“Indeed, thank you, Sister. I was just leaving.” She turned to Hunter, who had opened her eyes. “I’ll come again soon, Gabriella. Now, do as the sister says—rest.” She leaned down and kissed the older woman on the cheek, squeezing her hand as she whispered, “Nice work with the corset.”
As Maisie stood up, Gabriella Hunter managed a wink.
“You can come again tomorrow,” said the ward sister. “But not before two, and only for another five minutes. Patient might be a little more with it by then.”
“Don’t underestimate her, Sister,” said Maisie as she passed the senior nurse. “Miss Hunter is more with it than you might imagine.”
“’Allo, miss.” Billy smiled as he opened the front door of Gabriella Hunter’s house. “Come in.” He stood back to allow Maisie to enter, and pointed to the lock. “Got that mended straightaway—mate of mine is a locksmith and came out quick as a flash. Right then, follow me—she’s in the dining room, with Sandra.”
Sandra was sitting next to Mrs. Towner at the table, a tea tray in front of them and an empty plate in front of the housekeeper. As Sandra greeted Maisie she stood up, stepping aside to allow her employer to take a seat alongside Mrs. Towner.
“Cup of tea, Miss Dobbs?” said Sandra. “I’m making more for Mrs. Towner.”
“Oh lovely, thank you,” said Maisie. “I’m gasping for a cup. Then you must get along to the station, Sandra.”
“Right you are, Miss Dobbs. I won’t be a minute.”
Maisie turned to Mrs. Towner. “It looks like Sandra managed to get you to eat. I’m glad—you need your strength.”
“Made me a nice Welsh rarebit, she did. Lovely girl, that one. She’s been telling me about her little boy—sounds like quite a scamp, but he’s at that age.” Mrs. Towner reached for her teacup. Maisie noticed her hand was shaking. Towner put down the cup without raising it to her lips.
“This has all been a terrible shock for you, Mrs. Towner—but I must ask you some questions while the event is still somewhat fresh in your mind.”
“That’s what the detective said, when he asked me his questions.”
“Yes, it’s when the memories are still most raw, though some things might come back to you later, after you’ve had a good night’s sleep. Some of my questions will doubtless be the same.” Maisie allowed a pause. “Mrs. Towner, did you actually see anyone leaving the house as you returned—perhaps someone on the street who you’re not used to seeing? Or getting into a taxi?”
Towner shook her head. “Nothing. I’ve racked my brains. I remember being in the shop, and when I’d got everything we needed, I walked back. I didn’t really see anyone, except the street sweeper, and then I walked up to the house and, well, you know the story from there. That’s when I saw the door had been prised open, so I ran in to find Miss Hunter on the floor, her head lacerated and her face covered in blood.” She pulled a handkerchief from her cardigan sleeve and dabbed her eyes, then pushed the handkerchief back into the sleeve and pulled the unbuttoned cardigan around her, shivering.
Maisie looked around, but Billy had already stepped forward, holding a blanket. “I put this around her when we got here—she was in shock, but it comes and goes.”
“Thank you, Billy—shock is like that.”
Sandra returned with the tray and poured two cups of tea, removing the cup from in front of Mrs. Towner. “I’ll just wash this and get on my way.”
“Lovely—thank you, Sandra. Would you telephone me at the flat when you get home, just so I know you’ve arrived safely?”
Sandra smiled and nodded, turning to Mrs. Towner. “Miss Dobbs likes to keep tabs on us, you know.”
“Thank you, my dear—you’ve been most kind,” said Towner, smiling at Sandra.
Billy accompanied Sandra to the door; Maisie heard voices in the distance as they bid each other good-bye. Yes, she was lucky with her little band; they worked well together.
“The street sweeper—do you know him, Mrs. Towner?”
“Mr. Jeeps? Yes, everyone knows him—very friendly, very nicely mannered, though he can get a bit familiar. You know, with his betters. Some people think he’s a bit too friendly.”
Maisie suppressed a smile as she moved on to her next question. “Do you think Mr. Jeeps might have seen anything untoward?”
