Once again Maisie had to go through the procedure of identifying herself to a guard, for someone at an office in a low building on the airfield to approve her presence, and only then would she be authorized to wait for the person she wanted to see. As she stood alongside the Alvis, she saw a van coming toward the guardhouse, a cloud of dust rising up behind the back wheels.
“I’m going to give that lad a bit of a talking to about his driving,” said the guard. “He looks as if he’s in a race to get over here. Pity he’s in civvy street and not one of ours—I’d have him on latrine duty for that.”
The van screeched to a halt on the other side of the barrier, and Freddie Mayes stepped out, slamming the door behind him.
“Before you leave your old jam-jar in the way, mate, you’d better put it over to one side—there’s people driving up and they want to get in and out,” the guard admonished the painter, who—thought Maisie—if looks could kill, had just committed murder.
The van was moved and Freddie came to the barrier, ducked underneath and approached Maisie.
“Miss Dobbs. You’re back again. Mr. Yates said none of us were to talk to you. Sorry about that.”
“Nice to see you again too, Freddie.” Maisie followed the sarcastic quip with a question. “When did you speak to him last—he was very cordial to me when I visited.”
“It’s this business about Joe,” said Freddie. “Got him worried, I suppose.”
“In case you’re all getting ill, is that it?”
Mayes shrugged. “Not as bad as Joe, but it makes us feel a bit queasy at times. Nothing that a pint won’t cure of an evening. Anyway, I’m going back up to the Smoke soon. Not for long, just for a couple of days off, then back down here. Like being in the army it is, stuck where you don’t want to be.”
“Just as well you’re not in the army, don’t you think?” Maisie regarded the painter, who took a packet of cigarettes from his pocket. It was a full packet of twenty expensive cigarettes, not the Woodbines he had smoked before. “I’d like to ask a couple more questions, about Joe.”
“All right then—fire away,” said Freddie.
“Can you tell me honestly—did Joe drink at all? Was he ever the worse for wear after you’d been down to the pub in one of these villages where you’ve been staying?”
Freddie shook his head. “Joe wasn’t what you’d call a drinker. Mind you, I suppose it’s my fault that once or twice he was a bit tipsy. He was all wound up, you see. Like a spring. I put it down to missing his mum or something like that—p’raps he’s got a girl back at home. So when he asked for a shandy a couple of times, instead of his usual Vimto, I got the landlord to make it more ale than lemonade—which is the opposite of what Joe liked. The way he ordered it, it was a glass of lemonade and a spoonful of ale on the top! Who would have believed his old man was a publican?” Freddie took a long draw on his cigarette, pinched out the lighted end and threw it into the bushes. He was staring at the ground as he spoke. “So, I suppose a couple of times he was a little bit not-quite-there, but at least he wasn’t so nervy. Just before it happened—just before he died—he was in a bit of a state. Every time someone came into the pub, he almost jumped out of his skin. I reckon it was the paint—it was doing something to his mind.” He looked up at Maisie. “But do I think it was doing enough to his mind to make him jump onto a railway line? I really don’t know. None of us was with him, and he wasn’t one for skylarking around. And I’ve thought about it a lot—I reckon Joe was like he was because he wanted to be different from some of the sorts he saw in his dad’s business. But he told me his dad warned him about it too—that the pub should be a lesson to him. It put dinner on the table and clothes on their backs, but there were better ways to earn a living.”
Maisie said nothing for some seconds, allowing the silence to distill her thoughts, and the picture Freddie Mayes had painted of Joe Coombes away from home. “Did he get any visitors—either at the lodgings or while working?”
The painter and decorator shook his head. “Not as far as I know—although he mentioned his brother’s mate coming over to see him. Ted—Teddy—something like that. But he went out for walks. He said it was to clear his head, though it might have been to see someone. We were in Whitchurch for a good while and he started talking to one of the farmers in the pub one night. Bloke had a sheepdog with him, and Joe was telling him how it fascinated him, the way the dogs worked on the farm. The old boy said he should come over to watch, perhaps have a go—and I know Joe walked over there of an evening sometimes—he liked the old boy’s company.”
“No one has mentioned this before,” said Maisie.
Mayes shrugged. “Didn’t seem important, I suppose—going off to look at a sheepdog messing around with some sheep.” He held out his hands, palm up, and shrugged again. “Look, Miss Dobbs, I’m a London boy, born and bred—the only thing I know about these animals is when I put a few pennies on a greyhound at Catford dogs.”
“What was the farmer’s name?”
“Hutchins. Phineas was his name. Funny old name for a funny old bloke. They called him Finny. Looks like he came out of a book. I think it’s Moorwood Farm—ask a publican in Whitchurch, any one of them would know how to get there. Not that old Finny could tell you much. Oh, and he has a bit of a smell about him—being a farmer, I suppose.”
Maisie regarded Freddie Mayes. “Do you know where the paint comes from?”
Mayes took another cigarette from the packet and lit up. Maisie wondered how long this one would last, and again how he could afford to be so cavalier about his expenditure. Recalling how Billy always kept the unsmoked portion of a cigarette, perhaps the only reason for such waste was a good supply, and at little or no cost.
