyway. Elaine has no reason to listen to me, even if I found her. She has her own plans and her own life. If she has abandoned her child, that is her loss.” Her voice caught at the last word.
    â€œPlease, Maisie. I was never a good father to my daughter—an indulgent father, but never a good father.”
    â€œThat makes no difference. She’s a grown woman.”
    â€œI believe you can bring her home to her child. I beg of you, please—”
    â€œStop!” Maisie rubbed her forehead and once more turned to face John Otterburn. “Stop.” She walked toward the door, but halted. Without turning her head, she spoke again. “I have no sympathy for you, your wife, or your dilettante daughter. But I ache for her baby.” She felt pressure on her chest. “If I discover her whereabouts—oh, and that is a huge ‘if’—then I will endeavor to see her. But only once. No more. And I will not beg. I will not force her. I will make one request, and that’s it. I have more important work to do—as you probably know.” She took a deep breath, as if to garner strength. “Send any information you have regarding her whereabouts to me, care of Mrs. Partridge. And that will be it.”
    â€œThank you. On behalf of my wife and myself—thank you.”
    Maisie turned the door handle and left the flat without looking back.
    W here should she go now? She had no home in London, no place that was hers. There was no anchor. Her father and stepmother lived in their own bungalow on the edge of the village of Chelstone, and although Priscilla was always saying, “Our home is your home,Maisie,” she felt at sea, adrift. She continued to use her maiden name because it held her tight, whereas her title by marriage, and James’ name, Compton, only served to make her widowhood feel even more acute. She was a married woman without a husband. And yet in Spain she had come to terms with her loss. In the daily grinding work of tending the wounded of a terrible civil war, in the simplicity of her life there—a nun’s cell, a bed with straw mattress, a small rug, and a window to look at the sky when there was time to gaze—she