Towner sipped her tea, becoming visibly calmer. “He might well have. I know he works from a depot not far from here.”
“I’ll get Mr. Beale to look into it.” She looked up as Billy returned to the room.
“Got that, miss—I’ll find the depot as soon as we leave here.”
“Thank you, Billy—would you just sit with Mrs. Towner for a while? I’d like to have a look at the study.” She pressed Mrs. Towner’s hand, and as she left the room, she heard Towner asking Billy where in London he was from, and whether his people were in trade.
Gabriella Hunter’s study-cum-library had indeed been turned over, though as Maisie looked around the room she had a feeling that the invader had gone through the drawers and shelves in a systematic manner and only later made the incursion seem more chaotic to give the impression of a random burglary. Had the assailant wished to kill Hunter? Maisie wondered if he or she might have intended only to cause injury, or not expected to encounter her at all. She walked to the window and, reminding herself of the view across the square from that vantage point, considered the possibilities. The assailant could have looked out and seen Mrs. Towner entering the square with her shopping bag, so he knew his time was limited. After breaking in and attacking Hunter, he had not found what he was looking for, and he had assumed he’d killed Hunter—according to Towner’s statement, Hunter’s breathing was so shallow, she had required a mirror to assess whether she was alive. Yes, he meant to take Gabriella Hunter’s life, but was it for what she knew, or because he was startled by her entering the study while he was going through her papers? One thing was clear to Maisie: the interloper had assumed or had been briefed to the effect that because she was a writer, the information he wanted was written down somewhere. If only she knew what it was.
Stepping over the small table alongside Hunter’s Art Deco armchair, Maisie proceeded to the desk. Papers were strewn messily across the top; others were on the floor. Maisie replaced the papers into a neat stack, studying each page quickly before adding it to the pile. She moved on to the bookcase, her attention drawn first to a series of books bearing Hunter’s name on the spine. Maisie opened every book, ran her finger along the binding and checked the endpapers, and then turned every single page, scanning for a letter, a document, an underlined paragraph, anything that might offer a motivation for the attack.
She was becoming frustrated with the task when Billy entered the study.
“Miss—poor Mrs. Towner is looking awfully tired. I’ve thought about her going to an hotel, but I don’t think it’s a good idea. She definitely shouldn’t be alone, and we know that at night the hotels just make everyone go down to the cellars as soon as the air raid siren goes off, and she could do without that worry. I reckon she should go to someone who knows her and she knows them.”
“Of course, yes, you’re right. I want to have another word with her, and then let’s see if we can make some alternative arrangements.”
Returning to the dining room, Maisie once again took a seat alongside the housekeeper at the table.
“I should get on and clean up that mess in Miss Hunter’s study, Miss Dobbs.” Mrs. Towner began to push back her chair. “I don’t want her coming home to see her beloved books in that terrible state.”
“No, please don’t worry about that,” said Maisie. “Miss Hunter will be in hospital for a little while, so you’ve plenty of time. First of all, do you have someone—a relative, perhaps—with whom you might be able to stay for a few nights? I think it would be a good idea if you weren’t here at the house. You’ve suffered a terrible shock, and it’s best if you recuperate in another location.”
Mrs. Towner looked down at her hands. “I can’t say t
hat I get on very well with my family. I’ve a sister in Peckham, but . . . well, she was never the right sort, if you know what I mean. My nephew comes around—he lives in Bromley with his wife. It’s a bit far, I would think.” She looked up at Billy. “He’s not been called up because he’s in a reserved profession—an engineer doing quite important war work.” Her tone was almost apologetic.
“We’re not checking up on him, so you don’t have to worry about that,” said Billy. “And it’s not too far, because my house is in Eltham, though my wife and daughter are in the country now, but I was planning to go over there later to keep an eye on the place. I’ll escort you to Bromley first. If your nephew has a telephone number, I’ll get on the blower to him.”
Mrs. Towner reached into her handbag, which had remained on her lap throughout as if for security, and brought out an address book. She opened it and passed it to Billy, pointing to an entry.
“I’ll give him a bell now,” said Billy.