“It comes in big tins in a big lorry, that’s all I know.”
“I meant its place of origin—where it begins its journey?”
“Not my business, is it? Probably from a government depot, something like that. All I know is we get the paint, put it in our buckets, and we brush it on the walls.”
“And the only friends outside of you and the lads that Joe had while you’ve been away is this old farmer and his dog.”
“Far as I know.”
“All right, Freddie—I’ve kept you from your work for long enough. You’d better get back. Thank you for your time.”
The young man drew on the cigarette a couple of times, blowing the smoke to one side. “Got to do our best by Joe, haven’t we?” He turned to leave.
Maisie watched as he took two steps, and then called to him. “Freddie—just one more thing. Sorry, but I have to ask this—you all seem to have a good supply of smokes. Where do you get them—you’re out of the way down here?”
“Mr. Yates sends them. They come with the supplies.” He gave a half-laugh. “In fact, they’re probably from the same place as that paint—” He stopped abruptly, raised a hand as a final gesture of departure, and turned back to his van.
As Maisie stepped toward the Alvis, she heard the guard shout across. “And watch your bleedin’ speed, sonny—you’re on government property and you’d better follow the rules. This ain’t your cushy civvy street.”
“Oh wind your neck in, getting upset because you’re stuck out here and not one of them fly boys up there,” came the retort from Freddie Mayes.
She started the engine, and as she slipped the motor car into gear, she wound down the window to thank the guard, who shook his head.
“That bloke and his mates on the painting job—untouchable, that’s what they are. They’re all right, I suppose, but sometimes that one can get mouthy. His mate said it was on account of the paint they’re using. Well, all I can say is, he should be over there with our lads in France. Then let’s see where mouthy gets you. You’d be wishing all you had to do all day was paint so the buildings don’t burn.”
Maisie bid good-bye to the guard and drove away from the airfield, and at a very low speed.
Chapter 12
Consulting her wa
tch, Maisie realized there was no time to locate Phineas Hutchins, though she dropped into a local pub to get change for the telephone kiosk, and directions to the farm visited by Joe Coombes. The publican gave her plenty of coins for her telephone calls, and she discovered that the farm neighbored the Keeps’ land, and was leased from the same owner. She would visit tomorrow, before making her way back to London. But there was more she must do before she returned to her room at the farm for the night.
Brenda picked up the telephone after the first ring. “Anna’s been asking for you—and for young Tim. She’s in a bit of a state about it, poor little love.”
Since the evacuee came to live at the Dower House, Maisie was aware that the child had a sensitivity shared with her grandmother.
“What is she saying? What has she been told about Tim?”
“Nothing—but she already knew he wasn’t here without us even telling her. She said she watched him hiking out over the fields on the morning he left. She said she knew he was going to leave, because she could see it in his head. I tell you, that child makes me wonder at times, Maisie. Your father says it’s nothing to worry about, that children on their own see all sorts—little friends who aren’t there, and other strange things. He said your mother always told him they had to just accept anything you said that was like that without comment, when you were a child.”
“Yes, Dad’s right. And she is still not completely well, is she?” Maisie knew her stepmother meant well but worried she might say something that would make Anna feel different from other children. “Did Anna say anything specific—about Tim?”
“She said she had a big dream, that he had a bad arm and that he was on a boat.”
“She knows he likes to sail—he’s told her enough stories about his trips to see his friend Gordon.”
“And what do you say to the bad arm?”
Maisie was quick to answer. “Oh, you know—she’s seen his father many times now and understands that Douglas lost an arm, so in her dreams it all becomes mixed up. That’s how dreams are.”
“Well, when the woman from the Ministry of Health came, I had to whisper to Anna not to say anything about her dreams and what she imagines. Last thing we want is for the woman to write something critical about it in the report.”
“She came today? I thought she wasn’t coming until I was present. Oh my goodness.”
“Don’t you worry, Maisie. Your father and I made a good account of ourselves, and so did Anna—we’d brought her downstairs to lie on the bed you’d made up for Tim in the conservatory, so she could look out over the fields. She wanted to watch Lady in the paddock, and Emma when your father took the dogs for a walk. And she keeps saying she wants to see Tim when he comes home.”
“So, what happened? Tell me—this is so important, and the woman will have thought the wrong thing because I wasn’t there.”
“I told you, it’s all right—don’t worry. Your father explained that you were involved in war work, that you could not discuss it. He told her that you had to go to London a couple of times a week, but that Anna was in our good hands when you went—just like any other woman might leave her child with relatives.”
“Oh dear—”
“She asked questions and wrote on a form that I couldn’t see. She said ‘Right you are’ a lot, and asked about your marital status—again. They asked that the last time. I reminded her that you were widowed, and I pointed out that your in-laws are over at the manor. Then she checked her notes and said, ‘Oh yes, your daughter is Margaret, Lady Compton, isn’t she?’ So I reckon it will be all right. What does Mr. Klein say?”