As Billy left the room, Maisie drew her attention back to Towner. “When I saw Miss Hunter at the hospital, she mentioned a book to me. She specified that it was one she had written herself, and the way she said it, I thought she was trying to tell me something, that there was a clue in the book—some indication of what was at the heart of the attack. I’ve checked each one and I can’t find anything in her books; no notes or a letter.” She paused as tears filled Towner’s eyes again. “Do you have any idea what she might have been referring to?”
Towner retrieved the handkerchief from her sleeve once more and dabbed her eyes. She nodded. “I think it must have been her new book. It’s not published yet. On literature following the Great War—it’s all about books and essays published in the immediate aftermath and of course the Peace Conference, and she told me she’s put in some autobiographical notes too. Her words, not mine. She’s normally very difficult about getting a manuscript to her publisher—she prevaricates, reads it over and again and makes changes and she types all the corrections herself. Miss Hunter will type a whole page again if a comma is out of place. Usually the publisher has to send his assistant around to the house every single day when the book is due, and Miss Hunter can get very annoyed about it. They have to drag it out of her.”
“And where is that manuscript now?” asked Maisie.
“That’s the funny thing. She only finished her third draft a couple of weeks ago, and because I knew the deadline was coming up, I thought, ‘Here we go again—I’ve got to watch that poor girl leave the house with tears in her eyes every day for a month before Miss Hunter relinquishes the manuscript.’ But instead she telephoned her publisher first thing this morning and told him to send the girl to pick up the manuscript because it was finished. It was so early he came over here himself, and she just gave it to him in brown paper tied with string and said she had to get back to work. Sent him packing at eight in the morning. Didn’t even give me time to offer him a cup of tea, and usually she’ll sit there for ages chatting with him, discussing books and all those sort of literary things she likes to talk about.”
“What’s her publisher’s name? Where can I find him?”
“John Hillman. Of Hillman and Sons, only it’s his daughter who works for him now, because his son died in the last war. It’s his niece he sends over here to collect the manuscripts, as a rule. It’s a true family business. They’re over in Bedford Square, just on the corner with Gower Street.”
“Billy—”
“S’all right, miss,” said Billy entering the room again. “I’ve spoken to Mrs. Towner’s nephew—got him at work—and he’ll meet us at Bromley Station, then I’ll come straight back and find the street sweeper. Consider it all as good as done—I can go over and have a look at my house another day; make sure no one’s been looting it!”
“Thank you, Billy.” Maisie turned to Towner and took her hands in her own. “Don’t worry, Mr. Beale will look after you. And I’m sure you’ll be able to see Miss Hunter in a couple of days. I think she’s much stronger than people give her credit for.”
Towner nodded. “I’ll just go and put a few things into my case.”
Billy accompanied Maisie to the door. “Here you are, miss—spare key to the new lock. Just in case you want to come back for another gander.”
“Good thinking, Billy,” said Maisie, placing the key in her bag. “The day is escaping us, and I’m off to see Miss Hunter’s publisher, so please telephone this evening to let me know what you find out.”
“Right, miss. Good luck with the publisher.”
It was as she went on her way at a brisk clip—it was easier to walk than to wait for a taxicab—that Maisie’s thoughts turned to Maurice. What had Maurice to do with the manuscript? Or was it a case of a wounded woman speaking the name of a man she had loved so long ago, hoping he would come to her aid, if only in spirit?
Chapter 17
Maisie kept up such a pace that she was breathless when she arrived at the Bedford Square offices of Hillman and Sons. A receptionist seated at a desk in the entrance hall was studying a thick manuscript and making notations in red ink across the pages; she was so engrossed in her work that she failed to look up even when Maisie was standing in front of her desk.
“Good afternoon,” said Maisie.
The young woman started. “Oh my goodness—you made me jump!”
“I’m sorry,” said Maisie. “My name is Maisie Dobbs, and I’d like to see Mr. John Hillman, if I may. It’s a matter of some urgency in connection with the author Gabriella Hunter.” She passed her professional calling card to the woman.
The receptionist studied the card, then looked up at Maisie. “Miss Hunter? Is she all right?”
“Well, not exactly, and I’d like to speak to Mr. Hillman about it if I may. And as I said, the situation is quite urgent.”
“Just one moment.”
The receptionist placed an open book across the manuscript and rushed from the entrance hall, card in hand. Casting her gaze upward, Maisie followed the young woman’s progress as she ascended the broad winding staircase to the second floor. A door opened and closed, then opened and closed again a minute later as the receptionist ran back down the stairs.
“You can go up. Second floor, door to the right,” said the receptionist, catching her breath.
Maisie took the stairs at the same speed as the receptionist, then knocked on the door to John Hillman’s office, which was slightly ajar.
“Miss Dobbs, do come in,” said John Hillman, as he came from behind a wide oak desk laden with papers and books. “My niece managed to make the door almost bounce off its hinges as she left.” He gestured toward a chair placed in front of the desk, and waited for Maisie to be settled before taking his own seat again. He clasped his hands together. “Now then, what can I do for you? Miss Hunter is one of our most esteemed authors, and the manuscript I collected this morning promises to be an important book—I think it could find a readership well beyond the academic domain.”
Maisie described her relationship to Hunter, explaining that she had known her since girlhood. “I’m afraid Miss Hunter was the victim of a vicious attack mid-morning. She is in University College Hospital, where her condition is serious but stable.” She paused, taking care to frame her words despite the urgency of the situation. “Suffice it to say that Miss Hunter has been assisting me in an important investigation. She knew the information she had gathered—whatever it was—would put her life at risk, and I believe it is hidden within the manuscript she submitted this morning. I would very much like to see it, if I may.”
Hillman came to his feet again, pushed back his chair and stood before the window that looked out across Bedford Square. As he clasped his hands behind his back and appeared to be pondering whether to assist her, Maisie felt her patience ebb.
“Mr. Hillman—”
“Miss Dobbs.” Hillman turned around to face Maisie. “I find myself in a difficult position, as do you. I don’t know what you might know about Gabriella’s backgro
und, and you don’t know what I know, so we have to tiptoe, and—”
“Did she ever introduce you to Dr. Maurice Blanche?”
“Why, yes—indeed she did. Now, there’s a collection of papers I’d like to get my hands on. That would indeed be a publishing coup.”
“Mr. Hillman, Dr. Blanche was my longtime mentor, and he was also my dear friend. That’s how I met Gabriella.” She paused for a second to allow her words to sink in. “Now, I cannot express the extent to which this is an urgent matter—one of life and death.”
“Right you are.” Hillman marched to his desk, picked up the telephone and placed a call. “Joan—Daddy here—” Pause. “Yes, I know you know it’s me, but just listen for a change, would you? Now then, Miss Hunter’s manuscript—has it arrived? The messenger should have delivered it several hours ago.” Pause. “Oh, you’re already working on it. Well, stop. Stop now. Wrap up the manuscript again, secure it with the string and keep the whole thing safe until a Miss Dobbs comes to collect the parcel.” Pause. “Joan, I’m sure she knows where Tunbridge bloody Wells is, so would you simply do as I say?” Pause. “Joan, I don’t have the time to discuss anything else at the present time, but please just indulge me and do as I ask without argument.” Pause. “As a matter of fact, it is a matter of life and bloody death, so just get on with wrapping the manuscript and stop questioning my every instruction!” Slamming the telephone receiver onto its cradle, he picked up a pen and scribbled on a sheet of paper, which he handed to Maisie with a pained expression. “Miss Dobbs, my daughter is a first-class editor, but as you may have gathered, she’s at her home in Tunbridge Wells today. You can have a good look at the manuscript when you meet. All right?”
Maisie stood up and took the sheet of paper with an address in Tunbridge Wells, folded it and put it in her shoulder bag. She extended her hand. “Thank you very much, Mr. Hillman. I’m sorry if I’ve caused family discord, but this is very serious.”
“I’m sure it is. And please don’t worry, Joan and I snip at each other all the time—actually we all get on famously, considering this is a family business. Do take care of the manuscript though.”
The Consequences of Fear Page 24