Maisie sighed. “That there is an issue because I’m a widow—husbandless is what they mean.”
“There’s a lot of women going to be husbandless in this war, and children going to be fatherless. And at least this will be one they don’t have to worry about.”
“Mr. Klein said they asked about her father. All her grandmother knew was that his name was Marco, and that he was a merchant seaman from Malta.”
“You could make a verse out of that.” Brenda laughed.
The pips sounded, and Maisie pressed more coins into the slot and pushed button “A” on the telephone box.
“I wish I could laugh too, Brenda. Mr. Klein has pointed out to them that, what with the situation in Malta and the paltry amount of information we have on the father—and it might not even be correct—there is almost no chance of locating him. I’m used to looking for people, and I doubt I could find Marco from Malta. And Anna is five years old, for goodness’ sake!”
“I can hear you getting worried again, Maisie. Try not to—you’ve had references from some very good people—Lord Julian, Lady Rowan, that Mr. Huntley, and Mr. MacFarlane.”
“I think Robbie MacFarlane might not have been the best choice.”
“It’ll be all right, Maisie. He might be a bit brusque, but he’ll do you proud, just you see—and after all, he is a policeman. And for now little Anna is here, and she is safe—and she knows she’s safe. I just wish she would stop fretting about Tim. She says he will be home in a few days. What with that little determined face of hers, I wouldn’t bet against it.”
Maisie bit her lip, imagining Anna, her black hair braided in two long plaits tied with ribbon at the ends. She would be kneeling on her bed looking out across the fields, her brow knitted, waiting for Tim to come home.
“I must go now, Brenda—I’ll be back in London tomorrow and will telephone again. Perhaps I can speak to Anna then.”
“All right, Maisie, love. You look after yourself. I’m glad you finally told us about your plans. And Maisie—remember, that little girl loves you. She told me so yesterday. She asked when you were coming home.”
Maisie felt words catch in her throat, and could bid only a faint good-bye to her stepmother.
Composing herself, Maisie picked up the receiver again and placed a call to a number seared into her memory. Whitehall-one-two-one-two. Scotland Yard. She was put through to Detective Chief Inspector Caldwell without delay.
“I was just about to go home, get an early one, and there you are. If I could have put money on anyone messing up my plans, it would have been you, Miss Dobbs. Now then, what the you-know-what can I do for you?”
“Two things. Perhaps three. First—would you pave the way for me to see Inspector Murphy again tomorrow? Late morning would be best, if you can. And the other thing is this—do you know what the Robertsons have been up to lately?”
There was a pause on the line, followed by a loud sigh.
“For a minute there, I thought you asked me about the Robertsons. In fact, I could have sworn you asked me about London’s most notorious family of criminals who—for reasons best known to the gods—keep slithering through the fingers of the law. Yes, I thought you asked about them, just for a minute.”
“Inspector Caldwell—please—”
“That means I should be getting you in here to have a chat with me and my esteemed colleague from the Flying Squad, because we both know there is no smoke without a fire.” Caldwell cleared his throat. “Now then, what do you know, that you’re asking me what I know?”
“Just a guess.”
“What is it?”
“I think Jimmy Robertson is involved in the death of Joe Coombes.”
“Pull the other one. Jimmy Robertson would not be messing about with a wet-behind-the-ears apprentice. You’re wasting my time, Miss Dobbs. Right now we don’t have anything concerning Jimmy Robertson on our department’s books, though I like to know what him and his kin are up to. Harry Bream in the Squad has a few robberies he’s looking into, and what with the war on, you can bet the Robertsons are making hay at everyone else’s expense. They say crime will go down, what with all the bad blokes joining the army, but I haven’t seen a lot of evidence of it, not yet. In fact, it’s the opposite. But as I said, I can’t see your lad being mixed up in all this.”
Maisie felt a sudden lack of patience. “Have it your way, I
nspector Caldwell. I’ll pull the other one somewhere else!” She slammed down the receiver.
But instead of picturing Caldwell looking at his own receiver and laughing at her expense, Maisie could only see in her mind’s eye a little girl kneeling on her bed, her elbows resting on the windowsill, her chin on her hands, looking across fields, waiting for those she loved to come home. Maisie had come to love Anna too, and now, in the telephone kiosk, she leaned against the doorframe and began to weep with fear, that—despite documents signed by the child’s grandmother and all the other required elements that had been gathered by her solicitor—her dearest, most heartfelt wish might come to nothing.
Maisie’s eyes were still raw, smarting as she sat in her car along the road and watched a van—she suspected an armored van with a guard alongside the driver—leave the works where paper money was printed for the Bank of England. She had not sought nor did she wish to gain access to the establishment, for she could acquire all the information she needed from Lord Julian. No need to cause a problem where none were necessary. She had learned that security was tight around the establishment, due not only to the amount of currency being taken to and from London, but because of the special notes produced for airmen. She pushed away thoughts of Tom—he was young to be so vulnerable away from home. Yet so were all the airmen taking to the skies. Eighteen, nineteen, perhaps just into their twenties—so much rested on the shoulders of youth.
To Die but Once Page 18
